Free The Mummy or Ramses the Damned by Anne Rice Page B

aristocratic. The ridges of the brows were prominent and the eyes themselves could not have been small. Probably a handsome man. In fact, there seemed little doubt of it.
    Someone said crossly that the thing ought to be in the museum. Another that it was perfectly gruesome. And to think, these had been Lawrence’s friends? Hancock was examining the gold coins on display in their velvet-lined case. Samir was beside him.
    In fact, Hancock was making a fuss about something, wasn’t he? Elliott knew that officious tone.
    “There were five, only five? You’re sure of it?” And he was speaking so loudly one would have thought Samir was deaf, not merely Egyptian.
    “Quite sure. I told you,” Samir said with a touch of irritation. “I cataloged the entire contents of the chamber myself.”
    Quite unmistakably, Hancock shifted his gaze to someone across the room. Elliott saw it was Henry Stratford, looking quite splendid in his dove-grey wool, with a black silk tie at his throat. Laughing and talking nervously, too, it seemed, with Alex and Julie and that crowd of young people whom Henry secretly loathed and resented.
    Handsome as ever, Elliott thought. Handsome as when he was a boy of twenty, and that narrow elegant face could flash from a beguiling vulnerability to a chilling viciousness.
    But why was Hancock staring at him? And what was he whispering now in Samir’s ear? Samir looked at Hancock for a longmoment, then gave a languid little shrug, his eyes moving slowly over Henry also.
    How Samir must loathe all this, Elliott thought. How he must loathe that uncomfortable Western suit; he wants his
gellebiyya
of watered silk, and his slippers, and he should have them. What barbarians we must seem.
    Elliott moved to the far corner and slipped into Lawrence’s leather chair, easing it back against the wall. The crowd opened and closed at random, revealing Henry again moving away from the others, and glancing uncomfortably to right and left. Very subtle, not like a stage villain, but he’s up to something, isn’t he?
    Henry slowly passed the marble table, his hand hovering as if he meant to touch the ancient scrolls. The crowd closed again, but Elliott merely waited. The little knot of persons in front of him shifted finally, and there was Henry, yards away, peering at a necklace on a little glass shelf, one of those many relics which Lawrence had brought home years ago.
    Did anyone see Henry pick up the necklace and look at it lovingly as if he were an antiquarian? Did anyone see him slip it into his pocket and walk away, face blank, mouth rigid?
    Bastard.
    Elliott only smiled. He took a sip of the chilled white wine, and wished it were sherry. He wished he had not seen the little theft. He wished he had not seen Henry.
    His own secret memories of Henry had never lost their painful edge, perhaps because he had never confessed what had happened to anyone. Not even to Edith, though he had told her many other sordid things about himself when wine and philosophy had made it seem imperative that he do so; and not to the Roman Catholic priests to whom he occasionally went to speak of heaven and hell in passionate ways no one else would tolerate.
    He always told himself that if he did not relive those dark times, then he would forget them. But they were horridly vivid even now, some ten years after.
    He had loved Henry Stratford once. And Henry Stratford was the only lover Elliott had ever had who tried to blackmail him.
    Of course it had been an utter failure. Elliott had laughed in Henry’s face. He’d called his bluff. “Shall I tell your father all about it? Or shall I tell your uncle Lawrence first? He’s going to be furious with me … for perhaps five minutes. But you, his favourite nephew, he will despise till the day you die because Ishall tell him all of it, you see, down to the sum of money you’re demanding. What was it? Five hundred pounds? You’ve made yourself a wretch for that, imagine.”
    How sullen and