Wrapped

by Jennifer Bradbury

  There was also the danger of it all to consider. There was no guarantee that by simply surrendering all to Showalter or some other authority, I wouldn’t transfer the same sort of bad luck that was lying in wait for me. No, my recklessness had resulted in this mess, and I must do what I could to atone for my error.

  And perhaps it was a product of listening to sensitive conversations in Father’s study for all these years, but something else told me that if the burglar would go to such extremes to track down this object, then it was of some great importance. And objects of great importance were not the kind of thing to go crying from the rooftops about.

  How I wished Father were home. Not only would he know what to do, whom to tell, how to let the sting of my embarrassment do its work and then ebb away without shaming me further, but his steady hand and sensible presence would allow me to do what I felt most tempted to. Panic. I was terrified, and the fear that our house, that my room, might be next threatened to swallow me whole. The fact that I might have jeopardized both my own future and the safety of my good neighbors made me queasy. And in truth, the only thing that would keep me from succumbing to the wave of guilt and fear was doing something.

  I consoled myself that Father would appreciate the delicacy of my situation. I hoped that he would credit my seeking information as making the best of a bad situation. And I knew that the more I could share with him when the time came, the easier it would go for both of us.

  And there was but one place in London where I might seek information about an important Egyptian relic. A place where I was not known. A place where I could ask my questions, gain what intelligence I could, and still be home in time to watch from the front window for Father in the event that he returned early from Tilbury.

  The British Museum.

  When morning finally broke and I heard the household stirring below stairs, I was already up and dressed. I checked my reflection in the glass and reached for my bonnet just as the knock came at my door.

  “Enter,” I called.

  Clarisse crept into the room, looking sheepish. “You have dressed your own hair this morning, Miss Wilkins?”

  “Yes, Clarisse. I decided to make an early start of it today,” I replied in French. Though she was my mother’s lady’s maid, Clarisse had been sent to me each morning since my nurse was discharged three years ago. I already planned to persuade Mother to allow Clarisse to come with me after I married. Mother knew we’d have a hard time finding one so gifted as Clarisse in subduing my hair. But more to the point, Clarisse was dear to me. She was only a few years older than I was, and I’d come to think of her as a friend.

  “You will have some breakfast before you go, mademoiselle?” she asked me, this time slipping into her native tongue.

  I shook my head. “I rang for tea an hour ago.”

  She looked toward the tray still bearing the nibbled crumpet I had been far too agitated to eat. “Then I will go and see if Madame Rachel is ready,” she said, taking a step toward the door.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” I said. “Aunt Rachel needs her rest. And besides, I’m only out to take the air this morning.”

  “But your mother—”

  “Won’t even know,” I said, turning and smiling. “I just need a few moments to myself—what with all the excitement of the past few days—”

  She grinned. “And a certain man declaring himself . . .”

  “Assez, Clarisse,” I said. “No one’s declared. He’s merely invited me—”

  She shook her head. “It is there,” she said, smiling and lifting one shoulder. “I am French, after all. We know these things better than you English.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course you do. But you must trust me when I tell you I need some time away this morning. And trust me that I won’t get into any mischief.”

  Clarisse didn’t exactly nod, but she moved to help me with my bonnet all the same. She held the light summer cap, meant to keep the sun from adding any more freckles to my nose, and stared woefully at my hair. I’d managed to apply a bit of pomade to the curls meant to frame my face, but they’d already unraveled.

  “I really must go if I’m to get back before I’m missed,” I pleaded before she could offer to repair my handiwork. She smiled and tucked my head into the fabric of my bonnet, tying the ribbon as expertly as she might dress a lock of my hair.

  “Perhaps you are not telling me the complete truth?” she said slyly.

  I started. “What?”

  “Perhaps you are off to a secret meeting with your intended?” she teased.

  “Clarisse!”

  “You are hiding something!” She laughed. “Though why you dare let him see you with your hair in such a state—”

  I shook free of her hands. “Take that as your proof that I am not off to a tryst,” I said, and hastened from the room, her laughter trailing after me.

  “But why so early?” she asked as she followed me to the top of the stairs. “Moonlight is far more . . . romantique.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I said weakly.

  Clarisse eyed me doubtfully. The bell from within my mother’s room chimed—her signal to Clarisse that she was ready to be dressed and coiffed.

  “You’d better go,” I said. “Mother won’t want to be kept waiting.”

  “Nor will your beau!” she whispered. “You must tell me—”

  I didn’t let her finish. “Tell Mother I’ve merely gone to take the air, but only if she asks.”

  Before she could reply, I hurried down the stairs, through the front hall, and out the door into the bright morning sunshine of London. Time did seem of the essence; if my home was going to be broken into, I wanted to find out why before the moment came.

  But before I reached our gate, I encountered an unexpected sight. Rupert was reaching for the trellis leading up to his window.

  “Good morning, brother,” I called.

  He turned and faced me, his back pressed to the sandstone wall. “Ah, hello.”

  His hair was even more a fright than my own, his eyes swollen in their sockets, rimmed by an angry pink. He still wore that ridiculous neckscarf from the day before, but he was missing several buttons from his coat.

  “Long night or early morning?” I asked brightly, pleased that the volume of my voice caused him to wince.

  “None of your concern,” he mumbled, reaching back for the trellis and his room above.

  “Perhaps Father’s or Mother’s, then?”

  “I’m a grown man,” he said.

  “Grown men use the front door after long nights at the club. Or wherever you were drinking last night,” I said, adding, “Though I’d wager it’s with whom that might be of greater interest. At any rate, boys climb into windows to avoid their fathers.”

  “Then what do you call a girl walking out early in the morning without her chaperone?”

  “Lucky,” I replied, “to be on her own . . . and seen only by her brother, who cannot reveal that he saw his sister leave without revealing that he had been out all night.”

  Rupert considered for a moment. I wondered what had him so ashamed that he would rather let me go than risk trouble for himself. He was certainly old enough to carouse at any hour he wished. Young men were expected to drink too much, to enjoy the company of their fellows before settling on wives. But I could tell Rupert was hiding something.

  He shook his head, tossed a choice name at me, and turned to climb his trellis.

  I walked only as far as the taxi stand a quarter of a mile from home. Taking the carriage would have resulted in more questions, and our drivers—notorious gossips who supplied the household staff with the majority of their information—would know exactly where I’d been.

  The streets were a bedlam of shopkeepers and merchants opening stalls and setting out wares. The gas lamps had long since been doused, and I recognized the man who I sometimes saw lighting them in the evenings leaning against the flower stall, chatting up a pretty girl within. Our neighborhood had
been the first to be lit some five or six years ago, and Father was considering having lighting installed at home.

  I approached the taxis—a line of small open carriages strung up near the gate. I walked down the line of horses, as if picking my mount for a carousel ride. I came to the last one in the queue and found its driver snoring loudly in the seat.

  “Sir?” I said.

  He did not stir.

  “Sir?” I repeated, this time leaning in and speaking a bit louder. At this he jumped, feet slipping from the rail.

  “That’s right, Joe,” he seemed to say to the horse, “I’m awake, I am.”

  He still hadn’t noticed me. I half wondered if he thought the horse had spoken. “Sir!” I said again, this time a bit exasperated.

  He rose to his feet and climbed onto the bench mounted between the horse and the carriage. “Morning, miss. May I be of service?” he asked, as he wiped the corners of his mouth with an open hand.

  “Are you available for the morning?”

  “Always available if a fare is legit, ma’am.”

  I reached into my bag and found a coin. I held the half crown up to him. He raised his eyes in appreciation.

  “That’ll do, miss,” he said, as he donned his hat and nodded toward the carriage.

  I climbed in. “The British Museum, please,” I said, settling in for the ride.

  Chapter Eight

  The driver steered the hack into the wide gravel half circle leading to the building’s entrance. It was quieter than the busy lane we’d just left—a gardener here and there, and a few souls carrying bundles to a small door to the left and below the main entrance. I hadn’t visited the British Museum in ages. The last time I’d been here was when the first of the mummies went on public display, but it looked the same as I remembered.

  “You meeting someone, miss?” the coachman asked.

  I ignored his question, simply stepped from the carriage and called to him as I made for the entrance. “Wait here. I do not know how long I will be, but if we are later returning to the Park than eleven, I shall be inclined to pay you more generously.”

  I didn’t wait for a response, not wanting to give him a chance to argue about advancing him half his fee now.

  I hurried up the staircase, breathless by the time I reached the broad, columned patio sweeping out from the front doors. I passed through the one open door, realizing I must be among the day’s first visitors.

  Inside, a marble statue bloomed at the center of the foyer, the liveliest thing in the room. Arched hallways to the exhibits branched in three directions from the statue.

  A porter appeared. “Morning, miss.”

  “Good morning, sir,” I began. “I was wondering if you could direct me to—”

  “Egypt rooms. Townley Gallery, second floor. Those stairs there at the back hall.”

  I froze. “How did you know?”

  “Steady stream of curiosity seekers since that mayhem over at the Park two nights ago.”

  I thanked him, declined his offer to show me the way, and hurried through the archway toward the exhibits. I felt his eyes follow me as I paced the long hall, lined with more marble statuary. I took the indicated stair as quickly as I could and found a sign pointing out the direction of the Egypt rooms. I traveled another corridor, this one lined with tapestries, before reaching my destination. As it was early, I found the room still and quiet. The light was dim despite the morning sunshine I’d left behind. The windows were small and set high near the ceiling. On my last visit, our guide had told us that this curious feature was a caution to protect the artifacts displayed from direct sunlight. But the placement and infrequency of the windows, and the resulting perpetual shadow, only made the setting feel all the more like the tombs and caves the objects had been taken from.

  Sarcophagi flanked the perimeter, like soldiers standing vigil over the contents of the room. Their eyes, some painted on stone, a few on gold or silver, seemed to follow me, daring me to disturb the collection of pots and jars arranged in glass cabinets. Near the extreme end of the room, a living shape hunched over the open case of a mummy, carefully brushing dust from its surface with the tip of a feather. A candle blazed from behind a glassed lantern on a cart beside him.

  “Pardon me?” I said.

  The figure unbent itself from the work. He was tall and surprisingly young. And familiar. When his eyes met mine, I realized where I’d seen him before and started.

  “Yes?” he asked, eying me curiously.

  It was the young man from the party. The one who’d so painstakingly cataloged the findings on the body that night. The one Showalter had embarrassed. He stared at me with those deep brown eyes, and the effect was even more unnerving than that produced by the painted ones on the sarcophagi, though for altogether different reasons.

  “Nine o’clock already?” His voice echoed around the empty room.

  No recognition in his eyes or his voice. He viewed me solely as an interruption.

  I swallowed. “Yes. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “I’d meant to finish this before opening,” he said, annoyed, returning to his work.

  “But this is an urgent matter . . .”

  He applied the feather’s tip to the sunken eye sockets on the wrapped corpse. “What could be so urgent—,” he began before turning to face me again. “Come to ask about that curse business, have you?”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” I said.

  “Then out with it, if you please.” He gestured toward the body. “I’ve work to do.”

  I nodded appreciatively at the mummy he was dusting, wondering if he feared it might wander off before he finished. “I need help identifying something.”

  “And what is this something?” he asked, placing the feather on a cart laden with the lantern and an assortment of other tools.

  “Are you an expert?” I asked.

  He hesitated, then finally nodded, drawing himself up a little taller. “Enough.”

  He couldn’t be more than a few years older than me. “Forgive me, sir, you seem so young, and you are, well . . . dusting, after all.”

  He bristled. “I’ve been a student of the artifacts of Egypt for some years, and I’ll have you know that we cannot trust the care of these specimens”—he gestured toward the body he’d been dusting—“to any scab who might know how to wield a rag and mop.”

  Having thoroughly offended him and wasted time in doing so, I hesitated no further. “Very well,” I said, reaching into my handbag and pulling from it the iron dog’s head.

  I held it out to him. He took it in his gloved hands and over to his cart, where he pulled a magnifying glass from the tray.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “At a party last season,” I lied. “I know the glyphs cannot be read, but I was wondering if you could tell me something about the object itself.”

  The young Egyptologist examined it closely. “Demotic,” he announced.

  “Pardon me?”

  “They’re not glyphs. These are demotic letters—much more recent than glyphs. The Rosetta Stone bears both,” he said. “You’ve heard of the Rosetta Stone, I reckon?”

  “Of course,” I answered, glancing round the room. “But where is it? Last time I visited—”

  “Off display,” he interrupted me. “Temporarily. For cleaning.”

  I nodded. “But it will not help us with the script on that, will it?” I asked, pointing at the linen trailing from the dog’s head.

  He shook his head. “Don’t need it. I’m fluent enough in reading demotic text to tell you this is gibberish,” he said proudly.

  “What?”

  “Random characters. Bit of hocus-pocus to look the real thing. Like the dog’s head. Actually, it’s a jackal—a common motif in Egyptian art, easy mark for forgers.”

  “But how can you be so certain after such a cursory examination?” I asked, pressing toward him.

  He tapped the metal with his fingernail. “This is iro
n. Iron was dear in Egypt, almost as precious as silver and gold. Maybe even more so, since they couldn’t mine for it. What iron they did have was what they recovered from meteorites. Early Egyptians called it the metal of heaven, and didn’t spend it on pieces like this one.” He tossed the object roughly on the cart while keeping his focus on me. It landed dangerously close to the lantern, the metal clinking against the lantern’s base, the scrap of linen resting across the glass.

  He crossed his arms and stared at me. I knew that look from quarrels with my brothers. He was taunting me.

  “If I may be so bold, could you tell me again your position with the museum?” I asked. If this object was not important, then it meant that I’d been wrong about someone searching for it.

  “My position?” he repeated, suddenly defensive. “I’m an Egyptologist with special interest in the Rosetta Stone.”

  I eyed him again. Something was amiss. He was too young to keep company with true academics. Plus, he’d been relegated to menial clerical work a few nights before at the party.

  “And your name, sir?”

  He sighed. “Stowe, for what it’s worth. Truth is, there are dozens of shavers out there more than willing to capitalize on the public’s current fascination with Egypt rather than—” He turned to look again at where he’d tossed my dog’s head on his tray. He stopped speaking abruptly.

  “Rather than what?” I asked him, my patience wearing thin.

  He said nothing, merely reached for his magnifying glass and bent over the jackal’s head. He leaned in close enough that the glass caught the lantern light and refracted on the cases behind him.

  “The devil . . . ,” he said quietly. “There’s something here.”

  “Of course there’s something there—you simply cannot read it. Perhaps you could be so kind as to point me toward someone who can?” I said, reaching for the piece.

  Stowe ignored me, picking up the metal shape and stretching the scrap of linen taut between his two hands. He then proceeded to hold it closer to the lantern, pressing it flat against the glass.