Theodosia and the Staff of Osiris-Theo 2 (14 page)

A footstep creaked on the stairs. Gasping, I whirled around, barely managing to bite back a scream at the shadowed form lurking on the stairs.

Tetley. It was only Tetley, I told my galloping heart. His mummified form must have responded to the pull of the staff.

Well, he couldn't just stand there on the stairs for all eternity! Setting the staff against the wall, I wrestled Tetley down the rest of the steps and next to the other mummies. Hopefully no one would come looking for him.

The shadows began to thicken, and the rustling sound grew louder. Had it been the power of the staff that had kept the restless spirits at bay until now? Fighting down panic, I secured the golden Orb of Ra safely in my pinafore pocket, then hurried up the stairs, not one bit careful how quiet I was.

As I slammed the basement door, a shudder ran through me. That had been close. Would the restless
mut
have come closer? Surely not with the Blood of Isis in my possession. Trying desperately to believe that, I headed toward the family room.

A tall figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking my path and pointing a shotgun directly at my chest.

"T
HEO
? I
S THAT YOU
?"

I nearly wet my knickers in relief. "Father! Yes, it's me! Who did you expect?" And then I remembered—he was lying in wait for the mummies. I glanced at the stairs that led up to the Egyptian exhibit, wondering if any of the bodies had begun to make their way down before I had turned off the staff's power.

He lowered his shotgun. "Well, not you, that's for certain. Whatever are you doing?"

I looked at him in exasperation. "My chores! You're the one who assigned me to organize the basement, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes. How's that coming, then?"

I can't even begin to tell you how odd it is to carry on a conversation with your father when he is holding a shotgun. "It's coming along very nicely," I lied. "Now, if you don't mind, I thought I'd see if there's anything to eat."

"Of course. There are some meat pies in the family room."

And so I left him, standing guard in the foyer with his shotgun. I could only hope he wouldn't seriously hurt someone. Least of all himself.

I ate the last two meat pies, then retired immediately to my closet. It had been a long day, and I was exhausted. I turned down the blanket, crawled into the sarcophagus, and fell fast asleep with the Blood of Isis clutched firmly in my hand. There would be time enough to deal with the other problems tomorrow.

***

I was awakened some time later by a sharp prickling against my scalp and something rough and warm scratching my face. Whatever was doing the scratching and the prickling vibrated loudly, like a Hoover or perhaps a motorcar engine. It took me a moment before I recognized the sound as Isis. Purring.

Even though she had been undemonized months ago, she'd never gone back to being quite as cuddly as she used
to be, so anytime she was up for a purr and a snuggle, I was happy.

"Hello there, miss!" I reached out to scratch her between the ears, which she enjoyed a moment before batting my fingers away and giving me one last rough scratch with her tongue. Then she hopped out of the sarcophagus, went over to the door, and waited.

When I didn't follow immediately, she rubbed against the doorjamb and gave a faint meow.

I sat up, all drowsiness chased completely away. She meowed again, and I clambered out of the sarcophagus, slipped into my shoes, then went to light the oil lamp on the desk. Holding it out in front of me, still clutching the Blood of Isis with my other hand, I followed the cat into the darkened hall. I paused and heard no noise coming from anywhere. Puzzled as to what Isis was up to, I let her lead me. As we passed the sitting room, I popped my head in. Mother was crumpled up on the couch, sound asleep, but Father was nowhere in sight. Isis kept walking.

I rushed to catch up, but she disappeared into the great yawning darkness of the foyer. Remembering the shotgun, I took a few cautious steps forward. "Father? Are you still here?" I whispered out into the blackness. But there was no answer.

Then I heard it. A low rumbling gargle, as if one of the sphinxes that flanked the staircase was giving off a warning growl. I froze, unsure what to do. I hadn't thought to check the sphinxes for curses in ages. They'd always been clean, so I'd given up worrying about them. Far too soon, it looked like.

The noise came again, then stuttered.

Maybe that stutter meant the magic had gone dormant again? Besides, Isis had ventured forward. Surely she wouldn't have braved any black magic.

