The Mummy's Revenge Page 7

  “I’m…fine,” said Charley, although her pained expression suggested she was anything but “fine”. Awkwardly she hauled herself up into a sitting position and spotted Doogie standing in the doorway to her room, waving an iron poker.

  “No sign,” said Doogie.

  “What is going on?” said Charley.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find—”

  A scream rang out, echoing down the corridor.

  “Sir Gordon!” yelled Doogie, setting off at a sprint.

  “Leave me!” said Charley, as Billy hesitated. “GO!”

  Two seconds later and Billy was at Doogie’s side outside His Lordship’s room. Billy turned the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. “Locked.”

  “Sir Gordon! Sir Gordon!” Doogie banged on the door. Another scream pierced the night.

  “We’ll have to break it down,” said Billy.

  They flung their shoulders against the wood and – with a splintering crack! – the lock broke and Billy and Doogie fell into the room.

  “We’re too late,” said Doogie, as he saw Sir Gordon’s body sprawled across the bed, as white and blubbery as a beached whale – if beached whales wore stripy nightshirts. “He’s dead.”

  But Sir Gordon wasn’t dead – Billy realized this as soon as he drew close and His Lordship lifted one buttock to release a fart of monstrous proportions.

  “Sir Gordon,” said Billy, “you were screaming. What happened?”

  His Lordship wiped his perspiring brow on the bedsheet. “I was in agony,” he said, gently stroking his fat belly. “Never felt pain like it. It was as if someone was jabbing at my stomach with a red-hot poker.”

  “And now?” said Billy. “How do you feel now?”

  “Still dreadful,” said Sir Gordon, farting again and wafting his nightshirt.

  “I’ll fetch a doctor for you immediately, sir,” said Cowley, standing framed in the doorway. The butler lacked his usual dignity, dressed in a nightshirt and with a long nightcap pulled down tight over his head.

  “If ye can find one who isn’t afraid of the mummy’s curse,” whispered Doogie.

  A grandfather clock chimed three in the morning, signalling the start of the bleakest, loneliest, longest hour of what had already been a desperate night. Not a soul in 44 Morningside Place was sleeping. The mummy’s curse had murdered sleep.

  Doctor Cushing fussed over Sir Gordon, prescribing a pinch of gunpowder stirred into a glass of warm soapy water to be drunk as a cure for the violent stomach pain. Cowley fussed over the household staff. The two parlourmaids were leaving and there was nothing he could say to persuade them to stay. Doogie fussed over Charley, although she was adamant that the headache had gone now as quickly as it had come. Charley fussed over the case notes, reading and rereading every page. And Billy? Well, Billy went down to the kitchen and made some hot chocolate. Then he sat alone at the table, the cup in both hands while he drank and tried to forget the deathstalker. They’d checked the scorpion tank in the conservatory and the lid was slightly ajar, so the nasty thing must have escaped by accident. But accident or not, it still could have ended his life with one whip of its tail.

  A pale sun eventually rose over Edinburgh, bringing light but no warmth. Washed and dressed, Sir Gordon, Charley and Billy all sat round the breakfast table. Wellington lay under it. Cowley and Beth, the last remaining downstairs maid, were on hand to serve tea, hot coffee, toast with strawberry jam or bitter marmalade, porridge, bacon, sausages, black pudding, eggs (scrambled, fried, poached and boiled), kippers and kedgeree.

  Charley eventually chose a simple boiled egg. She lined up some toast soldiers on the side of her plate and then took great pleasure in cracking the egg open with her spoon.

  “On which,” said Billy, “how’s your head?”

  “Fine, thank you,” said Charley, waving his concern away. “Although it was terrible at the time.” She poured some milk into her tea and gave it a stir. “Oh dear,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she saw the creamy blobs spinning on the surface. “I think the milk has gone off.”

  Beth dropped the tray she was carrying and screamed. “It’s the curse!” she shrieked and fled from the dining room in tears, Cowley stalking after her.

  “My entire household is crumbling around me,” said Sir Gordon. He sounded like a little lost six year old. “You still love me though, don’t you, Wellington?” He took the bacon off his plate and the dog gobbled it appreciatively, licking his master’s hand.

