The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis

  A Kit Salter Adventure

  The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis

  Natasha Narayan

  New York • London

  © 2010 by Natasha Narayan

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  ISBN 978-1-62365-295-1

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by Random House Publisher Services

  c/o Random House, 1745 Broadway

  New York, NY 10019

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  CONTENTS

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  The Maharajah’s Monkey

  The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis

  Natasha Narayan was born in India but emigrated to England at the age of five. She has had many jobs in journalism including working as a war correspondent in Bosnia. Like Kit Salter, Natasha loves traveling and exploring new places. She hopes to get to see some of the far flung deserts and mountains of her heroine—even if it’s by bus rather than camel and yak. She lives in Oxford.

  For Nina with love

  Part One

  Whatever happens follow your heart and your

  conscience.

  Maxim 11, The Wisdom of Ptah Hotep

  The Wisdom of Ptah Hotep was discovered in Thebes, Egypt by the Frenchman Prisse D’Avennes. The Papyrus Prisse dates from the Egyptian Middle Kingdom (2500 BC) and is now displayed in the Louvre in Paris. The oldest book in the world, this papyrus is a copy of an even older work, one from the very dawn of Egyptian history, over a thousand years before (3350 BC). This legendary work vanished long ago.

  Chapter One

  “Socks!”

  My father, Professor Theodore Salter, stopped mid-stride and looked back at me in alarm. I jumped down our front steps and raced after him up the pavement.

  “My dear?”

  “Oh, Papa, you’ve gone and done it again!”

  He looked at me, bewildered.

  “Please examine your feet.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “You’ve forgotten your socks,” I explained. “Don’t you remember the blisters last time? You could barely walk when you came back from the museum!”

  My father glanced down. From the tip of his top hat to his neatly pressed trousers he looked the perfect gentleman; all except for his feet, bare inside his stiff leather shoes.

  “Extraordinary!” he said, as if he was looking at someone else’s feet. “How on earth did that happen?”

  Father stepped out of his shoes and retreated home without a backward glance. He seemed even more in a daze than usual. Resigned to my role as his keeper, I picked up his shoes and followed him. Outside our front gate, he bumped into a lady in an enormous hat. Her Pekinese yapped, snapping at Father with its pointed teeth.

  “Down, Bonaparte,” the lady barked, staring at Father as if he was a lunatic.

  How, you are probably wondering, does a man forget to put on his socks? The answer is that my father is not like other men; his brain does not connect with his body. While his feet tread the streets of Oxford, his head is somewhere altogether different. Like as not, in the realm of dusty manuscripts and ancient languages.

  “What would I do without you, Kit?” Father asked once he was safely indoors and I had fetched his socks.

  I know what you would do without me, I thought. You’d go to the museum in your nightgown and slippers. But I held my tongue. My father is all I have in the world. He has raised me single-handedly since the death of my mother six years ago. However, I am twelve years old now, and sometimes I think the tables have turned. These days, I seem to be doing much more of the “raising” than my poor, dear father.

  You see, just because I love my father doesn’t mean I am foolishly indulgent. If you want to know about ancient Egyptian sarcophagi or need a parchment translated from Coptic, there is no better man to consult in the entire Empire than my father. But you cannot trust him with the simplest errand. Ask him to buy a jar of jam and he is likely to return with a bag of kippers. Even among the absentminded dons of North Oxford, Professor Theodore Salter’s behavior often seems eccentric. I suppose what I am trying to tell you is that Father was born with twice the normal amount of brains, but only half the sense. Indeed sometimes I feel like a nanny to a singularly half-witted toddler.

  Father’s cheeks were flushed as he put on his shoes. His breathing was agitated.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Just rather rushed this morning because of this business with your Aunt Hilda.”

  “What business? Isn’t Auntie in Egypt on her expedition?”

  “That’s just it. Haven’t you seen the Illustrated London News? She’s back and she’s coming to the museum this morning.” Father thrust a newspaper at me. Dated October 22, 1872, the headline read:

  FAMOUS EXPLORER DONATES MUMMY TO PITT MUSEUM

  The famous lady explorer Hilda Salter arrived back in London from Egypt yesterday. Miss Salter, who discovered the pearl of the Panagar in Persia last year, has been a member of the expedition to the tombs of Memphis in the Nile Delta.

  A twenty-man team has been exploring the pyramid complex, which is said to include the tomb of the great pharaoh Isesi. There have been reports that the team have discovered fabulous treasures, as well as making enormous scientific advances in the understanding of ancient Egypt.

  Dr. Howard Cartwright, who is leading the expedition, told a reporter from the London Times, via telegraph:

  “Wonderful treasures here! Expect to find burial place of Isesi any day now. Huge advance for English archaeology!”

