The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (7 page)

It took a second for my aunt to understand my father. Just another second to name the thief.

“Gaston!” she roared. “That French blighter Gaston Champlon has stolen my mummy.”

“Control yourself,” Papa wailed. “Please, Hilda, remember your, er … dignity.”

Pandemonium broke out among the audience. Several ladies fainted and had to be carried out into the fresh air to be dosed with smelling salts. Some of the younger men scurried to the aisles, as if offering to battle the French there and then. A few scholarly-looking old gentlemen were heard to inquire what all the fuss was about.

Aunt Hilda was spitting fury: “Gaston has always been jealous of my Egyptian finds. He is a foul garlic-eating fiend.” She advanced to the front of the stage and shook her fist at imaginary Frenchmen in the audience. “This means war, Champlon. I will hunt you down and I will
make you pay. There is no hiding place from my vengeance.”

Poor Father was hanging on to his sister, trying to attract her attention. She shook him off her sleeve like an annoying ant. Father has several friends among the scholars of Paris. He is a man of peace not war. I know he would hate his sister to make trouble. Especially with Napoleon's war-mongering still a vivid memory.

“Come on,” I said to my friends. “We'd better go backstage. See if we can do anything to help Father.”

Ladies were swooning on the strong arms of their escorts. The confusion was indescribable as everyone fled in a different direction. Somehow my four friends and I managed to fight our way through the throng to the stage door. I opened it a crack, just enough to allow the others through. I shut the door firmly in the face of a man, with the rat-like look of a reporter from one of the scandal sheets.

Someone had lowered the curtain. I prayed the thick velvet would muffle my father and aunt's argument.

“You need evidence. You can't just accuse this man without evidence,” Father said.

“I
know
this is Gaston. I recognize the way he works.” Aunt Hilda took up her Thoth mask and smashed it to the floor in a fit of rage. “He stole all the glory from me
in Luxor!”

“If you're wrong he could set the lawyers on you. He would accuse you of spreading lies and injuring his reputation. You would have to pay huge sums of money in damages.”

Father need not have bothered. Aunt Hilda was not listening. A stream of furious—and not necessarily accurate—insults flew from her foam-flecked mouth: “Foul frog. Horrendous Hun! Rotten rotter. He means to ruin me!”

I went up to the mummy itself. Only a blind man would have been fooled by the bandages. Why, they positively dazzled with starchy whiteness. No way could this mummy have been buried under the desert sands for thousands of years. I gave the bandages a firm yank. They came away easily. Soon I was holding a yard of linen and had exposed the so-called corpse.

It was nothing but a bundle of twigs. Common sticks wrapped in stout twine.

When she saw the “corpse” Aunt Hilda grew pale. “Gaston mocks me. He laughs at me in front of the world's newspapers.”

Something fluttered out of the wad of bandages in my hand and flew to the floor. I stooped and picked it up. For a moment I stared, puzzled, at the thing in my hands. No one else noticed it and so I did something
very wrong. Something I hope you would never do. I put the fragment into my pocket.

The appearance of an Egyptian servant in our midst helped to distract attention from me. He was carrying a loaded platter. Steam rose enticingly out of a teapot.

“Cup of tea, Hilda?” Father begged. “Tea is so very good for the nerves.”

“Nerves? Blast my nerves. Don't care a hoot for them. I want Gaston arrested. Want to see him pay!” But Aunt Hilda consented to sit down and have a cup.

Someone was knocking loudly on the stage door. A moment later a servant appeared followed by an old gentleman. When I saw the bushy beard my heart sank. How many more blows could father take? It was his idol, Charles Darwin.

“My humblest apologies, dear sir,” Father sloshed tea everywhere in his eagerness to rush to the famous scientist's side “I would not have had you witness this tawdry farce. Not for anything!”

“Tawdry indeed,” Aunt Hilda snorted. “It was a very refined production.”

“Do forgive me. It was a foolish and common—”

“Nonsense, Theo,” Mr. Darwin smiled. “I enjoyed it immensely.”

“What?”

“It was great fun!”

“Fun?” Father asked, as if he did not know the meaning of the word.