  Charley had brought one of her reference books to the table. Finding the illustrated page that she was looking for, she pushed it over to Billy. “Look familiar?”

  Billy instantly recognized the hideous creatures from his vision. “What are they?”

  “Egyptian gods,” said Charley. “Sekhmet the lioness, Sobek the crocodile and Anubis the jackal.”

  “Does that crocodile bloke remind you of anyone?” said Billy, munching through a sausage. “Like our friend back at the railway station lurking in the shadows?”

  “I only saw a silhouette,” said Charley, “but it’s possible, I suppose.”

  “Almost enough to put me off my breakfast,” said Billy. “But not quite.”

  Billy had chosen some lighter reading, and was flicking through the newspaper while he tackled what was left of his sausage and eggs. But he stopped with a piece of fried egg halfway to his mouth when he spotted an advert at the bottom of the page. “Listen to this…”

  “I think I should check it out,” said Billy.

  Charley raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be the one to investigate a beauty parlour?”

  “It’s a tough job,” said Billy, “but someone’s got to do it.”

  “So nothing to do with surrounding yourself with ‘female loveliness’ then?”

  “Sadly not,” said Billy. “I’ve got a hunch that the Flint family are mixed up in this. I’ve got a dodgy cousin who tried something very similar in London. He might be out of prison by now.”

  “I thought you were having me on when you said he was from a family of criminals, Miss Steel!” spluttered Sir Gordon.

  “I wish she was,” said Billy, “but I’m related to at least forty-five burglars; three safe crackers; one rather brilliant forger; a slightly mad arsonist; more sneak thieves, thugs and pickpockets than you can shake a truncheon at…”

  Sir Gordon’s face went white at the thought of such villainy and he tucked his gold fob watch deeper into his pocket.

  “But the funniest thing is that I’m the black sheep of the family.”

  “Billy’s the one they talk about in whispers,” Charley added.

  “Why on earth is that?” said Sir Gordon.

  “Nothing on earth, actually,” said Billy cryptically.

  “Eh? I’m lost,” said Sir Gordon.

  “My unearthly talent has a habit of upsetting people,” said Billy. “When you tell people that you can see angels and demons and everything in between, they tend to think you’re…strange, treat you as an outcast. Mum packed me off to be a priest and that was where Luther Sparkwell found me – I was casting out an unclean spirit, he was chasing a spectre…”

  “The old, old story,” chuckled Charley. “Boy meets ghoul!”

  “Anyway, Luther recruited me to the new police department he was setting up and, well, here I am.”

  “Right,” said Charley, patting her lips with her napkin. “Evil villains don’t just catch themselves. You check out Madame ZaZa and while you’re doing that, I want to go back to the scene of the first burglary, see what I can find there.”

  Charley turned to His Lordship, who was on his third helping of porridge despite his stomach pains. “Don’t worry, Sir Gordon, S.C.R.E.A.M. are on the case.”

  Billy found Madame ZaZa’s beauty parlour easily enough. It certainly didn’t test his detective skills.

  The street was not in the most exclusive neighbourhood and the house itself had seen better days. The windows were dirty. The paint was peeli
ng. Billy sniffed the air and caught a waft of heady perfume that was so thick and sweet it almost made him gag. But what really gave it away were the two muscular men standing on either side of the doorway. They were naked apart from Egyptian headdresses, short leather kilts and sandals. They held spears, which on closer inspection appeared to be broom handles with fish knives tied to the top with string, and painted gold.

  Billy smiled. None of this came as a surprise. He was one of the Flint family; he knew a scam when he saw one. He wet the palm of his hand and smoothed down his hair. He wanted to look his best for any “lovelies” he might find in the course of his investigation. Billy approached the door with a bounce in his step. “Hello, gents,” he said. “Madame ZaZa at home?”

  “She don’t see no one without an appointment,” said the first guard.

  “She’ll see me,” said Billy, flipping open his wallet to reveal his police badge.

  The guard seemed a lot less cocky all of a sudden. “Er…I’ll go and see if she’s in.”

