Raising the Dead

A St Mary's short story by Jodi Taylor

Halloween at St Mary’s

A series of Unfortunate Events beginning with St Mary’s inadvertently raising the dead.

Well, it was always going to happen one day, wasn’t it?

‘Has it arrived yet?’ demanded Peterson hanging out of my office window and craning his neck to see down the drive.

‘No idea.’ said Rosie Lee, in a tone that effortlessly conveyed her complete indifference. She began to gather up a pile of envelopes. ‘I’m just taking this lot downstairs to catch the four o’clock post and then I’ll be off.’

It was twenty past two.

‘But you’ll miss the party.’ I said.

‘Indeed, I will,’ she replied, and sped out of the door only to become entangled in Markham, coming the other way.

‘Has it arrived yet?’ he said, striving to extricate himself from some of her more outlying areas.

‘No idea,’ she said again. ‘Give me back my arm. Now.’

‘Sorry.’ He edged nervously past her and into my office.

‘It’ll be here between two and three o’clock,’ I said.

‘Is it here yet?’ demanded Astrid, sweeping into my room. Our new Public Relations Officer is nearly six feet tall. She sweeps everywhere. She can’t help it.

I asked her if everything was ready downstairs.

She nodded. ‘Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson are putting the finishing touches to the bier now. It’s going to look fantastic. I can’t believe we got Thirsk’s permission to do this.’

Silence fell. Peterson shuffled his feet. Markham hummed what he probably thought was a merry tune. I stared down at something on my desk.

Astrid’s eyes narrowed. Two weeks into her new job and she’d got the measure of St Mary’s already. ‘We do have permission. Don’t we?’

Silence didn’t fall because it was down there already but there was a definite increase in the lack of sound in my office.

We did sort of have permission – just not from Thirsk University. And there was certainly no need to cause her unnecessary anguish by revealing just how reluctantly Dr Bairstow’s permission had been given.

‘It can’t come to any harm, sir. It’s in a sarcophagus,’ had been Markham’s argument.

‘It’s survived for millennia, sir. Surely, it’s unlikely to suffer any damage here at St Mary’s,’ had been mine.

Astrid was glaring suspiciously at all of us.

‘I have always found it is better to seek forgiveness than ask permission,’ said Markham, primly.

Astrid rolled her eyes. ‘Oh God.’

‘Relax,’ said Peterson, soothingly. ‘We’re not going to do anything to it. We’re just going to exhibit it. In fact, it will be the centrepiece of our Halloween display and it’s going to look marvellous. And no one, least of all Thirsk, will ever be any the wiser. It’ll be fine.’

‘Oh God.’

She wobbled towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To prepare a statement for the police denying everything. And a press release for tomorrow’s news programmes denying everything. And a statement for the British Museum denying everything. And a written apology to the University of Thirsk making it crystal clear that none of it was our fault and denying everything.’

She disappeared.

‘She’s picked up her job really quickly, hasn’t she,’ said Markham admiringly. ‘I can’t think how we managed without her.’

‘It’s here – it’s coming,’ shouted Peterson, still hanging out of the window. ‘Come on.’

It was after this point that events began to move rather swiftly so I shall take advantage of this final lull to offer a few words of explanation.

We’re St Mary’s. Actually, we’re the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory and our function – our main function because we have many – is to investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Yes, that’s right – we’re ---- ----------. Insert two words here, both beginning with T, the uttering of which has been forbidden by Dr Bairstow.

This afternoon, however, we were exercising one of our other functions. You’re not going to believe this, but St Mary’s had been chosen as – and I’m quoting now – the neutral handover point.

Can you imagine a state of affairs so hostile that St Mary’s is actually neutral ground?

Well, yes, actually. Because – and we couldn’t believe this either – we were about to take delivery of A MUMMY. And this was the special bit – we were about to take delivery of a mummy on HALLOWEEN. As Markham had said – it’s as if it were meant to be.

‘Why a mummy?’ I hear you ask.

‘Why not?’ I respond.

‘Who on earth would entrust St Mary’s with something so ancient, valuable and fragile?’ I hear you ask again

Pay attention for a bit of backstory.

Thirsk have a mummy. Actually, they have several. Proper ones, not just slightly-less-active-than-usual members of the Senior Faculty. One of them, however – the mummies not the Senior Faculty – was a little bit of an anomaly – its wrappings didn’t conform to the usual style for that period – think Christmas gift wrapped in Happy Birthday paper and handed to you three months after Easter – and so, very, very reluctantly, and after a great deal of delicate negotiation, Thirsk University had sent it off to the British Museum for their arguably more expert opinion.

To understate the case somewhat, the conversation between these two venerable establishments had not always been amicable. It’s always fun when academics fall out. The icy tones of the beautifully phrased but utterly deadly insults. The impeccable delivery. Usually in a dead language. No blood. No raised voices. Just the widespread wreckage of shattered careers and ruined reputations. And trust me – both parties have very, very long memories.

Anyway, the mummy had been treated to the usual BM rigorous academic examination – when they’d been forced to admit that yes, Thirsk had probably dated it correctly. And yes, it was a female. And yes, it was quite badly damaged. And yes, the heart was missing. And yes, the anomalous wrappings did indicate that the mummy had been rewrapped at some point. Their theory – which coincided exactly with that of Thirsk’s – was that the mummy, although found in the Royal Cache, wasn’t actually royal herself, but a member of the royal household. A highly valued servant or beloved nurse, perhaps and damaged by tomb robbers at some point soon after her burial.

These facts established, it was now on its way back to Thirsk again, escorted by those arsey buggers from the Provisional Wing of the British Museum. Via St Mary’s. Because we’d been designated the neutral handover point.

The mummy was to be dropped off to spend the night here and Thirsk were to collect it tomorrow. A cunning arrangement instigated by Dr Bairstow to prevent the two sides from actually meeting each other face to face and having to be polite. No one had any confidence whatsoever in St Mary’s peacekeeping abilities and popular opinion had it that such a confrontation could only result in massive damage to property and widespread loss of life.

