The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis

by Natasha Narayan

  Over the rumble of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels I suddenly heard screaming. It was Rachel. I looked over at her, frowning. This wasn’t the moment for one of her attacks of nerves. My friend was shrieking hysterically, her whole body trembling. I looked down, following her eyes. Baruch was spread-eagled in the gutter—one arm still cradling his sack. There was a trickle of dark liquid coming out of his mouth. He has a dirty face, I thought, for a moment before I realized what the stuff was. Something was sticking out of his shirt-front. Something white and lustrous. I bent down to take a closer look at it and it was all I could do to stop myself screaming. It was the hilt of a pearl-handled knife.

  Chapter Eleven

  I caught the merest glimpse of Baruch before Waldo jumped in front of Rachel and me, shielding us from the body.

  “This is no time to act like my grandfather,” I snapped.

  “A corpse isn’t a fit sight for young ladies.”

  “I’ll make up my own mind, thank you very much.” I tried to shoulder my way past him. “Let go! I need to help Baruch!”

  It’s true I have never seen a human corpse, but I’ve seen the bodies of plenty of rabbits and pheasants which have been mauled by foxes. Why is it that us girls are considered such silly creatures that we have to be protected from anything upsetting?

  No one offered to help, no one ran to fetch a doctor. Costermongers, top-hatted clerks, flower-girls, everyone circled round the corpse, gawking like fools. There wasn’t one person in among them who was willing to take charge. Never had I felt so lost in this giant city. It was just the five of us; mere helpless children and the body with the knife sticking out of its chest.

  Reluctantly, Waldo moved aside. My breakfast lurched inside me. The body of a man is quite different from that of a rabbit. Baruch’s eyes were open, but quite blank. His skin had a sheeny look, like one of Madame Tussaud’s waxwork dummies. That awful blood kept running from his mouth.

  I took off my cape and knelt down by Baruch with some idea of placing it under his head. I knew it would not make him more comfortable in death, but it seemed more respectful. But something, some small movement made me jerk back in surprise.

  “He’s still alive.”

  “I think you’re right, Kit,” Waldo picked up Baruch’s wrist. I noticed there was blood congealing on the greener’s index finger, smeared along the palm. He must have tried to grab the knife. “There’s a pulse.”

  “Do you think we should take out the knife?” Rachel asked, pointing to the mother-of-pearl hilt sticking out from Baruch’s shirt, but I shook my head.

  “No. We could rupture an artery or something. Quick, we need to get him to hospital.”

  “Help! Stop! Cabby!” Isaac was already halfway in the street, trailing Ahmed behind him.

  I turned and a pair of black trousers loomed above me. Looking up, I saw a young man wearing a uniform with blue jacket and a domed hat. A London policeman!

  “Thank heavens you’ve arrived. He’s still alive.”

  “’Ow did this happen, miss?” the bobby asked.

  “We were talking to him and then he went into the crowd and he was knifed. You see it, there—”

  “Was ’e robbed?” The policeman asked, finally blowing his whistle for a cab.

  “I don’t think so. Actually I don’t know. Baruch is a greener. He was trying to tell us something important and—”

  “A greener, you say?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Thought he was your groom. Young lady like you should have a groom or a footman with you when you’re out and about.” The policeman knelt down to take a closer look at the body. “Fellow needs a good wash.”

  “He needs more than a wash,” I said hotly. “He needs a doctor.”

  At last a hansom carriage responded to the constable’s whistle. The driver, a stout man in a loud check jacket, got out of his cab in a leisurely fashion and joined us on the pavement. Why were they all so slow?

  “Greener been attacked. Gonna have to get him to hospital,” the policeman explained.

  “As you say, guv’nor.”

  “Problem is don’t know who’s gonna pay. These greeners don’t have two brass farthings to rub together.”

  Here was a man’s life at stake and all they could do was stand around chatting.

  “I’ll pay,” I said delving into my pocket to pull out my money. My hand curled around empty space. My purse had gone. It was humiliating, awful. I had survived the East End unscathed only for this to happen in the most fashionable park in London. Luckily my purse only contained a couple of shillings, I’d left my remaining two guineas at home. “I’ve been robbed,” I blurted.

  Everything seemed to slow down. “Robbery’s a very grave matter,” the policeman said, pulling out his notebook. “Greener did it, you think?”

  “NO, I DO NOT THINK!” I snapped, in total exasperation. “FORGET ABOUT THE ROBBERY. PLEASE, JUST GET THIS MAN TO HOSPITAL.”

  Rachel, who was kneeling by Baruch, looked the police constable in the eye. Her face was very grave under her halo of dark curls. “You don’t want this man’s death on your conscience,” she said softly. “He is a good fellow.”

  Something in her tone seemed to finally pierce the bobby’s thick hide. He shuffled awkwardly, while Waldo pulled out his wallet: “Here’s three shillings,” Waldo said. “Should be enough to get Baruch to the hospital and pay for a doctor.”

  The sight of the money spurred the bobby and the cabby into action. The cabby lifted Baruch under the shoulders and the policeman took his feet. The body looked limp, lifeless. But as they picked him up Baruch’s feet thrashed about. He groaned, a sound that was both heart-rending and hopeful. In a matter of seconds he was loaded into the carriage. I wanted to go with him, but there was only room for one more and everyone insisted it should be Waldo.

  “I’ll make sure he’s looked after!” Waldo shouted out of the hansom as it clipped away down Park Lane at a terrific pace.

  As I know from numerous schoolroom spats, Waldo is nothing if not stubborn. I was confident that Baruch was in safe hands and prayed that he would recover.

  “Now, miss, let’s have everything you can recall about the robbery,” the policeman had got his inevitable notebook back out.

  “You’re not interested in the attack on the greener? Baruch is lying at death’s door!”

  “Er, might as well give us some stuff on the attack while you’re at it.”

  We did as he asked. I couldn’t help feeling, though, that this policeman’s shiny uniform was more impressive than his detecting skills. In fact, if he caught either Baruch’s attacker or the thief who had stolen my purse I would eat his hat—felt, board, metal badge and all! The policeman kept us talking for what seemed like a never-ending time, as we trawled through the events of our day: why we were meeting Baruch, what we were doing in the East End and on and on. I had to think up some stories pretty fast. He even seemed disposed to question Ahmed and find out who he was, which frightened our Egyptian stowaway unnecessarily. In the end, when his questions were skirting a little too near the truth, I only managed to get rid of him by saying that my aunt “the countess” was expecting us to lunch. At the mention of gentry he turned bright red and put away his notebook.

  After he had finally left I turned to the others. “Isaac, you’ll have to go to the shop. Tell Moses Zwingler, Baruch has been attacked.”

  Rachel hesitated. “That might not be the best thing for Baruch,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, how is Moses going to react when he finds out Baruch was talking to us?”

  She was right.

  “Well, you better go with Isaac then, Rachel. See if you can get to the niece, what’s her name again?”

  “Sara.”

  “See if you can get Sara alone. Tell her what’s happened. She can make out she heard about the attack on Baruch in some other way. I’ll take Ahmed and I’ll go to the Norfolk place Baruch mentioned.”


  “What on earth are you saying, Kit? You can’t tramp all over Norfolk looking for a Punch and Judy show. It will take you several days to get there for a start and—”

  “You’ve got it wrong,” I said. “Think about it! East End villains don’t go traveling about in the remote countryside. Baruch didn’t mean Norfolk the county. The Norfolk Punch’s a gin palace in Drury Lane. I saw it from the omnibus this morning.”

  Rachel and Isaac could have been twins. The very same obstinate, disapproving look crossed both their faces.

  “A tavern!” Isaac said.

  “You can’t go into a low gin palace. By yourself, of all things,” Rachel added.

  “She not alone,” Ahmed said. “I go with Kit.”

  “You heard,” I said. “Ahmed’s coming with me.”

  “Kit!” brother and sister protested.