  “So you can warn her and she can leg it out the back? I think not,” said Billy. “I’ll see myself in, thanks.”

  Billy left the two bewildered guards behind and went in before they could react. Inside, the decor was just as shabby as the outside, but that didn’t seem to have put off Madame ZaZa’s clients. The waiting room was full. Perched on chairs and balanced on an old chaise longue were over a dozen expensively-dressed women. Billy felt rather out of place; a fish out of water. He also felt a pang of disappointment: the “beauties” here looked like his grandma.

  One smiled at him. Two of her front teeth were missing. He tried hard not to notice the wiry bristles sprouting across her jaw. “You can sit by me, sonny,” she said, shuffling up and patting the seat. Billy shuddered. Not by the hair on your chinny chin chin.

  “Madame ZaZa’s is shut for the day,” said Billy, holding his police badge up for them all to see. “You nice ladies need to go.”

  The ladies looked confused.

  “Now,” said Billy, shooing them towards the door with outspread arms, as if he was rounding up sheep. There was a lot of clicking of tongues and a few muttered “well I never”s but Billy didn’t hang around to listen. He pushed open the door that led into Madame ZaZa’s inner sanctum and marched straight in.

  The room had been decorated to resemble the interior of a desert tent. Or at least a romantic fantasy of one. The ceiling and walls were hung with silk sheets, the ornate furniture had been given a lick of gold paint and an Egyptian rug covered the floor. There were two women in the room: the client was sitting in a chair and the other, Madame ZaZa presumably, was standing beside her with her back to the door. Even seeing Madame ZaZa from behind, Billy recognized her. She wore a long white robe which reached to the floor, tied at the waist with a gold chain. An ornamental collar hung around her neck, studded with gems. Madame ZaZa’s hair was as black as night. It was fashioned into small tight braids, hanging in a bob above her surprisingly broad shoulders.

  The client in the chair spotted Billy and opened her mouth to speak, sending a spiderweb of cracks through the thick white mixture that had been painted over her face.

  “You must say nussink,” said Madame ZaZa, as she continued to apply the foul-smelling mixture with what appeared to be an old paintbrush.

  The client in the chair looked really alarmed now and was pointing over Madame ZaZa’s shoulder, straight at Billy.

  “Do not disturb yourself, my darlink,” said Madame ZaZa, in her thick foreign accent which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere in particular. “Ozzerwize the formula will not work its magic.” Her customer was still pointing and with more than a touch of anger in her heavily made-up eyes, Madame ZaZa turned to see what the fuss was about. “I told you that I am never to be disturbed when I am wiz a client.”

  Her gaze fell on Billy.

  “Chuff me,” said Madame ZaZa gruffly from behind the veil which covered her mouth, and the accent dropped completely. “Billy Flint, as I live and breathe.”

  “We need to talk,” said Billy.

  Madame ZaZa turned to her client. “Fetch yer coat,” she said, now sounding like an East Ender who had never been anywhere more exotic than Millwall. “I’ll have to finish your treatment later, love.” Then, quick as a flash, Madame ZaZa hitched up her robe past her hairy knees and made a dash for the door.

  However Billy had been expecting Madame ZaZa to be as slippery as an eel. He nipped in quickly, stuck his leg out and sent Madame Zaza tumbling. Her veil fell off and her wig slipped, revealing a shaven head gleaming underneath.

  As the distressed client made her own escape, Billy stood over the fallen figure of Madame ZaZa. He shook his head. “Up to your old tricks again, eh, Tosher?”

  Charley’s back ached even more than usual and it hadn’t helped that she had slept so badly. No matter which way she sat inside the carriage this morning she couldn’t seem to relieve the pain. Doogie had given her a cushion but little good it did her. Her lips tightened as another twinge hit, but she didn’t have time to think about it; she had a case to solve.

  Just as the carriage was leaving, a messenger had arrived with a telegram from London. It was from Luther Sparkwell.

  “I’ll do my best,” she muttered as the zebras drew her away.

  Charley pulled out her notebook and looked at the hieroglyphics that she had been able to translate so far. She had copied them in the order that Billy had found them, including the gaps where the sand had been swept away.

