The Mummy's Revenge

by Andrew Beasley

  “Long time no see,” said Billy.

  “Too soon for me,” grunted Tosher. “My mum always said that you were a bad ’un.”

  “Oh yes,” said Billy. “I’m terrible me. Fancy going to church on a Sunday and joining the police! I’m a real embarrassment, aren’t I?”

  Tosher shrugged. “You always did think you were better than the rest of us.”

  “That’s not hard when most of your family is in the nick and the rest are busy trying to get themselves sent there.” Billy sighed. “I guess that’s why you and your boys have left London, Tosher. On the run from the law again?”

  “This is a legitimate business,” said Tosher. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

  “Mmmm,” said Billy doubtfully. “So your beauty treatments really work this time, do they?”

  Tosher held his tongue.

  “You mean they’re not like the ‘Arabian’ beauty treatments that you were selling in London when you called yourself ‘Madame Rachel’?” Billy got up and looked at the jars and bottles on the shelves. He picked up one labelled Nile River Elixir. “How much do you charge for this?”

  “Five pounds,” said Tosher.

  Billy whistled softly between his teeth. “Not cheap, is it?”

  “These old girls can all afford it.”

  “And it comes from the Nile, does it? I mean, it’s not just water with a bit of sand in it?”

  Tosher said nothing.

  “And your other beauty treatments,” Billy continued, “they are all genuine cosmetics, aren’t they? Not powders and pastes that you mix up yourself from arsenic, lead powder, carbolic soap and prussic acid like last time?”

  “They remove wrinkles,” said Tosher defensively.

  “They burn off skin,” said Billy. “That’s not really the same thing.”

  Tosher at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “What do want, Billy?” he said.

  “I need information,” said Billy. “I want the whispers from Edinburgh’s criminal underground. And you’re going to tell me everything I want to know…or I’m going straight to Inspector Diggins.”

  “What about family honour?” said Tosher.

  “What about family honour? I’m the copper, you’re the robber.”

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t tell on one of your own, would you?”

  “Ask me again when we’ve finished this little chat,” said Billy. “Oh, and one more thing – no more acid in your remedies. Buy some real treatments and flog them at outrageous prices if you must.”

  Tosher shrugged his broad shoulders and reached down the front of his dress. He pulled out an apple, leaving his chest oddly lopsided. He took a bite. “Want one?” he asked. “I’ve got a spare.”

  “I’ll pass,” said Billy. “Right, first up, what do you know about these jewellery robberies? Is there a housebreaking gang in Edinburgh? Have the jewels come up on the black market?”

  Tosher took another bite of his apple. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really?” said Billy, stretching forward and snatching an unusual bird’s-claw kilt pin which was attached to Tosher’s dress. “Because this little beauty is an exact match for one that was stolen from Lady Lavinia Fitzpatrick. So let me ask you again: what do you know about it, Tosher?”

  “I got the kilt pin from Razor – he’s the one you should be asking.”

  Razor Flint. Not a name that Billy had been expecting to hear. Billy bit his lip. Razor Flint was not a nice man. “Where can I find him?” he said.

  Every city has its forbidden streets. The dark alleys where terrible crimes are plotted by terrible people. That was where Billy went to meet Razor.

  Tosher said that Razor could usually be found at the White Hart Inn. Billy could tell at a glance that the place was a den of thieves. He was sensitive to the stirrings of the spirit world but he knew that professional criminals were just as sensitive to the presence of a police officer. Before he went inside he turned up his collar and pulled a red scarf from his pocket, tying it loosely at his neck. It was the sort of scarf that “scuttlers” wore. A “scuttler” was a member of a ferocious street gang. It wasn’t his best disguise, but it would have to do.

  Setting his mouth in a vicious sneer to complete the street-gang look, Billy walked over to the bar. “I’m looking for Razor,” he growled. “I’ve got a job for ’im.”

  “You won’t find him here, pal,” said the barman.

  Billy took his penknife out and began to pick at his fingernails in what he hoped was a menacing way. “Try again,” he said.