I tightened my grip on the amulets and walked firmly (but quietly!) into the foyer. The sphinxes looked as placid as ever, but Father was propped up against the haunch of one of them, fast asleep, his forgotten shotgun laid across his lap.

I jumped slightly when the rumbling came again, relief mingling with annoyance when I realized it was only Father—snoring. Honestly! He could have given me a heart attack.

Feeling slightly foolish (but much braver), I squared my shoulders and hurried over to where Isis waited impatiently. As soon as I drew close, she galloped off into the darkness again. I wished she'd learn to wait up for me.

She led me past Flimp's office. He was also asleep—and snoring as well. I reached out and closed his door as quietly as I could, cutting off the grating sound.

And that was when I heard it. The soft
snick
of a latch. I
paused, wondering if it might be the echo of Flimp's door closing, but the sound of quiet footsteps moving rapidly across the floor disabused me of that notion.

My heart lodged in my throat, I turned down the oil lamp and set it carefully on the floor, then headed toward the sound.

It was very disorienting trying to follow footsteps in the dark. The large, cavernous rooms of the museum gave everything a slight echo. Just as I was certain I was coming upon the footsteps, I heard the distinct click of another door being opened, then closed again.

Isis shot out of the dark past me toward the noise, and I followed. It had been the side entrance!

When I got there, I tried to open it, only to find it was locked. How could the intruder have gotten in if it was locked?

Shoving the question aside, I reached out to unlock it, then jerked my hand back at the sharp tingle of magic buzzing along my gloves. Desperately wanting to catch at least a glimpse of the intruder, I reached for the knob again (this time ignoring the disturbing sensation), opened the door, and cautiously poked my head outside.

A tall, cloaked figure was just disappearing around the corner of the building, and he'd been carrying something. Something long and ...
no!

I scampered back inside—making sure to lock the side entrance—then hurried to the basement.
Please don't let it be the staff, please don't let it be the staff,
I chanted to myself.

Panic won over caution and I bolted down the steps to the catacombs. At the bottom of the stairs, I peered through the gloom to the west wall. All the mummies were still lined up like determined soldiers, but the staff was gone. I glanced to the floor, hoping it might just have fallen over, but of course it hadn't.

Whoever that intruder had been, he'd stolen the Staff of Osiris.

Well, a part of it, anyway, I thought, patting the pocket of my pinafore where the heavy gold orb lay safely hidden.

Even so, he'd come very close to getting the staff
and
the orb! Only a matter of hours, really. And he was bold enough to strike when there were so many of us here in the museum. What if Father had awoken, or Mum? Or even poor dear Flimp? Think of what danger they would have been in.

I had to get word to Wigmere right away. He needed to know that they had the staff and how bold they'd been in getting it.

Whoever
they
were. I was guessing it was the Serpents of Chaos, but really, it could have been anybody! The Grim Nipper fellow that Inspector Turnbull had been talking about. Clive Fagenbush, the beast, or even that prig Vicary Weems. Perhaps he was in cahoots with Lord Chudleigh. What if he was trying to get Father fired so he could become Head Curator, as he probably thought he deserved?

I moved to go back up the stairs, nearly tripping over Isis, who was sitting on the first step waiting patiently for me to get going. I reached down and gave her a good scratching. "Excellent work, miss," I told her. She began to purr.

***

The next morning I was awakened by a loud pounding that seemed to shake the very walls of the museum itself. I scrambled out of the sarcophagus, scrubbed my face with my hands, and hurried out to see what was going on.

When I reached the foyer, I saw that it was quite late. All the curators stood huddled in a small group, whispering among themselves, seemingly ignoring the pounding at the door.

Mum appeared at the foot of the stairs, the heightened color in her cheeks the only sign she'd just woken up. How does she manage to sleep without wrinkling her clothes, I'd like to know. "Where on earth is everyone, and why haven't they opened the door?" she asked.

Fagenbush shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and deferred to Vicary Weems with a sneer. Weems cleared his throat. "It's his lordship, ma'am. He's, um, asleep."

