The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis

by Natasha Narayan

“A scarab, about this long,” she held up a stubby thumb. “Probably in your pocket.”

  “It’s him.” I said pointing out the Brother furthest away from us. “He keeps it sewn in the lining of his jacket.”

  The man turned his eyes on me, loathing on his papery face: “You think you’re very clever don’t you, Miss Salter,” he said flatly.

  I shrugged.

  “This isn’t the end of the game. Not by any means. If I was you, I would be very careful when you return home.”

  Aunt Hilda took no notice of his threats. She marched up to Mr. Baker and felt first in one side, then the other of his jacket, while he stood motionless. With a swift movement she tore away the jacket’s cream silk lining and there it was, a shadow in the flat of her hand. The scarab. A small dark pebble, but precious. For one silent second, both of them gazed at the scarab. Aunt Hilda triumphant. Mr. Baker with such longing. He wanted this insignificant-looking thing, wanted it with all he possessed of a heart.

  “Don’t take it too hard.” Aunt Hilda said turning to Mr. Baker, a mocking grin spreading across her face. “This is just business. I have nothing personal against you,” she paused for a second. “Well, nothing I could repeat in mixed company.”

  The man made a low noise, deep in his throat and then suddenly he spat, aiming straight for my aunt. She clearly couldn’t believe the insult, for she froze, outrage in every muscle of her face. The foul gobbet splattered onto her red turban and the Brother turned and stalked off.

  “Manners of a skunk!” Aunt Hilda murmured raising her hand to unpeel her turban and shake off the spit. We watched the villains’ retreating figures, their cream suits merging into the glare of the sun.

  But I had other things on my mind. “How did you know about the scarab, Aunt Hilda?” I burst out. ‘We kept it a secret!

  Aunt Hilda took my arm and patted it, as if she was trying to console me. For once her expression was gentle: “You were always a rotten liar,” she said.

  “That’s not true,” I found myself wailing. “You were fooled.”

  “Kit, my sweet, did it ever, just once, occur to you that I was the one fooling you?”

  Epilogue

  All of us players in the affair of the scarab were, it seems, entangled in secrets and lies. At one time or another we all wore a mask. Ahmed may have owed his deceptions to concern for his father’s health and honor, but others were driven by greed or the longing for fame. I do not wish to judge my aunt too harshly because, despite all her faults, I admire her. She is an inspiration to those young ladies who think a trip to the dressmaker is the height of adventure. Still, we faced a stark choice. Did we let her and her fellow explorer Gaston Champlon into the secret of Ptah Hotep’s book? If we did, the Book would be taken away from its homeland to be imprisoned in a distant museum. Furthermore, Ahmed believed that if the Book and scarab were lost, misfortune would haunt his people.

  Or did we bury the Book?

  In the end it was Ahmed who decided the fate of the Book and the scarab. He traded the scarab with Aunt Hilda for something far more precious to her; the papyrus cover to Ptah Hotep’s manuscripts. This was the object of wonder decorated with magnificent birds, beasts and hieroglyphics which I’d glimpsed in the cave. It was priceless. As my aunt and Champlon promised to donate it to the Pitt Museum, I couldn’t help rejoicing. What joy it would bring to my father, whose lifelong obsession with the world’s oldest books would here find wonderful scope.

  The scarab, the resting place of Ptah Hotep’s soul, was secretly buried by Ahmed. Along, of course, with the enchanted thing concealed within that papyrus cover. The World’s Oldest Book.

  Ahmed felt he had done his duty but sadly for him our adventure did not have a happy ending. He believed it was his bullet that killed Ali, though of course it was impossible to say so for certain, such was the chaos in the temple. Though he despised the man, blamed him for breaking his father’s heart, he was his cousin. Ahmed was not by nature a killer. By the time we had made the hazardous journey back across the desert to Memphis, Ahmed’s father had perished. The funeral rites had already been performed, according to local custom. My friend’s grief was unalloyed. The parting from him was painful for us all. Not least, I am guessing, for Rachel who had taken Ahmed under her wing when he was a friendless stray and was now very attached to him.

