The Third Grave Read online

  DAVID CASE

  THE THIRD GRAVE

  VALANCOURT BOOKS

  The Third Grave by David Case

  Originally published by Arkham House in 1981

  First Valancourt Books edition 2019

  Copyright © 1981 by David Case

  Published by Valancourt Books

  http://www.valancourtbooks.com

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without prior written consent of the publisher, constitutes an infringement of the copyright law.

  Cover by David Moscati

  Place me among the stars imperishable . . .

  that I may not die.

  —Pyramid Text

  1

  Knowing Mallory but slightly, I was surprised when his letter arrived at the cottage. The day had been foul: the sky was drab with undefined clouds, and the rain careened wildly in the wind. The unhappy postman trudged down the path with his shoulders hunched, pushing his bicycle before him, and as he placed the letter in my box, hurled a malevolent glance at the house as if he resented the detour. Not much caring for unexpected correspondence, I returned his rebuke as I retrieved the communication. It had been addressed to me in care of the museum and forwarded from there, obviously the logical—if not the only—way to contact me. I didn’t recognize the handwriting and turned over the envelope. On the flap was the return address of Lucian Mallory.

  I hadn’t the faintest idea why he should be writing to me. I’d encountered the man on two occasions, both rather exotic, some four years before. Since then I had heard nothing of him. I took the letter to the fireside and pondered over it for a few moments while the wind laced the corners of the cottage and howled in the chimney. Thinking of Mallory reminded me of a different time, in a region where the wind was dry with stinging sand and an English rain would have been most welcome indeed.

  I first met Lucian Mallory in the wilderness above the Great Cataract during the time I was attached to Sir Harold Gregory’s archaeological dig at that site. It had been thought, although this proved a disappointment, that a great quantity of hieratic writing would be uncovered there, and the museum had enlisted my services to render on-­the-­spot translations. There had been a few recent blunders in which archaeologists, proceeding with inordinate haste, had unbalanced their findings by their own efforts, and it was hoped that my translations might be of immediate value in determining which directions to follow as the subsequent layers were uncovered. This made a certain degree of sense. It was a shame that artifacts which had rested undisturbed through the ages should, in the moment of discovery, have their continuity disrupted.

  Although well known in his field, Sir Harold himself was no scholar. He was an interested amateur who, through a felicitous combination of private income and unprofessional zeal, had achieved some success and considerable reclame. Unable to translate his own findings or to comprehend their true significance, but quite prepared to finance grandiose expeditions, Sir Harold was rather more interested in enhancing his reputation than in casting light on mankind’s clouded past. Nonetheless, I didn’t resent the man. Whatever his motivation, he was responsible for some impressive discoveries, and vanity has ever been a driving force both in the forging of history and in understanding it afterward. Needless to say, I welcomed the opportunity to work with him in the field.

  Perhaps as an idealistic young scholar I had expected too much.

  After three months I became disheartened. The everyday regimen of such a project requires patience and dedication, and meager results are the rule. We slaved under a sun too hot to be contained, spreading incandescent watercolors across the sky. We lived in tents. Sand seeped into the very marrow of our bones. Sir Harold became cross and irritable, possibly considering our lack of results a slur upon his judgment. But to his credit he persevered, and in the end we made a notable find. Shaving off the side of a cliff, millimeter by millimeter as it were, we unearthed a New Kingdom sarcophagus containing a particularly fine mummy that had been sequestered within a rock-­cut tomb.

  The mummy, a small male swathed in dry resinous linen, was very well preserved, its hands folded over its sunken breast in an attitude of perpetual repose. Apparently a priest or minor official of the Twentieth Dynasty, our specimen had been interred with the customary funerary accoutrements—amulets, canopic jars, ushabtis—and was still faintly redolent of the aromatic unguents applied in his entombment. I felt a twinge of man’s unholiness when we disturbed that timeless slumber and suppose that such momentary regrets, though vestigial, are natural. Sir Harold was overjoyed. I had more interest in the sarcophagus, for it was etched on all sides with hierograms and symbols and would provide many days of fruitful study. I set to my labors; Sir Harold immediately notified the Egyptian Department of Antiquities and the Director-­General of the Cairo Museum. He seemed to regard the mummy as a beneficent friend and in the days that followed was often seen sitting beside the sarcophagus, his arms folded in animate echo of the mummy. Several times I was given the impression he would have liked to shake its hand and congratulate it on being found.

  Then Mallory appeared in the camp.

  My initial impression of the man is singular.

  At first I took him to be an Arab, for he wore a hooded djellaba and entered the camp astride a camel, staring intently ahead with the arrogance of the nomad. Behind him came another man, obviously unhappy with his beast’s gait. The second stranger was a European, and I assumed that the first was his guide.

  Sir Harold Gregory advanced to meet them, appearing puzzled, and the robed figure sprang lightly to the ground. He faced Gregory, a tall gaunt man in flowing robes, and I noticed that he wore well-­polished boots, which seemed strange foot­wear for a native. In the next instant I saw that he was not a native, for he threw back his cowl with an abrupt snap of his head, revealing an extraordinary countenance. This was Lucian Mallory. His face was lean with sunken cheeks and shaped like a wedge, as if his maker had fashioned it with frontal blows of an axe. His eyes were astonishing, set so deeply in their bony sockets that he seemed to have no lateral vision—when he wished to look to either side, he turned his whole head; turning only his eyes, he saw but the ledges of his skull.

