CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A Jackal on the Loose

 

THE NEXT MORNING I got up extra early, even before our maid knocked on my door. Although I usually slept much better in my own comfortable bed than in the sarcophagus, I’d ended up tossing and turning the whole night. Trying to put the time to good use, I’d come up with a couple of plans of action.

I loved having plans. They gave me hope.

Plan #1: Rid museum of newest vile spirit before it settled in for a long stay.

Plan #2: See if Wigmere assigned spies to Chaos to determine what their next move would be. I simply couldn’t do it all by myself, and I was stuck until I executed . . .

Plan #3: Get rid of Miss Sharpe as soon as possible, as she was sorely getting in the way of my truly important work.

It was my most sincere hope that my parents and I would arrive at the museum before Miss Sharpe did so I’d have a chance to tackle the new angry spirit. But first I needed to conduct a purification ritual—just like the priests of ancient Egypt had done before they performed serious magic. Ideally, one should do this every time one is going to do any magic, but the truth is, one can’t always predict this sort of thing. But on this day, I planned to be as ready as possible.

 

THEODOSIA’S QUICK AND SPEEDY PURIFICATION RITUAL

 

1. Remove any wool or leather clothing. Wear nothing that has come from an animal of any kind.
2. Wash face, neck, hands, and behind the ears with fresh water. (It should really come from the Nile, but because that was impractical when living in London, I used fresh water from the pitcher on the washstand.)
3. Put on clean linens. (Just for the record, I did put on clean linens every day. Well, every day when I was home and had access to them.)
4. Rinse mouth with natron. (Only, I substituted salt—it was wretchedly difficult to get a hold of natron.)

 

Once I was properly purified, I slipped into a heavy serge frock and combed my hair. Just then, our maid came into the room. “Oh! You’re all ready, miss!”

“Yes, Betsy, I wanted to get a jump on the day. Are my parents up yet?”

“Yes, miss. They just sat down to breakfast.”

Excellent. That meant Father was wanting to get to the museum early, which coincided nicely with my own plans and saved me from having to try to convince him.

At breakfast, I saw that Cook had prepared a rasher of bacon to accompany our eggs. In an act of fortitude rarely possessed by one as young as I, I did not put any on my plate, even though bacon was my favorite breakfast food. It was because of the wretched purification thing. Ancient Egyptians were prohibited from consuming the oxyrinchus fish. I didn’t even have access to oxyrinchus fish, but it felt as if I had to substitute something. I knew many cultures considered pork to be unclean, so I figured it was the next closest thing.

With a self-pitying sigh, I heaped extra eggs onto my plate, grateful that they, at least, were not considered unclean. A girl couldn’t be expected to face evil spirits and curses on oatmeal alone.

Mum glanced at my plate as I sat down. “No bacon, dear?”

“Not this morning, I think. I’m not all that hungry.”

Father peeked out around his newspaper. “Then why have you put a small mountain of eggs on your plate?”

Father did pick the most inconvenient times to become observant. Thankfully, there was a timely pounding at the front door.

Father scowled, my eggs quickly forgotten. “Who on earth could that be?”

Mother picked up her napkin and gently dabbed her mouth. “I have no idea,” she murmured.

I began shoveling eggs in as fast as I could. A visitor during breakfast was not a good sign. There was a very good chance the meal would be over within minutes.

We all listened as Betsy went to see who it was. Shouting ensued. I bolted down my eggs even faster. Seconds later, our harried-looking housemaid reappeared. “There’s an Inspector Turnbull to see you, sir. I asked him to wait, but he was most insistent on—”

“Throckmorton? Where are you?” Turnbull’s voice boomed off the walls of the breakfast room. “By gad, you’ve gone too far this time.”

Furious at this intrusion, Father stood up so fast that he knocked his chair over. “What are you doing here at this hour? And what are you blathering on about, anyway?”

“The mummies! You’ve taken all the mummies again!”

Father threw his napkin down onto the table like a gauntlet. “I have not!”

“Well, they’ve all gone missing again!” Turnbull shoved past Betsy, who looked undecided as to whether she should stand aside or try to block the man’s entrance.

“What makes you so sure I’m the one to have taken them?”

“Because I headed for your museum first thing and forced that watchman of yours to let me in. Oddly enough, you’re the only man in all of London who still has his mummies! That’s too big a coincidence for me, Throckmorton.”

The amulets! The very thing I’d done to protect our mummies was now incriminating Father! The eggs in my stomach wobbled unpleasantly.

“Nonsense,” Father said. “We just have better security than the other places.”

Turnbull snorted through his mustache. “I have half a mind to haul you down to headquarters right now.”

“On what grounds?” Father thundered back. Honestly. It was like listening to a fight between two bull moose.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll find them. Where were you last night?”

“Here in my own home with my wife.”

Turnbull turned his hot, angry gaze to Mum, who nodded her confirmation.

He dismissed it with a brusque wave of his hand. “It’s not like you’d tell me if your husband snuck out for a couple of hours, is it?” he scoffed. With one final glare of disgust, he stormed out.

Father stared after him for a moment. “We’re leaving for the museum. Now.”