  I held up my hand to quiet them down. I can also be fairly stubborn when I want to. “Don’t try and stop me. Not if you’re my friends. I dragged Baruch into this. I owe it to him to stop these criminals—whoever they are.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Steamy, gin-scented fumes gusted out of the Norfolk Punch, as I opened the door. For a moment I staggered. There was so much alcohol in the air I felt woozy just breathing it in. Mid-morning and the place was already crowded with customers: men, women and even children. Some of them were covered in greasepaint. Actors, perhaps, from the theaters nearby. They were perched on stools by the bar, endlessly reflected in glorious mirrors and sheets of crystal which in the brilliance of gaslight gave the whole interior a fantastic, fairytale feel.

  “This is …” Ahmed began and faltered as words failed him.

  It was indeed. Grander than any other tavern I had glimpsed; a cathedral, almost, of gin. The boards blaring forth from the walls in gold and red could be the signs of some new religion:

  OLD TOM CREAM OF THE HEAVENS UNIQUE BALMORAL MIXTURE, AS DRUNK BY HIS HIGHNESS, PRINCE ALBERT

  “Women and even children … babies … drinking alcohol. In Egypt we believe alcohol is … how do you say? … too bad, evil.” Ahmed looked thoroughly shocked, gazing around at the customers who packed the tavern.

  “It certainly isn’t a good idea to drink gin in the morning.” I entered, pushing my way past a clump of cab drivers. “I should expect it finishes you off for the rest of the day.” I noticed Ahmed was not following me, but had halted at the door as if scared to enter.

  “Come on,” I said, gently tugging at his sleeve. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll go to the bar. I’ve heard the pot-boys in these places are a wonderful source of gossip.”

  We passed a pot-boy in a grubby apron taking several large tankards to customers. I thought it foolish to make inquiries before buying ourselves some drinks with the pennies I had remaining in my pockets—the ones the thief had not managed to steal. As we fought our way to the bar we came up behind a person with carroty hair who was talking in a loud voice. The landlady, busy dispensing glasses of gin, did not seem much interested.

  “Nah,” Carrots was saying. “Them ole tales don’t frighten me. People say to me, they say Bob me ole son, you’d be right tickled if you—”

  “’Old on a mo,” the landlady turned round to serve someone else, then smiling she asked: “’Ow’s Velvet? Haven’t seen ’er for ages. Too good for us now, is she?”

  “Movin’ up in the world is ole Nell.” The landlady hadn’t waited for his reply, but moved away to serve someone else. However the red-haired boy continued in a loud, bragging voice, not seeming to care if anyone was listening. “Hardest master in the game is Velvet Nell. She’ll not take no lip from no one. Some people fink she’s soft just cos she’s a gel but they couldn’t be more wrong. A monster that’s what she is!”

  “He spiks different English to you,” Ahmed whispered to me. “A different sound.”

  “It’s called a Cockney accent. It comes from East London,” I explained.

  “Strange,” Ahmed said, with a grin. “Maybe I should learn to spik Cockney.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I hissed. “Aunt Hilda would never forgive me!”

  Meanwhile the youth was still blabbering: “Yer want sumfink to frighten the little kiddiwinks, don’t bother with fairy tales. Them monsters and fings, yer know, made up fings like Spring Heeled Jack, they ain’t frightenin.” Yer send them to Nell.’

  “I wouldn’t wish that on any brat!” the landlady grinned, finally taking some notice of the red-haired boy. “That’ll be ha’pence,” she said to another customer, a grinning old woman wearing a straw hat from which draggled a floppy artificial rose. The old dame weaved away unsteadily, gin slopping down the side of her glass. In fact the pitted pewter counter was awash with gin. Some of the drinkers were so beside themselves they spilled as much of their precious liquid as they drank. I had heard that thrifty landlords collected these leftovers—made up as much of spit as gin—and resold them as “All-Sorts.”

  “Here, wot’s this I heard on the grapevine about Velvet branchin’ out?” the landlady asked the chattering redhead. “I ’eard she’s moving on, she is, going to get herself into a whole new game.”

  “That’s wot I bin trying to tell you, if you’d only bin listening. Too good for you, I’ll be soon. You won’t catch me ’ere no more but down one of them gent’s clubs in Pall Mall,” he replied.

  “They wouldn’t let you in, not till you had a scrub-up and got yourself a new set of threads.” The landlady looked him up and down. “Nah, I don’t fink them toff’s club would ever let you in.”