But – and this is the important bit – for just under twenty-four hours – St Mary’s would have its very own mummy. And today was Halloween. You can see where I’m going with this, can’t you?

The weather was cool and grey with low cloud. No wind. In fact, everything was very still.

‘Ominous, don’t you think?’ remarked Peterson to me as we clattered down the stairs. ‘It’s too quiet. Where are the traditional flashes of lightning, the dramatically sinister claps of thunder and the rising wind?’

‘With luck – somewhere else. Here it comes.’

We stood behind Dr Bairstow as the BM contingent mounted the steps. You have to hand it to them – as always, they looked very smart in their neat grey uniforms and peaked caps adorned with the British Museum logo. We all shook hands very politely. Dr Bairstow politely welcomed them to St Mary’s and offered them refreshments which they politely declined, citing a desire to return to London as quickly as possible. I suspected that being out here in the provinces was making them nervous.

Dr Bairstow nodded and introduced me as the person responsible – which was a bit of a double-edged sentence. According to him I’m responsible for most things and if it wasn’t me then it was usually Markham.

We let the BM supervise the unloading and safe bestowal of their precious cargo. They knew what they were doing. Or so they were always telling us. They did express some surprise at our choice of location for the mummy’s overnight resting place, which was the half-landing on the staircase in the Great Hall.

‘St Mary’s is an old building,’ I said smoothly. ‘Our passages are twisted and narrow and our stairways steep. We thought placing it here would obviate the risk of possible damage as it was conveyed through the building. And, as I’m sure you’ll understand, many here are eager to see the exhibit for themselves.’

‘You may remove the lid from the wooden travelling case,’ they said, ‘but the mummy itself must – obviously – remain within its transparent exhibition sarcophagus.’

‘Obviously,’ I agreed. We had no desire to damage it, just incorporate it slightly into our Halloween display. Our spectacular Halloween display.

Declining even a cup of tea – I sometimes wonder if our reputation precedes us – they deposited the mummy at its designated resting place, Peterson and I signed a flurry of paperwork accepting responsibility for everything that ever could, should or would happen to this priceless artefact, and they finally departed. We waved them off from the steps as they swept out of the gates.

I opened my com. ‘They’ve gone. Get cracking.’

Several very busy hours later we were ready.

Allow me to set the scene.

Our medieval Great Hall was a gift to anyone dressing a Halloween set. St Mary’s doesn’t actually have a ghost – which, I think, tells its own story – but we hadn’t allowed that inconvenient fact to stand in our way. We’d gone for the haunted house atmosphere. Big time.

Miss Lingoss and Polly Perkins from IT had constructed giant cobwebs made from wool sprayed with luminous paint. These hung from the high ceiling – thanks to Dieter and his cherry-picker – and fluttered disturbingly in the draughts with which St Mary’s is so generously provided.

The corners were filled with giant toadstools artistically painted red and white. By me, actually.

People had carved faces into fat orange pumpkins. Candles flickering inside gave them a wonderfully spooky air. They’d been arranged up the stairs and grouped on tables around the gallery. Sinister visages leered through the bannisters. And those of the pumpkins, as well.

The trestles had been pushed back against the walls, all ready for food to be served later on. The tablecloths were black. They’d been white once. They’d been sheets once, but now they’d been torn from their natural habitat in Mrs Midgley’s second-floor airing cupboard. There would be repercussions tomorrow.

The centrepiece, however, as previously mentioned, was the actual authentic Egyptian mummy in its sarcophagus. And yes, I know what you’re thinking but it was safely up on the landing, on its own specially constructed bier, and certainly not exposed in the middle of the floor at ground level where anything could happen to it. Give us some credit. No, the mummy occupied the place of honour on the half-landing, surrounded by candles and ‘canopic jars’ which were actually specially decorated tea, coffee, sugar and biscuit cannisters because the originals had never left Thirsk. All artistically arranged by Markham and Peterson, assisted – or hindered, according to who was telling the story – by trainees Miss Evershed and Mr Brightman.

It was from this magnificent vantage point that the mummy would be presiding over our exciting festivities which, as Markham pointed out, would almost certainly be the most fun it had had in the last three thousand years. Neither the University of Thirsk nor the British Museum are noted for the wild abandon of their social occasions. You can’t imagine them apple-bobbing – at which we were confidently expecting Bashford to drown – or stuffing themselves on toffee apples. Or hiring Madame Zara to tell bizarre and far too personal fortunes. Or playing Sardines. Or Pinning the Tail on the Donkey. Not an actual donkey, as I’d had to make very clear. Ramses, our Ancient Egyptian donkey was to remain unmolested throughout the proceedings.

Actually, now I come to think of it, this might be exactly where the BM especially are going wrong. Imagine if they organised a fund-raiser in the form of a Roman orgy. I’d definitely go – and I’d take my cheque book.

Back to the mummy, which was still in its wooden transportation crate, but Mr Strong had carefully removed the wooden lid, revealing it in its transparent case. This was definitely the real thing. Very old, desiccated, shrunken and somehow very sad. Certainly not neatly wrapped in gleaming white bandages as depicted in any of Calvin Cutter’s memorable-but-for-all-the-wrong-reasons movies or holos, but a shapeless lump wrapped in what looked like strips of coarsely woven pieces of linen. A string of ancient and very dirty beads hung around what might have been its neck, together with an ankh. Both had been there so long they were actually embedded in the wrappings.

Miss Van Owen had carefully lighted a tall orange candle at each corner of the display and the flickering flames cast a disquieting glow across the mummy’s visible face, highlighting the prominent nose, the dark, leathery skin, the hollow cheeks and the few strands of still reddish hair. Even through the wrappings covering the body, you could see the outline of the crossed arms, the hip bones, the knees.

‘We’re off to get changed,’ said Markham to me. ‘You should too. The Costume Parade will be starting at five.’

I stared at the mummy. ‘In a minute. I just want a quiet look at our friend before it all kicks off.’

