The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (3 page)

The Minchin sat down, surveying us in a bored way. “Attention, little scholars,” she said. “This morning I think the boys can work on their Latin verbs. Rachel and Kathleen, we'll be doing a special session on etiquette. We're all aware that Kathleen's manners in particular could benefit from some serious attention.”

I was foolish enough to sigh. The Minchin glared at me, her eyes as hard as the shell of the black beetles that scuttle under our skirting boards.

“If you have no objection, Kathleen.”

I couldn't stop myself: “I see no point in etiquette,” I burst out. “It's a useless subject.” Waldo was looking at me and sniggering but I couldn't stop myself from steaming on. “Why not Latin?”

The Minchin snapped. “If you dream, as every young girl must, of being presented at court—”

“I would wake up screaming as from the foulest nightmare,” I interrupted.

Even Rachel, who would never attend a London season because she is Jewish, looked scandalized. The Minchin drew in her breath: “How do you intend to find a husband if you're not a debutante, young lady? Or I suppose any chimney sweep will do!”

“I don't want to get married. Why should I have some man telling me what to do!”

“You should be so lucky,” Waldo whispered to me quietly, so our governess wouldn't hear. “No one wants a bluestocking like you. You'll end up a hairy old spinster.”

“Better that than a fathead like you!” I flashed back. I knew it was a lame reply but it was all I could think of on the spur of the moment. This was a sore subject with me. Perhaps because my mother is dead, father is keen for me to learn “the gentle arts.” But I do not intend to spend my life tightening my corset and waiting for some fool to ask me to dance. I said more calmly, “As you all know, I'm interested in words. I intend to study languages, ancient languages and cultures. Perhaps when I'm older I'll be an explorer like my aunt or—”

“Enough!” The Minchin cut me off.

For a moment the room was so silent you could hear the doves cooing in the chimneys. The Minchin drew her thin lips together till they almost vanished into her chin. She took out the boys' Latin Grammars and distributed them, clacking round the wood floor with her
sharp heels. Each clack was a note of disapproval.

With a sharp slap, the Minchin opened
Our Deportment
by a Mr. Jeffrey Young. A foolish book, lent to us by Waldo's mother. Waldo's mother fondly believes her son to be a “perfect little gentleman,” but she was obviously less impressed by my manners.

I began to read:

General Rules of the Table

My mind wandered as it often does in the Minchin's lessons and I began making lists:

Things I Love:

—Adventure.

—Cantering around on my piebald mare Jesse.

—Pyramids

—Treacle Tart and ices and barley sugar and butter scotch and caramel.

Things I hate:

—Learning “manners.”

—Corsets.

—Boys who think they are better than girls.

—Cheese.

—The Minchin, the Minchin, the Minchin.

Oh why couldn't my tiresome governess just disappear in a puff of smoke, leaving me gloriously free? There was a thrilling account of my aunt's travels in the
Illustrated London News.
I'd pored over the engravings of strange tombs. The stories of pyramids and camels wandering the desert sands. The Minchin's bleating voice broke into my daydreams:

“I'm feeling a little faint, children. I think I'll just go upstairs for a moment and lie down. Pray continue with your work.”

The Minchin did look alarmingly pale, her skin milk-white next to her dark ringlets. She swept out of the nursery. I heard her heels on the stairs, clopping to the day-room where she took her rest. This was an answer to my prayers! We could hope for at least an hour without her interference. When the Minchin had one of her “dizzy spells” she tended to disappear. I had my suspicions about how genuine her “spells” were. Once when I
went up to ask her a question she quickly hid something under the bedclothes. Not before I could make out the title in bold colors:
Lady Audley's Secret
. This is one of the books my father despises, trashy stories full of murder and romance. Personally I think they look rather exciting.

Not that I give a fig about the Minchin. This was our chance!

I hastily put my copybooks away and went to the door. “I'm off out,” I said. “Who's with me?”

Instantly there was uproar, everyone talking at once. I explained about the mummy arriving at the museum. I was going! I did not intend to miss this opportunity! Isaac was instantly up for the adventure and to my surprise so was Waldo. Only Rachel hung back.

“We'll get into awful trouble,” she said. “Miss Minchin will be furious if she gets back and we're not here.”

“Oh, don't be such a namby-pamby.”

“We'll get a thousand lines.”

“It'll be worth every one,” I called back, taking the stairs two at a time. The others followed me. Reluctantly, not wanting to be left behind by herself, Rachel brought up the rear.

“I don't like this,” Rachel warned. “Don't blame me when it all goes wrong.”

Poor Rachel. Of course no one was listening.

Chapter Two

We arrived at the Natural History Museum to find a commotion. A bustle of carriages, whinnying horses, dark foreigners dressed in shawls and loose white tunics, porters carrying huge boxes and yelling as they bumped into each other. Aunt Hilda was always a human whirlwind; this chaos meant she could not be far away. I waded into the thick of the action, receiving an elbow in my face for my pains. Then I heard a familiar barking voice:

“Look sharp, boy. I haven't got all day.”

Aunt Hilda's stocky figure emerged out of the scrum. Her face was bronzed and weather-beaten, her hair disheveled. But it was her clothes that made me stare in astonishment. She had cast off her skirt and was wearing trousers, of all scandalous things. At first I thought she was disguised as a man! Then I realized she was dressed in an odd sort of riding habit. Her jodhpurs were made of blue serge, which she had tucked into
stumpy shoes. Shoes that would look clumsy even on my father.