  “Razor’s left town,” said the barman. With a twitch of his head, he indicated a table in the corner. “You could try askin’ Mac the Knife, he did some business with Razor.”

  Billy looked over. Everything about Mac the Knife was big. Big hands for hitting. Big shoulders for carrying stolen goods. Big scar across his face. Presumably a big knife somewhere.

  Billy strolled over and sat down opposite him, keeping up his own hard-man act. “I’m Billy Flint,” he said, letting the criminal reputation of his family talk for him. “I’m after my cousin, Razor.”

  “He’s gone away,” grunted Mac. “Got scared.”

  Billy frowned. It would take something very scary to frighten cousin Razor. “Scared of what?”

  “I can tell you,” said Mac, “on account of you being family.” The big man leaned forward to share his secret. “Razor gets things for people, right.”

  “Steals to order, you mean.”

  “Yeah, well, he had this client.”

  “A client who paid him with a very expensive gold bird’s-claw kilt pin,” said Billy.

  Mac nodded. “Anyway, this client was strange, called himself the Sandman, and he wanted some very unusual things.”

  “Go on.”

  “Razor wanted me to help him get them,” said Mac. “He had this list.”

  “Do you remember what was on it?”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” said Mac. “Milk from a black cow; the paw of a white cat; a mandrake root; the coins from a dead man’s purse; a phoenix egg – whatever the heck that is – and…” Mac swallowed hard. “A fresh human heart.”

  Billy was stunned. “Did you get them all?”

  “All but two,” said Mac. “The egg…and the heart.”

  “What happened to you?” asked Charley as Billy pushed his way through the indoor jungle and into the crime lab. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Seen a ghost,” squawked Queen Victoria from somewhere in the tree canopy.

  “Of course I have,” he said. “We’re S.C.R.E.A.M. It’s in the job description.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Charley. “Has something happened?”

  Billy ran his hands through his hair. “This case gets worse and worse… It’ll end in murder if we can’t stop it.” He told her about the list.

  “A phoenix egg?” said Charley. “That’s got to be impossible to find.”

  “It’s the human heart I’m worried about.”

  Charley rubbed her back with both hands, trying to ease the pain. “And did you get a name or a description of Razor’s mysterious client?”

  “Mac the Knife never met him, but he did have a name, or an alias anyway – the Sandman.”

  Charley gasped. “The warning note on the train was from the same person who is shopping for a heart.”

  “Exactly,” said Billy. “Mac couldn’t describe the Sandman, but Razor used to meet him at the Last Drop Tavern.”

  “The Last Drop Tavern?” said Doogie, appearing with a tray of sandwiches.

  “Do you know it?” asked Billy.

  “Oh aye,” said Doogie. “The most haunted place in Edinburgh.”

  “Stands to reason,” said Billy. “How about your investigation, Charley? What did you turn up?”

  “Mrs Whisker, the housekeeper, was like the cat who got the cream,” said Charley. “Lady Tiffin has gone to London to recover from th
e shock of the burglary and it is clear that Mrs Whisker hasn’t done a stroke of work since her mistress left.” Charley smiled. “That worked to our advantage though – the lazy woman hadn’t even tidied up the crime scene. She hadn’t so much as swept up the sand…”

  “More sand!”

  “Yes,” said Charley, “and there were more of those hieroglyphics that you found at Lady Fitzpatrick’s. Including the two characters that were missing before!”

  “So we’ve got the full message?”

  “Oh yes,” said Charley as she drew the symbols on the blackboard, the chalk squeaking. “At least I think so.”

  Billy looked at them. “A sort of bird and a block thingy? Do you know what they mean?”

  “Not yet,” said Charley. “I also need to find out what the Sandman wants those horrible ingredients for.” She inhaled deeply. “I’ve got some reading to do.” There was a mountain of leather-bound books in front of her. “The answers are in here somewhere.”

  “Right,” said Billy. “That settles it. While Charley does the brainwork, you and I are going to the pub, Doogie.”

  “What for?” asked Doogie. “Sir Gordon will be furious if he thinks I’m going for a drink.”

  “No drinking,” said Billy, pulling on his coat. “We’re looking for a different sort of spirit.”