The Costume Parade was to be our opening event and just about everyone had entered. You can’t work at St Mary’s and not be prepared to dress up at the drop of a hat.

Peterson was going as a pirate. He was completely unable to explain how this related to Halloween but, apparently, he’d always wanted to be a pirate which was reason enough.

Markham would be donning his popular Madame Zara – Fortune Teller Extraordinaire robes. I hoped no one had been foolish enough to confide any embarrassing secrets to him because that would certainly come back to bite them.

I was to be a witch. Except it never happened. Stick with me to find out why.

Leon had announced he’d be in normal clothes. This, it would seem, was in anticipation of any number of crises regarding electrocution, drowning, being crushed, poisoned or beheaded. ‘I want to be comfortable,’ had been his unacceptable excuse.

I sighed. ‘You’re no fun any longer.’

‘You didn’t say that last night.’

‘No, but I was thinking it.’

Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge were to make a brief appearance. As themselves, obviously.

Miss Sykes would almost certainly use her role as Lucretia Borgia to spike the punch. Which was very potent to begin with. Fruity but with an aftertaste of panic and so much kick that we could use it instead of smelling salts to bring people out of a coma – although I feel there’s usually a very good reason for being unconscious. I myself make a point of never coming round until the current crisis has been dealt with. By someone else. Comas are my happy place.

Bashford was reprising his very successful Zombie Granny look. The one that had brought Rushford to a standstill some years ago and nearly got us all arrested.

Displaying the grisly humour of catering staff everywhere, Mrs Mack and her team had chosen to go as ghouls. A decision that was causing some alarm and unease. Not a look you want to see in kitchen staff as I think everyone will agree.

Mr Roberts was going as Bluebeard. Miss Lingoss had provided the expertise re his beard which was now a rather fetching shade of royal blue, shading to purple. There were two ways this could go. Either it would never grow out and he’d be Bluebeard forever, or the R&D-developed dye would cause his head to drop off and roll across the floor. We were very much looking forward to finding out which. Bets had been placed.

Kalinda was Maleficent. She always was whether it was Halloween or not, and Astrid, our new Public Relations Officer, would be wearing her silver clingy thingy – a remnant from her glory days as Tempora the Time Travelling Tottie – a role she had happily abandoned in favour of coming to work at St Mary’s.

I’d grinned at her. ‘I thought you’d sworn never to wear that in public again.’

‘A special request,’ she said demurely. ‘From Mr Evans. There is to be a … private viewing later on.’

I looked over at the smirking Evans. ‘I don’t know how you can still stand up.’

He smirked some more. ‘Sometimes I can’t.’

I shook my head. There was no hope for either of them.

Markham and Peterson disappeared to get changed and I took the opportunity to help myself to a quick glass of punch and survey the results of our efforts. I probably shouldn’t say it – modesty and all that – but it looked magnificent. Everything looked magnificent. The Great Hall, the decorations, the sinister lighting. And the prevailing colour scheme was orange and black – very Halloweeny. There were candles everywhere, not only substantially contributing to the ambiance, but also to Leon’s chances of death by massive conflagration rather than electrocution. But that was his problem.

The punch was delicious. Very fruity. I knocked it back, poured myself another glass – and possibly another one after that – and felt much better for all those vitamins. I was going to be so healthy. Dr Salt would be thrilled.

I sat down on the stairs and looked around. A lot had happened on these stairs. It was on this step that I’d sat and waited for Leon to bring Matthew home. These were the stairs I’d taken two at a time with Anastasia to demand sanctuary from Mrs Partridge, half a step ahead of the Time Police all the way.

I looked down at the mummy which was propped up at an angle to make it easier for it to view the proceedings, raised my glass and uttered the traditional ancient Egyptian blessing.

‘Ankh wedja seneb.’

Somewhere, somehow, something changed. The air moved. A slight wind stirred my hair.

Every time has its own smell. 19th century London smells of smoke and horses. And shit. Lots of shit. Troy smelled of spices and the sea. Medieval cathedrals smelled of incense and candle wax and musty monks’ robes. Post-war Bristol smelled of tar. St Mary’s always smells of stone and damp and yesterday’s lunch but now, suddenly, all that was gone. The Great Hall now was redolent of dust. Of sand. Of hot rock. Of spices borne on the wind. The smell of an ancient desert kingdom. The smell of Time itself.

Just for a moment – I was there. Under the blinding sun, white-hot in a lapis lazuli sky. The red of the desert. The black soil of the cultivated areas. The glittering Nile stretching out before me. The smell of hot stone …

I stood up slowly, almost afraid of what I might see.

The mummy was still there. Well, of course it was still there. It was hardly likely to rise from its nifty travelling crate and start lurching down the stairs Boris Karloff-style, was it? For God’s sake pull yourself together, Maxwell. Possibly drink fewer vitamins in future.

I suddenly realised I was holding my breath. Because I’m an idiot, obviously, but that moment had scared the living daylights out of me. Because either I’d just been there in ancient Egypt or ancient Egypt had been here. I could still feel the hot sun on my forehead. Around me, the candles were flickering wildly and the shadows gathered …

And then – under its grubby wrappings – barely noticeable but noticeable nonetheless – something moved. Just a very, very tiny twitch, but definitely not something you want to see in a three-thousand-year-old mummy after three – or possibly four, I’d lost count – glasses of punch. To be clear – it was me that had had the punch. Not the mummy. Just in case anyone was wondering.

I stared. Surely not. There had to be a sensible explanation. Imagination? Perhaps. One glass too many? Possibly. Insanity? Almost certainly. Wildly flickering candles could cast confusing shadows. The stairs were made of wood which flexed and expanded according to temperature and the number of people thundering up and down them all day long. There were all sorts of reasonable explanations and none of them involved mummies rising from the dead and rampaging around the place as they sought to assuage their overwhelming desire to terrorise and destroy and….I should pull myself together.