  Miss Salter traveled back to th
ese shores by one of Thomas Cook’s modern excursion steamers, the Maharani. She is said to be bringing an Egyptian mummy back with her—which she has announced she will donate to Oxford’s Pitt museum.

  “Gosh. A real mummy,” I breathed, my mind aflutter with visions of sand dunes and hollow-eyed figures wrapped in yards of white linen. “May I come with you, Papa? Please, please.”

  “I’m late. I will have to go by carriage,” my father grumbled. He was back outside gesturing to a passing cab. The horse pulling the rather shabby hansom carriage slowed to a stop and he climbed in. The horse was a mangy creature, it looked tired and half-starved. How cross it makes me when I see animals that have been poorly treated.

  “I would give anything to come with you,” I begged.

  “Not now,” Father said. “Ah! There’s Madame Minchin. It’s time for your lessons.”

  Sullenly I let my governess in. She glanced at Father, with rather too wide a smile, but he failed to notice. This wasn’t justice! Mummies and Egyptian treasure arriving at the museum and here I was stuck at home with the boring Minchin. How I hate being “a child.” I am considered old enough to do most of the practical organizing around the house. I am the one who makes decisions about menus and gives our housekeeper instructions. But when it comes to anything interesting—well, it seems I am a mere babe once again.

  “Morning, Kathleen.” The Minchin swept in, her huge bustle buffeting me in the chest. No one but my governess calls me Kathleen. I sometimes think she does it because she knows how much I loathe the name. “Please assist me by proceeding to the nursery and setting out your books.”

  The nursery is near the top of our steep house. It is a bright and airy room, covered with fading wallpaper and furnished with desks and a blackboard. In the corner stands my gold and maroon rocking horse. When I was little I called her “Amelia” and loved to play with her. Lately she has been sorely neglected. I sat down at my place by the window. Soon there was a patter of feet on the stairs.

  It was Rachel Ani, my closest friend. She is slightly older than me; with her halo of dark curls and rosebud lips, she is softly pretty. When I am impatient, Rachel is kind. Sometimes she can be sensible to a tiresome extent—but she tells me that I am fortunate to have her. Without her to keep me in order, she says, I would get into no end of scrapes. There was no sign of her brother Isaac—as usual he was dawdling in the street. The Anis are orphans, looked after by a guardian who is nearly as absentminded as my father. Isaac is just a year younger than Rachel, but he seems a puppy compared with my friend. He is always fiddling away with bolts and pieces of wire and fancies himself an engineer like the great Brunel. I do not take his whims seriously. No matter that boys are considered far superior to us girls, I still maintain they are silly creatures!

  The Minchin was fussing away with her books, smelling salts and glass of water when Isaac burst in. He streaked over the floor at terrific speed and crashed into her desk, knocking over a glass of water. The pool of water spread over the desk, narrowly missing Minchin’s lap. “Good gracious me!” She jumped up in horror. “Whatever next?”

  “Sorry,” Isaac gasped.

  Trying to suppress my giggles I stared at Isaac’s feet in astonishment. “What on …”

  “Do you like them?” he exclaimed. “My latest invention! RollerShoes.”

  “RollerShoes?”

  “I’ve attached these to the soles of my boots.” Balancing on a desk with one hand, Isaac lifted a foot so I could see the tiny wheels glittering in the soles. “You can go like the wind in RollerShoes. They’re going to make me rich!”

  I thought the RollerShoes looked fantastic but Rachel was obviously mortified. “They’ll never catch on,” she hissed at her brother. “Take them off.”

  “At once,” the Minchin added. “Sit down, Isaac, and get out your copybooks. I shall have to have words with your guardian about your wild behavior.”

  A minute later Waldo Bell made a grand entrance, clumping in with a great deal of noise. He is an American and, without a doubt, the most annoying person I have ever met. Waldo had to leave his last school for mysterious reasons. Now he shares lessons with Rachel, Isaac and me, whom he persists in calling “children.” One year older than us girls and he acts like our great-uncle. Certain people might think Waldo handsome, with his blond curls and pale blue eyes. He certainly has a high opinion of his own looks! For myself, I think arrogance is his chief quality.

  The Minchin sat down, surveying us in a bored way. “Attention, little scholars,” she said. “This morning I think the boys can work on their Latin verbs. Rachel and Kathleen, we’ll be doing a special session on etiquette. We’re all aware that Kathleen’s manners in particular could benefit from some serious attention.”

  I was foolish enough to sigh. The Minchin glared at me, her eyes as hard as the shell of the black beetles that scuttle under our skirting boards.

  “If you have no objection, Kathleen.”

