The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (22 page)

The Docks. Stench, clanging and the hubbub of a thousand different tongues pressed upon us. The entire world had descended upon this corner of London. Africans in brilliant robes, Chinamen running hither and thither. Indians, Arabs, Lascars, Italians. Bales of cinnamon and ginger, tea and coffee pouring into giant warehouses.
It was dangerous to stand still for more than a second for a thundering trolley would send you reeling. Worst of all, you might get in the way of one of the enormous swinging winches, used for unloading pallets from ships.

We'd seen the empty cab at the entrance to the docks, but in among all the chaos we had completely lost Rachel and her kidnappers.

Over in one corner of the docks was a bedraggled queue: men, women and children waiting. Even the tots were bowed down by bags, bundles wrapped in sacking, pots and pans. I was wondering who these people were, when I suddenly understood. They were emigrants, preparing to leave Europe behind and set sail for the new world. Baruch and Sarah might well be in that queue, or one like it.

“This is hopeless,” I moaned. “It's like bedlam here. What are we going to do?”

“Ask at the P & O passenger office,” Isaac said. “Find out when the
Morning Star
departs for Egypt.”

“No need,” Waldo murmured.

“You have any better ideas?” I snapped.

“It's a little too late for that!” He was pointing at something, an object in the crowded mouth of the docks.

My eyes followed Waldo's finger. Pulling away from us was a splendid steamship. For a moment I didn't see
the lettering, stretching proud along her sides. Then I took it in.

“
The
Morning Star
's leaving,” I said stupidly.

The ship was racing out of the docks, creating a broad wash as it pounded past merchant vessels and river tugs. Modern and fast and splendid. The finest steamer money could buy. We could make out two figures on the deck. One was the potato shape of Bender Barney Beside him, slim and dark, hung Rachel. Even from port I could tell she was listless, in the way she drooped over the ship's rails.

From beside me came a wild howl. It was Ahmed. He pulled off his coat, clearly he meant to leap into the Thames.

“Ahmed!” I screamed, trying to grab him.

“I'm a good swimmer,” he yelled back, pushing me away. “It's the only way to save Rachel now!”

He gave an almighty jump and landed in the Thames, thick with the contents of London's sewers. Oily green liquid bubbled and boiled around his neck as he swam with strong strokes toward the
Morning Star.

“Don't be a bloody fool,” yelled Waldo.

Ahmed had miscalculated. The water in the Thames
was foul, too heavy to swim in. At every stroke some bit of debris held him back and we could see his shoulders sinking under the effort. Meanwhile, the steamer was chugging away to the open seas, far too fast for Ahmed to catch. The thugs on deck turned and walked off as we watched.

I looked around and found a rope. With all my strength I hurled it in and Ahmed, thank goodness, caught hold of one end of it. The others assisted me, using all our strength we pulled Ahmed out. Finally he was up on the dock, soaked through and stinking of raw sewage. Worse than the smell though, was the despair on his face.

“That's it then,” I said, watching the
Morning Star
recede into the distance, chugging past all the other boats and ships in the port. Ahmed, wet and stinking, was shivering beside me. I would have to find him some clean clothes. We would have to try and find a passage to Egypt. It wouldn't be easy though, I knew that. Steamship tickets were hard to find. Rachel, meanwhile, sailed away from us.

“Hold on a minute.” Isaac was gazing at something coughing into port. “NEVER GIVE UP! It was you, Kit, who taught me that.”

“Not now, Isaac!”

“Good Lord, what's that?” Waldo cut in. He was staring
at the same object as Isaac, out among the flotilla of boats.

I followed his gaze. Steaming into harbor was a vessel one could hardly describe as a ship. More of an old tin tub really, with two rusty-looking funnels belching foul smoke.
Poonah
was written on the side of boat, in cracked green paint.

“That, my friend,” said Isaac with a smile, “is the rescue party.”

I scanned the boat. There on the fore-deck was a sight I had never expected to see in this life or any other. Standing side by side, grinning away, the unlikely pair of Aunt Hilda and Gaston Champlon.

“Explain!” I snapped, turning to Isaac. “What on earth is going on?”

Part Three

Each of these maxims should be handed down so they
never disappear from this land.
Maxim 38,
The Wisdom of Ptah Hotep

Chapter Twenty-four

“I admit it. Sometimes I jump to conclusions.”

“Sometimes, Aunt Hilda?” I asked.

“Occasionally, then.”

“I was going to say usually. Take the case of the mummy. You had absolutely
no evidence
for stomping around town blaming poor Monsieur Champlon for the theft.”

“Call it gut feeling.”

“Your gut was wrong, Auntie. That's the whole point. You should stop listening to your gut and start listening to your brain.”

Normally I wouldn't have dared talk to her like this, but Aunt Hilda was being so contrite I just couldn't resist. It was five days after the terrible scenes at West India Docks and we were aboard the
Poonah
, chasing the villains on the
Morning Star
through the high seas.

“It is ze ledees' right to be wrong,” interrupted Champlon, who had joined me and my aunt on our
stroll around the deck. He favored us with a charming smile and offered his arm to Aunt Hilda, who took it grudgingly. “Ledees are so emotional. I excuse them because ledees are not for ze t'inking. Zey are like ze soft rabbit.”

It is hard to imagine someone less like a soft rabbit than my aunt. She was about to snap at him, but I silenced her with a frown. She was on her very best behavior these days, the sort of thing that counts as normal everyday manners from you and me. As you may imagine, this enforced courtesy wasn't easy for her. Isaac had worked a near miracle in bringing her round. It was my clever friend—and his telesphere—who had convinced both Aunt Hilda and Champlon that the Baker Brothers had stolen the mummy. It was Isaac's doing that we were here at all, aboard the
Poona
sailing to Egypt to rescue Rachel and the scarab. Isaac had well and truly saved the day.

“Anyway, madame,” Champlon continued. “Ve must not fight each wiz ze other. Our enemy is ze Baker Brothers. 'Ow strange to think of them taking Ptah Hotep's mummy back to Egypt.”

I was not at all sure if the Baker Brothers were taking the mummy back to Egypt. Indeed I believed they would only bother with the scarab. But my aunt and Champlon had no idea of the scarab's existence, so I
held my tongue.

“We must rescue Ptah Hotep from these villains,” Champlon continued.

“And of course, young Rebecca,” Aunt Hilda said as an afterthought.

“Her name is Rachel,” I put in stoutly.

“Yes. Rachel,” my aunt replied. “That's what I said.”

In a frenzy of preparations for our dash to Egypt, Aunt Hilda had hired the
Poonah c
omplete with captain and crew. The battered old steamer was the best she could find in a hurry. And off we sped.

Well, that was the idea.

In fact, the
Poonah
was marooned in the waters of the Mediterranean. It was like being stuck in a giant bath tub. The wind was taking us nowhere fast, but the doughty little steamer persevered, its gallant engines coughing on. I had reason to be grateful to the
Poonah.
Though it looked like a piece of scrap metal, it was a fighter, as determined as the rest of us to catch our prey. Still, we had seen nothing resembling the
Morning Star
for days. Then a few minutes before, Ahmed, who spent hours hanging over the deck rails, had seen a white and red blur on the horizon sailing in the direction of Alexandria. You can guess what happened next. Aunt Hilda was all for firing on the ship, though we had just one rusty old cannon, whose balls would have plopped
harmlessly into the sea.

Anyway, the whole debate soon became irrelevant because the
Morning Star—i
findeed it was our enemy's ship—disappeared again over the horizon.

“We're never going to catch them,” I said, turning away from the sea.

It was hard not to feel despondent. Rachel was imprisoned somewhere in a fast modern steamship. Try as we might, we couldn't compete. True, our boat had red and black port and starboard funnels, which belched out more smoke than a bonfire, while the paddle wheels churned furiously. Though I knew it was ungrateful I felt a stab of anger toward the
Poonah
. All that energy with so little result. We were the tortoise of ocean-going steamers. How could we ever rescue our friend? How would we ever seize back the scarab?

“Do not worry,” Ahmed said. “I'll have a few tricks up my sleeve when we reach Egypt.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I have friends,” Ahmed murmured and to my frustration would say no more.

It was too much. The
Poonah
had been on the seas for days; sailing from West India docks in London around Italy then on to Athens, where we refueled for the trip across the Mediterranean to Alexandria in Egypt. Sometimes I felt we were on a fool's errand. Even if we
had been able to catch up with the
Morning Star
how could we—with our half-dozen crew members—take on the Velvet Mob?

“You may say we'll have the upper hand in Egypt,” I muttered gloomily. “But they've beaten us every time so far.”

Ahmed merely shrugged, then stalked away. Sullen, I hung over the rail and stared at the sea. Not that there was anything to look at, unless you like watching seagulls. Water, waves, crests of foam and spray around the paddle-wheel. I could never be a sailor. The sight of so much emptiness would drive me to distraction. Rachel would have coped better with seafaring life. She had the patience to endure. Though it was strange, with Rachel gone, I found myself far more cautious than usual. It was almost as if I was listening to an echo of my friend's voice inside my own head. An echo that stilled my most reckless thoughts.