Theodosia and the Staff of Osiris

by R. L. LaFevers

  read and a dull flush spreading up his cheeks, a sure sign he was getting hot under the collar.

  "What the devil?" he finally exploded. He looked up from the newspaper at Mother. "Listen to this. 'A series of burglaries have been reported all over London. From private collections to public museums, a large coordinated set of robberies occurred last night. The same item was stolen from each location: mummies. "Someone is playing a deliberate hoax!" Lord Snowthorpe, head keeper at the British Museum, declared when he was reached late last night for comment.'"

  Father surged to his feet. "We've got to get to the museum! Those thieves might have hit us as well."

  Mother was unperturbed. The truth was, she'd been in a jolly mood ever since her meeting the day before, which had gone swimmingly. "Surely Flimp would have sent a message if there had been anything out of the ordinary last night," she said.

  "Unless they coshed him over the head first," I pointed out. Father speared me with a look.

  "I'll just go and get my hat," I said, then hightailed it to the carriage so I wouldn't be left behind.

  ***

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  The authorities were waiting for us when we arrived. Flimp had refused to let them in without Father's consent (good man, our Flimp).

  "Sir." The constable in charge stepped forward. "We're here to check and see if there's anything amiss in your museum."

  "There better not be," Father mumbled as he waited for Flimp to unlock the door. Remembering their manners, the constables motioned for Mother to go first, then followed her inside. I, of course, brought up the rear. I seem to do that a lot, frankly.

  Father led the way through the foyer toward the stairs to the Egyptian exhibit, then stopped, causing all of us to bump into him. "What the blazes ...?" he boomed.

  Everyone else fell silent. I craned my neck to see around the people in front of me, my jaw dropping when I did.

  There, lined up in the hallway, were scads of mummies. Rows and rows of them. I was seized by a violent shiver, and goose bumps rained down my arms.

  "What now, Theodosia?" Father said, turning his exasperation onto me.

  "Nothing! I just felt a draft, that's all."

  "Mebbe the sight o' all those bodies gave her the willies?" the constable suggested, looking a little pale himself.

  But of course, it wasn't the willies. Or even a draft. What

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  the sensation meant was that one of those mummies was either cursed or carrying some beastly sort of magic with it. But which one? There were scores of them, all crowded together against the wall as if they were waiting for a train to arrive. Most of them were still covered in their wrappings, thank goodness! But they were old and dingy, and some of the linen was looking tattered. A few unwrapped heads and limbs poked through, but I tried very hard not to look at those.

  The constable cleared his throat. "Is that how you always display your mummies, sir?"

  "Of course not! Those aren't even ours."

  He was right. They weren't. Which meant ...

  They were probably the missing ones.

  I could almost see the gears turning in the constable's head as he drew the same conclusion. "Well, isn't that cozy, guvnor? All the mummies just happen to be here in your museum."

  Horrified disbelief spread across Father's face. "Are you accusing me of stealing them?" I could tell by the color his face was turning that he was trying hard not to shout.

  The constable shrugged. "They've gone missing from all over the city and now they're here. What am I supposed to think?"

  Father glared at the man. "Who asked you to think,

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  anyway? Our museum has plenty of mummies of its own. We have no need for any of these." He waved his hand at the wall.

  With a shock, I realized one of the bodies was staring at me. It took me a moment to recognize it was Lord Chudleigh's mummy. The one formerly known as Tetley.

  I forced my attention back to the constable, who was dispatching one of the other constables to go fetch an Inspector Turnbull, who was still questioning employees at the British Museum. As the man hurried away, he nearly collided with Edgar Stilton, who emerged from the hallway just then. When he saw the rows of mummies, the entire left side of his body twitched.

  "Sir?" He looked inquiringly at Father.

  "Stilton." Father's voice was full of relief. "How long have you been here?"

  The constable sent Father a quelling glance. "I'll be the one to ask the questions, if you don't mind."

