The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (30 page)

“We could be buried alive,” I hissed. The cave was thick with golden grains, whipping and careening around us, making it hard to see more than a few feet in any direction.

“Look,” he said, pointing, and everyone turned to look at Nell.

Her body was writhing but her feet, as if glued to the earth, didn't move. She opened her scarlet lips and spat something out. There was a trickle of sand among the spittle. We watched torn between bewilderment and horror. She spat again, more sand. How? Had she been swallowing it? She was vomiting up a stream of the stuff. As we watched, uncomprehending, the sirocco still swirling around us, more and more sand was disgorged from her lips. Was Nell the origin of it all? She choked, her voice desert-dry, struggling to utter a word.

“Help me!” she cried. At least I think that was what she was saying but it was impossible to tell with the sand throttling her words. The grip that held her feet frozen seemed to relax, for now Velvet Nell sank down to the ground, her arms swinging this way and that. She was the flailing center of a Biblical storm. Sand eddied around her, settling in flurries and mounds. Sand buried her up to her waist. Obsessively her left hand clutched the Book, held just above the rising sea of sand.

“She has insulted the spirits!” Ahmed cried. “She is a cursed thing.”

To the side, Ali urgently whispered something to one of the Bakers. The Brother moved back from the tunnel and walked up to Ahmed, one hand shielding his eyes from the penetrating sand, the other pointing his gun at our friend.

“Forget her,” The Brother ordered. “
You
get the Book.”

“No. We've got to save the woman. The sand is going to crush her—”

The Brother clicked the safety catch off the pistol and held it to Ahmed's throat: “Now,” he hissed.

Ahmed obeyed. He was surrounded by sinuous sand snakes that obscured him from my eyes. As for Nell, she had almost vanished. One bare arm poked out from a hill of sand, fingers curled in a death grip around the Book. Rachel ran toward Ahmed, trying to pull him
back but he moved like a sleepwalker. I could scarcely see, the sand was in my eyes, stinging my bare arms, cutting my legs so I wanted to scream out.

Ahmed reached out and took the Book from Nell but her lifeless hand gripped it more tightly. He wrenched it away, prying her fingers off it one by one, till her hand flopped and the Book came loose. Gently Ahmed took the papyrus. I had expected Ahmed to be struck, as Nell had, to be suspended in a pillar of sand.

Nothing happened. He was free and now we were all running to the tunnel, stumbling into each other in our haste. Ahmed went first, Ali, the Baker Brothers and Bender Barney bringing up the rear, their guns prodding our backs. We crawled through the tunnel and then up the steps lining the rock shaft, tumbling into the temple upstairs where—another miracle—the sand had gone. The air was clear and fresh. Sunlight blazed through the ruined roof—apart from the gentlest of breezes all was still. Hard to believe that down below a devilry of sand had claimed the life of Velvet Nell.

The Baker Brothers emerged, choking, into the temple, Barney in hot pursuit. One of the Bakers walked up to Ahmed and held out his hand. The Book had somehow vanished. Had Ahmed tucked it into his robes?

“Not so fast, my little man,” boomed a familiar voice.

Aunt Hilda, dressed in red Arab pants and an orange turban, stepped around a pillar. Her pistol was pointed straight at the Baker Brother. For a moment he was at a loss and gaped at her, amazed. Trotting behind her was Gaston Champlon, dapper in his solar topee and cream linen suit.

“How did you get here?” I blurted.

“You've led us a merry dance but luckily Gaston here has picked up a few tricks from the trackers.” Aunt Hilda turned to the Bakers. “As for you, I must confess I'm sorely disappointed in your honesty—ouch!”

There was a popping noise and blood dripped from Aunt Hilda's upraised hand. She stared at it in surprise, as if she didn't understand. Her pistol lay useless where it had fallen in the sand. Ali fired again. Waldo, Ahmed, Rachel and I dropped to the ground as a firestorm of bullets ricocheted around us. Bender Barney, the Brothers, Ali and Gaston all let loose. Raising my head slightly, I could see Champlon was getting the better of it. Even though it was one against four. The little Frenchman was almost dancing as he placed each bullet precisely where it would do maximum damage. His eyes shone with glee. He was shooting to wound not kill, but the others were firing more viciously.

In just a few seconds the battle was over. Blood poured down Barney's leg and his shirt was spattered
with gore. One Brother was clutching a wounded arm, all had been disarmed by the hail of Champlon's bullets.

With a shock I realized that Ali was down. He lay crumpled against the wall of the temple, one arm shielding his face, the other still clutching a pistol. At first glance he could merely have been crouching for cover, except blood was smeared on his suit. Then I saw the entrance hole of the bullet, the size and shape of a shilling, it had scorched his white shirt. I was going to accuse Champlon but instead looked at Ahmed. He had acquired a pistol, somehow. Now he dropped it, as if it burned and turned away, refusing to meet my eye. Meanwhile Champlon was in a fury:

“Go away. Fast like ze wind,” he yelled at the Bakers, waving his pistol. “You are rotten tomatoes. I was ze fool to ever put a trust in you.”

“Does he mean rotten apples?” Waldo whispered to me. I do not think he had noticed Ali's body. I nodded, unable to speak for the lump in my throat.

“Begone!” Champlon yelled.

The Bakers and Barney were standing quite still, as if waiting for something to rescue them, for their position was quite useless. They were wounded, unarmed, faced with a magician of pistols. I saw one Brother glance at the other. Some private signal, unreadable to the rest of the world, passed between them for without another
word they retreated. Barney followed their dark figures, cringing like a whipped dog. Just as they were stepping out of the temple Aunt Hilda let out an explosive noise.

“Haven't you forgotten something, Mr. Baker?” she barked.

Both Brothers turned round, like puppets operated by the same string.

“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.”