Obviously, my first duty as a professional historian with a background in ancient history, was to remain calm. The second was to gather my punch-befuddled wits. The third was to conduct an expert assessment of this phenomenomenon. Phemomenon. Phenonenom. Strange occurrence. And to stop drinking immediately.

I did none of that. Instead, I took two hasty steps backwards and fell down the stairs. Arse over tit in true professional historian style, landing in a sorry heap at the bottom. But – and this was the important bit – remaining true to the traditions of my profession and still clutching my glass. There was even a drop left in the bottom.

A Good Thing that could have happened at that moment would have been to look around and find myself completely alone. No witnesses to the accident that had very definitely been my fault. If witnesses had to be present then my choice would have been for Leon or Peterson, or even Markham, any of whom would have gently picked me up, uttered mocking words, refilled my glass and carried on as normal, but this was me so obviously none of that happened.

My last choice would have been Dr Bairstow because no one wants their boss finding them sprawled in an alcoholic heap during working hours, do they, so obviously I opened my eyes to find Dr Bairstow staring down at me in mild concern.

I blinked. ‘Are you an hallucination, sir?’

‘I think I prefer the word vision, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Fine with me, sir. I can’t spell hallucination, anyway.’

He sighed. ‘Do you require assistance?’

Good question. Did I? Assistance could mean anything, ranging from helping me up to calling for a full-blown psychiatric assessment. I suspected Dr Salt had been after me for that very purpose for some considerable time now.

I waggled an arm and then a couple of legs. Everything seemed present and mostly correct so I heaved myself to my feet.

‘No, thank you, sir. I’m fine. I just fell down the stairs a little.’

‘Obviously, I don’t mean to pry, Doctor Maxwell, but as director of this establishment, I do feel obligated to enquire why. And how?’

‘I stepped backwards, sir, completely forgetting where I was and I think I must have run out of landing.’

I became aware I was still holding my glass which was not assisting my effort to project the image of a sober and responsible historian. Not even a little bit.

‘Was there a specific reason for your involuntary rapid descent?’

I rather liked that phrase. No more falling down the stairs for me. In future, I would be engaging in involuntary rapid descent.

I stared down at my glass. ‘I think I may have underestimated the punch, sir.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Um. Yes.’

‘Well, your wits appear to be no more scattered than usual, Dr Maxwell, but should I perhaps summon Dr Salt?’

‘Not necessary, sir. I just wanted to spend a few moments studying our guest of honour before the festivities begin.’

‘In that case do not let me detain you, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He began to climb the stairs, and I followed on, leaning heavily on the bannisters because falling down ten uncarpeted wooden stairs does a body absolutely no good at all.

The mummy, not surprisingly, was still there. I stared down at it.

Somewhere above our heads, in the distance, a door slammed. Footsteps clattered along a landing and another door banged. Instinctively, I turned my head to locate the source of the sound, and as I did so, I heard Dr Bairstow draw in a sharp breath.

‘Sir?’

He was staring down at the mummy, his fingers clenched tightly around his walking stick. I too looked down and it happened again. The coarse linen cover moved. A larger movement this time – as if the whole hand had stirred, rather than just a finger. I wondered briefly if my eyes could possibly be deceiving me because I wasn’t wearing my specs. The ones that have long since given up the struggle to make me look both intelligent and sexy.

His voice sounded a little … strained. ‘Dr Maxwell, I wonder if you could offer a reasonable explanation …’

I took a deep breath and was quite proud of my very reasonable explanation.

‘I rather fear, sir, that, at some point in its long life, our honoured guest must have been subject to some sort of infestation. Something unpleasant has obviously found its way under the protective wrappings. Possibly during the intense scrutiny it has just undergone in London, although that seems unlikely. I’m sure both Thirsk and the BM will have a great deal to say to each other on the subject of accidental contamination, and we can expect strongly-worded letters of accusation and recrimination, probably composed in Ancient Sanskrit, to start flying around at any moment and…’

There it was again. The hot wind in my face. The smell of ancient stones baking in the sun. A bird, high above, dark against the eye-wateringly brilliant sky …

I became aware Dr Bairstow was talking to me. ‘Dr Maxwell, curiosity compels me to enquire as to your precise state of mind at this moment?’

‘Well, actually, enormous relief, sir.’

He blinked. ‘I must confess that was not the response I had been expecting.’

‘Enormous relief that you, an unimpeachable witness, are standing next to me, and able to verify that I am not concussed, drunk, insane, or psychologically inadequate.’

He bent low over the mummy, saying absently, ‘I fear I cannot share your relief, Dr Maxwell. I too am entertaining the possibility I myself might be suffering any or all of those.’

As if all this wasn’t bad enough, it was at this point we were joined by the two people most likely to make a bad situation even worse.

‘What’s going on?’ enquired Peterson, dressed as Captain Pugwash and making his way around the gallery with a scarf-fluttering Madame Zara close behind him. They started down the stairs.

‘You still here, Max?’ Markham drew closer. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Um …’ I said, still not daring to take my eyes off the mummy. ‘Not sure …’

‘Max?’ Peterson stood beside me. ‘What’s wrong?’

I came straight out with it. ‘She moved.’

He looked around. ‘Who?’

I nodded at the mummy. ‘Her.’

He grinned. ‘What? Like …?’ He extended both arms in front of him and made a lurching movement.

‘No,’ said Dr Bairstow, who, like me, was still staring down at the mummy.

‘Sir? Are you saying …?’

‘Yes, I rather think I am.’

Everyone peered at the now very motionless mummy.

‘Insects,’ said Peterson, with the air of one explaining everything.

‘Or rats,’ said Markham. ‘One has got under the bindings somehow and is now running around frantically trying to get out again.’

Presumably he was under the impression we would find this explanation more reassuring than a mobile mummy.

‘Cadaveric spasm,’ said Peterson, not to be outdone.

Markham frowned. ‘No, that’s when the body goes rigid.’

Peterson peered closely. ‘She looks pretty rigid to me.’

‘Perhaps her body is releasing natural gas,’ said Markham.