  It was clear that Father did mind, but after a gentle nudge from Mother, he clamped his mouth shut.

  The constable turned to Stilton. "What time did you get in this morning, sir?"

  "I've been here since half past, sir." Stilton looked from the constable back to Father, not sure whom to address his answer to.

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  "Were these mummies here when you arrived?"

  "I-I don't know. I came in the west entrance, like always."

  "I say! What's all this?" a pinched, critical voice demanded. At the sight of Vicary Weems, thoughts of his missing overcoat rushed back into my head. Bother! I had hoped to return his coat to the rack before he got here this morning, but the mummies had driven that thought out of my mind.

  "Nothing, Weems." Father waved his arm in dismissal. "Just some mix-up that will be sorted out immediately."

  The constable stiffened. "Seems to me I'll be the one to decide when it's sorted out."

  "Oh, good gad, man! Take a look around our museum. Does it look like we need any more mummies?"

  That was when I realized a curious thing, something no one else seemed to have noticed yet. All of our mummies were standing in the foyer, too. As if they'd all decided to come down and have a chat with the newcomers.

  "Excuse me, sir," I ventured, in an attempt to smooth things over before they completely fell apart.

  Just as the constable nodded at me to continue, a commotion erupted at the door.

  "Ah. Now we'll get to the bottom of this," the constable said. "Inspector Turnbull!" he called out, then rushed over to speak to him privately.

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  Mother inched closer to Father and they began talking in hushed voices. Weems's disdainful gaze fell onto poor Stilton. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be in your office? Working, presumably?"

  Stilton slipped a finger into the top of his collar and tugged at it. "Th-They seem to have some questions for me, sir."

  "Indeed." Weems looked doubtful. He was clearly the sort of person who always assumed one was lying.

  "He's quite correct, you know," I said. "The constable wanted to ask him some questions, so he'd best stay until they dismiss him."

  Weems turned his beastly glare on me. I suddenly found myself wanting to tug my frock into place and make sure every button was done up correctly. Instead, I reached up and scratched my armpit, the most vulgar thing I could think of in the heat of the moment.

  His lip curled in distaste. "I'd assumed yesterday was some sort of holiday. Surely you don't come here every day?"

  Have I mentioned that Vicary Weems has a very nasally penetrating voice?

  The inspector left the constable by the door and stalked toward us. He looked like a determined bulldog, which was not promising. "And who might you be?" he asked Weems.

  Weems drew himself up to his full height, which was still

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  considerably less than Inspector Turnbull's. "I am Vicary Weems, First Assistant Curator, in charge of the museum's exhibits, and, I might add, a close personal friend of Lord Chudleigh, who is on the board of directors of this museum."

  Turnbull studied him a moment longer. "So you're in charge, then, eh?"

  "Yes sir," Weems said, puffing up.

  "Well then, you can tell me exactly what's going on and how these stolen mummies got here."

  It was as if he'd stuck a straight pin directly into Weems. The First Assistant Curator unpuffed rather quickly. "It's only my seco
nd day on the job, sir," he rushed to add, clearly wanting to distance himself from any wrongdoing on the museum's part. "Let me go get the Head Curator." And before Turnbull could say another word, he headed over to Father and Mother.

  The inspector followed closely on his heels. As unobtrusively as possible, I trailed after them. When they reached my parents, Turnbull pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket along with a little pencil stub. He thumbed through the notebook pages and scowled. "Just came from the British Museum. A Lord Snowthorpe gave me a list of the missing mummies. Seems they were out forty-seven of them."

  "Showoffs," Father muttered.

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  Turnbull gave Father a steely look. "How many mummies do you normally display in your foyer?"

  "None! The foyer's no place for a display."

  "Then it looks to me like those are the missing ones. How d'you explain that, Mr. Throckmorton?"

