The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (18 page)

“Thanks, Aunt Hilda,” I muttered.

“I don't know what you are up to Kit and to be candid, I don't want to know,” she replied.

“But what on earth is bilharzia?”

“Haven't a clue,” she replied airily. “Probably a type of rum from Rangoon.”

I gaped at Aunt Hilda. “It was decent of you to help us out.”

“I couldn't bear to let that odious little man get the better of you. You must learn to keep a straight face when you're telling fibs, my dear. The secret of successful lying is all in the delivery.”

My aunt settled herself in the waiting carriage, arranging her carpet bag and umbrella to her satisfaction on the leather seat. Ahmed and I squeezed ourselves into the remaining space. I was thinking of requesting that we wait for Isaac but Aunt Hilda had already boomed a command to the driver. We were off, the horses threading their way through the heavy West
End traffic. There was a set look on my aunt's face, as she gazed out of the window. I wondered if her mission was a success, but instinct told me to hold my tongue. If she had received bags of sovereigns from the Baker Brothers she would be boasting about it.

Discretion was definitely the best policy with Aunt Hilda, when she was in this mood. As her carriage made its way back to Bloomsbury, we sat in silence. I was sick with anxiety about Isaac. If he was caught by the Bakers' thugs snooping in their house, they would not be gentle with him. The secretary might very well check with the butler and find out that my friend had not left the house. Isaac was a dreamer, a thinker. Not someone suited to safe-breaking. He wouldn't know what a “jimmy” was, not if it hit him square on the head.

At this very moment, while we traveled home to Bloomsbury in safety, for all I knew my friend was being roughed up by thugs. They might shove him in the coal cellar—or, worse, in the Thames. Why had I asked him to break into the safe? But for once I refused to blame myself, not totally anyway. Was it my fault that Isaac displayed the common sense of a flea? Then another thought struck me, one that chilled me to my very bones.

Rachel. What would she have to say about this?

Chapter Seventeen

I opened the door to the parlor, weary and depressed. Sitting on the maroon velvet sofa, deep in conversation, looking solid and real were my father and Isaac. I blinked in surprise. I was seeing things. I must be seeing things. Isaac was back at the Bakers' mansion, being torn limb-from-limb by their thugs, and my father was in Oxford. I was about to retreat to my room for a good, baffled lie-down when my aunt barged in behind me.

“Good afternoon, Theo,” she bellowed as my father stood up to greet us. Then she turned to Isaac. “And—you, fellow! How d'ya get here before us?”

“I took an omnibus,” Isaac replied calmly, as if he was a real flesh-and-blood boy, not a ghost at all.

“Dratted driver. I always tell him not to go via Hyde Park and he always ignores me. Traffic is atrocious round there. The man has no sense.”

With that Aunt Hilda bundled out of the room and clomped down the hall calling for the maid Mary. I sank
on the sofa next to Isaac and hissed: “How did you really get here so soon?”

He grinned at me.

“What were you up to at the Bakers'?”

“I have my secrets,” he replied. “Just like you.”

“I was worried sick about you, Isaac. I thought they were going to kill you.”

“You worry too much,” he said and turned back to my father, resuming their interrupted conversation. “Now why did you think the Bakers had a copy of your manuscript?”

“I really cannot say,” my father said, mildly. “It is rather
flattering
, though. I had not envisaged that there would be such an interest in the
World's Oldest Words
. I really do believe there is increasing popular appetite for serious scholarship.”

“What is your book about, Father?” I asked. “Is there anything about old Egyptian books? Or Ptah Hotep?”

“Why, of course, Kit. You should know that the Book of the Dead is Egyptian, as are many of the oldest manuscripts in the world. For example the The Maxims of Ptah Hotep. This is an ancient papyrus which, unfortunately, the French have got hold of. A Middle Kingdom copy of wisdom from the Old Kingdom, many, many centuries before. Really rather amazing the way scribes passed the wisdom down for centuries, but unfortunately
the oldest papyrus has long been destroyed.”

“Do we know much about it? The Ptah Hotep manuscript.”

“Not much solid information,” Father admitted. “Ptah Hotep is thick with legend and rumor. The French, obviously, know more but they say that magical—”

“What's this about the French?” interrupted my aunt, who had bustled back into the room followed by Mary with a tray laden with whisky and soda. “Not that rotter Champlon?”

I quickly distracted her. Once she started on the French, we would have no peace. “How is it that the Baker Brothers are reckoned as such great collectors, Aunt Hilda? It's not as if they have a museum, or do they?”