‘Bodies can only move for up to a year after death,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘Not three thousand years later.’ Please don’t ask me how I know these things. ‘Usually caused by decomposition. Or bacteria. Even scavengers. Remember the dermestids?’

Peterson shuddered. ‘As if any of us could ever forget. I couldn’t stop scratching for weeks. And do you remember …?’

‘If,’ said Dr Bairstow, quite mildly given the circumstances. ‘I could gently chivvy you all back to the matter in hand …’

‘Sorry, sir.’

The movement happened again.

The first time had been just a finger. Then her hand. Now it was almost a whole arm.

Everyone stepped back. Except me. Because as she twitched … I knew. Suddenly I knew. And with great certainty. She was still here. In the dark.

The cold, silent dark. For some reason she’d never made the journey to the afterlife and she was still trapped in her own body. Tightly wrapped. Immobile – until now, anyway. Day after year after century after millennium. No light. No sound. No warmth. All alone. As alone as anyone could ever be. What had happened to her? What had gone wrong? Why hadn’t she moved on like everyone else?

For one brief moment. I was overwhelmed. Suppose no Ancient Egyptian ever moved on. Not one of them. Suppose every single one was still trapped in their body. All alone. Tightly bound. Unable to move or cry out. Never to see the sun again. Never to feel its warmth. Were they all screaming for our attention and we simply couldn’t hear them? Were they pleading for us to release them? What must every museum in the world sound like after dark? Did the screams of the dead echo silently around the empty galleries?

Or was it just this particular mummy? Why had she never made it to the afterlife? For what reason had she been left behind? An uncompleted ritual perhaps? Or the incorrect placing of her grave goods?

The journey to the afterlife is long and dangerous and complicated. Books of the Dead were carefully placed in every tomb for the incumbent to use as a guide to finding their way there, safe and unharmed. Had this mummy’s body been disturbed before she could complete that journey? At some point she’d been removed from her original resting place and her heart taken or lost, so that was a distinct possibility. And if that was what had happened, what must it be like to spend three thousand years in the grave? Crushed beneath the weight of all those years as all faith slowly faded.

Except – now – and I could feel it – there had been a sudden leap of hope. A tiny flame in her darkness. Because someone had spoken to her. In her own language. After all this time.

I looked over at Dr Bairstow and wondered if his expression mirrored mine.

‘No,’ said Peterson, more firmly than I would have expected from him. An unusual attitude from one who had been my partner in crime on more occasions than I liked to remember.

‘We have to think about this very carefully,’ he went on. ‘We interfered once before. Remember? When we stole that sword from Thirsk?’

‘We put it back,’ argued Markham.

‘No, we returned it to its original owner – not Thirsk. Yes, all right – we did it to lift a curse, but there’s no way we’d ever get away with doing anything like that again. There would almost certainly be gaol sentences this time.’

‘That may be so,’ I said, ‘but we wouldn’t be banged up for three thousand years, would we?’ I nodded at the mummy again, saying almost to myself, ‘Imagine what those years must have been like for her.’

‘If she was … aware … for even a fraction of that time she’d certainly be insane by now,’ said Peterson. ‘Anyone would be.’

‘She can’t be insane – she doesn’t have a brain,’ objected Markham.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ I argued. ‘Brains weren’t considered worth keeping. What she doesn’t have is a heart. And that’s far more important. Maybe that’s the reason she hasn’t moved on.’

‘Let’s clarify what we’re talking about, shall we?’ said Peterson. ‘Are we actually considering – I don’t know – returning the mummy to her original resting place? As we did with the sword? This is not the same. We knew where the sword came from and it was simply a case of putting it back. This is very different. We don’t know where she was buried. Or when. So how can we put her back?’

I remembered that brief image in my mind’s eye. Was that the last thing she’d ever seen?

‘Somewhere remote. Where she can rest in peace. Somewhere high up. With a view of the Nile. Looking east. Into the rising sun.’

‘She won’t rest in peace for very long,’ said Peterson. ’Looking at the state of her I reckon she’ll crumble into dust if the sunlight so much as touches her. And we have no idea whether taking her back would actually work. And we’re not certain there’s even a problem. All we have is a mummy that might have twitched for some unknown reason and a vague feeling from Max.’

‘But she did move,’ I said angrily. ‘We all saw it.’

He shrugged. ‘Tightening tendons. Or the wooden stairs flexed and the movement caused a minor shift in the body. Or atmospheric pressure equalising inside her sarcophagus.’

‘Her sarcophagus is airtight,’ said Markham, quietly.

‘We can’t do nothing,’ I said quietly. ‘Not now we’ve seen it. Not now we know.’

‘But we don’t know,’ said Peterson. ‘We don’t know anything for certain.’

We glared at each other. I could hardly believe we were arguing like this. Normally he was always up for an adventure, and a moving mummy was right up his street.

In the sudden silence, faintly – very faintly in the distance – I heard a distinct squeak.

And again. And again. Drawing closer every moment. We stood, frozen. Until … as they’ve probably never said in Cluedo – Dr Bairstow. In the Great Hall. With a flatbed trolley. And a squeaky wheel.

I hadn’t even noticed he’d disappeared. At some point in our argument, he’d simply vanished without any of us noticing. How does he do that?

We all looked at the flatbed. And then at Dr Bairstow, looking back at us and leaning on his stick.

‘Well,’ grinned Peterson. ‘It looks as if the decision has been made at the highest level.’

‘You’ve suddenly changed your tune,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘It’s the way Dr Bairstow and I work. One of us introduces a concept and the other presents all the counter arguments. Between us we are usually able to consider the problem from all angles.’

Dr Bairstow coughed gently. ‘In your own time please, everyone.’

If we’d been able to get her out of her travelling case then everything would have been much easier. It was the wooden case that was so heavy. The three of us struggled, with Dr Bairstow issuing instructions, and eventually we got her safely down the stairs and onto the flatbed.