  A sceptre or wand, an eye, a man with his arm outstretched, then a gap, then a hippo’s head. The sceptre stood for “power” or “strength” or “authority”. That was one of the more straightforward symbols. The trouble was that hieroglyphs could have more than one meaning, depending on the context. Charley scratched her head with her pencil, and her brows knitted together in thought. The eye might mean “make” or “do” or “see” or “watch” or “be watchful” or “be blind”. Or just “eye”. The man could mean “to call” or “servant” or simply “man”.

  Then there was the hippo. At least she thought it was a hippo. Animal symbols were especially tricky to translate, with numerous odd meanings. She mentally ran through the list. What did this hippo stand for, she wondered. A moment? An instant? A snap of the fingers? An actual hippo?

  Charley was still lost in thought when the carriage arrived at the scene of the first burglary. Lady Marigold Tiffin’s house had been burgled the night after Sir Gordon’s disastrous mummy party. It was a majestic building befitting someone of Lady T’s wealth but if some homes seemed to glow with the warmth, love and laughter that could be found inside, then this stately home was a place of quiet desperation. It stood alone in an acre of woodland, and although the sun was high in the grey sky, the tall, dark pine trees did everything they could to shut out the light.

  The coachman helped Charley down and into her wheelchair. All around them the pines seemed to whisper to each other, their dry branches creaking. No birds sang in this wood. No children played hide-and-seek here. The zebras seemed skittish and uneasy, whinnying and pawing the ground with their hooves.

  Charley grabbed her wheels and propelled her chair forwards along the gravel path. Her arms were muscular and they needed to be. Her father had christened her Charlotte Fortitude Steel – strength really was her middle name.

  Aching, Charley reached the front door and heaved down on the bell pull. A bell jangled somewhere inside the house but there were no other signs of life from within. Charley rang again, gave it another minute and then decided she would try the back entrance.

  The gravel path extended right round the lonely old house and Charley made agonizing progress. Eventually she reached the rear entrance. There was no bell on the back door, so she banged on it with her knuckles. She spotted a flicker of movement at a window; a fat face looking out for a second, then it was gone.

  “Open up,” Charley called. “Police!”

  Footsteps relucta
ntly approached and the door opened. A round-faced woman stood there, her puffy cheeks full of annoyance. “What d’you want?”

  “I am Charlotte Steel, S.C.R.E.A.M. squad, and I want to speak to the mistress of the house.”

  “You can’t,” said the woman. “She’s out.”

  “I’ll wait for her to get back,” said Charley, pushing herself into the house in defiance of this rude woman.

  “You’ll have a long wait then, darling,” the woman purred. “She’s gone to London. I don’t expect to see her back for months.”

  That explained a lot, Charley thought. With Lady Tiffin gone away, no doubt to rebuild her shattered nerves after her ordeal, the servants had the place to themselves. “Then I will have to talk with you,” said Charley, allowing an icy note into her voice.

  “Me?”

  “You are Mrs Whisker, aren’t you?” She studied the housekeeper; the fat face, the fuzz of hairs on her upper lip. “Violet Ermintrude Whisker? Thirty-nine years old, born in County Durham, previously employed as a housemaid to General Thaddeus Shermann, one previous conviction for theft.” Charley paused. “Left the General’s employment after some sort of scandal involving missing silver cutlery. You are that Mrs Whisker, aren’t you?”

  The woman was flustered. “How do you know all that?”

  “I’m a detective,” said Charley. “It is my business to know everything about everybody. Now let’s sit together and talk politely, but first I’d like a pot of Earl Grey with lemon, not milk. Run along and fetch it, would you?”

  Now that the beauty parlour was deserted, Madame ZaZa abandoned her disguise completely. As Billy had suspected all along, Madame ZaZa was not Egyptian. And not a madame either. Madame ZaZa was Tosher Flint. One of Billy’s numerous cousins from the vast criminal clan of the Flint family.

  Billy and Tosher sat opposite each other in stony silence. Tosher made for a strange companion. Without the wig and veil, he looked like a rugby player whose little sister had been using his face to practise her make-up skills. Not a pretty sight.