The Golem's Eye

plate..."
    "How d'you think—?"
    "Suffocated, maybe..."
    "See his chest—that hole? That didn't come natural...."
    "We don't need to worry. They're very old." Mr. Pennyfeather spoke with hearty assurance, designed perhaps to comfort himself as much as the others. "Look at the color of the skin. They're practically mummified."
    "Gladstone's time, you think?" Nick asked.
    "Undoubtedly. The style of clothes proves it. Late nineteenth century."
    "But, six of them.... One for each of us...."
    "Shut up, Fred."
    "But why would they be—?"
    "Some kind of sacrifice, perhaps...?"
    "Mr. Pennyfeather, listen, we really—"
    "No, but why conceal them? It makes no sense."
    "Grave robbers, then? Punished by entombment."
    "We really need to go."
    "That's more likely. But again, why hide them?"
    "And who did it? And what about the Pestilence? That's what I don't understand. If they triggered it..."
    "Mr. Pennyfeather!" Kitty stamped her foot and shouted; the noise reverberated across the chamber. The discussion stopped abruptly. She forced the words out through a tightened throat. "There's something here that we don't know about. Some kind of trap. We should forget the treasure and leave now."
    "But these bones are old," Stanley said, adopting Mr. Pennyfeather's decisive manner. "Calm down, girl."
    "Don't patronize me, you little twerp."
    "I agree with Kitty," Anne said.
    "But my dears—" Mr. Pennyfeather placed a hand upon Kitty's shoulder and rubbed it with false good humor. "This is very unpleasant, I agree. But we mustn't let it get out of proportion. However these poor fellows died, they were placed here a very long time ago—probably while the tomb was still open. That would be why the illusory wall that hides them has got no mold, see? It's all grown up since then. The walls were clean and new when they met their end." He gesticulated at the corpses with his stick. "Think about it. These boys were lying here before the tomb was sealed—otherwise the Pestilence would have been triggered when they broke in. And it wasn't—because we've just seen it and dispersed it."
    His words had a muted effect upon the group; there was some nodding and mumbling of agreement. But Kitty shook her head. "We've got six dead men calling out to us," she said. "We'd be fools to ignore them."
    "Huh! They're old." From the relief in Fred's voice, it seemed the implications of this concept had only just dribbled through to him. "Old bones." He stretched out a boot and nudged the nearest skull derisively; it rolled to the side, away from the neck, and rocked briefly on the flagstones with a gentle sound like rattling crockery.
    "You must learn, Kitty dear, to be less emotional," Mr. Pennyfeather said, removing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow. "We have already opened the old devil's sarcophagus—and the earth's not swallowed us up, has it? Come and look, girl: you haven't seen it yet. A silken winding sheet laid out prettily on top—it alone must be worth a fortune. Five minutes, Kitty. Five minutes is all we'll need to lift that sheet and whisk the purse and crystal ball away. We won't disturb Gladstone's sleep for long."
     
    Kitty said nothing; she turned and stalked white-faced through the barrier and back along the chamber. She could not trust herself to speak. Her anger was directed as much at herself—for her own weakness and unreasoning fear—as at her leader. His words seemed facile to her; too glib and easy. But she was not used to directly opposing his will; and she knew the mood of the group was with him.
    The tap-tap-tapping of Mr. Pennyfeather's stick came close behind her. He was slightly out of breath. "I hope, Kitty dear, that you—you would do me the honor— of taking the crystal ball itself—in your bag. I trust you, you see—I trust you implicitly. We shall all be strong for five minutes more, then leave this cursed place forever. Gather around, and get your knapsacks ready. Our fortune awaits us!"
    The lid of the sarcophagus remained where it had fallen, at an angle between the tomb and the floor. A section of one corner had snapped off on impact, and lay a little apart amid the mold. A lantern sat on the floor burning merrily, but no light was cast up into the gaping black interior of the tomb. Mr. Pennyfeather took up position at one end of the sarcophagus, leaned his stick up against the stone, and grasped the marble for support. He smiled around at the company and flexed his fingers.
    "Frederick,