 

It was a tense, silent ride to the museum. When we arrived, we were greeted by an even bigger crowd than the last time.

“Perhaps it would be better if we went around to the side entrance,” Mother suggested.

But Father was in high dudgeon. “I will not run from this rabble, Henrietta. I have nothing to hide.”

A wall of constables lined up against the museum kept the crowd at bay. We alighted from the carriage and began working our way toward them. Lord Snowthorpe was in the thick of it, as were a few of the newspaper reporters who’d been here three days earlier. I spotted Peter Fell—Petet—and quickly looked away. I did not want to deal with my scorpion bodyguards at the moment, even though, if the crowd’s mood was any indication, we might need them.

“What ’ave ye done wi’ our gold?” a heavyset man in a butcher’s apron called out.

“Burn all the mummies!” an older woman with a sour face cried. She was dressed all in black and brandishing an umbrella.

Father began using his cane (none too gently, I’m afraid) to force the crowd to make way. With one final shove, we reached the entrance. Constable Biggs recognized us immediately. “Inspector Turnbull is waiting,” he informed us.

Once inside, I saw Father look at the far wall, frowning when he saw it was empty of mummies. “Well, where are they, then?” he asked.

Vicary Weems stepped forward. “They’re all still in the exhibit room, where they belong. Sir,” he added as an afterthought. He looked suspiciously cheerful, almost as if he were calculating just how much his salary might be when he took over Father’s position.

Interrupting Father’s conversation with Weems, Turnbull addressed all of us in the foyer. “No one leaves until I question them, understood? Beaton! Kimble! Search the entire building. If there are any mummies that don’t belong here, I want to know about it immediately. Biggs, you get everybody lined up for questioning. I’m talking to everyone personally.” He glowered at us all from under his bushy eyebrows, as if daring us to disagree.

This was going to put a big fat crimp in my ability to sweep the museum free of evil spirits. The redheaded policeman, Beaton, headed upstairs to conduct his search. The second man, Kimble, headed down the hall toward the loading dock. He paused when he came to the door leading to the catacombs. “What’s down here, then?” he asked.

Weems and Fagenbush looked at each other while Stilton glanced over at Father before speaking. “It’s the basement, sir. Where we store items not currently on display.”

Turnbull narrowed his beady eyes. “Any mummies down there?” Turnbull asked Father.

Father glanced over at me. “Um, yes. If I remember correctly, there are . . .”

I sneezed.

“Bless you,” Mum muttered. “Go on,” Turnbull said to Father.

I sneezed again. And again. And again. Then four more times.

“Eight!” Father said, his voice firm. “There are eight mummies in the basement.” Excellent! He’d gotten my message. Sometimes Father wasn’t completely hopeless. He tossed me a look that said, Well done.

Kimble gave a nod, then opened the basement door. I tensed. While I had been able to turn the Anubis statue back into stone, I had never gotten around to completely removing the curse from it. Kimble was a large, robust man, which meant he most likely had a strong life force. Not to mention he was carrying a very bright electric torch. All I could do was cross my fingers and hope for the best.

A moment later, a loud, sharp bark erupted from the stairwell, followed by a shout of surprise. Then there was heavy thumping as Kimble came racing up the stairs, the jackal close on his heels.

“There’s a mad dog down there!” he cried, trying to close the door on the jackal, who was already halfway through. Giving up, the constable raced back into the foyer and joined the rest of us, possibly hoping that with a variety of targets the creature wouldn’t zero in on him.

“What in the blazes . . .” Father began.

“A dog?” Mum shot me a suspicious glance, no doubt remembering the barking she had heard a week before. “Do you care to explain that, Theodosia?”

My rescue came from a most unlikely place. “It looks more like a jackal,” Father muttered.

Growling and baring his teeth, the dog faced the constables. Turnbull bore down on Father, furious. “Is this your idea of a joke? Siccing a guard dog on my men? Why didn’t you warn us?”

“Because I didn’t know he was down there!” He paused a moment. “Did you know he was down there, Theodosia?”

Uh-oh. I could just imagine how well my explanation would go over with this lot. Why yes, Father. The Old Kingdom statue we have of Anubis came to life when I was down there last. So this meant, unfortunately, I had to lie. “Perhaps whoever let the mummies into the museum three nights ago left one of the doors open and a stray got in? Oh! And perhaps that’s why our mummies are still here! Perhaps the dog chased away the mischief-makers!”

Father looked at me a moment longer, then nodded. “Makes as much sense as any of this,” he said.

A loud growl exploded through the foyer and we all turned to watch as the jackal lunged for Kimble, who scrambled back out of the way. Everyone was staring at the animal now, except for Stilton, who looked at me with open awe. The dolt. Could he be any more obvious? He was going to give away all my secrets if he wasn’t careful.

Beaton, hearing the commotion, came running back downstairs with his billy club out. Anubis glanced at him, then back at the men in front of him. Without warning, he leaped to the side, evading them all and heading straight for the front of the museum. When he reached the bank of windows, he launched himself up into the air and crashed through, shattered glass falling everywhere.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the front door opened and Miss Sharpe walked in. “What on earth was that?”