“I do not think, my dear, you understand collectors,” Aunt Hilda replied. “A true collector doesn't buy things to display in a museum. He buys them for himself. So he can keep them—possess them.”

“That's not a collector,” I said. “That's a miser. To hoard treasures just for yourself.”

“Miser, collector. Let's not split hairs.”

“Beautiful things should be enjoyed by everyone.”

“All that matters in the real world, my child, is who can pay. In England the richest man invariably wins.”

Aunt Hilda poured a glass of lemonade and passed it
to me. Mary had already served her with a strong whisky and soda and was now mixing a drink for my father.

“I don't say I'm fond of the Baker Brothers, though I count them as friends of sorts. Stingy fellows, they are. Count every penny of their money. Refused to give me money today, outright.” My aunt downed her whisky in a few large gulps and indicated to Mary to pour her another one. “But I do believe, Kit, that in this life you have to be a realist. Money counts, my dear. Brass, doubloons, sovereigns, lucre, gold call it what you will. It's money that gets things done, not ideals or other such nonsense.”

Father made a small noise of protest, his woolly head trembled and his eyes were worried. I felt a gush of love for him. Aunt Hilda might be off, haring round the world in search of lucre but for father ideals would always count for more than mere money. In fact, given a choice between a sack of gold and a worthless old manuscript he would opt for the manuscript every time. He was a hopeless old romantic.

There was a sharp tap on the parlor door and the next moment it swung open. A bronzed and stringy man stood in front of us.

“Madame Salter, I believe?” he inquired.

The man was a strange sight. A combination of battered skin and extreme elegance. His complexion was as
worn as an old leather saddle, yet he was beautifully dressed in top hat, waistcoat of shot silk and seamed trousers. Over his lips hung the biggest, waxiest, blackest mustache imaginable. More of a plant than a piece of facial hair. The man must tend it lovingly, watering and feeding it at every meal.

“Gaston Champlon,” said the man, executing a bow which made his mustache tremble.

“You!” Aunt Hilda said. “This is a surprise, I must say. I had you down as too much of a coward to face me!”

“Outrageous,” Champlon spluttered. “I am wounded to my 'eart.”

“You have no heart!”

“Madame, I cannot have you telling lies about me in the newspapers.”

My aunt drew herself up, all five foot of her, eyes blazing: “Lies? Just you wait and see what I have up my sleeve.”

“You need to stop these at once!”

“Never!”

“In that case I need to make my challenge. I cannot fight you, madame, for you are a …” the Frenchman paused, surveying my aunt's jodhpurs critically. “You are called a ledee. So name your man and I will challenge 'im. We fight tomorrow at dawn in 'Ampstead 'Eet.” Pistols or swords. The choice is yours, madame, for I am
a master of both.'

This couldn't be. Was this crazy Frenchman actually challenging my aunt to a duel?

“Done!” My aunt hopped from foot to foot, quivering with excitement. “I thought you would never dare to tangle with me, Champlon. Too much of a scared rabbit—”

“Gaston scared of a ledee! Madame, 'ow dare—”

“We will meet you in Hampstead Heath at first light. My brother will be my standard bearer. I myself will act as his second! The weapon will be pistols!”

“Hilda. Wait!!” my father moaned but neither Gaston nor my aunt took the slightest notice. With another formal bow, the Frenchman retreated from the room. As for me, I was in utter shock. My father could not fight Monsieur Champlon. It would be sheer murder; like challenging a pet hamster to fight a boa constrictor.

“I can't do this.” Father sank into the sofa cushions, as if they could offer him a hiding place.

“Pull yourself together, Theo!” My aunt's gaze swept over my father, taking in his faded tweeds, his woolly hair, his trembling face. “You're not exactly champion material, I admit. But we must face facts, you're all I've got.”

Chapter Nineteen

First light on Hampstead Heath. Down below, the sun rose over the city spires, painting them gold. Wind swooshed through the leaves; otherwise everything lay silent, suspended. Two lean figures were silhouetted in the murk. One had a soup-strainer mustache, forming a dark question mark in the morning fog. The other seemed frailer, unsure in his gait.

“Your paces, gentlemen!” bellowed one of the seconds—a rather squat figure beside the men.

The two gentlemen bowed, turned their backs and slowly began walking back from each other. I counted with them, my heart thundering. One, two, three, four … This couldn't be happening, in the heart of London, the most advanced city in the world. Down in the village of Hampstead were telegraph poles and gas lamps. And here in the swirling fog, a murderous medieval ritual was taking place.