Usually I am the one doing the squawking, so this was a change.
He stared at the daily paper, his lips moving faintly as he read and a dull flush spreading up his cheeks, a sure sign he was getting hot under the collar.
"What the devil?" he finally exploded. He looked up from the newspaper at Mother. "Listen to this. 'A series of burglaries have been reported all over London. From private collections to public museums, a large coordinated set of robberies occurred last night. The same item was stolen from each location: mummies. "Someone is playing a deliberate hoax!" Lord Snowthorpe, head keeper at the British Museum, declared when he was reached late last night for comment.'"
Father surged to his feet. "We've got to get to the museum! Those thieves might have hit us as well."
Mother was unperturbed. The truth was, she'd been in a jolly mood ever since her meeting the day before, which had gone swimmingly. "Surely Flimp would have sent a message if there had been anything out of the ordinary last night," she said.
"Unless they coshed him over the head first," I pointed out. Father speared me with a look.
"I'll just go and get my hat," I said, then hightailed it to the carriage so I wouldn't be left behind.
The authorities were waiting for us when we arrived. Flimp had refused to let them in without Father's consent (good man, our Flimp).
"Sir." The constable in charge stepped forward. "We're here to check and see if there's anything amiss in your museum."
"There better not be," Father mumbled as he waited for Flimp to unlock the door. Remembering their manners, the constables motioned for Mother to go first, then followed her inside. I, of course, brought up the rear. I seem to do that a lot, frankly.
Father led the way through the foyer toward the stairs to the Egyptian exhibit, then stopped, causing all of us to bump into him. "What the blazes...?" he boomed.
Everyone else fell silent. I craned my neck to see around the people in front of me, my jaw dropping when I did.
There, lined up in the hallway, were scads of mummies. Rows and rows of them. I was seized by a violent shiver, and goose bumps rained down my arms.
"What now, Theodosia?" Father said, turning his exasperation onto me.
"Nothing! I just felt a draft, that's all."
"Mebbe the sight o' all those bodies gave her the willies?" the constable suggested, looking a little pale himself.
But of course, it wasn't the willies. Or even a draft. What the sensation meant was that one of those mummies was either cursed or carrying some beastly sort of magic with it. But which one? There were scores of them, all crowded together against the wall as if they were waiting for a train to arrive. Most of them were still covered in their wrappings, thank goodness! But they were old and dingy, and some of the linen was looking tattered. A few unwrapped heads and limbs poked through, but I tried very hard not to look at those.
The constable cleared his throat. "Is that how you always display your mummies, sir?"
"Of course not! Those aren't even ours."
He was right. They weren't. Which meant...
They were probably the missing ones.
I could almost see the gears turning in the constable's head as he drew the same conclusion. "Well, isn't that cozy, guvnor? All the mummies just happen to be here in your museum."
Horrified disbelief spread across Father's face. "Are you accusing me of stealing them?" I could tell by the color his face was turning that he was trying hard not to shout.
The constable shrugged. "They've gone missing from all over the city and now they're here. What am I supposed to think?"
Father glared at the man. "Who asked you to think, anyway? Our museum has plenty of mummies of it's own. We have no need for any of these." He waved his hand at the wall.
With a shock, I realized one of the bodies was staring at me. It took me a moment to recognize it was Lord Chudleigh's mummy. The one formerly known as Tetley.
I forced my attention back to the constable, who was dispatching one of the other constables to go fetch an Inspector Turnbull, who was still questioning employees at the British Museum. As the man hurried away, he nearly collided with Edgar Stilton, who emerged from the hallway just then. When he saw the rows of mummies, the entire left side of his body twitched.
"Sir?" He looked inquiringly at Father.
"Stilton." Father's voice was full of relief. "How long have you been here?"
The constable sent Father a quelling glance. "I'll be the one to ask the questions, if you don't mind."
It was clear that Father did mind, but after a gentle nudge from Mother, he clamped his mouth shut.
The constable turned to Stilton. "What time did you get in this morning, sir?"
"I've been here since half past, sir." Stilton looked from the constable back to Father, not sure whom to address his answer to.
"Were these mummies here when you arrived?"
"I-I don't know. I came in the west entrance, like always."
"I say! What's all this?" a pinched, critical voice demanded. At the sight of Vicary Weems, thoughts of his missing overcoat rushed back into my head. Bother! I had hoped to return his coat to the rack before he got here this morning, but the mummies had driven that thought out of my mind.
"Nothing, Weems." Father waved his arm in dismissal. "Just some mix-up that will be sorted out immediately."
The constable stiffened. "Seems to me I'll be the one to decide when it's sorted out."
"Oh, good gad, man! Take a look around our museum. Does it look like we need any more mummies?"
That was when I realized a curious thing, something no one else seemed to have noticed yet. All of our mummies were standing in the foyer, too. As if they'd all decided to come down and have a chat with the newcomers.
"Excuse me, sir," I ventured, in an attempt to smooth things over before they completely fell apart.
Just as the constable nodded at me to continue, a commotion erupted at the door.
"Ah. Now we'll get to the bottom of this," the constable said. "Inspector Turnbull!" he called out, then rushed over to speak to him privately.
Mother inched closer to Father and they began talking in hushed voices. Weems's disdainful gaze fell onto poor Stilton. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be in your office? Working, presumably?"
Stilton slipped a finger into the top of his collar and tugged at it. "Th-They seem to have some questions for me, sir."
"Indeed." Weems looked doubtful. He was clearly the sort of person who always assumed one was lying.
"He's quite correct, you know," I said. "The constable wanted to ask him some questions, so he'd best stay until they dismiss him."
Weems turned his beastly glare on me. I suddenly found myself wanting to tug my frock into place and make sure every button was done up correctly. Instead, I reached up and scratched my armpit, the most vulgar thing I could think of in the heat of the moment.
His lip curled in distaste. "I'd assumed yesterday was some sort of holiday. Surely you don't come here every day?"
Have I mentioned that Vicary Weems has a very nasally penetrating voice?
The inspector left the constable by the door and stalked toward us. He looked like a determined bulldog, which was not promising. "And who might you be?" he asked Weems.
Weems drew himself up to his full height, which was still considerably less than Inspector Turnbull's. "I am Vicary Weems, First Assistant Curator, in charge of the museum's exhibits, and, I might add, a close personal friend of Lord Chudleigh, who is on the board of directors of this museum."
Turnbull studied him a moment longer. "So you're in charge, then, eh?"
"Yes sir," Weems said, puffing up.
"Well then, you can tell me exactly what's going on and how these stolen mummies got here."