  Maybe some day we would see Ahmed again. Meanwhile Waldo, Isaac, Rachel and I, accompanied by Jabber Jukes, my triumphant aunt and Champlon, sailed back home. Back to Oxford, the land of drizzly afternoons, weak tea and my dreaded governess, “the Minchin.” I will skirt over the scoldings Waldo got from his anxious mother, the similar lectures Rachel and Isaac received from their guardian. My dear father—who looked as if he hadn’t combed his hair the whole time I was in Egypt—was far too dazzled by the cover of Ptah Hotep’s book to punish me. To tell you the truth, though adventures are fantastic fun, there is something joyful too, in coming home.

  I had my work cut out for me, getting my father to have a bath, soothing Waldo’s hysterical mother, sorting out our housekeeping. More importantly I had to find Jabber Jukes an honest job and with Aunt Hilda’s help, report what was left of the Velvet Mob to the police. I owed that to the stabbed greener Baruch, to try and seek justice for the shopkeepers of East London. Soon the dazzling sands of Egypt had faded in our minds to the dullness of memory. But there were two gentlemen who were not to escape from Siwa and the cave of the Oracle so easily. I am talking of course of the Baker Brothers.

  Were they cursed?

  Who knows? Some may regard their misadventures as mere coincidence. What is a matter of fact is that in the following months the Baker Brothers suffered a series of truly sinister accidents. Crossing the Mediterranean their boat was holed and they were lucky to escape with their lives when a passing steamer plucked them off a raft. Back home in Cornwall their castle caught fire and rumors spread that dozens of precious paintings and statues had perished. The next day one of the Brothers contracted an odd skin disease, which covered his flesh with yellow, suppurating sores. The ignorant named this infection the “mummy bite.” Some say this Baker Brother clings on to life, while others claim he is dead. The ripples of misfortune spread to those who came in contact with the Brothers. Several of their associates are now said to have been infected by the “mummy bite.”

  These days people avoid mention of the Baker Brothers. The smell of the tomb hangs over them. I don’t know if they are cursed but I do believe that on that fateful day in Siwa, their greed aroused the displeasure of ancient and powerful forces. Forces that are best left quite alone.

  THE NEXT KIT SALTER ADVENTURE

  The Maharajah’s Monkey

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW

  The Maharajah’s Monkey

  “There must be something wrong with my eyesight,” Waldo whispered to me as we made our way through the crowd awaiting my aunt’s speech. Flustered, after running all the way to the Randolph Hotel, I had no idea what Waldo was talking about. I knew that smirk on his face, though. He thought to embarrass me.

  “Surely not,” I replied, in mock sympathy. “Oh, poor Waldo. Spectacles would spoil your dashing looks.”

  “Your aunt. She looks almost … handsome!” he grinned. “Almost like a man dressed as a lady.”

  I turned round and scanned Aunt Hilda, dominating her audience from the heights of a massive podium. At first glance she looked like her usual self, a cross between some sturdy heathen statue and a good old British bulldog. At second glance there was something odd. Was that a bow in her hair? That wasn’t right. She was wearing a lilac gown with a pretty white lace collar. Too pretty! The lace frothed and tumbled over her dress in a waterfall of feminine frills. I would never wear such a collar. What on earth was my aunt doing in it? Where were her famous check waistcoats? Those pantaloons that confused small children into thinking she was a man?

  My gruff, mannish aunt—the woman who had forced the fearsome Tartars of Omsk into giving
up the jeweled diadem by sheer willpower—was dressed like the Minchin. Like a flighty young lady dolled up to impress her beau. What on earth was going on?

  Then a thought struck me. Champlon. The French explorer must have coaxed my aunt into dressing up like a Gallic poodle. There was definitely something Parisian in the cut of her lilac gown. Monsieur Gaston Champlon was a great dandy, with his waxed mustaches, Malacca canes and embroidered sateen waistcoats. Now he’d turned my aunt into an advertisement for the fashions of the Champs Elysées. Why together, Hilda Salter and Monsieur Gaston Champlon would make a most ridiculous pair of adventurers!

  Ignoring Waldo, I settled myself onto a bench. Unfortunately, I knocked into a man in an awful tartan jacket, who scowled at me. Then Waldo stamped on my foot, making me wince in pain.

  “Watch out you clumsy oaf!” I snapped, turning on him.

  “What have I done?” Waldo replied, good-humoredly, but I was still upset with his remarks about my aunt.

  “You stood on my foot. I’m a girl not a Turkey carpet!”

  “Oh you’re a girl are you? I didn’t realize,” his blue eyes tried to gaze into mine, but I looked away. “If you’re a girl,” Waldo went on, “why don’t you behave like one?”

  “What, you mean preen and simper and drop my handkerchief,” I retorted. “No thanks!”

  “No one said anything about simpering. Just try and—”

  “You’ll never be satisfied till I ask your permission every time I want to sneeze!”

  In our irritation both of us had raised our voices. I noticed the man in the tartan jacket, a perfect stranger, smirking at our tiff. The man winked at Waldo, as if to signal that girls will be girls. To my astonishment my so-called friend winked right back. This was too much. I turned round, presenting both the evesdropper and Waldo with my back. Studiedly I admired the room. I had never been to this new hotel before and was impressed by the gilt moldings on the ceiling, the huge plate-glass windows, the ornate chandeliers dripping with glittering crystals. The Randolph was certainly a very modern place, with wonderful views down St. Giles of Oxford’s ancient butter-colored colleges. While I was musing thus, I noticed a man, a groom from the look of his coat, scurry up to Aunt Hilda. She pulled out her watch and consulted the time, then with increasing agitation looked down at the notes in front of her. Something was wrong.

  I shouldered my way through the crowd to my aunt. She was barking at the groom who’d brought her the message.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  My aunt turned to me, distraught. “It’s a catastrophe, Kit.”

  “What is?”

  “The conference was meant to start half an hour ago. Well, I thought Gaston was merely delayed, but Jinks here informs me that his horse has gone. There is no sign of him! He’s vanished! You realize what this means!”

  “He may have just been called away,” I tried to soothe.

  “Poppycock. Monsieur Champlon has played the foulest trick on me.”

  “You can’t know that, Aunt Hilda.”

  “It is as clear as daylight. Gaston Champlon has run out on me, the cowardly cur. I went along with everything, just to please him! He persuaded me into this foolish dress for starters,” her hands plucked at the ruffles on her bodice. “This is how he repays my trust. This is … is too, too awful. For me, Hilda Salter, to be humiliated like this, now, in front of everyone.” Aunt Hilda was no longer bothering to keep her voice low and I saw some of the people in the front row were plainly listening.

  “GASTON HAS JILTED ME.”

  I wanted to point out to Aunt Hilda that she had been about to form a new Anglo-French exploring team, not become Mrs. Champlon, but one look at her face and wiser counsel prevailed. Leaning over the podium I reached out to her. I was surprised, and touched, to feel her hand quivering in mine. Suddenly she felt vulnerable.

  “Please, remember your dignity, Aunt Hilda,” I murmured gently. “People are staring. You don’t want this to end up in the newspapers.”

  It was the right thing to say. Her hand stiffened inside mine and a stubborn look came into her eyes. “Certainly not!” she growled. “I will let no man … no Frenchman humiliate me!”

  “You must make an announcement,” I went on. “Think of some excuse.”

  She nodded, composing herself. I could see the effort in the lines of strain that stood out on her neck. I left her and hurriedly made my way back through the crowd. Pointedly I ignored my friends’ surprised looks. Usually I would have included them in my plans, but today I felt like working alone. As I left the room my aunt had risen and was delivering a speech, hardly a tremble in her bassoon of a voice. With typical bravado she made no mention of the missing Champlon, but forged right into her glorious vision for exploring the Himalayas, the greatest unconquered mountain range in the world. Hilda Salter was going to venture to the roof of the world!

  Mid morning and Magdalen Street was relatively quiet. A few people gave me suspicious glances as I ran pell-mell past the golden stones of the new museum—the Ashmolean. I knew my father had organized rooms for Champlon in Jericho; at Worcester College. It was a stroke of luck for I was firm friends with the porter, a man named Simpson. Oxford porters are usually a sullen lot, but my father had a fellowship at Worcester. I had fond memories of playing as an infant in sunlit college grounds.