“I can't remember when I last enjoyed something so much. Emma said to me: ‘Charles,' she said, ‘this is just the tonic you need for your nerves.'” Mr. Darwin patted my father kindly on the arm. “Jolly good show.”

“It didn't go quite … according to plan.”

“Things rarely do, my dear fellow.”

Cheered by the relief on Father's face, I left the grownups to it and beckoned the others to follow me through the stage door to the emptying theater. Chattering knots of people were still huddled in the anteroom. The fabulous canapés and glasses of champagne, which had been provided for the guests, were largely untouched. Waldo and Isaac grabbed a few prawns in aspic and I took a handful of cheese puffs. I shook off the same rat-faced newspaperman, who had recognized me as Professor Salter's daughter. Then we went outside to the front of the museum and sat down together on a park bench.

“So,” mused Waldo. “It looks like the Frenchman stole the mummy. I wonder why.”

“I don't believe it,” I said.

“What do you know about it, Miss Clever-clogs?”

“I just don't think it was the Frenchman. Not unless he lives in the East End of London, and is a dab hand with the sewing needle.”

“What?” Waldo said rudely.

“Don't tease us, Kit,” Isaac put in. “Tell us what you mean.”

“I have a clue.” I drew forth the thing that had fluttered out of the mummy's bandages. It was a grimy, water-stained bit of cloth.

“What on earth is
that
?” Waldo asked.

Rachel was studying the fragment curiously. “What does it have to do with the mummy?”

“Can I have it?” Isaac asked.

Slightly reluctantly I handed it over and Isaac took it, turning it over this way and that. Finally a smile broke out on his face. “You are clever, Kit,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Stop making up mysteries,” Waldo grumbled.

“I'm not.”

“Course you are. Just to make yourself seem clever and important.”

“Hold on, Waldo.” I held up the greasy slip. “This is a tailor's mark. You know one of the labels tailors sew into their clothes to identify their firm. Look, here are the initials of the tailor and here is the beginning of the letter S—”

“Capital S, and part of a small p for Spitalfields,” Isaac interrupted. “I'm guessing that the mummy's bandages came from a tailor with the initials MZ.”

“And Spitalfields is where most of the London tailors
are based. The mummy' bandages must be scrap linen from one of the firms there,” I added. “So all we have to do is find a tailor with the correct initials.”

Waldo couldn't help being impressed. He reddened slightly, annoyed at being shown up by a mere
girl.
“There are probably dozens of tailors in Spitalfields with the initials MZ,” he muttered, but I took no notice. He was only trying to save face.

“I'm going east,” I announced.

“Can I come?” Isaac asked immediately.

Isaac can be relied on. He has sporting blood and is always up for a challenge.

As for the others, it was as if I had declared I was going to the moon, such is the fear of London's East End. I have heard that district is a den of wickedness. How I longed to see it! Rachel, tediously, was the most nervous. (Sometimes I wonder why I do not have a more adventurous friend.) She frowned at me, while Waldo turned up his nose in what he hoped was a manly way. All the while Ahmed was silent, clearly trying to follow our talk.

“Scared?” I smiled at Waldo. “You don't have to come if you think it's too
dangerous
.”

“Hardly,” he answered coolly. “I suppose I shall have to chaperone you. Someone will have to look after the
girls.”

“I fear you will have a wasted trip. I intend to look after myself.”

Part Two

To listen is better than anything—thus perfect love is born.

Maxim 39,
The Wisdom of Ptah Hotep

Chapter Eight

“Help!” I screamed. My boots had skidded on something foul on the pavement. I toppled and would have landed with my bottom in the slush if strong hands had not caught me under the elbows. I turned round to see who had saved my skirts from the slime. Oh no, it was as I feared.

“Thank you,” I muttered, checking under my boot. There was the skin of a jellied eel stuck to the sole. I removed it with a fingertip and flung it savagely away.

“My pleasure.” Waldo smirked. “Always at your service, ladies.”

I wanted to say something biting, to wipe that horrid look off Waldo's face. Annoyingly, I could think of nothing on the spur of the moment.

“Are you all right, Kit?” Rachel fluttered around my elbow.

“Don't be uneasy on my account. Direct your attention to staying upright.”

“We should never have come here,” Rachel put her hand on my arm, while she stared around us fearfully.