“Horus,” murmured Dr. Norbury.
“Horus, then—in the exact locality in which it was borne by the deceased and tattooed, apparently, with the same pigment. There are, further, the suture wires in the kneecaps; Sir Morgan Bennett, having looked up the notes of the operation, informs me that he introduced three suture wires into the left patella and two into the right; which is what the skiagraph shows. Lastly, the deceased had an old Pott’s fracture on the left side. It is not very apparent now, but I saw it quite distinctly just now when the shadows of the bones were whiter. I think that you may take it that the identification is beyond all doubt or question.”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Norbury, with gloomy resignation, “it sounds, as you say, quite conclusive. Well, well, it is a most horrible affair. Poor old John Bellingham! it looks uncommonly as if he had met with foul play. Don’t you think so?”
“I do,” replied Thorndyke. “There was a mark on the right side of the skull that looked rather like a fracture. It was not very clear, being at the side, but we must develop the negative to show it.”
Dr. Norbury drew his breath in sharply through his teeth. “This is a gruesome business, Doctor,” said he. “A terrible business. Awkward for our people, too. By the way, what is our position in the matter? What steps ought we to take?”
“You should give notice to the coroner—I will manage the police—and you should communicate with one of the executors of the will.”
“Mr. Jellicoe?”
“No, not Mr. Jellicoe, under the peculiar circumstances. You had better write to Mr. Godfrey Bellingham.”
“But I rather understood that Mr. Hurst was the co-executor,” said Dr. Norbury.
“He is, surely, as matters stand,” said Jervis.
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “He was as matters stood; but he is not now. You are forgetting the condition of clause two. That clause sets forth the conditions under which Godfrey Bellingham shall inherit the bulk of the estate and become the co-executor and those conditions are: ‘that the body of the testator shall be deposited in some authorized place for the reception of the bodies of the dead, situate within the boundaries of, or appertaining to some place of worship within, the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury, and St. Giles in the Fields, or St. Andrew above the Bars and St. George the Martyr.’ Now Egyptian mummies are bodies of the dead, and this Museum is an authorized place for their reception; and this building is situate within the boundaries of the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury. Therefore the provisions of clause two have been duly carried out and therefore Godfrey Bellingham is the principal beneficiary under the will, and the co-executor, in accordance with the wishes of the testator. Is that quite clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Dr. Norbury; “and a most astonishing coincidence—but, my dear young lady, had you not better sit down? You are looking very ill.”
He glanced anxiously at Ruth, who was pale to the lips and was now leaning heavily on my arm.
“I think, Berkeley,” said Thorndyke, “you had better take Miss Bellingham out into the gallery, where there is more air. This has been a tremendous climax to all the trials she has borne so bravely. Go out with Berkeley,” he added gently, laying his hand on her shoulder, “and sit down while we develop the other negatives. You mustn’t break down now, you know, when the storm has passed and the sun is beginning to shine.” He held the door open and as we passed out his face softened into a smile of infinite kindness. “You won’t mind my locking you out,” said he; “this is a photographic darkroom at present.”
The key grated in the lock and we turned away into the dim gallery. It was not quite dark, for a beam of moonlight filtered in here and there through the blinds that covered the skylights. We walked on slowly, her arm linked in mine, and for a while neither of us spoke. The great rooms were very silent and peaceful and solemn. The hush, the stillness, the mystery of the half-seen forms in the cases around, were all in harmony with the deeply-felt sense of a great deliverance that filled our hearts.
We had passed through into the next room before either of us broke the silence. Insensibly our hands had crept together, and as they met and clasped with mutual pressure, Ruth exclaimed: “How dreadful and tragic it is! Poor, poor Uncle John! It seems as if he had come back from the world of shadows to tell us of this awful thing. But, O God! what a relief it is!”
She caught her breath in one or two quick sobs and pressed my hand passionately.
“It is over, dearest,” I said. “It is gone forever. Nothing remains but the memory of your sorrow and your noble courage and patience.”
“I can’t realize it yet,” she murmured. “It has been like a frightful, interminable dream.”
“Let us put it away,” said I, “and think only of the happy life that is opening.”
She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her breath, now and again, told of the long agony that she had endured with such heroic calm.
We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence with our soft footfalls, through the wide doorway into the second room. The vague shapes of mummy-cases standing erect in the wall-cases, loomed out dim and gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with the memories of untold centuries locked in their shadowy breasts. They were an awesome company. Reverend survivors from a vanished world, they looked out from the gloom of their abiding-place, but with no shade of menace or of malice in their silent presence; rather with a solemn benison on the fleeting creatures of today.
Halfway along the room a ghostly figure, somewhat