  Simpson was dozing in the Porter’s lodge, almost hidden behind a haze of pipe smoke. When I rapped on the window he woke with a start.

  “Napping? At ten in the morning?” I asked cheekily.

  “You’ve forgotten your old friends, Miss Kit. What is it? A month since you came to see me? Too grand are you, now you’re a fine young lady.”

  “I’ll never be a fine lady, Simpson,” I retorted. “Even if I wanted to, it’d be impossible to forget you—the lectures you’ve given me! How is the gout?”

  One of the drawbacks of a college porter’s job is the amount of fine port and food he is allowed to consume. Simpson paid dearly for his rich diet in shaky knees and chronic indigestion. Indeed I feared that the college would soon retire him.

  “Me stomach hurts something dreadful. Feels like I’ve a bunch of eels in there, it does.”

  “You must come round to Park Town. Cook’s herbal remedies can cure anything,” I replied and then, the courtesies over, got to the point. “Simpson, I’ve come on an errand for Monsieur Champlon. I need to get into his rooms.”

  “Right at the back of the college, up three flights of stairs. Me knees won’t stand it.”

  “Can I have the keys?”

  “You’re up to some sort of mischief, Miss Kit. I can see it in your eyes,” he grumbled, but nevertheless he trudged over to the keyboard and retrieved a set for me. I took the time to thank him though I was burning to be off. I could feel in my bones that there was some sort of mystery about Champlon’s disappearance. Speed was of the essence.

  My heart pounding, I raced up the dim and narrow stairwell to Champlon’s rooms: 3B on the third landing. The key was a hefty brass affair, which looked like it was made in the middle ages. It was impossible to turn in the lock, I was just about to give up when, with a rending groan, the levers clicked into position and the door creaked open to reveal a large study. The walls were paneled with ancient oak of mellow brown and hung with a number of rugby cups and rowing trophies that I guessed must belong to the student occupant of the room. I could see no sign of Champlon. The room’s usual inhabitant struck me as a hearty sort of person who played a lot of sport and didn’t trouble himself too much with his lessons. Indeed there wasn’t a single book in the study. Then I saw the open door to the bedroom.

  Here there was plentiful evidence of the Frenchman in the rows and rows of dandified suits, the lines of polished shoes. There were remarkable quantities of eau de toilette, gold-plated razors, ebony hair and shaving brushes on the dressing table. One of the scent bottles was uncorked, I took a sniff and recoiled in disgust. It was sickly sweet, a combination of musk and
jasmine which instantly called Champlon to mind. I knew the Frenchman carried a miniature silver bottle of this awful scent stuff around, I’d seen him take it out and dab some on his wrists. What looked like a brand new full-length mirror had been hung up by the dressing table, probably so that Champlon could check that his attire was faultless. Everything was neatly hung up or lovingly folded and packed away. These were treasured possessions. I found it hard to believe that if the Frenchman had fled, he would have left his beloved things behind.

  I sat down on the bed and studied the room, the conviction growing in me that Gaston Champlon hadn’t, as my aunt believed, disappeared of his own free will. Something had happened to him. I was guessing it was something sinister, because he was just as excited as Aunt Hilda about their new venture. If their Himalayan expedition was a success, both Aunt Hilda and Champlon stood to make a fortune, not to mention write their names in the history books. There was no way Champlon would have just left Aunt Hilda in the lurch. However, this room was so perfect, so spotlessly clean and tidy it wasn’t going to give me any clues.

  Or was it?

  I shivered in the chill breeze that was blowing through the window. How could I have not it noticed before? On a freezing winter’s day the window had been violently thrust upward—and when I came closer it was clear that a pane of glass, now half hidden by another glass pane, had been smashed. Blending in with the rich reds and browns of the Turkey rug below the window, my eyes were arrested by a series of small muddy marks. I bent down and examined them. They could have been bare footprints, but if so they were made by the smallest of children—no more than a five-year-old. The marks were curiously splayed out, with occasional indentations that must have been made by toe nails. Remarkably long toe nails.

  The marks could, I conjectured, have been made by a young thief, who had smashed the window to gain entrance to Champlon’s bedroom. But what a nimble thief! How was it possible to have climbed three stories up a sheer stone wall?