  I couldn’t stop myself: “I see no point in etiquette,” I burst out. “It’s a useless subject.” Waldo was looking at me and sniggering but I couldn’t stop myself from steaming on. “Why not Latin?”

  The Minchin snapped. “If you dream, as every young girl must, of being presented at court—”

  “I would wake up screaming as from the foulest nightmare,” I interrupted.

  Even Rachel, who would never attend a London season because she is Jewish, looked scandalized. The Minchin drew in her breath: “How do you intend to find a husband if you’re not a debutante, young lady? Or I suppose any chimney sweep will do!”

  “I don’t want to get married. Why should I have some man telling me what to do!”

  “You should be so lucky,” Waldo whispered to me quietly, so our governess wouldn’t hear. “No one wants a bluestocking like you. You’ll end up a hairy old spinster.”

  “Better that than a fathead like you!” I flashed back. I knew it was a lame reply but it was all I could think of on the spur of the moment. This was a sore subject with me. Perhaps because my mother is dead, father is keen for me to learn “the gentle arts.” But I do not intend to spend my life tightening my corset and waiting for some fool to ask me to dance. I said more calmly, “As you all know, I’m interested in words. I intend to study languages, ancient languages and cultures. Perhaps when I’m older I’ll be an explorer like my aunt or—”

  “Enough!” The Minchin cut me off.

  For a moment the room was so silent you could hear the doves cooing in the chimneys. The Minchin drew her thin lips together till they almost vanished into her chin. She took out the boys’ Latin Grammars and distributed them, clacking round the wood floor with her sharp heels. Each clack was a note of disapproval.

  With a sharp slap, the Minchin opened Our Deportment by a Mr. Jeffrey Young. A foolish book, lent to us by Waldo’s mother. Waldo’s mother fondly believes her son to be a “perfect little gentleman,” but she was obviously less impressed by my manners.

  I began to read:

  General Rules of the Table

  Refrain from making a noise when eating, or supping from a spoon and smacking the lips or breathing heavily when masticating food, as they are the marks of ill-breeding.

  My mind wandered as it often does in the Minchin’s lessons and I began making lists:

  Things I Love:

  —Adventure.

  —Cantering around on my piebald mare Jesse.

  —Pyramids

  —Treacle Tart and ices and barley sugar and butter scotch and caramel.

  Things I hate:

  —Learning “manners.”

  —Corsets.

  —Boys who think they are better than girls.

  —Cheese.

  —The Minchin, the Minchin, the Minchin.

  Oh why couldn’t my tiresome governess just disappear in a puff of smoke, leaving me gloriously free? There was a thrilling account of my aunt’s travels in the Illustrated London News. I’d pored over the engravings of strange to
mbs. The stories of pyramids and camels wandering the desert sands. The Minchin’s bleating voice broke into my daydreams:

  “I’m feeling a little faint, children. I think I’ll just go upstairs for a moment and lie down. Pray continue with your work.”

  The Minchin did look alarmingly pale, her skin milk-white next to her dark ringlets. She swept out of the nursery. I heard her heels on the stairs, clopping to the day-room where she took her rest. This was an answer to my prayers! We could hope for at least an hour without her interference. When the Minchin had one of her “dizzy spells” she tended to disappear. I had my suspicions about how genuine her “spells” were. Once when I went up to ask her a question she quickly hid something under the bedclothes. Not before I could make out the title in bold colors: Lady Audley’s Secret. This is one of the books my father despises, trashy stories full of murder and romance. Personally I think they look rather exciting.

  Not that I give a fig about the Minchin. This was our chance!

  I hastily put my copybooks away and went to the door. “I’m off out,” I said. “Who’s with me?”

  Instantly there was uproar, everyone talking at once. I explained about the mummy arriving at the museum. I was going! I did not intend to miss this opportunity! Isaac was instantly up for the adventure and to my surprise so was Waldo. Only Rachel hung back.

  “We’ll get into awful trouble,” she said. “Miss Minchin will be furious if she gets back and we’re not here.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a namby-pamby.”

  “We’ll get a thousand lines.”

  “It’ll be worth every one,” I called back, taking the stairs two at a time. The others followed me. Reluctantly, not wanting to be left behind by herself, Rachel brought up the rear.

  “I don’t like this,” Rachel warned. “Don’t blame me when it all goes wrong.”

  Poor Rachel. Of course no one was listening.

  Chapter Two

  We arrived at the Natural History Museum to find a commotion. A bustle of carriages, whinnying horses, dark foreigners dressed in shawls and loose white tunics, porters carrying huge boxes and yelling as they bumped into each other. Aunt Hilda was always a human whirlwind; this chaos meant she could not be far away. I waded into the thick of the action, receiving an elbow in my face for my pains. Then I heard a familiar barking voice: