The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (14 page)

Finding the mummy was not going to be easy. Luckily everyone was so busy with their own concerns they took no notice of three young stagehands. I was just about to suggest heading for the stairs leading away from the wings, when a great gasp went through the auditorium. Isaac and Waldo poked their heads round the edge of the curtain. I followed suit. The Great Blondin had finished his blindfold walk to a storm of applause. An acrobat brought a wheelbarrow to Blondin, who was balanced on a ledge at the edge of the
Alhambra's great dome. Blondin was proposing to push it along the tightrope! That couldn't be possible, surely? Why, the wheels themselves must be thicker than the wire. With a low bow, gently placing one foot on the tightrope, Blondin addressed a gentleman in the crowd.

“Do you believe I can walk the wire pushing this wheelbarrow?” he asked.

“I think so,” the man answered.

A ripple went through the audience, a flurry of necks craning to see whom the acrobat had picked out. What audacity! He was speaking to the Prince of Wales himself.

“Are you sure?”

“Why not?” the Prince answered.

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yes, I'm absolutely certain.”

“Absolutely?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then why don't you hop into the wheelbarrow and I'll push you along the tightrope.”

There was utter silence. Waiters, in the midst of pouring glasses of champagne, turned to statues. Gentlemen about to puff on their cigars, stopped stone-dead. The very smoke in the air seemed to freeze. The Prince uttered a genial laugh, and a sigh went through the hall. He wouldn't take the bet. He couldn't be so reckless.
Queen Victoria herself would be outraged.

“Is this a good idea?” the Prince asked.

“I'll guarantee your safety with my life,” Blondin replied.

“You put a lower value on your life than most. But I don't want to spoil your fun. Sir, you're on!”

The Prince rose from the supper table, a smile on his whiskered face. I could see that his friends and attendants were arguing with him, trying to persuade him not to be so foolish. He pushed them off impatiently and walked to the stage. We watched, scarcely believing our eyes, while circus boys helped the portly prince up the ladder to the ledge at the side of the dome. Low murmurings spread through the room. He was prepared to do it. To risk his life and the future of the monarchy for the sake of a silly music-hall stunt!

“Let's go,” I hissed to Isaac and Waldo, who were watching, spellbound. So was every other man, woman and child backstage. “This is a perfect time. No one will pay any attention to us.”

“You go,” they replied in unison. “I'm not missing this.”

But I couldn't pull myself away either, as the Prince ascended the steps of a ladder to the top where Blondin was waiting. There was utter silence as he climbed heavily into the wheelbarrow—which I must say looked a very tight squeeze. The front wheel of the barrow was
balanced on the tightrope and how it wobbled. Even from way down below I could imagine how queasy the Prince must feel. The Great Blondin made one more bow to the audience. Then he set off, the wheelbarrow with the Prince in front of him. Blondin took a step, and then another. Gosh, it must be impossible to control such a weight on the fragile wire. The wheel of the barrow itself, was bigger, clumsier, than the thin wire. One slip—but it didn't bear thinking about.

On his tenth step Blondin wobbled and a great big
aaaah
went through the crowd. From among the crowd came a single, hysterical shriek, from someone who could no longer bear this. My own nerves were pitched to breaking point. He righted himself swiftly and went on, pushing the wheelbarrow with great skill.

Then, just a few inches from the end of the wire, another wobble. The wheelbarrow steered fractionally wrong, tilted. Blondin's left hand rose in the air. Inside the barrow, the Prince pitched to the right and managed to grab the tightrope. The barrow fell with the speed of a boulder, clanging horribly as it hit the ground. The Prince lost his grip on the rope, he was slipping, slipping… Only Blondin could save him now. The tightrope walker was back on the wire, he held out his hand to the lurching prince. It was going to be all right. Blondin closed on the Prince's collar, he reached out strong arms
to him. Our royal heir was going to be,
must be
, safe.

Down below the screams stopped, as for an instant, we all gave thanks. Then the collar ripped and appallingly the whole thing spun out of control and the Prince was spiraling downward through the air. A large dark blob. It was impossible to take it in, it happened so fast. Hysteria overtook the crowd, screams and wails mingling with sobs. Gallant gentlemen rushed forward. An acrobat leapt off the stage to try and catch the Prince, while next to me a ballet girl fainted.

But then something swung out of nowhere, making for the Prince so fast it was a mere blur.

I didn't understand. What was going on?

With a sudden smile the Prince grabbed at the flying object. It was a piece of wood fixed to thick rope. A trapeze! Mid-air, the Prince somersaulted. He tumbled, righted himself. A moment later he had landed firmly on the ground, his chubby body as graceful as a ballet girl.

Incredible! Dumbfounded, the crowd was silent. We watched our acrobat Prince not knowing what to think! Where had he learned to fly on a trapeze?

One by one, the diners rose, holding their arms aloft, as they clapped and clapped. The ovation of a lifetime for a prince in a million. Modestly, the Prince acknowledged the applause with a smile. As casual as if he took a tumble on the trapeze every day at Buckingham Palace.

Blondin had appeared by Prince's side, like a genie out of a bottle. Not a hair of his brilliantined head was out of place; though triumphant, he was calm. He held up a hand for silence and when the clapping had ceased gave a bow. “Gentlemen, I give you my assistant Barney,” the Great Blondin shouted, “and I give special thanks to someone with true sporting blood who has permitted this little imposture. Put your hands together for—” the rest of his words were drowned out as a man, who had been sitting quietly in a shadowy corner of the room, rose. As he stood up his head was illuminated in the flare of a gaslight. Those bushy whiskers, that genial smile. The round cheeks so reminiscent of his mother, Queen Victoria. How could anyone have been taken in by a mere actor? This was the genuine article. Unmistakably the real Prince of Wales! His Royal Highness Albert Edward.

The other man was an acrobat playing the Prince. And the Prince himself was here to witness the trick on his future subjects. What a stunt! Never before had the halls of the Alhambra resounded with such a fever of clapping and cheering.

We
couldn't afford to linger, though. “Look sharp,” I hissed to my friends and dived into the backstage muddle. We wandered past more ballet girls who were getting ready, amongst a froth of pink tutus, for their famous dolphin show. We went down a dark corridor lit
by only a couple of spluttering lamps—we had to find the props room.

“Where's Isaac?” I turned around, noticing with a pang of fear that he was not with us. If anything happened to him Rachel would never speak to me again. Hurriedly Waldo and I retraced our steps. Isaac was back in the wings, staring at a small boy who was collecting iron cannon balls and placing them in a wooden box. This was what theatrical folk called the “thunder run.” It was the boy's job to roll the iron balls down the wooden channel and make the noise we'd heard before Blondin's act—the din of an approaching storm.

“What are you thinking of ? Wandering off like this!” I hissed to Isaac.

Isaac came out of his reverie with a start. “I've had an idea, Kit!”

“Isaac!”

“What?”

“This is not the time for one of your ideas.”

“Thing is … I could make a much better system for creating the sound of thunder. If we hung a metal chute from the ceiling, powered it say with a compressed steam engine—the engine could fire off the balls at a rate—”

I grabbed Isaac by the arm and forcibly pulled him along with me. We turned left, snaking along the same
badly lit corridor.

“Isaac,” I blurted with sudden inspiration. “I've a special job for you.”

“You have?”

“We need a look-out. It's vital—but not in the Alhambra. When we find the mummy we need someone to keep the coast clear.”

“I don't understand.”

“I want you to wait on Charing Cross Road, check for the villains we saw around Velvet Nell, keep your ears and eyes open. Concentrate now, this is really important!”

Isaac, who is so absentminded he is rarely trusted with real tasks, was thrilled. He scampered away, toward the stage door. I only prayed he would find his way to Charing Cross Road. Meanwhile Waldo and I continued down the passageway. We both noticed a sign which said: “PROPS” at the same time, and simultaneously broke into a run.

Waldo made it just before me. He opened the door, revealing a large space filled with the most incredible collection of junk. Right in front of us was a table, set as if for afternoon tea with white lace doilies and china cups and saucers. There was a big gold and glass case, bound all over and secured with a stout padlock. A stuffed monkey, two dogs and a parrot. A large hanging
depicting Venus rising out of the waves. A dolphin modeled from clay, identical to the one in the wings, except this one had a large crack in its head.