  And of course, Father couldn't. None of us could. However, if they would only give me a chance, I could prove that Father wasn't a thief. I opened my mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by a second commotion at the door. "I say, let me in, you nitwit!" Lord Chudleigh's impatient voice rang through the foyer. "I'm on the museum's board, for gad's sake!"

  Properly quelled, the constable let him through.

  "I've come to check on our mummies, Throckmorton! How did we fare--I say, what are all these doing here?" He peered more closely at the bandaged forms against the wall. "What's my mummy doing here?"

  "That's what we're trying to find out, sir," Inspector Turnbull said reassuringly.

  I studied Chudleigh briefly, trying to determine if his bluster and outrage were an act. If so, it was a very good one. He would bear watching.

  Thinking this had gone on long enough, I stepped forward, drawing everyone's attention. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. Some of those are our mummies. We don't

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  keep them in the foyer. If you search the museum, I imagine you'll find that all the ones from our exhibits have been moved down here with the others. Clearly, if Father was to steal mummies, he wouldn't steal his own! I think you'll find that someone was going to steal all of them and was just keeping them in one place till he got back with a lorry or something, and then he was going to haul them all off."

  A hushed silence fell over the room as everyone turned to count the mummies. "She's right," Father said. (I do wish he wouldn't sound so surprised.) "There's the forty-seven from the British Museum, Lord Chudleigh's, and the eighteen others that have gone missing from private collections. That leaves thirteen more, exactly the number we had on display."

  "Biggs!" Inspector Turnbull barked out.

  "Yes sir?" The constable in charge hurried over.

  "You said there was a night watchman. Fetch him."

  "Of course, sir." The constable disappeared down the hallway while the rest of us waited in silence. Or tried to, anyway.

  "Hsst!"

  I whirled around, wondering what on earth could be making that sound.

  "Hsst!" came again, only this time I detected it was coming from behind one of the marble pillars. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was paying any attention to

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  me, I sidled toward the column--cautiously, mind you, as I had no idea who (or what) was hissing at me.

  As I drew closer, a hand snaked out and grabbed me. The grimy hand sported an even grimier fingerless glove, but I bit back my surprised scream as I recognized the blue eyes dancing above a dirty button nose.

  Sticky Will.

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  CHAPTER SIX THAT'S THE WAY THE MUMMY TUMBLES

  ***

  "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE ?" I hissed back at him. Instead of answering, Sticky Will pulled me behind the pillar, out of view of the others.

  With one last glance toward the foyer, he tugged his cap. "Ol' Wiggy sent me."

  "You mean Lord Wigmere?"

  "Aye. 'E wonts to talk to you." He grabbed my arm again and began pulling me down the south hallway.

  "You don't have to drag me! I would like to see Wigmere as much as he'd like to see me, you know."

  Will dropped my arm. "Right, then. This way, 'E's waiting just outside."

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  When we reached the east entrance, my heart jerked against my ribs. It was unlocked. Was this how the mummies had gotten in?

  Will saw me eyeing the lock. "Couldn't come in the front, miss. Not with all them coppers in there," he added apologetically.

  "You picked the lock?"

  Will shuffled his feet and had the grace to blush a little. "Aye."

  I leaned closer to him and lowered my voice. "Could you teach me how to do that?"

  Will drew back in surprise. "Ye mean ye aren't mad at me?"

  "Goodness, no! As you said, Wigmere and I must talk. And you were on official business." My head reeled with the potential forbidden knowledge I'd have access to if I could pick locks.

  "Come on, miss. We shouldn't keep him waiting too long."

  "Right. But you will teach me? About the locks, I mean?"

  "Sure. Now come on."

  The air was cold and brisk, and since it was still early yet, there was little traffic out on the street. A tall, rather greasy-looking man in a tattered undertaker's coat and battered top hat was buying a pie from a pie seller's cart. Farther down,

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  an urchin loitered in a doorway. But other than that, no one was about, which was perfect.