"H-holding a gun," Stilton added.

I stepped forward. "Shall I let them in, Mum?"

Mother reached up and patted her hair. "Perhaps we'd best see who it is first," she suggested, visions of Grandmother no doubt running through her head.

I was halfway through the foyer when Father woke up. "What's all this racket?" he demanded, working out the kinks in his neck.

"Someone's here," I called out over my shoulder. When I reached the front, I peeked out the window, nearly squealing when I found myself eyeball to eyeball with Inspector Turnbull, who was peering
in.
"It's Inspector Turnbull, Father. And he has three constables with him. A small crowd, actually. It looks like some of those newspapermen who were here the other day."

"What in the ruddy hell do they want?"

"We'll find out, won't we?" I muttered to myself. I took a deep breath and put on my most innocent face before opening the door. I was terrified that somehow the inspector had heard of the break-in last night—it wouldn't do at all to have the police dragged into the matter of the staff. I had to get word to Wigmere first thing this morning!

"Good morning, Inspector. It's rather early in the morning for calling, don't you think?"

"This isn't a social visit, young lady." He squeezed his way inside while his constables held back the clamoring crowd of reporters.

"Is it true one of the mummies is cursed?" one of them shouted.

"Did one of the men who touched the mummies really break his leg?" another one called out.

"What happened to the photographer who took the only known picture of the mummy?"

"Is it true that gold is the only way to protect ourselves from the mummies?"

Inspector Turnbull slammed the door shut on that last question, then took his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his face. "I thought I'd come by here first thing this morning rather than get all the way to my office, then have someone call me back here. Seemed more efficient somehow."

"But why would anyone have called you here this morning?"

The inspector skewered me with a glare, then looked pointedly at the foyer wall.

Which, much to his surprise, was empty.

Except for Father, who was struggling to his feet, his shotgun dangling from his right hand.

"What do you want?" Father boomed.

The inspector eyed the shotgun warily. "You wouldn't be threatening an officer, now, would you?"

"Heavens no, Inspector Turnbull!" Mother hurried forward, anxious to smooth things over. "He was keeping watch last night, hoping to find who was bringing all the mummies to the museum."

"Except they didn't have the nerve to show their faces," Father said, clearly put out.

The inspector glanced again at the blank wall. "So I see," he said. "And it's a good thing, I might add. I came here fully expecting to find the mummies again, and if I had, I'd have arrested you, Admiral Sopcoate or no."

I thought it very foolish of the inspector to taunt Father when he was holding a shotgun.

"However," he continued as he eyed Father's reddening face, "since they're not here, there's not much I can do. Just remember, I've got my eye on you." He turned his gaze toward the curators. "Which one of you is Weems?" he asked.

"I am, sir." The new First Assistant Curator stepped forward, looking very self-important.

"Good. I need to have a word with you." Weems paled a bit but otherwise gave no sign that he minded as he followed the inspector down the hall.

I glanced around to make sure everyone else was occupied. Mother was brushing Father off and Fagenbush was bossing poor Stilton about something, so I slipped off after the inspector, walking on quiet feet.

Yes, eavesdropping is a vile habit. Luckily, I wasn't eavesdropping. I was spying. Spying is noble, especially when doing it for a good cause, such as my parents.

"So, Lord Chudleigh says you're an upstanding sort of chap," the inspector said.

Weems puffed up a bit at this. "I like to think so."

"So tell me, have you seen anything suspicious the past couple of days?"

"Well, this whole place is a bit more dodgy than I was led to believe during the interviews."

Dodgy? How dare he! We weren't the slightest bit dodgy.

"The Third Assistant Curator seems a very nervous sort. Always twitching and clearing his throat."

"Go on," the inspector encouraged.

"Then, there's that Fagenbush fellow. He has a very guilty feel to him, even though I can't pinpoint why. Seems like he's always skulking around."

I wasn't sure how I felt being in agreement with Weems, even on Fagenbush.

"And," he continued, "no one can quite explain what happened to their former First Assistant Curator, at least not to my satisfaction."