  “I am Lucian Mallory,” he intoned. His voice was well suited to his face.

  “Er, Gregory,” said our leader.

  “Yes, I recognized you, Sir Harold.”

  Gregory was pleased.

  “I’ve heard of your recent find,” Mallory said. “Since my own work lies in a parallel field—although not as well known as yours, I fear—and since my present efforts have brought me to this area, I thought it both my pleasure and my duty to call and offer my congratulations.”

  “Very kind of you, sir.”

  “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  Sir Harold was obviously discomforted; it was apparent he had no idea who Mallory was and equally apparent that he didn’t wish to offend the fellow. He creased his aristocratic brow and delved for memory, then politely groped for some inspired inconsequentiality.

  “Mallory? Mallory? I do believe—”

  Mallory championed Sir Harold’s veracity with a timely gesture dismissing the question: “No matter, no matter. Fame is a fleeting virtue; perhaps no virtue at all, to men such as we, Sir Harold. Perhaps, indeed, fame serves only to hinder one’s more noble efforts, is it not so?”

  Mallory smiled slightly.

  “Just so,” agreed Sir Harold.

  Not a subtle gentleman, Sir Harold did not lo
ok for the shaded thrust of nuance in others; not an unintelligent man, secure within himself, he possessed the outstanding ability to fail to recognize rather than to react. I felt this served him well.

  During this colloquy the second stranger remained astride his camel, slumped and awkward. Mallory now turned to him and nodded. It was a motion of permission, and the man dismounted heavily with a sigh of relief. He was a very large chap, built along powerful rectangular lines, a monolith in contrast to Mallory’s obelisk. His solid face was angry with sunburn, and his khaki shirt clung to his torso in concentric swirls of sweat. He stood just behind Mallory, a paradigm of menial solicitude. Mallory did not see fit to introduce him.

  “You’ll want to see our mummy, eh?” Gregory inquired.

  “I’d hoped to, yes.”

  “We’ve given the old boy his own quarters,” Sir Harold explained. “If you’ll come this way—”

  I was seated outside my tent, under the awning, working at my field desk. The mummy was kept in a separate tent, and as Gregory led Mallory toward it they passed close before me. Gregory paused and introduced us. Mallory offered me a dry look and a nod. They moved on, and I watched as Sir Harold threw open the sarcophagus with a theatrical gesture, like a barker displaying some exhibit in a carnival sideshow. Mallory leaned forward from the waist, his hands clasped behind his back. He was saying something and nodding. In the shadow of the canvas his eyes receded even farther into their sockets, and yet even at a distance I saw them glitter in cold pinpoints, like small rodents residing within a skull.

  By this time it was late in the afternoon, and Sir Harold quite naturally asked Mallory if he would remain the night in our camp. He agreed but announced that he would make his own arrangements for dining. This seemed at first a polite gesture toward occasioning no inconvenience, and Gregory insisted it would not trouble us. Mallory replied that in such matters he had his own style, as he termed it, and was adamant in his refusal to join us. He then issued instructions to his companion. I had wondered about that fellow’s function and now saw that he was a general manservant, a sort of butler-­in-­the-rough. He proceeded to unpack several articles from the camels while Mallory disappeared into the tent Sir Harold had assigned them for the night.

  An astonishing ritual followed. We had fallen into the habit of living rather primitively at the camp, but Lucian Mallory, his Arabian dress notwithstanding, obviously had his own ideas about life in the field. I watched, intrigued, as his man erected an aluminum folding table and covered it with an immaculate white linen cloth. He then, very correctly, arranged on the table a silver place setting complete even to candlesticks. This accomplished, he prepared dinner, and just as the first course was ready, Mallory emerged from the tent in a white dinner jacket. Everyone in camp was watching by this time, but Mallory seemed serenely unaware of our interest. He seated himself, and his servant attended him just as though they’d been in a dining room at the Savoy.

  It was both laughable and admirable to see Mallory at his elegant table in those great trackless wastes, and I hardly knew what to think. The obvious inference was that Mallory was one of those men so bound by tradition that he simply could not alter his behavior in accord with circumstances, but a moment’s reflection dispelled this supposition, for he certainly had adapted to the extent of wearing native attire. I finally concluded that he simply enjoyed the form of tradition without being welded to its substance. This seemed commendable, and I resolved to get to know Mallory at the earliest opportunity.

  He ate with variety, but sparsely, and when the meal was finished and his man had cleared the table, I wandered over. Mallory was enjoying a cigar and brandy and offered me the same. Scholarly asceticism aside, I eagerly accepted.

  “Sam,” he said, and motioned.

  His servant brought another chair. I hesitated for a moment, glancing down at my rough clothing, divorced for a second from reality. Tradition is a clinging affair, and even here, with the wilderness stretching away on all sides and the evening wind beginning to rise, I felt the impropriety of sitting, dressed as I was, at that elegant table. Mallory was observing me with amusement. I laughed and sat down. Both cigar and brandy were of the highest quality.

  “You do yourself well,” I said.

  “Well enough.”

  “It seems rather paradoxical.”

  “Why is that?”

  He regarded me across the rim of his glass.

  “This gracious manner—in the desert.”

  “Oh?”

  “Surely you see that?”

  “I see that I dine as suits me best. We all have our styles, young man.”

  His tone was condescending, and I replied somewhat annoyed, “I would have thought you’d be better advised to use all the pack space available for your equipment.”

  “I have all the equipment I require. Indeed I don’t find actual tools very helpful.”

  He knew I was surprised at this statement and drew on his cigar while watching me through the smoke. The candle was still lighted, flickering in the wind, illuminating his face with elongated angles. The tents were starting to snap, and the trackless sands were creeping around the camp. Instead of replying to Mallory, I looked out at the dunes. Imperceptibly but inexorably the sands shifted, registering the passage of aeons, an hourglass of planetary dimensions.

  “Unless, of course, you consider the mind a tool—”

  I turned back to my host. “Of course. A very functional tool.”

  “Yes. I admire the human mind. As opposed to the brain, you understand. But there is your paradox for you. To study the mind, one must employ the mind. That’s hardly true of the more mundane tools.” He paused, then continued. “Perhaps I’ve given the impression that I’m an archaeologist. That isn’t exact. I’m studying the past, yes, but not as past. Time has no dominion in my studies. Mankind moves through history as a fish moves through water, and time, like the seas, is a fluid constant.”

  “Are you suggesting a new physics or a new philosophy?”

  Mallory laughed.

  “Let us suggest—a new science.”

  “But how is it connected to Egyptology?”

  “Why, in the way that all things living are connected: the sorrowful bond of mortality, the regrettable arrangement whereby the fine instrument of the mind is hopelessly held captive within the corruptible brain. The mind is capable of immortality, you understand. It is only the body that must decay.” He paused and looked at me, as if to ascertain whether I was following his rather recondite reasoning. His eyes, peering straight ahead from the depressions of his skull, had a resolute and penetrating gaze. I suddenly realized what was so disturbing about them; set as they were, capable only of frontal vision, Mallory’s optics were constructed like a carnivore, like some great hunting cat which peers straight ahead to judge distance rather than a herbivore which, eyes divided, can search for predators on both sides. This was a fanciful notion, of course, and yet it was striking; his conversation was aggressive and predatory. He attacked with verbal talons.

  I resolved to be no helpless victim and, looking back at him, observed, “That is all very well and good, and presumably there is some value in theoretical—not to say, theological—musings, but it hardly answers my question, sir.” I was rather pleased with myself for this statement and drew on my cigar to conceal an urge to smile. I had decided he was an amateur Renaissance man—or perceived himself as such—spreading himself thin in an age of specialization.

  “Just what is your question?” he asked.

  “Just what is your field of study?”

  “Ah, how typical. You wish to categorize me, just as you catalog ancient urns and assign a chronology to the dynasties and, yes, desecrate the tombs of the dead. Don’t you see that, by fashioning a static knowledge, you lose the feel of reality? That by simplifying facts on charts and graphs, you alter those facts in the process?”
>
  “Knowledge must have some form.”

  Mallory sighed.

  “I expect it must,” he said. “So must magic, for that matter. So be it. I’ll satisfy your curiosity. I am interested in chemistry and have some medical learning. You will think that a strange background for an Egyptologist.”

  “Is it not?”

  “Only by narrowing concepts. The ancients had a well-­developed chemistry.”

  “I can’t accept that, sir. They had made a rudimentary beginning, agreed.”

  Mallory continued imperturbably, “Even our word ‘chemistry’ is derived from the old Egyptian word kemt.”

  I raised my eyebrows. He was intruding upon my field here, and without seeming too smug, I replied, “A tenuous derivation at best. Kemt, as I’m sure you know, meant ‘black land.’ The ancients had only a slight practical knowledge, strongly tinged with magic; they learned rather a lot about anatomy and drugs as an unintended concomitant to their religion. They dissected and mummified corpses, and naturally acquired knowledge as a side effect. The goal was not science, however. These matters are interesting to us in helping to understand the past, but they had no learning which could possibly be of value to a modern student of chemistry. Unless, perhaps, you believe that the properties and behavior of elements can be somehow affected by the chanting of incantations?”

  “What do you know of it?” he snapped.

  “As much as most men, I daresay.”

  “Agreed. And do you suppose that most men know anything at all? Now or then?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “If there was an advanced science in the past, do you expect that the common man was versed in it? That he even knew it existed? Mankind hasn’t changed, and knowledge has ever been reserved for the few. Today there exists a handful of scientists who understand the atom, who can direct a spacecraft to the moon. But to the average man, such knowledge is meaningless. It was the same in the past. The difference, and only by our subsequent definitions, is that the ancients thought of the knowledge denied them as magic, and today we call it science. No difference at all, really. Will you accept that?”