I went into the sitting room and made myself two jam sandwiches, then began eating them in an appalling rush. There was so much to be done.
Halfway through my meal (although I wasn't sure two jam sandwiches properly qualified as a meal), I saw a crumpled newspaper tossed up against the hearth. Curious, I went and picked it up, brought it back to the table, and smoothed it out so I could read it.
LONDON PEPPERED WITH GOLD THEFTS
A number of thefts were reported last night, all claiming varying amounts of gold field been taken from the premises. From White Chapel to Hyde Park, people are missing their gold. As Cyrus Bentwillow told this reporter, "That gold was all I got. I bought it to protect me family from the mummies prowlin' the streets, and some blighter went an' stole it from me! What's this world coming to, I'd like: to know."
Now I knew why the paper had been discarded. Father hated reading about the mummy situation!
Thinking of my father had me wondering if my parents had made it back yet. What if the horrid board of directors had had them hauled off to jail?
I shoved the last bite of sandwich into my mouth and hurried upstairs to the workroom on the third floor. Relief trickled through me as I heard the sound of Mother and Father talking.
"They're idiots, that's what the problem is," Father was saying. "None of them has the slightest interest in true history or scholarship. It's all a hobby to them. A game."
"Yes, it is," Mother agreed. "They clearly have no idea what's involved or why you wouldn't be hungering after their wretched mummies. Just how many times do you have to tell them that we already have so many, you've forbidden me to bring any more home?"
Father grunted. "Far too many."
"Hopefully this will be the end of it. I shudder to think what this has done to my chances with the Royal Archaeological Society."
"Well, if those mummies show up here one more time, Henrietta, I won't be held accountable for my actions."
That was easy for him to say now, I thought. He wasn't locked up tight in a jail cell as Inspector Turnbull had threatened. Which only confirmed the fact that I had lots to do in very little time in order to make sure Turnbull wouldn't have any reason to lock him up.
"Did you know Weems was a friend of Lord Chudleigh's when you hired him?" Mum asked.
"Gad, no," Father exclaimed. "That reference wouldn't have cut the mustard with me."
"Chudleigh seems to think very highly of him." I could tell by Mother's voice that she was reluctant to point that out.
"Chudleigh also thought very highly of his fake mummy."
"True," Mum said. "But still, I rather loathe the idea of Weems keeping Chudleigh apprised of our every move and decision. Especially under such trying circumstances."
Weems was an insufferable prig! With his intention of running the entire museum, the more trouble Father was in, the better things looked for Weems. Well, we'd have to see about that.
I listened for a few moments longer, disappointed when it became clear they'd never even realized I was gone. But this served my purpose perfectly, I assured myself. It was silly to feel put out that they didn't notice I was missing.
I made my way back past the Egyptian exhibit to the stairs, my mind churning. Now that the Serpents of Chaos had the staff and the orb, they would have the power to call all the mummies. Even if the mummies weren't gathered at our museum, Turnbull would still most likely suspect Father, not to mention we'd lose our entire collection. Which meant I had to find a way to protect our mummies from the powerful call of the staff.
Of course, the real trick was to figure out what on earth Chaos planned to do with a hundred mummies, but first things first.
My initial stop was the reading room. I needed to read over Archimedes's The Power of Amulets: A Lost Art.
When I arrived, who should I find there but Clive Fagenbush. And he was studying the back corner of the shelves, the very ones where I'd found all my information on mummies and Osiris.
I tried to retreat down the hall until he was done, but the old floor squeaked and gave me away. I winced as Fagenbush whirled around. "What are you doing here?" He scowled.
"Finishing up an essay for Miss Sharpe. What are you doing here?"
His scowl grew even deeper. "Researching something for one of the collections, of course. It is my job, if you recall."
"Yes, very well. Carry on."
But before I could leave, Fagenbush called out, "Wait! This section is missing quite a large number of books. You wouldn't happen to know where they are, would you?" he asked.
"No. But there are quite a lot of other curators around. Perhaps one of them was a little quicker in his duties and beat you to it."
Fagenbush's eyes narrowed at the insult. "Perhaps you've squirreled them away in your little office," he snarled.
"Oh, no. Those are just some books in Latin that Miss Sharpe wanted me to translate. Surely you don't need to practice your Latin, do you?"
I was half afraid he was going to barge in there and search my office, but my father being Head Curator must have held him back. "Very well," he said at last. Then he picked up the three books he had set aside. As he passed me, I craned my head, trying to get a look at the titles he was carrying, but he managed to cover them with his arm. Because I'd done that a hundred times myself, I knew he was doing it on purpose. The rat.
Clearly he was up to something. I wished I could have understood why Wigmere was so certain Fagenbush wasn't behind any of this. I would have to ask him again, next time I saw him.
But for now, I had some research to do. Wigmere had said that they'd found mention of the staff in old medieval grimoires. We had a few of those around here. Perhaps I should start with them.
I headed straight for the farthest, darkest corner of the reading room, where the oldest and most forgotten texts were jumbled together. These tended to be the ones Father and the other curators took the least seriously, but I found them invaluable.
There were a number of grimoires there: Opus Majus by Dr. Mirabilis, The Black Pullet by Johannes Faust (yes, that Faust!), An Occult Philosophy by Henreich Cornelius Agrippa, and De Umbris Ideaum by Bruno. But none of them touched on any magic of the pharaohs or ancient Egypt.
I picked up the last book. It was extremely old and bound in black leather that had faded and cracked with age. The pages were brittle and covered in a spidery Latin script.
Even though I'm much better at translating Greek and hieroglyphs than I am at Latin, I managed to muddle through the introduction. The author was Silvus Moribundus, a medieval occultist who was translating an ancient Egyptian papyrus written by Nectanebo II's head priest and magician, Sephotep. The name brought me up cold.
Sep was the name of the god of chaos. And the suffix hotep meant "pleased." So if a priest was named Sephotep, then it wasn't good. Not at all. It meant he was very adept at creating chaos. A small shiver of apprehension ran through me. The only good thing was that if anyone would have the answers as to what would make mummies walk in this world again, it would surely be the god of chaos.
My fingers tingled in anticipation. This book could well possess secrets not found anywhere else! What on earth had it been doing stuffed in a forgotten corner?