‘To Hawking,’ said Dr Bairstow, pointing with his stick and leading the way. ‘While no one is around. Given our probable career-ending itinerary, I feel it would be wise to implicate as few people as possible.’

Peterson stopped. ‘Are you considering accompanying us, sir.’

‘Indeed I am. I confess I am becoming a little tired of being relegated to the sidelines, only to reappear again at the end of every story with a disapproving expression and having to endure yet another unconvincing explanation for whatever lunacy you have perpetrated on that occasion.’

‘Oh,’ said Peterson, slightly disconcerted. ‘Well. All right then. Allons-y, people.’

We zig-zagged our way down the Long Corridor to Hawking Hangar and the pods. We could have done without the squeaking wheel, and the flatbed was a malevolent beast, taking great chunks out of the walls at every opportunity, but we got there in the end.

‘Number Eight,’ I said, pointing at my favourite pod. ‘The door should be wide enough to get the flatbed through.’

I was nearly right. Number Eight now sports a brand-new gouge in its right-hand wall but, as Markham cheerfully pointed out, it could have been worse, and Leon probably wouldn’t even notice. Everyone pretended to believe him.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Dr Bairstow as finally, panting, we manoeuvred the flatbed and its load through the door and put the brake on. ‘I believe Dr Maxwell and I can take it from here.’

‘What?’ said Markham, straightening up. ‘You can’t leave us behind now.’

‘I can and I am,’ he said, quietly. ‘You are not to be implicated in this. Your task will be to defend our actions as best you can and minimise the inevitable fall-out. Good luck with that.’

Markham stepped forwards. ‘Sir, as Head of Security I cannot allow you – either of you – to …’

‘Very commendable sentiments,’ he said crisply, crossing to the console and beginning to fire up the pod. ‘I shall ensure the authorities are fully apprised of your attempts to prevent our improper actions. If you could leave us now, please.’

Peterson looked over at me. ‘Max …’

‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘If you come too and we’re all banged up then Hyssop will be put in charge of security and God only knows what sort of incompetent, self-serving lump our next director could be. Especially if our lovely politicians are involved in the appointment.’

‘But …’ began Markham, but was interrupted by Dr Bairstow.

‘Dr Maxwell, I require you to check my coordinates, if you please. It’s been a while since I last did this and we don’t want to find ourselves in the middle of The Great Dying or Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, do we? Not before we’ve delivered our passenger, anyway.’

There was a great deal of muttering from Markham. Most of it along the lines of why should we have all the fun, but as I pointed out, two of us were dressed as an implausible pirate and the world’s worst fortune teller and we’d be in enough trouble with the ancient Egyptian secret police – the Medjay – without muddying the issue with his and Peterson’s bizarre dress sense.

They reluctantly shuffled out and I closed the door behind them.

Dr Bairstow turned from the console. ‘Ready when you are, Dr Maxwell.’

Well – this was a turn up for the books, wasn’t it? I nodded.

‘Computer – initiate jump.’

‘Jump initiated.’

And the world went white.

The date of our landing needs some explaining. The mummy herself had been dated around the beginning of the 19th dynasty. The time of the Ramessids. Her mummy, therefore, had existed, at various locations, since that period. She had been discovered during the excavation of the Royal Cache in 1881, acquired for a private collection in the wake of Howard Carter’s discovery in 1922 when all things Egyptian became fashionable, acquired by the University of Thirsk in 1950, sent back to London for examination and verification last month, briefly visited the Great Hall at St Mary’s, and finally, here she was, back in Egypt circa 1550BC. Her wrappings dated from around the end of the 19th Dynasty 1292 – 1189 BC but we had no idea when she’d actually lived, so Dr Bairstow had played it safe. We were taking her back to a time long before she had even been born. 1550BC. The beginning of the 18th Dynasty.

How this was going to work out was anyone’s guess, but gods are always telling us that they’re wonderful and can do anything, so it would be nice if, just for once, in exchange for all that worship, the appropriate deity could step up and help sort this out. Given the competency level of most gods this might be a tad overoptimistic.

Anyway, here we were. Egypt. Beginning of the 18th dynasty. Egypt was at the height of her powers. Amenhotep III, Tutankhamun, Hatshepsut, Akhenaten, Thutmose III. There were some big names during this period.

While Dr Bairstow was busy shutting things down, I cracked open the door for a quick look outside. At this point I couldn’t tell you whether we’d been successful in our choice of landing site or not. It was pitch-black out there. And chilly. Very chilly. The thought popped into my head. It’s always darkest just before dawn.

Closing my mind to the thought of a giant jackal-headed god waiting to devour unwary historians as they emerged from their pod, I stepped outside.

We were in the right place. I knew it immediately. The smell was right. I took a few steps further and stamped my foot. There was a little loose shale underfoot but the ground seemed firm enough. Rock not sand. The flatbed should be able to cope. A few pale stars looked down, but over there, on what I hoped very much was the horizon, a band of lighter sky.

I didn’t dare venture too far. Not without a torch. There were no lights visible. No voices drifted on the faint breeze. Accustomed as we are to our crowded world, it’s almost impossible to describe the sense of loneliness you get from knowing the nearest person could be hundreds or even thousands of miles away. Estimates of world population at this time put the number of people in the entire world at only about 400 million. That’s roughly about the population of America today. At least it was at the last count – no one’s quite sure what’s going on over there at the moment. Although …

Dr Bairstow’s voice drifted out of the door behind me. ‘Your thoughts, Dr Maxwell?’

‘That the population of the entire world now is about the same as America’s in our own time, sir.’

The sigh could have come from either the wind or Dr Bairstow. Both sounded equally exasperated. I pushed thoughts of the probable population of America firmly out of my head. This was neither the time nor place.

But, in the few minutes I’d been out here, the sky had lightened a little. The last stars were fading. Faint bands of pink and gold were appearing in the eastern sky. I retreated back to the pod. There might only be around four hundred million people in the world today but with my usual luck, a good number of them would be within stone-throwing distance the moment the sun came up and exposed us and our illegal cargo. I’ve always expected to end my days burned as a witch but, suddenly, being impaled for tomb-robbing seemed much more likely.

