The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [31]
Emerson repeated his adjuration to the Prince of Evil and stepped boldly forward. I caught his arm. “Emerson, take care. I hypothesize that a struggle has ensued here.”
“Either that or Abd el Atti has suffered a seizure at long last.”
“Were that the case, his prostrate body would be visible.”
“True.” Emerson fondled the cleft in his chin, his invariable habit when deep in thought. “Your hypothesis seems more likely.”
He tried to shake off my hold, but I persisted. “Presumably one of the combatants was our old friend. But the other—Emerson, he may be lying in wait, ready to attack.”
“He would be a fool if he stayed,” Emerson replied. “Even if he had been on the premises when we arrived, he had ample time to make good his escape through the front of the shop while we stood here debating. Besides, where would he hide? The only possible place…” He peered behind the door. “No, there is no one here. Come in and close the door. I don’t like the look of this.”
I followed his instructions. I felt more secure with the heavy door closed against the dangers of the night. Yet a sinking feeling had seized me; I could not shake off the impression that something dreadful lurked in that quiet, shadowy place.
“Perhaps Abd el Atti was not here after all,” I said. “Two thieves fell out—or down—”
Emerson continued to worry his chin. “Impossible to tell if anything is missing. What a clutter! Good Gad, Amelia—look there, on the shelf. That fragment of painted relief—I saw it only two years ago in one of the tombs at El Bersheh. Confound the old rascal, he has no more morals than a jackal, robbing his own ancestors!”
“Emerson,” I remonstrated, “this is not the time—”
“And there…” Emerson pounced on an object half-concealed by pottery shards. “A portrait panel—torn from the mummy—encaustic on wood…”
Only one thing can distract Emerson from his passion for antiquities. It did not seem appropriate to apply this distraction. I left him muttering and scrabbling in the debris; slowly, with dread impeding my every step, I approached the curtained doorway that led to the front room of the shop. I knew what I would find and was prepared, as I thought, for the worst; yet the sight that met my eyes when I drew the curtain aside froze my limbs and my vocal apparatus.
At first it was only a dark, shapeless mass that almost filled the tiny room. The dark thing moved, gently swaying like a monster of the deep sluggishly responding to the slow movements of watery currents. A shimmer of gold, a flash of scarlet—my eyes, adjusting to the gloom, began to make out details—a hand, glittering with rings…A face. Unrecognizable as human, much less familiar. Black and bloated, the dark tongue protruding in ghastly mockery, the wide eyes suffused with blood…
A shriek of horror burst from my lips. Emerson was instantly at my side. His hands closed painfully over my shoulders. “Peabody, come away. Don’t look.”
But I had looked, and I knew the sight would haunt my dreams: Abd el Atti, hanging from the roofbeam of his own shop, swaying to and fro like some winged monster of the night.
Four
Clearing my throat, I reassured my husband. “I am quite myself again, Emerson. I apologize for startling you.”
“No apologies are necessary, my dear Peabody. What a horrible sight! He was grotesque enough in life, but this…”
“Should we not cut him down?”
“Impractical and unnecessary,” Emerson said. “There is not a spark of life left of him. We will leave that unpleasant task to the authorities.” I tried to put his hands away, and he went on, in mounting indignation,