The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (6 page)

“This will get Monsieur Champlon's goat! Why even the New York papers will sit up and take notice. I expect an international sensation!”

“What are you—” Father began but Hilda cut him off.

“You know how much interest my collection has caused. I've had
The Times
, the
Manchester Guardian
…” Aunt Hilda began ticking off newspapers on her fingers. “Fully a dozen papers and magazines would like to attend the unveiling of the Hilda Salter Bequest. You
know me,” Aunt Hilda embraced us all in her glance. “I don't do half measures. I can't be bothered with mayors making tedious speeches. Let's treat the newspapers to something special, I thought. So I had my inspiration! It is a wonderful idea.”

“Ye-es,” Father said, dubiously.

Abruptly, Aunt Hilda noticed us: “Not in front of the children, Theo.”

“Pardon?” Father asked.

“We will discuss this in private. I'm sorry, Kit, my dear, but this is a delicate matter. As they say, walls have ears. Come along, Theo.”

Father trotted along after Aunt Hilda, as she marched to the drawing room, slamming the door shut. “I'll be back in a moment,” I whispered to the others and tiptoed after them. I stood outside, my ear pressed to the door. Unfortunately all I could hear was a dull murmur. I was just about to give up when suddenly, the voices rose.

“Theo!” Aunt Hilda barked.

“I
will not
,” my father's bleat came through the door.

“I can't have explained myself properly, Theo.”

“I won't change my mind.”

“That is your last word on the subject?”

“It is.”

There was the sound of stomping feet. In panic I pressed myself against the wall but Hilda didn't notice
me as she flung the door open, though I was an inch away from her.

“I will have to take the Hilda Salter Bequest elsewhere,” she shouted at my father over her shoulder. “The mummies will go tomorrow to a museum where they are properly appreciated.”

“So be it,” Father replied. “You will
never
get me to change my mind.”

Chapter Six

“Why did I let Hilda persuade me to do this?” Father wailed. He was backstage at the museum, looking a little comical dressed up in a flowing costume as the Egyptian god Anubis. Of course poor Papa had given in to every single one of his sister's demands and now he was gazing at the audience assembling for his entrance. Such was his horror, he could have been watching his executioners gather, rather than a perfectly respectable Oxford crowd.

“You have to learn to stand up for yourself, Papa.”

“How? How am I to stand up for myself?”

“You must learn to say no.”

“I said no a thousand times.”

“Say it once and mean it. Let your NO be the end of the matter.”

Father wasn't listening.

“I am undone,” he moaned. He had recognized someone in the crowd. My eyes followed his finger, which
was pointing to a white-bearded old gentleman in the middle of the front row. The gentleman was accompanied by a lady in purple sateen, carrying a black parasol. They looked distinguished and, well, rather nice, if a bit grumpy.

“It is Charles Darwin, Kit. Oh, I am ruined.”

Poor, poor Father. The great naturalist was his hero. Mr. Darwin's theory that men are descended from apes caused huge controversy, but Father reckoned him the “greatest mind of the age” and was proud to count him a friend. It was wicked of Aunt Hilda to have invited Mr. Darwin. Not to mention the newspapermen. What could I do to help Father? I was forced to put a brave face on it.

“Shush, Papa, think of the fabulous mummies aunt Hilda has brought you. The Pitt will have the finest collection in Europe!”

“For all my hard work to come to this. Mr. Darwin is here! He will see me playing the lead role in a foolish pantomime.” An ancient Egyptian mask of the jackal god Anubis, covered in crackled gold, trembled in father's hands. “I am a serious man, Kit. My reputation will be ruined. My museum will become a joke.”

“He will not recognize you when you put on the mask. Remember, Papa, do not take the mask off, whatever happens.”

I could not afford to pamper Father for too long. Waldo, Ahmed, Rachel and Isaac were waiting for me. This was our chance. We had to get to the mummy now before my aunt's great show began. With a reassuring squeeze of Father's arm, I slipped off into the wings where I hoped the coffin was kept. It was a badly lit, dusty space but there it was, lying on the floor. My heart began to beat as I saw the sarcophagus: a beautiful thing, covered in hieroglyphics and paintings of the ancient gods—Maat, feathered goddess of truth, Ptah, creator of all, Anubis, the jackal-headed one.

“Help me open it,” I hissed, straining to lift the heavy wooden lid. Waldo came up and assisted me. The wood gave a loud creak. We strained again and it gave another creak. It was going to be very difficult to open.

“Good heavens!” a voice rang out. Aunt Hilda stood in front of us, swathed in white robes that made her look like a rather hefty mummy. “What on earth?” By her side stood two of her Egyptian workers.

“We were just curious,” I blurted. “We wanted to see the mummy.”

“Out of the question. This sarcophagus has not been opened for
thousands of years. I
want to be the one to do it! Scoot now. We have to prepare for my grand mummy unwrapping.”