  The Brotherhood's carriage lurked on the far side of the street, its hulking form a deep, shiny black unmarked by any crest or insignia. I glanced once more around me, then hurried across to the carriage. When we reached it, Will rapped smartly on the door, then opened it.

  The head of the Brotherhood of the Chosen Keepers sat back against the cushion, his hands resting on his cane. The lines on his face seemed deeper this morning, and his eyes were serious. Here was someone who was very good at taking charge and knew just what to do about predicaments. "Good morning, sir."

  "Good morning, Theodosia," he said, motioning me inside. As I clambered up into the carriage and settled onto the plush velvet seat, he said to Will, "Keep an eye out. If anyone from the museum or police shows up, give two quick raps, then a hard knock."

  Wigmere turned his attention fully to me. "We received some news last night that I thought you ought to know. Plus, with this morning's unpleasantness all over the newspapers, it seemed a visit was in order."

  "Oh, thank you, sir! This morning has been a bit dicey. Do you know who piled all those mummies up in our foyer?"

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  "Well, no. Not exactly. But we do have confirmation that the Serpents of Chaos are back in London, just as we feared. In fact, I'd lay odds that someone from the Serpents of Chaos has had contact with Chudleigh and even planted the idea for a mummy unwrapping in his thick head--in order to ensure Tetley was discovered." He still looked disgusted at the spectacle we'd been forced to witness.

  "You mean to let us know we haven't seen the last of them?"

  Wigmere's solemn blue eyes met mine. "Yes. To let us know we may have won the first battle, but not the war. As a warning to show us what happens to those who displease them."

  I gulped. The truth was, I displeased them very much. "I had 50 hoped that was the end of them." In fact, one of my favorite daydreams was imagining von Braggenschnott still stuck fast to the wall in Thutmose Ill's tomb, yelling for help for the past three months, even though I knew it wasn't very realistic.

  "With Tetley's body showing up so publicly two nights ago, I can't help but feel the Serpents of Chaos must have something to do with this morning's mummy situation. It's too great a coincidence, although I can't quite figure out what their game is. Not yet."

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  "But it doesn't make any sense! Why would they bring all of London's mummies to our museum?" A thought occurred to me--a horrid, vile thought. "You don't think all the mummies are cursed, like the Heart of Egypt was, and
now those curses will fall on our heads?"

  Wigmere scowled. "Did they feel cursed?"

  "At least one is. Or if it's not cursed, its akhu is hovering nearby and most unhappy at being disturbed."

  "I suppose that's unavoidable with so many mummies being moved. Can you handle it?" he asked.

  I sat up straighten "Yes. Of course."

  "Very well. We will be working on this from our end, my dear. As soon as we have any word of what's going on, either Will or myself will get a message to you."

  "Is there anything you can do to help Father with this horrid misunderstanding about the mummies? They seem to think he's trying to steal them."

  Wigmere shook his head. "I'm sorry. All the Brotherhood's movements must remain shrouded in secrecy. We can't risk making our presence known."

  My heart sank. How was Father going to get out of this mess?

  "I'm sure as more becomes known over the next day or two, your father's name will be cleared. Meanwhile, I suggest

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  you read all the texts you can get your hands on regarding mummies and Osiris."

  Of course! As god of the Underworld, Osiris ruled over the dead. And mummies were most definitely dead.

  "Anubis, too, since he was god of mummification," Wigmere continued. "We'll comb our archives for anything that might explain what could cause all these mummies to be on the move. Hopefully one of us will find a clue as to what Chaos is up to."

  "Very well, sir."

  Wigmere gave a bracing nod. "Keep your spirits up. We've defeated the Serpents of Chaos before--we can do it again."

  "Thank you, sir." However, last time we hadn't been dealing with the forces of the Underworld, which put a rather new spin on it.

  Wigmere rapped on the carriage door and Will opened it so quickly that I couldn't help but wonder if he'd been eavesdropping. "She's ready to go back," Wigmere said. "Is the coast clear?"