  “Less lip.” From behind we saw the youth lean forward on the bar. “Give me another glass o” your finest gin, there’s a dear.’

  “Not yer usual All-Sorts? What’s this, Jabber? Nell given you a pay rise now you’re leaving Petticoat Lane behind?” The landlady smirked as she filled his glass.

  I froze. Two things had galvanized me. The mention of Petticoat Lane and if I’d heard right the landlady called this youth, whose face I couldn’t see, Jabber. Jabber Jukes, the criminal apprentice we sought! If so, I understood how he had earned his nickname. He was jabbering on, prattling away non-stop. Judging by his back view, the boy looked rather stringy and insignificant. Shorter than either Ahmed or me.

  I tapped the red-haired youth on the shoulder and he turned round, all indignant.

  “’Ere, wot do you think—” he began.

  “Are you Jabber Jukes?”

  “Eh?” the boy scowled. His skin was as carroty as his hair. A snub nose, a blaze of freckles, beady, darting eyes. He was wearing an oversize man’s coat that swamped his tiny body and the uniform of a swaggering criminal: peaked cap, white neckerchief, red waistcoat and huge trousers fastened with a fancy metal studded belt. He was dressed tough, certainly, but was this little rascal really the person who had so frightened the greeners?

  “Jabber Jukes?” Ahmed repeated.

  “’Oo’s your posh friends, Jabber?” the landlady asked, smirking.

  So we were on the right track, “Jabber” was too much of an unusual name for it to be a coincidence. I moved toward him, intent on questioning him, while he regarded us with a cocky smile.

  “Do yer want a drop o’ gin?” he leered at me. “’Ave one on the handsomest boy in the Norfolk Punch. It’d only be right to treat a pretty lady like you.” Poking a dirty thumb at Ahmed he added. “Yer pal will ’ave to pay for hisself.”

  I ignored the less-than-generous offer and looked him straight in the eye: “I’ve heard all about you, Jabber Jukes. Does the name Moses Zwingler mean anything to you?”

  He met my eye with an insolent smirk.

  “Perhaps you’ll remember a mummy made of twigs?” I continued.

  My words hit their target. Immediately a change came over the boy, his cocksure air dropping away. He jumped off his stool, as the landlady looked on, clattering into me and making me stagger backward. With one hand he seized my arm and tried to pull me through the pub. In his left hand Jabber was carrying a
package, about the size of a family Bible—though I doubt its contents were in any way holy.

  “Get off!” I yelled, while Ahmed tried to push him away. It wasn’t easy. Jabber was far stronger than he looked.

  “Shush!” the strange boy begged. “Please shut yer mouf, ladyship.”

  “I certainly will not.”

  “Please, not ’ere.”

  Jabber looked so frightened all of a sudden, I relented. He dragged me to a dark corner that was shaded from the gaslight that made the rest of the gin palace so dazzling. Ahmed followed, glaring at Jabber angrily.

  “Yer gotta go. Right now. I know who yer are. If I’m seen with yer I’m dead,” Jabber explained as he tried to push me down on a wooden bench that stood behind a table, in a shadowy corner of the room.

  Theories flashed through my mind as he talked. He knew who I was. How? Had the gang heard about our inquiries at Zwinglers? Had they followed Baruch and seen us with the greener? Were the gang on the lookout for us? If so they must have a fearsome organization. After all, it was only yesterday that the five of us had visited Moses Zwingler’s shop. There were so many possibilities. It was as if I was blindfolded and playing a game of badminton against a far superior opponent. I had to admit it to myself, for the first time I felt out of my depth.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Not till you answer my questions, Jabber Jukes.”

  “’Ow do yer know that?” he yowled, he was towering over me as I sat on the bench. “Me moniker is sumfink between me and me maker.”

  “Pardon?” I asked. This boy’s speech was so foreign to me he could have come from the wilds of Africa rather than the capital city of my own country.

  “’Ow do yer know me?” Jabber said. He sat down on one of the stools opposite me, besides Ahmed.

  “He wants to know how you know his name,” Ahmed intervened. Brilliant! An Egyptian understood this hooligan better than I did!

  “I have my sources.”

  “Bet yer just makin” it up.’