My aunt would never cease to amaze me.

“It's not a sack of turnips, you ignorant clot,” Aunt Hilda boomed at a porter weighed down by a packing case the size of a large coffin. “I haven't traveled all the way from Memphis with the Pharaoh's treasures, only to see it smashed to smithereens by a careless boy!”

The “boy” in question was a middle-aged man with nut-brown skin. He was made even more clumsy by Aunt Hilda's barking and I feared he would drop the box altogether. Behind Aunt Hilda, like a jerky puppet, danced my father. This was a tremendous day for him. His face clearly displayed the agonies he was going through.

I shoved my way through the onlookers, the others hard on my heels.

“Kit? Are you not with Miss Minchin?” my father asked, seeing us appear through the crowd.

“You asked us to assist you,” I bluffed, knowing my father would not remember.

“Splendid,” he said vaguely, his eyes darting off toward a porter unloading a case from a large cart.

Aunt Hilda gave off berating the “boy” with the packing case. She noticed me and strode over to give me a brisk hug.

“Can we help?” I asked.

“Got a pack of friends with you? Might as well make yourselves useful, I suppose. Give Abdul here a hand. I pay him ten shillings a month to drop my most prized possessions. Daylight robbery!”

I thought poor Abdul was doing a very good job, considering the size of the case, but I knew my aunt was a most demanding person. We all slotted in around Abdul and carefully carried the box into the museum. To reach the Pitt Collection we had to go through the arched hall of the Natural History Museum. Glass and steel soared above us. We marched past cases containing prehistoric bones and butterflies entombed in clear glass. Isaac loves the Natural History Museum. Declares it is the best in the world. For myself, I love the Pitt—or “The Hole,” as some call it. My father is the Director of this delightful collection of curiosities. Though the galleries in which the Pitt is housed are dark and fusty, it is a den of higgledy-piggledy delights. You may find everything of wonder there from shrunken witches' heads to towering totem poles.

Other porters followed us, laden down with even larger cases and trunks. Soon we were in the anteroom to the Pitt Collection and father was hopping around excitedly telling us to please, please be careful as we set down our goods. There were so many packing cases,
corded with stout ropes and labeled
FRAGILE
in large letters. They filled the whole room.

“So, Theo. Have you made a plan?” Aunt Hilda asked.

“A plan?”

“Where do you intend to unpack?” she gestured around impatiently at the trunks and packing cases. “I want to see my treasures have arrived safely. Also I'm expecting a chappie from the
Illustrated London News.
I expect they'll have an artist along to do an engraving of me with the mummy. They usually do.”

“How exciting.”

“Actually it's a rightful bore, but there it is. The public can't get enough of me, it seems.”

“We've cleared out a room. Would you like to inspect it?”

“I'd better. Make sure there is no damage from sunlight or dust. My collection is really rather special, Theo. I want it properly treated.”

Aunt Hilda ordered the porters to go outside into the yard and wait for the next delivery. Then she disappeared along with Father down a passage. The four of us were left alone with the mummy!

“I wonder,” I said, slowly wandering through the packing cases, “which of these boxes is the mummy?” They bore the scuff marks and dust of their long journey from the East. They had traveled thousands of miles, swaying
on the backs of camels, carried on the strong shoulders of native porters, by steamship and by carriage. Who knew what mysteries they contained?

“It will be a large rectangular box,” Waldo proclaimed. “I expect this is the fellow.” He had halted by a case illuminated by a chance shaft of sunlight. Waldo laid a possessive hand on the box, as if he owned it himself. His blue eyes glowed with pride. The case was covered in tattered brown paper and twine and had a faded label on it. We all clustered round.

“What if it's cursed?” Rachel asked.

“Mummies are said to bring bad luck to those who defile their tombs,” Waldo said. “Your aunt better watch out.”

“Whooo. The curse of the mummy.” Isaac danced around the box making sinister noises.

“Shush,” I said. “This is a serious, scientific museum. If you're going to be silly, please leave.”

Taking no notice of me, Isaac went on with his idiotic noises.

“Quiet,” I said, more sternly and Isaac stopped.

“Worse than the Minchin,” he grumbled.

There was a moment's deep silence, broken only by the faraway rumble of hooves and wheels. Then, quite unmistakably, there was a groan.

A hoarse groan coming from within the room. I
turned on Isaac.

“Outside! This isn't the time for your pranks.”

“Wasn't me.”

Another groan, even louder, accompanied by a sharp crack. It couldn't have been Isaac, unless he had learned ventriloquism.

“The mummy!” Rachel gasped, clutching on to me.

The noise had come from the largest packing case in the room, placed upright against the wall. A dull brown in color, it was the size of a big wardrobe. Was it my imagination or had it wobbled oh-so-slightly?

A chill spread through the room. The decaying breath of a spirit which had been dead for many thousands of years. An unreasoning fear took hold of me—and the others seemed to feel it as well, because for a moment we were all still as statues. Then I took hold of myself. I couldn't calm my too rapid heartbeat but I could move my feet. I went toward the box, while poor Rachel tried to hold me back.