Free The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis by Natasha Narayan

“Think about it! East End villains don’t go traveling about in the remote countryside. Baruch didn’t mean Norfolk the county. The Norfolk Punch’s a gin palace in Drury Lane. I saw it from the omnibus this morning.”
    Rachel and Isaac could have been twins. The very same obstinate, disapproving look crossed both their faces.
    â€œA tavern!” Isaac said.
    â€œYou can’t go into a
low
gin palace. By yourself, of all things,” Rachel added.
    â€œShe not alone,” Ahmed said. “I go with Kit.”
    â€œYou heard,” I said. “Ahmed’s coming with me.”
    â€œKit!” brother and sister protested.
    I held up my hand to quiet them down. I can also be fairly stubborn when I want to. “Don’t try and stop me. Not if you’re my friends. I dragged Baruch into this. I
owe
it to him to stop these criminals—whoever they are.”

Chapter Twelve
    Steamy, gin-scented fumes gusted out of the Norfolk Punch, as I opened the door. For a moment I staggered. There was so much alcohol in the air I felt woozy just breathing it in. Mid-morning and the place was already crowded with customers: men, women and even children. Some of them were covered in greasepaint. Actors, perhaps, from the theaters nearby. They were perched on stools by the bar, endlessly reflected in glorious mirrors and sheets of crystal which in the brilliance of gaslight gave the whole interior a fantastic, fairytale feel.
    â€œThis is …” Ahmed began and faltered as words failed him.
    It was indeed. Grander than any other tavern I had glimpsed; a cathedral, almost, of gin. The boards blaring forth from the walls in gold and red could be the signs of some new religion:
OLD TOM CREAM OF THE HEAVENS UNIQUE BALMORAL MIXTURE, AS DRUNK BY HIS HIGHNESS, PRINCE ALBERT
    â€œWomen and even children … babies … drinking alcohol. In Egypt we believe alcohol is … how do you say? … too bad, evil.” Ahmed looked thoroughly shocked, gazing around at the customers who packed the tavern.
    â€œIt certainly isn’t a good idea to drink gin in the morning.” I entered, pushing my way past a clump of cab drivers. “I should expect it finishes you off for the rest of the day.” I noticed Ahmed was not following me, but had halted at the door as if scared to enter.
    â€œCome on,” I said, gently tugging at his sleeve. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll go to the bar. I’ve heard the pot-boys in these places are a wonderful source of gossip.”
    We passed a pot-boy in a grubby apron taking several large tankards to customers. I thought it foolish to make inquiries before buying ourselves some drinks with the pennies I had remaining in my pockets—the ones the thief had not managed to steal. As we fought our way to the bar we came up behind a person with carroty hair who was talking in a loud voice. The landlady, busy dispensing glasses of gin, did not seem much interested.
    â€œNah,” Carrots was saying. “Them ole tales don’t frighten me. People say to me, they say Bob me ole son, you’d be right tickled if you—”
    â€œâ€™Old on a mo,” the landlady turned round to serve someone else, then smiling she asked: “’Ow’s Velvet? Haven’t seen ’er for ages. Too good for us now, is she?”
    â€œMovin’ up in the world is ole Nell.” The landlady hadn’t waited for his reply, but moved away to serve someone else. However the red-haired boy continued in a loud, bragging voice, not seeming to care if anyone was listening. “Hardest master in the game is Velvet Nell. She’ll not take no lip from no one. Some people fink she’s soft just cos she’s a gel but they couldn’t be more wrong. A monster that’s what she is!”
    â€œHe spiks different English to you,” Ahmed whispered to me. “A different sound.”
    â€œIt’s called a Cockney