The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (5 page)

I knew what the symbols were called, but alas I could not read them. Right then and there I decided to learn hieroglyphics, so I could decode their secret.

Sensitivity is one of Rachel's finest qualities. She saw my eager face, knew that I was itching to get my hands on the packet. “Kit,” she explained to Ahmed and offered it to me.

I unrolled it carefully. Inscribed on the top were the same three figures that were scrawled on the outside of the parchment. But underneath, to my great surprise, I saw there was writing I could understand. It was English, written in a fine, flowing hand. The others gathered round and I began to read it out:

Something about the letter struck me as wrong. I stopped reading and looked at Ahmed. He was watching me warily. I was struck by his large, bright eyes. They were not the eyes of a hunted animal, as I'd thought earlier. They were far too intelligent. Almost—though I knew it was impossible—as if he could understand what I was reading.

“Your father writes very good English,” I said.

Ahmed looked to Rachel for help.

“Your father. He has very good handwriting.” I mimed holding a pen and writing on paper.

“Ah!” Illumination spread over the Egyptian's face and he uttered a word that I didn't understand.

Rachel who was watching him carefully, explained: “I think he's trying to say scribe. Maybe someone else wrote it, like a village scribe.”

“They used to have village scribes over here. In the olden days when no one could read,” said Isaac. “Perhaps the peasants in Egypt have scribes to write their letters because no one can read over there.”

I glanced back at Ahmed. His eyes were black as beetles,
glittering and impenetrable. “Scribe, scribe,” he said several times, nodding his head. I went back to reading.

We looked at each other, bewildered.

“What's a scarab?” Waldo asked.

“A kind of Egyptian beetle,” Isaac replied

Rachel hadn't been paying attention. “We must help Ahmed,” she burst out.

“Ye-es,” I agreed, but I was troubled. I was thinking over the story. I liked Ahmed. He had an honest face and there was something winning about his manner. I was disposed to trust him. Could we? Was it true that the scarab's loss had smote down his father and cursed his village?

“We must, Kit,” Rachel repeated.

Ahmed was staring at me, as if trying to winkle into my mind. Wordlessly, his eyes begged for my help. He looked so forlorn. I made up my mind.

“We will do everything we can to find the scarab and restore it to Memphis,” I announced.

Rachel was overjoyed and hope flamed on Ahmed's face. Only Waldo looked dubious. “Are you going to just take a native's word for this?” he demanded.

“Why ever not?”

“Well … he's a native!”

“So?”

“Natives are more likely to lie and cheat. They're like children. They don't know the difference between right and wrong.”

“All the children I know understand the difference between right and wrong perfectly. Of course it may be different in America.”

“He's probably after the mummy's treasure. Natives are just born greedy!”

“For goodness' sake …” I said and stopped, spluttering. Waldo's attitude disgusted me, though I myself had felt a stab of caution at Ahmed's story. It is contrary of me I know, but when Waldo becomes all superior I can't help taking the very opposite point of view. I hate it when people look down on other races: folk whom they
have never even met! I was, however, struggling to put my feelings into words when Rachel spoke in her quiet way.

“People say the same thing about Jews. They say we're born greedy.”

Waldo blushed. “I didn't mean anything of the sort—” he began when I cut in.

“Look at him! He's a poor, scared boy. Anyway, what treasure? We're not talking of precious gold. A moldy old scarab!”

“It could be worth something.”

“Anyway, who has more right to it, Aunt Hilda, or the villagers?”

Waldo had the decency to look a little less sure of himself.

“We've got to help him,” I announced. “We've got to fight for justice.”

Put like that even hoity-toity Waldo agreed. We would steal the scarab! Though it could scarcely be called theft to snatch it in order to return it to its rightful owners. Once we had the scarab, we would somehow find Ahmed safe passage on a steamer back to Egypt.

How the best intentions can come undone! In our foolish hope, we imagined that righting Ahmed's wrongs would be a simple matter. We are English, we
thought, citizens of Queen Victoria—and children of the greatest empire the world has ever known. Our soldiers have conquered a tremendous portion of the globe—so vast “the sun never sets on the British Empire.” What use is our power if it is not tempered with mercy?

Besides, in my secret heart I thought, how hard can it be to help a simple Egyptian boy? I imagined it would be short work to sneak off with the scarab. After all, my father trusted me in the museum.