  Doogie looked confused.

  “A ghost.”

  “It’s called the Last Drop because it’s where all the hangings used to take place,” said Doogie, as he and Billy rode together in the carriage, the zebras struggling in the wind and rain. ‘Angry Annie’ has haunted the tavern for years, so they say.” The young lad was brimming over with enthusiasm. “I can’t believe I’m solving crimes with a real policeman.”

  “You realize this is serious, don’t you?” said Billy. “You haven’t come along for a ride. You’ve got to be my backup.”

  Doogie’s forehead furrowed.

  “I’m going to try to make contact with a ghost,” said Billy. “It’s a stupidly dangerous thing to do. My life and soul are on the line, literally. So if I get into trouble, I’ll need you to help me.”

  “How?”

  “All police get issued with special equipment—”

  “Like truncheons and handcuffs?”

  “Sort of.” Billy opened his satchel. “But S.C.R.E.A.M. detectives carry these.”

  Doogie peered inside the satchel with a confused expression. He pulled out a thorny stick. “You’ve got weeds in yer kit bag.”

  “That’s hawthorn,” Billy explained. “It can be used as protection from witchcraft. That one is garlic in case I meet a vampire, and that other plant is wolfsbane, which deters werewolves. I’ve got holy water in glass capsules, which I can fire using a catapult; I’ve got a crucifix to defend myself against demons and an iron box to trap sprites.”

  Doogie listened, enthralled. Or terrified. It was hard to say which.

  “Anyway,” said Billy, “this is what I’ve got for you.”

  “A bell, a book and a candle?” said Doogie with slight disappointment. Clearly he had been hoping for the catapult. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “A ringing bell represents purity,” said Billy. “It can cast out certain unclean spirits. The book is a book of prayers, and the light of the candle can guide me home if I get…lost.” Billy handed him the satchel. “Hopefully we won’t need any of them.”

  The carriage halted outside the Last Drop Tavern. It was a dingy-looking building in the shadow of Edinburgh’s great castle, on the same street as the White Hart Inn. Plucking up his courage, Billy led the way, running through the rain. Inside, he ordered two ginger beers from the barman and found a table next to the open fire. Billy put his hands towards the flames, enjoying the warmth.

  The drinkers at the Last Drop certainly seemed to be a shady crowd. There were about twenty or so men, huddled in small shadowy groups beneath the low beams of the ceiling. The conversations were whispered, and when there was laughter it somehow sounded harsh and spiteful. Razor Flint would have been right at home.

  “This is where my cousin Razor met the Sandman.” Billy took a swig of his ginger beer. “Charley and I are convinced that the Sandman is the real villain we’re up against, and he’s using the mummy to do his dirty work. If this pub is haunted like you say, Doogie, then we might have found our perfect witness.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If Angry Annie is resident here then she will have seen everything, heard everything. As long as she’s not ‘Forgetful Annie’ then we should be able to get a good description of the Sandman.”

  “Could ye not ask one of the living witnesses?” asked Doogie.

  Billy cast his eyes around the room. “Which one of these gentlemen do you think would like to help the police with their enquiries?”

  “Fair point,” said Doogie, over the rim of his glass. “So how do ye think ye can get a ghost to tell ye what ye want?”

  “I’m going to ask her nicely,” said Billy. “And improvise.”

  “That means ye don’t have a plan, doesn’t it?”

  Billy didn’t get the chance to answer. A sudden gust of wind blew through the length of the pub. The candles and oil lamps spluttered, struggling to stay aflame. Doogie spun his head in the direction of the door, expecting to find a new customer standing there and letting in the draught. But the door was shut. There was no one there.

  “I’m scared,” said Doogie.

  “Good,” said Billy. “I’d be worried if you weren’t.”

  The temperature inside the tavern began to fall. A deep unnatural coldness descended, far more bitter than the wind and rain outside. Doogie was shivering. He exhaled slowly, his breath misting the air. Then he placed his glass on the table, watching in horror as his ginger beer turned to ice.

  Every conversation in the tavern stopped dead. They could all feel it; something bad was coming.

  Billy saw the ghost girl standing in the darkest corner of the pub. She was small and frail, hardly more than a child. Billy wasn’t an expert on historical costumes – that was much more Charley’s field – but from the ruff around her neck and frills on her blouse, Billy knew that she had been haunting the Last Drop for a very long time.

  Annie’s hair was so fair that it looked like bleached bone. It floated around her face in long tendrils as if it had a life of its own. The ghost girl stared straight at Billy. Watching. Waiting. It was as if she had been there the whole time, playing hide-and-seek. But now Annie was bored with that game.

  “Can you see her too?” asked Billy.

  Doogie’s eyes were screwed shut. “No,” he said.

  “Before you stopped looking?”

  “Aye,” said Doogie. “No…sort of. There was a glow, shaped like a wee girl.”

  Billy patted Doogie’s arm. “You’re doing well, Doogie. Stay strong for me.”

  Billy smiled gently at the ghost girl. “I’m your friend,” he said warmly. Waves of emotion shot back at Billy, hitting him like a slap in the face. Resentment. Shame… Sadness as deep and dark as the ocean.

  The temperature continued to plummet. The candle flames dwindled and began to die, snuffing out, one by one. Even the flames in the fireplace started to splutter and fizzle. Abnormal darkness began to fill the Last Drop Tavern. A total blackness, with Angry Annie’s ghostly glow as the only light.

  The barman was the first to make a run for it, leaping over his counter with surprising agility for a fat man and stumbling out into the street, apron flapping. The other drinkers were only seconds behind him. The dark and stormy night was suddenly far more appealing than another instant of this freezing terror.

  Angry Annie looked straight at Billy. “I can seeee youuu,” she said in a girlish sing-song. The girl smiled at Billy and it was somehow the most terrifying thing that she could have done. The overwhelming sadness that Annie had been wearing like a cloak seemed to drop away to be replaced by spiteful glee. A new emotion struck Billy: anger, as fier
ce and savage as a wolf.

  Annie flung out one hand in a sweeping motion and a dozen beer glasses hurled themselves to the floor. She swept her hand again and tables overturned; chairs threw themselves against the walls and splintered to pieces. Although she was tiny, probably no more than eight or nine years old when she died, this wraithlike girl possessed incredible power. This was bad. Very bad. Annie might be the most powerful ghost Billy had ever encountered. He cursed himself for coming to the tavern so unprepared. It had been a mistake to let Doogie come with him too. Charley was trained to handle this sort of situation, but Doogie was just a lad and Billy shouldn’t have dragged him into this.

  And just when Billy was hoping the situation couldn’t get any worse, Angry Annie started to scream. She flew across the room in a blur of white, stopping in front of him, her face so close to his that they were nearly touching. Her eyes were huge pools of blackness in her small white face. “Get out!” she snarled, her top lip curled back like an animal. “Leave me alone.”

  Billy didn’t move. “Hello, Annabel,” he said softly. Nothing in his voice betrayed the panic he felt inside. “My name is Billy and this is my friend, Doogie. I’d love to talk to you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to talk to you!” Angry Annie shrieked. She gripped the table and threw it up into the air, smashing it like matchwood. Billy and Doogie fell back. Angry Annie reached for Billy with her spectral fingers. The tips touched his chest and then – terribly – pushed through Billy’s clothes, his skin, his bone. Billy’s whole body began to tremble uncontrollably as the ghostly hand wrapped around his heart, freezing him to death from the inside out.

  Doogie was petrified. The candles had all gone out and the only light was the ghost-glow. Doogie could see the outline of a wee girl shining through the darkness. Billy’s hands were scrabbling at her, but passing through thin air. Doogie watched in horror as Billy’s skin turned deathly white and the veins began to show through his flesh, thin lines of black creeping up from beneath his shirt collar.

  Doogie didn’t know what to do or how to help Billy. He had to do something, but how did you fight something that wasn’t there? Doogie grabbed a bar stool from where it had fallen and threw it at the ghostly glow. The stool sailed right through and shattered on the floor. Not like that then.