The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [149]
The room comprised two levels of the original structure; by removing the flooring and bracing the walls with pillars, they had opened up the entire space between the roof and the cellar floor. The walls had been covered, not with polished stone, but with tapestries and hangings. The statue was not twenty feet high, but life-sized, and the deity depicted was not the dignified Osiris. He has a number of names (Min is one of them), but he is easily recognizable by one outstanding characteristic.
The illumination was erratic and not particularly impressive – modern oil lamps, whose wicks all needed trimming, and fires flickering in open braziers raised on tall, rather wobbly tripods. There were half a dozen men present; all were robed and some were masked, but others had removed the headgear in order to puff at a cigar or cigarette. The prevailing mood was far from solemn. One fellow was sprawled on the altar, another had a bottle raised to his lips. Someone pointed at the statue and made a joke I refuse to repeat; a howl of rude laughter followed.
As I scanned the room I realized with a thrill of dismay that one of the masked men had seen me. His mask, which was that of the ibis-headed Thoth, god of wisdom, looked squarely at me. He took a step towards the stairs that led to the balcony.
There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. If he became suspicious and raised the alarm I could never outrun him. More importantly, I had not yet accomplished what I came for. If the girl was a prisoner in this vile den, I could not abandon her.
I had never realized how difficult it would be to descend a flight of stairs with a parasol hooked to my belt. After a near-fatal stumble, I pushed it back out of the way, as a swordsman does with his long sabre, and hoped no one would notice my odd appendage.
I reached the bottom of the stairs at last and breathed a sigh of relief. The ibis mask had turned away, and no one else seemed to be paying attention to me. I glided into a handy patch of shadow, with my back against the wall.
One loses track of time under such circumstances. I had no idea what hour it might be, nor how long I waited, trying not to listen to the disgusting language and jests of the others, before one of them tossed his cigarette on the floor and ground it out.
‘’Ere we go, lads,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Don’t let ’is loverly lordship see you slouchin’ around so vulgar-like.’
Masks were assumed, cigars tossed into the braziers. The man sprawled on the altar arose and straightened his robe.
Though I cannot truthfully say I was entirely comfortable, the shadow of supernatural terror had lifted from my mind. The reality was nothing like my dream, it was rather a Gilbertian parody of pagan ritual. And the parody continued; instead of a solemn procession, with flaring torches and grim chanting, the two men simply walked through a door under the balcony, and one of them burst out, ‘What the devil is this? Get rid of that bottle, you – straighten the cloth on the altar – get into your places!’
I stifled a laugh. He sounded like a baritone Mrs Watson, lecturing her subordinates for untidiness. What sort of ridiculous farce was this to be? Perhaps all I would have to do was unmask and give the lot of them a good scolding.
My amusement was short-lived. The men had shifted positions, following Lord Liverpool’s orders; and I saw that ibis-headed Thoth was once again approaching me. I could not retreat without stepping directly into the pool of light from the lamp to my left.
He was a tall man. The mask added another inch or two; he towered over me. I fumbled for the handle of my parasol. But he did not speak, or make a threatening move; he stopped, at my side, and turned to face the altar.
The last vestiges of amusement left me as I watched his lordship. This was no parody to him. He was hideously, tragically in earnest. Raising his hands, he addressed the image; and the hairs on my neck lifted when I recognized the voice that had once hailed