“How are we going to find anything among this rubbish?” I groaned.

“Let's do this properly,” Waldo suggested. “I'll start at the back. You keep a look-out.”

“No! I'll do the searching, Waldo.”

“Bossed by a chit of a girl! The way you talk to me you'd
think I
was the younger one!”

I was tempted to point out that Waldo was only older than me by a few months. Anyway, girls are certainly more mature than boys, but I didn't want to annoy him.

“Keeping a look-out is more dangerous. I'm scared to hang about in this dark passage by myself.”

Waldo looked suspicious; he guessed he was being tricked, but reluctantly agreed. I nipped back into the props room, turned on a lamp and began searching from the back. Oh it was a hopeless task! Finding a pearl in the sea would be easier. Everything was a mess. A pile of painted canvas scenes and ballet girl props under the tiny window. I was holding up a long, thin pole with a hoop on the top and wondering what on earth it could be for when Waldo dived back into the room with an urgent cry.

“Hide! Quick!”

I turned off the lamp. We dived into the same place, behind a bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes. A few fell on the floor. They were fake, blocks of wood painted to look like books.

“I'm all done in. Why has it gotta be tonight, Barney?”

Peeping out through a chink in the bookcase I could see the speaker was a stocky man in a yellow jersey. Another man strolled in. His performer's stockings peeped out underneath a velvet dressing gown trimmed with gold braid. Everything about him—from the way he sat down on an upturned box, to the time he took replying to the question while he puffed slowly on his cigar—was arrogant.

“That's what 'Er Majesty wants. Never question orders if you wanna get ahead in this game.”

“We're fagged out. Me head hurts. Me knees 'ave got cramp. I bin up slavin” on this “ere show since—”

“Nell doesn't give a hoot about your knees,” Barney replied. I realized he was the acrobat who'd impersonated the Prince of Wales though he looked very different now he'd removed his false whiskers.

“Where's it orf to then?”

“Baker Brothers want it. Round at 101 Eaton Square, Mayfair. Use the tradesmen's entrance.”

“The Baker Brothers?” the stagehand's voice dropped in awe and I felt my own heart miss a beat. I must have
misheard. It couldn't be right, not
the
Baker Brothers!

“Them swells.”

“Everyone is swells to the likes of you.”

“Wot do they want wiv a 'orrible old stinkin” mummy?'

“Did yer go to school?” Barney's voice had dropped to a menacing murmur.

“No, Barney.”

“Do yer know how to read and write?”

“No.”

“Do we pay you to think? Or do we pay yer to use those big, stupid muscles to move things?”

“Er …”

“We pay you for your muscles, you glocky moron. If we wanted brains we'd hire a professor. So stop boring me to me grave and get a move on!”

Barney obviously saw
himself
as the brains. He didn't exert himself at all. He stretched back, puffing out a cloud of smoke, while the poor stagehand frantically jumped to attention, moving the clutter of props about in his search for the mummy. Finally, I could see, he unearthed a box, about the same shape and size as the original mummy case. The man opened it up and Barney strolled over and took a look inside.

“That's all in order. Yer can load it up,” Barney said. “There's a hansom carriage waiting outside. Can you
manage it yerself ?”

The man tried. He lifted it up, till his muscles stood out like knots of oak. It was no good, the packing case was simply too large and unwieldy.

“All right,” Barney lazily strolled out of the door. We heard a piercing whistle and a moment later who should appear in the room but our old friend Jabber.

“Get this out of 'ere. Sharpish,” Barney ordered.

“Righto, Bender!” Jabber said.

“Oi! How many times 'ave I told yer not to call me by that name!” Barney gave Jabber a smack round the ear. “Get a move on, yer insolent toad.”

Jabber kept his mouth shut after that, which must have been an effort. Together the man and the boy shifted the packing case to the door and then disappeared down the corridor.

Meanwhile, crouched behind the bookcase in a position which made my calves ache I was falling victim to a fresh bout of despair. We'd been so close! In another few minutes I might have found the mummy. Now it was gone. Out of our reach.