“Bollocks,” said Diana, but under her breath, so only Mary, and she imagined Justine, could hear it. It was very much what she would have liked to tell Moriarty herself. Instead she followed him and Mrs. Raymond out the front door. They walked, in a sort of armed cavalcade, into the London evening toward the British Museum where Moriarty would do—what? What in the world did it mean to summon the god Pan? He was the Greek god of nature, was he not? Surely he did not actually exist. Was it another of those ridiculous metaphors alchemists used for their experiments?
Alice was ahead of her, walking with Mrs. Raymond. Had she truly betrayed them? Surely not. And yet Mary could not be certain. She stole a quick glance behind, where Mr. Holmes was being half-dragged, half-carried between Colonel Moran’s men. He had called her name in his delirium.… If only she could help him! But there was nothing to do but follow after Moriarty and Mrs. Raymond. The sun was beginning to set above the rooftops, turning the buildings of Soho red and gold. She walked on beside Justine, who had a firm grip on Diana’s jacket so she could not launch some sort of sudden attack, and wondered what that night would bring.
CHAPTER X
At the British Museum
What should she do? Alice had no idea. Should she somehow try to help Mary? Or Mr. Holmes? But there was no way she could help them, not at the moment.
Mary, Diana, and Justine were sitting together, guarded by Colonel Moran. At least his henchmen had left—she imagined they were patrolling the museum, making certain no one interfered with the ceremony that was about to begin—a ritual to summon the Great God Pan, or what Helen had described as the energic powers of the Earth. So far it did not look like much of a ceremony. No one was wearing special robes, no one was chanting an ancient litany in spectral tones. Compared to the books Alice liked to read at night, by candlelight before she went to sleep, the scene before her was not particularly impressive.
MRS. POOLE: You’ll ruin your eyes doing that, my girl.
They were in one of the large exhibition halls of the museum. It was filled with what she presumed were Egyptian artifacts, including a great many pots, most of them broken in one place or another. She would have liked to fix them with a bit of glue. She recognized some of them from the vision of Queen Tera’s tomb that Helen Raymond had conjured up. Just to make clear where they had all come from, there was a large sign by the door:
THE TRELAWNY EXHIBIT
VISIT THE TOMB OF QUEEN TERA
SPONSORED BY THE BRITISH ARCHAEOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION
AND THE EGYPT EXPLORATION FUND
Underneath was some information on the Ptolemaic Dynasty and the Temple of Isis at Philae. Alice had glanced at it briefly as they entered. She would have liked to read more, but there was no time now. She had only been to the British Museum once before, with Mrs. Poole, and wished she could wander around, looking at all the exhibition rooms—she had seen some very large statues of winged, bull-headed men that looked interesting. If she got out of this situation alive, she would most certainly have to come back. There was so much to see and learn! She did not want to be an ignorant kitchen maid all her life. I hope I live through this, she thought, looking at Margaret Trelawny dubiously. Thirteen seemed awfully young to die.
“Welcome, welcome,” Margaret said when they all entered, although she had looked with astonishment at the addition to their party of Mary, Diana, and Justine. She was wearing her black gown with the low neckline that showed off the scarab necklace to perfection. There had been a brief whispered conversation between her and Helen. Then she had nodded and gone back to bustling around the raised wooden platform at the center of the room, on which rested the stone sarcophagus of Queen Tera. It must have been difficult to get that large stone box all the way from Egypt to London! The lid was lying on the platform so you could see the painted carvings on it, and also look inside the sarcophagus to see the mummy of Queen Tera lying in her coffin. Alice had looked in quickly. Queen Tera was there all right, but she did not look as she had in the vision produced by her mother. This was a real mummy—all wrapped up in bandages that had been dried and darkened by the centuries. Strangely, however, as in the vision, her left hand had been left out of the wrappings. It had long ago turned into a wrinkled claw. It was still holding the golden ankh Alice had seen in the vision.
At the corners of that platform, and centered on three sides, were wooden pillars carved to resemble the lotus-topped columns of the Temple of Isis, seven in all. At the top of each pillar was a curiously shaped bowl. Margaret called them lamps, and she kept fussing with them, as though they needed to be positioned in just the right way.
The gentlemen were milling around—Lord Godalming talking to Dr. Seward, Dr. Raymond focusing intently on how Margaret was arranging the lamps, no doubt trying to memorize her movements for some Pan-summoning of his own, and Jonathan Harker sitting in the chair ordinarily occupied by a museum guard, looking a bit lost. Colonel Moran was standing beside Mary, Diana, and Justine, who were sitting on the floor, their wrists still tied together. He and Mr. Morris were showing each other their firearms, as though comparing their relative merits. Seriously, at a time like this, all they could think of was their guns? And Moriarty was pacing impatiently up and down, asking Margaret every five minutes if it was time yet. Alice was not a violent person, but she would have liked to smack him and tell him to stop. The noise of his boot heels clacking back and forth on the stone floor was distracting.
Alice cast an agonized glance down at Mr. Holmes. He was lying on the platform, where Moran’s henchmen had placed him. He seemed to be unconscious. Had her trick with the salt not helped him at all? Or perhaps there had been something wrong with the salt, some sort of impurity, and she had inadvertently poisoned him! She felt sick with worry. If only she could talk to Mary, tell her everything she had found out, everything Moriarty intended to do! Then Mary could advise her. Mary always had such useful, sensible advice! But if she betrayed Helen and Margaret in any obvious way, she would be tied up with Mary, Diana, and Justine, which would be no help to them at all. It had been horrible, letting everyone think she was in league with Mrs. Raymond, knowing what her friends must think of her. Diana had made her opinion perfectly clear!
What should she, what could she, do? Nothing, for the moment. She must just bide her time.
“We’re about to begin,” said Helen finally. How long had they been there? It already felt like hours. She took Alice’s hand. “You and I will help Margaret draw upon the energic powers locked in Queen Tera’s sarcophagus. You don’t need to do anything—I shall draw upon your power to amplify mine, as I did in the fight against those Baker Street ruffians. Do you understand, Lydia?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Alice, not at all sure what she was saying she understood. The energic powers in the tomb? Were they not drawing on the energic powers of the Earth itself?
“Place the sacrifice on the lid of the sarcophagus,” said Margaret.
Lord Godalming and Seward stepped forward, lifted Holmes by his hands and feet, and placed his body on the sarcophagus lid, spread-eagled so that his hands and feet were at the four corners. Holmes did not awaken.
Alice wished she understood more about what they meant. Were they going to drain the life out of him, as Professor Trelawny’s life had been drained? Would it take some time, or would it happen immediately? Would there be time for Alice to do anything? Involuntarily, she started moving toward Holmes, but her mother’s hand held hers as though in a steel vise.