The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis Read Online Free PDF Page A

sir,” Papa said to Ahmed, between forkfuls of pheasant casserole. “I believe we met at the Royal Geographic Society last week.”
    I glared at Father. Surely even he could see that Ahmed was a boy and not one of his learned professors? Of course Father treats
everyone
exactly the same. Last week I found him asking the lad who comes around to sharpen the kitchen knives his opinion of the best system for reading hieroglyphics. Poor Ahmed was looking at Papa blankly. All the way through the first course—a rather watery turtle soup—Papa had utterly failed to notice him, even though the Egyptian was seated to his left. Ahmed must have thought he’d escaped his notice.
    â€œDo forgive me, sir. I believe I’ve been foolish enough to forget your name,” my father tried again.
    â€œI … is,” Ahmed stuttered.
    Ahmed, it turned out, could understand a few wordsof English, as long as one spoke very slowly and clearly. But Father’s courtesy was beyond him. The boy turned frantically to me for help. Luckily I was ready with a white lie:
    â€œSurely you remember Ahmed, Papa? Aunt Hilda asked us to give him lodging for a few weeks?”
    Papa’s brow cleared. “Of course. Silly of me.”
    Leaning a little over the table, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You will have to be very patient with Ahmed; he speaks scarcely a word of English.” I was going to go on, with some nonsense about how Ahmed’s father was an expert on the pyramids, when I decided to stop. There was always a danger that if something actually interested Papa he would remember it.
    Ahmed was opposite me, his face partly hidden by our soup tureen. The half I could see shone with cleanliness. He was dressed in one of Isaac’s white shirts, which hung loosely on his skinny frame. We had given him a hot bath, as soon as we had smuggled him back from the museum, helping Dora the housemaid haul up steaming tubs of water. Ahmed’s tattered old clothes had gone straight into the rubbish heap. He had been scrubbed and polished to within an inch of his life. He seemed a new boy, smart and clean, the very pinnacle of respectability.
    Rachel and Isaac were having dinner with us thisevening. It helped greatly that Rachel was sitting next to Ahmed. How he adored her. He had attached himself to my kind friend like a lost puppy. His eyes followed her everywhere. Without her, he felt extremely anxious.
    After the pheasant stew came the highlight of the evening, a thick, rich, creamy trifle of stupendous gorgeousness. Layers of sponge, soaked in rich marsala wine, covered in jam and whipped cream. Ahmed had not eaten much of the savory courses. The Minchin would have considered his manners even worse than mine. He had started to eat his meat with his knife, till I gave him a kick under the table. Ahmed had looked as though he was eating sawdust with the main course. When the pudding arrived he had taken one tentative taste. Clearly he had low hopes of English cooking; it must have tasted sadly bland beside the spicy food of his homeland. But I’m glad to say that the trifle redeemed our national fare. It took but a nibble for a look of rapture to spread across his face. He gobbled up his whole bowl, and accepted three more helpings.
    Egyptian puddings are, obviously, not a patch on English ones!
    Rachel, Isaac, father and I enjoyed the trifle just as much as Ahmed. We were finishing our extra helpings, feeling stuffed to the point of sickness, when the doorbell rang. A minute later Dora the housemaid appeared,all flustered.
    â€œI tried telling her you were in the middle of dinner, sir,” Dora explained “The lady wouldn’t wait.”
    â€œOut of my way, girl.” Aunt Hilda elbowed Dora aside. “Theo, I have had an inspiration!”
    â€œEr … very well, dear,” Papa bleated, while Dora, defeated, retreated back to the kitchen.
    â€œA stroke of genius, some might call