Sadly, it didn't go quite according to plan. Over the next few weeks we experienced terror like never before—and came face to face with pure wickedness. All of us were to be sorely tested. As for your friend, Kit Salter, I was to face the hardest lesson of all. I learned that I am not
always
right. (Only, I will concede, 99 percent of the time.)

Chapter Five

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, sir,” Papa said to Ahmed, between forkfuls of pheasant casserole. “I believe we met at the Royal Geographic Society last week.”

I glared at Father. Surely even he could see that Ahmed was a boy and not one of his learned professors? Of course Father treats
everyone
exactly the same. Last week I found him asking the lad who comes around to sharpen the kitchen knives his opinion of the best system for reading hieroglyphics. Poor Ahmed was looking at Papa blankly. All the way through the first course—a rather watery turtle soup—Papa had utterly failed to notice him, even though the Egyptian was seated to his left. Ahmed must have thought he'd escaped his notice.

“Do forgive me, sir. I believe I've been foolish enough to forget your name,” my father tried again.

“I … is,” Ahmed stuttered.

Ahmed, it turned out, could understand a few words
of English, as long as one spoke very slowly and clearly. But Father's courtesy was beyond him. The boy turned frantically to me for help. Luckily I was ready with a white lie:

“Surely you remember Ahmed, Papa? Aunt Hilda asked us to give him lodging for a few weeks?”

Papa's brow cleared. “Of course. Silly of me.”

Leaning a little over the table, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You will have to be very patient with Ahmed; he speaks scarcely a word of English.” I was going to go on, with some nonsense about how Ahmed's father was an expert on the pyramids, when I decided to stop. There was always a danger that if something actually interested Papa he would remember it.

Ahmed was opposite me, his face partly hidden by our soup tureen. The half I could see shone with cleanliness. He was dressed in one of Isaac's white shirts, which hung loosely on his skinny frame. We had given him a hot bath, as soon as we had smuggled him back from the museum, helping Dora the housemaid haul up steaming tubs of water. Ahmed's tattered old clothes had gone straight into the rubbish heap. He had been scrubbed and polished to within an inch of his life. He seemed a new boy, smart and clean, the very pinnacle of respectability.

Rachel and Isaac were having dinner with us this
evening. It helped greatly that Rachel was sitting next to Ahmed. How he adored her. He had attached himself to my kind friend like a lost puppy. His eyes followed her everywhere. Without her, he felt extremely anxious.

After the pheasant stew came the highlight of the evening, a thick, rich, creamy trifle of stupendous gorgeousness. Layers of sponge, soaked in rich marsala wine, covered in jam and whipped cream. Ahmed had not eaten much of the savory courses. The Minchin would have considered his manners even worse than mine. He had started to eat his meat with his knife, till I gave him a kick under the table. Ahmed had looked as though he was eating sawdust with the main course. When the pudding arrived he had taken one tentative taste. Clearly he had low hopes of English cooking; it must have tasted sadly bland beside the spicy food of his homeland. But I'm glad to say that the trifle redeemed our national fare. It took but a nibble for a look of rapture to spread across his face. He gobbled up his whole bowl, and accepted three more helpings.

Egyptian puddings are, obviously, not a patch on English ones!

Rachel, Isaac, father and I enjoyed the trifle just as much as Ahmed. We were finishing our extra helpings, feeling stuffed to the point of sickness, when the doorbell rang. A minute later Dora the housemaid appeared,
all flustered.

“I tried telling her you were in the middle of dinner, sir,” Dora explained “The lady wouldn't wait.”

“Out of my way, girl.” Aunt Hilda elbowed Dora aside. “Theo, I have had an inspiration!”

“Er … very well, dear,” Papa bleated, while Dora, defeated, retreated back to the kitchen.

“A stroke of genius, some might call it.”

As soon as I saw her my heart began to pound. This could be awkward. Might she unmask Ahmed?

I needn't have worried. Aunt Hilda was so full of her latest idea she scarcely glanced at the rest of us. She had changed into a more ordinary dress, though she still wore her mannish shoes and was lugging a large sackcloth bag. Clumping on the wooden floor, she strode up and began talking, banging on the table to emphasize her words.