‘Return coordinates are all laid in,’ said Dr Bairstow, possibly reading my mind – another talent of his. ‘In case we need to make a speedy exit.’

‘Good historian thinking, sir.’

I kicked off the brake, seized the steering handle, and, not without great effort, heaved the flatbed out of the pod. The world was lightening with every moment.

We seemed to be on some sort of rocky plateau, high above the river plain. The dark ribbon below would be the Nile. Sheer rocks towered above me to my right. I rather suspected there would be a corresponding drop to my left. I wouldn’t be venturing too far from the pod. If I fell into the river and the fall didn’t kill me then the crocodiles would. And if they didn’t then the hippos definitely would. If Markham were here, he’d be banging on about hippos killing up to a thousand people every year and presenting all sorts of gory details in the guise of his wildly-misnamed Fun Facts. Actually, I never thought I’d say this but Markham and his Fun Facts were currently three thousand years away and I missed both him and them.

Dr Bairstow had been surveying the horizon. We wanted to be facing the rising sun.

‘A little to your left, if you please, Dr Maxwell.’

I heaved at the flatbed which certainly hadn’t been designed for precision steering but I got there in the end, sweating, despite the cold.

And then we waited.

Because it’s all about renewal. The triumph of light over darkness. About Ra surviving his nightly battle with Apep, the God of Chaos, and rising triumphantly in the east. We still do it today. At the darkest time of year, we still follow the old pagan ceremonies and celebrate the return of the light with the Yule log, greenery, feasting and gift-giving. And don’t get me started on Saturnalia. Or even Eostre.

I could feel my mind drifting away again. Not drinking so much fruit in future would be good.

And then – there – directly in front of me – a blinding flash of light as Ra and his Barque of the Sun exploded above the horizon. Another spectacular sunrise in Ancient Egypt. For one brief moment I was completely dazzled. And just for another brief moment I was convinced I could hear the chant of far-off crowds giving thanks that the great god had triumphed yet again over the Lord of Chaos.

I squeezed my eyes shut to dispel the green and purple afterimages and tried to think. Now. The moment was now. But what could I do? She was damaged. Her body was broken. Her heart was lost and she’d been left behind. What could I do to help her overcome such overwhelming misfortune? The rituals demanded the dead person plead with their heart to speak on their behalf to the gods but she had no heart with which to plead. Could I, perhaps, make an appeal for her? Speak the Spell on her behalf? But which one? I struggled with a headful of fruit. Could I improvise? Would that actually help? On the other hand, how much worse could things be for her?

The Book of the Dead has a very great deal to say on the subject of the afterlife and how to get there safely. There are Spells for every stage along the way. Spell 125 for instance. Except that one was so long I couldn’t remember most of it. Even without the headful of fruit.

Or no – how about Spell 30B? The direct appeal to the heart. She didn’t have one but I did. Allegedly. Could my heart appeal on her behalf. And would the gods listen? And most importantly – could I remember all of the Spell?

The sun was nearly completely above the horizon. Dr Bairstow touched my arm. ‘I feel it’s now or never, Max.’

I squinted into the sun, raised my arms and spoke directly – in English – to the great god Anpu. Or Anubis, as he’s known in Greek. Gods are omnipotent but would he understand me? And even if he did – would he listen?

‘Great Anpu, Lord of the Sacred Land.

He who is upon the Sacred Mountain.

Ruler of the Nine Bows.

Hear my voice.

I speak for the one whose voice has been taken from her.

Whose heart has been taken from her.

Who cannot complete her journey.

Hear my prayer, First of the Westerners.

Grant your daughter safe passage and lead her to Sekhet-Aaru that she may dwell in peace with those from whom she has been separated.

Hear and understand my strange words, Lord Anpu.

Hear my own heart as I appeal to you on her behalf.’

I breathed out and then in again. Come on, Maxwell. Spell 30B.

The words came easily and naturally, sliding into my mind as I needed them.

‘O my heart which I had from my mother!

O my heart which I had from my mother!

O my heart of different ages!

Do not stand up as a witness against me.

Do not be opposed to me in the tribunal.

Do not be hostile to me in the presence of the Keeper of the Balance

For you are my Ka which was in my body.

The protector who made my members hale.

That we may go forth to the happy place whereto we speed.

Do not tell lies about me in the presence of the god

It is indeed well that you should hear!’

My voice bounced off the rocky walls. Around and around until the echoes gradually faded into nothing. The great god Ra, in his earthly disguise as a ball of flaming gas and plasma, raced across the heavens. The shadows were shortening and the temperature rising with every moment.

I lowered my arms and looked around.

I don’t know what I expected but she was still here. Still in her grubby wrappings. Still twisted and small. Still in her airtight sarcophagus which itself was inside the wooden travelling crate, which itself lay on the flatbed. Nothing had changed. Nothing had happened. I had failed. True, there was no reason why any of that should have worked but I can’t describe my disappointment. I’d hoped … somehow … but no. It seemed safe to assume the ancient gods of Egypt had long ago departed and I had just been shouting at the sun.

I felt the tears prick behind my eyes. Stupid Maxwell.

I really had no idea what to do next so for a long time I did nothing at all, then Dr Bairstow touched my arm, saying very quietly, ‘Max …’

I swallowed. ‘Sorry, sir. I think we did all this for nothing. It hasn’t worked.’

‘You did your best.’

I sighed. My best just hadn’t been good enough, had it?

Over to my left, a movement caught my eye. A big white bird glided from the sky to perch atop a small rocky outcrop, stretched out its wings, lowered its head and uttered a mournful cry at us. Or, less poetically but slightly more accurately – uttered a guttural honk. But still aimed at us.

My first thought was – bloody typical. After everything we’d gone through our only reward was to be attacked by some stroppy goose. No good deed ever goes unpunished, does it? Actually, stroppy goose is a bit of a tautology. All geese are stroppy. Most are vicious. And a large percentage of them are actual murderers. We could be in big trouble here.

The fruit drink enabled me to prepare myself for one final heroic act. ‘Sir, save yourself. Back slowly towards the pod. I’ll cover you.’

He seemed amused. ‘Unnecessary, I think, Dr Maxwell.’

With one final glare, the bird spread its wings and leaped gracefully into the air. I watched it gain height. Spiralling upwards. Higher and higher. Then, for no reason that I could see, it dropped a wing, wheeled about, and headed directly for us. I’d been right. This was some sort of death dive and we were doomed. I would have shouted a warning but my voice wasn’t functioning.

Wings spread, it glided towards us, a dark shape against the brilliant blue sky.

Not a goose. Of course not a goose. What had I been thinking? It was an ibis. A beautiful bird with a long, graceful beak, snow white plumage, black wingtips, red legs and bill. The emblem of Thoth – god of wisdom – and representing the connection between the earthly realm and that of the divine. And – as I remembered now that my head was not full of impending goose-related death – the ibis symbolised the human soul.

The bird sailed low over our heads. Very low. Intentionally low, perhaps. I stared open mouthed. Could it be …? Was it possible this was somehow deliberate? A message, perhaps? Or a sign? Or – and most likely – just wishful thinking on my part.

As I watched, it wheeled again and, still low, began to head towards the horizon. Eastwards, towards the rising sun. I watched, my eyes streaming, as the dark shape began to blur until, finally, it was lost against the greater light.

I looked down at the mummy. Her body was still unchanged but now, maybe, perhaps, her spirit was free. And now it wouldn’t matter if Thirsk stored her in a dark cupboard until the end of time and she never saw the light again, because, maybe, perhaps, the thing that had made her who she was had finally been able to depart. Maybe, perhaps, her journey to the afterlife had just begun. That was an awful lot of maybes and perhapses.

I don’t know for how long we stood there, staring out over the river plain, until Dr Bairstow roused himself and said, ‘Time to go, I think, Dr Maxwell. We wouldn’t want to outstay our welcome, would we?’

I said, ‘No, sir,’ and sighed, because now I had to manhandle the malevolent flatbed back into the pod. As carefully as I could because the mummy was still a priceless artefact belonging to our overlords at Thirsk. I heaved and strained as the sun climbed higher in the sky and the temperature rose by the minute.

Finally, it was done. I stood in the doorway, wiped the sweat from my brow and took one last look around – searching, perhaps for that small, dark dot in the sky, but the vast blue expanse was completely empty. Not even a cloud. And the day was already very hot.

I was still unsure whether we’d accomplished anything or not. Yes, a white bird – the symbol of the human soul – but ibises were very common here and the odds were that we hadn’t actually achieved anything at all.

I sighed again, turned into the pod and closed the door behind me. Dr Bairstow initiated the jump.

And the world went white.

Dr Bairstow finished shutting things down and turned from the console to survey the mummy. ‘I think we should get her back as quickly as possible, don’t you?’

I nodded, suddenly feeling very tired.

‘No need for you to struggle again, Dr Maxwell. There will be no shortage of volunteers to restore her to the position of honour at our festivities.’

I suddenly wanted a moment to myself. ‘Thank you, sir. If you don’t need me any longer then I’ll take myself off.’

I left him organising our mummy’s return to the festivities.

I should have nipped off to my office to change before plunging into the festivities but I didn’t. Instead, I left Hawking and slipped outside. Into the cool, damp air.

The now night sky was full of cold, hard stars and a fat, yellow moon was rising over the lake. I could see the black-lace silhouettes of trees on the far bank and the shimmer of moonlight on the water. A golden path.

Fortunately – although not to hear Dr Bairstow tell it – I’ve been at St Mary’s long enough to find my way around in the dark. I set off across the grass. As long as I walked in a straight line, I’d be fine. If I suddenly found myself wet then I’d have gone too far and fallen in. The English autumn smell of wet leaves, wet grass, and woodsmoke was about as far from the dust, sand and hot rock of Egypt as you could imagine. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes. Just for a moment.

And opened them again to find myself being surveyed by a large bird not ten feet away from me.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

My heart stopped dead. A swan. A bloody swan. And I was most definitely contravening the swan/St Mary’s treaty simply by being outside after dark and now one of the buggers was perched on a log by the lake and staring at me. I could see the gleam of its white plumage. I was going to die here. Alone. It would kill me with one blow and then drag my lifeless body to the lake to be swallowed by the dark waters. Never to be seen again. Silently, it opened its wings. The preliminary to ripping out my throat.

And then I pulled myself together. Not a swan. Of course not a swan. What had I been thinking? For a start, this bird hadn’t made a sound. Not even the traditional hiss preparatory to throat ripping and body dragging.

I pulled myself together for the umpteenth time that night. This was definitely not a swan. Wrong beak. Wrong wingspan. Wrong shape altogether. In fact …

I stood stock still, hardly daring to believe my eyes. This had to be some kind of weird coincidence. They’re not unknown in England – had this one escaped from a zoo, perhaps?

The ibis – standing equally still – regarded me with its head tilted to one side.

Long, long seconds passed. Not a lot was happening and we might have been there still, just staring at each other, except that at that moment, St Mary’s emitted a window-rattling fanfare and Bashford’s voice – amplified so as to be easily audible on the moon – boomed, ‘Goooooooood evening, St Mary’s, and welcome to our fabulous Halloween Party.’

A huge cheer erupted from the building.

I turned to the ibis. ‘You’ll miss the party.’

Not surprisingly, the ibis made no response.

I grinned. ‘Typical, isn’t it? Nothing happens for three thousand years and then everything happens all at once. But I think you’ve made the right choice. Ankh wedjeb seneb.’

The bird held my gaze for one second more, then lifted smoothly into the air, wheeled about, and glided soundlessly across the dark lake, following the golden path across the water until it was lost against the greater glow of the moon.

I stared up at the star-speckled sky for a moment, then smiled and went back inside for more fruit drink.

THE END

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