The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (16 page)

It was middle of the day after our adventure at the Alhambra and Waldo was still in bed. He lay in state on his throne of fluffy pillows, surrounded by fruit and flowers, sipping a glass of lime cordial that Aunt's cook had specially prepared for him. There were so many bandages around his upper arm they formed a lump under his striped nightgown. He looked like a hunch-shoulder, if such a thing exists.

“Oh come on,” I cajoled him. “It can't be that bad.”

“You always make light of things when they happen to
me
,” he said pettishly.

“A piece of glass pierced your skin,” I snapped. “You weren't stabbed nearly to death like Baruch.”

“Your precious greener. It's all very well to coddle him, but with me it's all just a joke.”

“Come on, you two,” Rachel intervened gently. “I'm sure Kit doesn't want to make light of your pain, Waldo. Can we do anything to make you more comfortable?”

Rather grumpily, Waldo admitted he had everything he needed. I should think so! He was as cosseted as a little maharajah. In fact he had me to thank for all this. If I hadn't come up with a story to explain his wounded shoulder—a rather improbable one, I admit, involving a broken glass of water—he would be in serious trouble. In the event all the servants were fluttering around him as if he was a hero of the Crimean war.

Waldo tended to have that effect on servants. Especially the prettier maids.

“We're going to visit the hospital,” Rachel went on. “Ahmed is staying here. We really think we should see if Baruch is all right—” she flashed me a look. “Especially as Kit got him into this mess.”

I knew Waldo. He hated to miss an adventure, but even he could not suddenly claim to be better. We left him moaning that girls had all the fun these days—though I can't see how a visit to a hospital can be described as
fun.
Two omnibus rides later we were at Charing Cross Hospital, which is a modern place, known for the quality of its care. A nurse directed us to Baruch's ward, up several flights of steps, near the top of the building.

When I entered the ward I thought there was some mistake. That I had been directed to a morgue. It was a large, gloomy room, with bare boards stacked with iron
cots. The half-dead were all around us. Men with whooping cough, spluttering away. Others so thin from consumption they looked like living skeletons. The air was sour with boiled cabbage and disease, thick with coughs and groans. No one had thought to open the small window, set high up in the wall, to bring some air into this misery. In the far corner we spotted Baruch, wrapped in as many bandages as a mummy. With some trepidation we made our way over to him. He seemed surprised, but I think pleased, to see us. We gave him our gifts and sat chatting for a while, though we could see every word cost him an effort. Then looking at the ceiling he said something that made my heart wrench:

“If I stay here I die.”

“No—” I began but Baruch cut me off.

“I don't say this to beg for your pity. I say because it is fact.”

His filthy curls were stuck to his face with sweat, his face drained of blood. I knew there was truth in his words. I would rather recover from an illness in a pigsty than in this place. Surely someone had understood that packing the diseased so close together, like pieces of kindling in a fire, was unhealthy? Surely someone had thought of the benefits of clean air? The only bit of color in the whole room was the posy of flowers Rachel and I had brought for Baruch. Along with some
juicy apples, they rested on the floor by Baruch's bed. He wouldn't find it till later, but nestling under the fruit was a guinea, which I had managed to beg from Aunt Hilda.

“'Ow's our patient today?” A nurse stopped at our bedside. She was friendly and smiling, but the wares on her trolley looked awful. She ladled soup out of a steaming pot into an enamel bowl and handed it to Baruch. A watery concoction of cabbage and gristle.

“Got a treat in store for you today. Some tasty sheep's brains in the pot. Tuck in, me dear.”

I took the bowl and set it carefully on the floor, by the flowers.

“Make sure you eat it while it's 'ot,” the nurse called as she went on to the next patient. “Gets 'orrible lumpy when it's cold.”

All around the room, to my astonishment, men were eating the gruel with every sign of enjoyment.

Baruch couldn't stay here. The food would kill him if the infection in the air didn't. Would it be any better at the sweatshop though? I glanced at Rachel. Could we somehow persuade Aunt Hilda to let Baruch stay?

“It is no matter. I will go back to Zwinglers,” Baruch said as if he could read my mind. “Sara will bring me there in a cab. It is costly but she says I cannot go in omnibus.”

“We can lend you some money.”

“I am your cause, eh? Charity of the week.”

“It isn't like that,” I said, embarrassed. I was so much younger than Baruch, but here I was offering him help. I could understand if he resented it. “I dragged you into this mess. You got stabbed because of us, Baruch. Paying for your cab is the least we can do.”

“We're worried about you,” Rachel put in. “Will you be all right at the shop?”

Baruch shrugged, a painful movement in all those bandages. “Moses is hard. But not a monster. He will let me rest till I am better and—”

“Then what?” I asked, but Baruch was no longer listening. For there behind us was Sara. What a transformation! Her dark curls were brushed and glossy. Dressed in a rose-colored blouse and skirt, she looked shyly pretty. A different girl from the downtrodden drab we had seen at Zwinglers. She approached the bed slowly. Baruch heaved himself up on one elbow and took her hand.

“You are beautiful.”

Sara flushed becomingly.

“I tell them.”

The girl didn't answer, her cheeks were still suffused with color and she was looking down at the grimy floor as if too embarrassed to meet Baruch's eyes.

“We marry. As soon as I become well,” Baruch said.

“Wonderful! Congratulations!” Rachel and I burst out.

Baruch silenced us.

“We married and then we go!”

“Where?” Rachel asked.

“To the new world.”

“America,” I breathed.

“Yes. Sara and I have money for our ticket to New York. I have no dreams. America will be hard, like London. But I want to breathe.”

“Work,” Sara put in.

“Yes. Work. Not be slaves. We will work hard and who knows, we hope God will bless us. We want walk free and proud. In our new world.” The effort of talking so much had cost Baruch. He sank back on to the bed, a little white froth on his lips. Rachel looked at me. We should leave them, her glance said, but I pressed on for there was something I had to know.

“We've tracked down the Velvet Mob. I've met Jabber Jukes.”

“Jabber.” Baruch glared up at the cracked ceiling as if it was his enemy.

“I'm aware he's a little monster but we've learned some very interesting things about the Velvet Mob. We nearly found our mummy, only, well, we blew it. Thing is, we overheard the villains saying they're taking it to 101 Eaton Square. The Baker Brothers” house. Except that
can't be true …'

I thought a moment, struggling to summarize what I knew about the Brothers. They were the picture of respectability, always dressed in identical dark suits, their blond hair combed in the same way. The Brothers had spent a fortune giving away chocolate, tea and coffee to working folk. They were famous campaigners against alcohol—wanted to provide an alternative to gin—which they hated for the ruin it brought to families. The thing was impossible. True, not much was known about them. They were very reclusive and almost never appeared in public. Still, they were admired all over the Empire for good works.

“I know the Baker Brothers, at least my aunt does,” I continued. “They're friends of the Prince of Wales. They can't be mixed up in all this thieving and—”

I stopped abruptly, realizing that I was blabbering. Baruch had frozen in his recumbent position. His grip on Sara's hand was so tight, I could see he was hurting her. He spoke a few words to her which I didn't understand. His fiancée helped him up, propping him against the hard iron bed-head. Baruch looked at both of us in turn, his brown eyes full of fear.

“I warn you. You
must
listen. This Velvet Mob is wicked thing. They beat. They rob. They belong in jail. But the Baker Brothers. We know the truth in Petticoat
Lane. We do not believe what the world thinks. We know. They are—” he paused and his eyes flashed as he said something to Rachel—a word that was an unpronounceable mixture of sounds … something like “tayvolim.”

Rachel looked troubled for a second and then turned to me: “Devil. Baruch says they are fiends, devils.”

“Devils,” Baruch nodded. “Devils clothed in human flesh.”

A glimmer of an idea rose in my mind and I looked at Rachel excitedly. “I know, I've got an idea about how we can find them and—”

Baruch interrupted me: “Please, please, my friend. Stay away from these men.”

I shifted uncomfortably, unable to look him in the eye.

“You must understand. The Baker Brothers are too powerful for you to fight.”

Chapter Seventeen

“I'm not intimidated,” I said. “The Baker Brothers can't scare
me
off.”

“Hot air,” Rachel snapped. “I don't think two of the richest men in the Empire are going to lose sleep over a twelve-year-old.”

We had all gathered in my aunt's library for a conference. The sun slanting through tall windows onto wood paneling and rows of leather-bound books provided a soothing atmosphere. It hadn't soothed us, though. We were in the middle of a full-blown row. I was all for turning up at the Baker Brothers' house, seeing if we could somehow gain admittance, and then searching the place for the mummy. Rachel, reasonably enough I suppose, pointed out that we were not trained burglars. If Baruch was right, the Brothers were vicious. We had to be careful.

“Listen here, Ahmed,” I said turning to our Egyptian friend. “There's something I don't understand. Why do
the Baker Brothers want this mummy so much? I mean there are thousands of mummies in Egypt.”

Ahmed hesitated, searching for the words in English probably: “Ptah Hotep was a holy man. A vizier to the king.”

“Was it the scarab?” Waldo suggested. “Do they know about the scarab?”

“Maybe,” Ahmed replied.

“Another thing that has puzzled me,” I said to Ahmed. “Why didn't you get the scarab yourself, when you were trapped in the ship's hold with the mummy?”

“It was not possible. You saw how hard the sarcophagus was to open in your Aunt Hilda's play. And that was after the thieves had already stolen Ptah Hotep's mummy, broken into the case, once before. I had no ax or such things when I was trapped.”

I fell silent, musing. We were on the verge of something, I could feel it. Abruptly, Isaac, who had been immersed in a book in the corner of the library, spoke. “Ptah Hotep. The mummy. He's in the center of this somehow. We have to find out more about him.” He advanced toward us, carrying a large book titled:

A SURVEY OF EGYPTOLOGY FROM THE OLD TO NEW KINGDOMS

“Look,” Isaac pointed out a paragraph in the book. For the benefit of Ahmed, who of course could not understand written English, I read it out:

“All the signs are that King Djedkare Isesi of the fifth dynasty enjoyed a long and stable rule. Manetho, the Greek historian, says he was pharaoh for forty-five years, though other sources give him a shorter reign.”

“What's the point of this?” Waldo interrupted.

“Hold on,” I snapped.