I was thoroughly annoyed with myself as we made
our way into the theater. We had blown our chance to find the scarab. Of course, Aunt Hilda was planning to unwrap the mummy as part of the show. Why had I hung about listening to Father's moaning? As we shoved our way through the packed benches I cursed myself for not acting sooner. If they unraveled the mummy's bandages surely they would find the scarab and our task would become much harder?

No sooner had we found a place to stand in the corner than a blanket of darkness descended on the hall; so deep we became shadows against the velvet night. At the back of the hall a woman screamed. Somewhere a plaintive bell wailed. A strange smell swept through the room, musky and rich, redolent of desert tombs and rotting flesh. Rachel felt her way to me and gripped my arm in the darkness. The wailing grew and two yellowy gaslights flared at the front of the stage as the curtains slowly pulled back. Perched in all its splendor on a rough oak table was the coffin of Ptah Hotep. How its wonderful hieroglyphs shone, glowing turquoise, scarlet and gold. Those eerie paintings of ancient gods had come back to haunt modern man.

Two of Aunt Hilda's workers, dressed in pale robes, stood on each side of the coffin. They carried ancient Egyptian instruments called sistrums, which are a bit like babies' rattles. As they shook their sistrums, a gruesome
figure emerged out of the murk. Pointed ears, a long doggy snout, red eyes gleaming out of the grotesque shadows of its face. A golden headdress flowed down its back. The jackal god, Anubis, lolloped to the front of the stage on his spindly legs. Around me I could hear the deliciously fearful
oooohs
and
aaaahs
of the ladies. Even though I knew it was dear papa under that mask, I shivered. This was something feral, an ancient and malicious beast.

“What is the life of a man, but a single heartbeat in the endless circle of time?” the voice, rasping out from behind the mask was hoarse and ugly, not like Father at all. “What are your miserable pleasures? What are your pains? All will become dust under the merciless gaze of Ra the invincible.” The jackal held out a paw. In the sickly yellow light a fine stream fell to the floor, where it formed a small pyramid of powder.

“Observe the coffin of Ptah Hotep. Four thousand years ago he was high and mighty. As vizier to the great Pharaoh Isesi he ruled over the lives of all about him. Lords shook at his approach, fine ladies quailed at his shadow. Slaves leapt to his bidding.

“Now what is he? All his power has crumbled, his riches come to naught but a handful of sand. In the afterlife kings and viziers are nothing. In the world of the dead you answer to me, Anubis, guide to the underworld,
judge of your sins.”

I could imagine this monster snuffling around in cemeteries, rooting out rotting corpses. It made me shudder. I would run a mile from such a thing. Poor Father, trapped inside that costume. Still, I must admit I was rather impressed with his performance. He had learned his lines well.

“Hear me, Ptah Hotep, vizier to the great Pharaoh Isesi. Now I will raise thee from the d-d-dead,” the jackal intoned.

Sinister shadows raced across the white walls. The jackal leaned over the table, the tip of its snout hovering over the coffin, its hands spread wide. Silence descended on us, as every man, woman and child in the audience drew in their breath. As for me, I could scarce breathe at all. Rachel squeezed my hand and I must confess I took comfort from her touch. She was so warm, so real.

A stocky figure with the head of a stork-like bird appeared, elbowed the jackal aside and announced. “I am Thoth, god of wisdom. I have come here to unroll the mummy.”

Thoth advanced toward us. I could see its ibis mask was not as ancient as that of Anubis. The beak was painted with fresh gold paint. Whereas the jackal was sinister, the stumpy figure of Thoth, with its nodding beak, was almost comical. Anyone less like a bird than
my sturdy little aunt I could not imagine.

Thoth and Anubis, my aunt and my father, approached the wooden coffin and each took one side. There was a crack, a rending of aged wood, that echoed through the theater. The lid came away in their hands, exposing something gleaming white underneath. The audience gasped. Some people so forgot themselves as to stand on their seats. Thoth and Anubis lifted the mummy out and the Egyptian “boys” quickly approached to remove the coffin. Finally here it was, the ancient corpse in its swaddling of bandages, laid out on a table before our fascinated eyes.

Thoth waddled forward, rooted around under the mummy then emerged with an end of the bandage in its hand.

“STOP!” A voice yelled.

It was Father. He tore off his mask. “Stop!” he howled again.

In my wilder flights of fancy I had imagined the mummy coming to life, slowly raising itself up on the stage and taking a few faltering steps toward the petrified crowd. But I never dreamed of this. My father, unmasked, advancing upon the corpse while a stream of frenzied jabber came out of his mouth, ripping apart the mummy's bandages with shaking claws.

Why was he behaving like a lunatic? Especially after I
had warned him against removing his mask.

Aunt Hilda tore off her own mask and advanced upon her brother with a brow like thunder: “Theo! Have you gone stark, raving mad? We will have to admit you to Bedlam at this rate.”

My father turned to her, a tangle of bandages in each hand. “Don't you see?”

“I see that you have let me down. Again.”

“The mummy's a fake.”

“A what?”

“A Fraud! A Fake! A Cheap Modern Copy!”

“Nonsense.”

“These bandages are new. I'll stake my life on it. They have never been anywhere near the desert!”

Chapter Seven