Free The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis by Natasha Narayan Page A

accent. It comes from East London,” I explained.
    â€œStrange,” Ahmed said, with a grin. “Maybe I should learn to spik Cockney.”
    â€œDon’t you dare,” I hissed. “Aunt Hilda would never forgive me!”
    Meanwhile the youth was still blabbering: “Yer want sumfink to frighten the little kiddiwinks, don’t bother with fairy tales. Them monsters and fings, yer know, made up fings like Spring Heeled Jack, they ain’tfrightenin.” Yer send them to Nell.’
    â€œI wouldn’t wish that on any brat!” the landlady grinned, finally taking some notice of the red-haired boy. “That’ll be ha’pence,” she said to another customer, a grinning old woman wearing a straw hat from which draggled a floppy artificial rose. The old dame weaved away unsteadily, gin slopping down the side of her glass. In fact the pitted pewter counter was awash with gin. Some of the drinkers were so beside themselves they spilled as much of their precious liquid as they drank. I had heard that thrifty landlords collected these leftovers—made up as much of spit as gin—and resold them as “All-Sorts.”
    â€œHere, wot’s this I heard on the grapevine about Velvet branchin’ out?” the landlady asked the chattering redhead. “I ’eard she’s moving on, she is, going to get herself into a whole new game.”
    â€œThat’s wot I bin trying to tell you, if you’d only bin listening. Too good for you, I’ll be soon. You won’t catch me ’ere no more but down one of them gent’s clubs in Pall Mall,” he replied.
    â€œThey wouldn’t let you in, not till you had a scrub-up and got yourself a new set of threads.” The landlady looked him up and down. “Nah, I don’t fink them toff’s club would ever let you in.”
    â€œLess lip.” From behind we saw the youth lean forwardon the bar. “Give me another glass o” your finest gin, there’s a dear.’
    â€œNot yer usual All-Sorts? What’s this, Jabber? Nell given you a pay rise now you’re leaving Petticoat Lane behind?” The landlady smirked as she filled his glass.
    I froze. Two things had galvanized me. The mention of Petticoat Lane and if I’d heard right the landlady called this youth, whose face I couldn’t see, Jabber. Jabber Jukes, the criminal apprentice we sought! If so, I understood how he had earned his nickname. He was jabbering on, prattling away non-stop. Judging by his back view, the boy looked rather stringy and insignificant. Shorter than either Ahmed or me.
    I tapped the red-haired youth on the shoulder and he turned round, all indignant.
    â€œâ€™Ere, wot do you think—” he began.
    â€œAre you Jabber Jukes?”
    â€œEh?” the boy scowled. His skin was as carroty as his hair. A snub nose, a blaze of freckles, beady, darting eyes. He was wearing an oversize man’s coat that swamped his tiny body and the uniform of a swaggering criminal: peaked cap, white neckerchief, red waistcoat and huge trousers fastened with a fancy metal studded belt. He was dressed tough, certainly, but was this little rascal really the person who had so frightened the greeners?
    â€œJabber Jukes?” Ahmed repeated.
    â€œâ€™Oo’s your posh friends, Jabber?” the landlady asked, smirking.
    So we were on the right track, “Jabber” was too much of an unusual name for it to be a coincidence. I moved toward him, intent on questioning him, while he regarded us with a cocky smile.
    â€œDo yer want a drop o’ gin?” he leered at me. “’Ave one on the handsomest boy in the Norfolk Punch. It’d only be right to treat a pretty lady like you.” Poking a dirty thumb at Ahmed he added. “Yer pal will ’ave to pay for hisself.”
    I ignored the less-than-generous offer and looked him straight in the eye: “I’ve heard all about you,