The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (2 page)

Part One

Whatever happens follow your heart and your
conscience.
Maxim 11,
The Wisdom of Ptah Hotep

The Wisdom of Ptah Hotep
was discovered in Thebes, Egypt by the Frenchman Prisse D'Avennes. The Papyrus Prisse dates from the Egyptian Middle Kingdom (2500
BC
) and is now displayed in the Louvre in Paris. The oldest book in the world, this papyrus is a copy of an even older work, one from the very dawn of Egyptian history, over a thousand years before (3350
BC
). This legendary work vanished long ago.

Chapter One

“Socks!”

My father, Professor Theodore Salter, stopped mid-stride and looked back at me in alarm. I jumped down our front steps and raced after him up the pavement.

“My dear?”

“Oh, Papa, you've gone and done it again!”

He looked at me, bewildered.

“Please examine your feet.”

“What's wrong with them?”

“You've forgotten your socks,” I explained. “Don't you remember the blisters last time? You could barely walk when you came back from the museum!”

My father glanced down. From the tip of his top hat to his neatly pressed trousers he looked the perfect gentleman; all except for his feet, bare inside his stiff leather shoes.

“Extraordinary!” he said, as if he was looking at someone else's feet. “How on earth did that happen?”

Father stepped out of his shoes and retreated home
without a backward glance. He seemed even more in a daze than usual. Resigned to my role as his keeper, I picked up his shoes and followed him. Outside our front gate, he bumped into a lady in an enormous hat. Her Pekinese yapped, snapping at Father with its pointed teeth.

“Down, Bonaparte,” the lady barked, staring at Father as if he was a lunatic.

How, you are probably wondering, does a man forget to put on his socks? The answer is that my father is not like other men; his brain does not connect with his body. While his feet tread the streets of Oxford, his head is somewhere altogether different. Like as not, in the realm of dusty manuscripts and ancient languages.

“What would I do without you, Kit?” Father asked once he was safely indoors and I had fetched his socks.

I know what you would do without me, I thought. You'd go to the museum in your nightgown and slippers. But I held my tongue. My father is all I have in the world. He has raised me single-handedly since the death of my mother six years ago. However, I am twelve years old now, and sometimes I think the tables have turned. These days, I seem to be doing much more of the “raising” than my poor, dear father.

You see, just because I love my father doesn't mean I am foolishly indulgent. If you want to know about
ancient Egyptian sarcophagi or need a parchment translated from Coptic, there is no better man to consult in the entire Empire than my father. But you cannot trust him with the simplest errand. Ask him to buy a jar of jam and he is likely to return with a bag of kippers. Even among the absentminded dons of North Oxford, Professor Theodore Salter's behavior often seems eccentric. I suppose what I am trying to tell you is that Father was born with twice the normal amount of brains, but only half the sense. Indeed sometimes I feel like a nanny to a singularly half-witted toddler.

Father's cheeks were flushed as he put on his shoes. His breathing was agitated.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Just rather rushed this morning because of this business with your Aunt Hilda.”

“What business? Isn't Auntie in Egypt on her expedition?”

“That's just it. Haven't you seen the
Illustrated London News?
She's back and she's coming to the museum this morning.” Father thrust a newspaper at me. Dated October 22, 1872, the headline read:

F
AMOUS
E
XPLORER
D
ONATES
M
UMMY
T
O
P
ITT
M
USEUM

“Gosh. A real mummy,” I breathed, my mind aflutter with visions of sand dunes and hollow-eyed figures wrapped in yards of white linen. “May I come with you,
Papa? Please,
please
.”

“I'm late. I will have to go by carriage,” my father grumbled. He was back outside gesturing to a passing cab. The horse pulling the rather shabby hansom carriage slowed to a stop and he climbed in. The horse was a mangy creature, it looked tired and half-starved. How cross it makes me when I see animals that have been poorly treated.

“I would give anything to come with you,” I begged.

“Not now,” Father said. “Ah! There's Madame Minchin. It's time for your lessons.”

Sullenly I let my governess in. She glanced at Father, with rather too wide a smile, but he failed to notice. This wasn't justice! Mummies and Egyptian treasure arriving at the museum and here I was stuck at home with the boring Minchin. How I hate being “a
child
.” I am considered old enough to do most of the practical organizing around the house. I am the one who makes decisions about menus and gives our housekeeper instructions. But when it comes to anything interesting—well, it seems I am a mere babe once again.

“Morning, Kathleen.” The Minchin swept in, her huge bustle buffeting me in the chest. No one but my governess calls me Kathleen. I sometimes think she does it because she knows how much I loathe the name. “Please assist me by proceeding to the nursery and setting out
your books.”

The nursery is near the top of our steep house. It is a bright and airy room, covered with fading wallpaper and furnished with desks and a blackboard. In the corner stands my gold and maroon rocking horse. When I was little I called her “Amelia” and loved to play with her. Lately she has been sorely neglected. I sat down at my place by the window. Soon there was a patter of feet on the stairs.

It was Rachel Ani, my closest friend. She is slightly older than me; with her halo of dark curls and rosebud lips, she is softly pretty. When I am impatient, Rachel is kind. Sometimes she can be sensible to a tiresome extent—but she tells me that I am fortunate to have her. Without her to keep me in order, she says, I would get into no end of scrapes. There was no sign of her brother Isaac—as usual he was dawdling in the street. The Anis are orphans, looked after by a guardian who is nearly as absentminded as my father. Isaac is just a year younger than Rachel, but he seems a puppy compared with my friend. He is always fiddling away with bolts and pieces of wire and fancies himself an engineer like the great Brunel. I do not take his whims seriously. No matter that boys are considered far superior to us girls, I still maintain they are silly creatures!

The Minchin was fussing away with her books,
smelling salts and glass of water when Isaac burst in. He streaked over the floor at terrific speed and crashed into her desk, knocking over a glass of water. The pool of water spread over the desk, narrowly missing Minchin's lap. “Good gracious me!” She jumped up in horror. “Whatever next?”

“Sorry,” Isaac gasped.

Trying to suppress my giggles I stared at Isaac's feet in astonishment. “What on …”

“Do you like them?” he exclaimed. “My latest invention! RollerShoes.”

“RollerShoes?”

“I've attached these to the soles of my boots.” Balancing on a desk with one hand, Isaac lifted a foot so I could see the tiny wheels glittering in the soles. “You can go like the wind in RollerShoes. They're going to make me rich!”

I thought the RollerShoes looked fantastic but Rachel was obviously mortified. “They'll never catch on,” she hissed at her brother. “Take them off.”

“At once,” the Minchin added. “Sit down, Isaac, and get out your copybooks. I shall have to have words with your guardian about your wild behavior.”

A minute later Waldo Bell made a grand entrance, clumping in with a great deal of noise. He is an American and, without a doubt, the most annoying
person I have ever met. Waldo had to leave his last school for mysterious reasons. Now he shares lessons with Rachel, Isaac and me, whom he persists in calling “children.” One year older than us girls and he acts like our great-uncle. Certain people might think Waldo handsome, with his blond curls and pale blue eyes. He certainly has a high opinion of his own looks! For myself, I think arrogance is his chief quality.