When I reached the foyer, I saw that it was quite late. All the curators stood huddled in a small group, whispering among themselves, seemingly ignoring the pounding at the door.
Mum appeared at the foot of the stairs, the heightened color in her cheeks the only sign she'd just woken up. How does she manage to sleep without wrinkling her clothes, I'd like to know. "Where on earth is everyone, and why haven't they opened the door?" she asked.
Fagenbush shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and deferred to Vicary Weems with a sneer. Weems cleared his throat. "It's his lordship, ma'am. He's, um, asleep."
"H-holding a gun," Stilton added.
I stepped forward. "Shall I let them in, Mum?"
Mother reached up and patted her hair. "Perhaps we'd best see who it is first," she suggested, visions of Grandmother no doubt running through her head.
I was halfway through the foyer when Father woke up. "What's all this racket?" he demanded, working out the kinks in his neck.
"Someone's here," I called out over my shoulder. When I reached the front, I peeked out the window, nearly squealing when I found myself eyeball to eyeball with Inspector Turnbull, who was peering in. "It's Inspector Turnbull, Father. And he has three constables with him. A small crowd, actually. It looks like some of those newspapermen who were here the other day."
"What in the ruddy hell do they want?"
"We'll find out, won't we?" I muttered to myself. I took a deep breath and put on my most innocent face before opening the door. I was terrified that somehow the inspector had heard of the break-in last night—it wouldn't do at all to have the police dragged into the matter of the staff. I had to get word to Wigmere first thing this morning!
"Good morning, Inspector. It's rather early in the morning for calling, don't you think?"
"This isn't a social visit, young lady." He squeezed his way inside while his constables held back the clamoring crowd of reporters.
"Is it true one of the mummies is cursed?" one of them shouted.
"Did one of the men who touched the mummies really break his leg?" another one called out.
"What happened to the photographer who took the only known picture of the mummy?"
"Is it true that gold is the only way to protect ourselves from the mummies?"
Inspector Turnbull slammed the door shut on that last question, then took his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his face. "I thought I'd come by here first thing this morning rather than get all the way to my office, then have someone call me back here. Seemed more efficient somehow."
"But why would anyone have called you here this morning?"
The inspector skewered me with a glare, then looked pointedly at the foyer wall.
Which, much to his surprise, was empty.
Except for Father, who was struggling to his feet, his shotgun dangling from his right hand.
"What do you want?" Father boomed.
The inspector eyed the shotgun warily. "You wouldn't be threatening an officer, now, would you?"
"Heavens no, Inspector Turnbull!" Mother hurried forward, anxious to smooth things over. "He was keeping watch last night, hoping to find who was bringing all the mummies to the museum."
"Except they didn't have the nerve to show their faces," Father said, clearly put out.
The inspector glanced again at the blank wall. "So I see," he said. "And it's a good thing, I might add. I came here fully expecting to find the mummies again, and if I had, I'd have arrested you, Admiral Sopcoate or no."
I thought it very foolish of the inspector to taunt Father when he was holding a shotgun.
"However," he continued as he eyed Father's reddening face, "since they're not here, there's not much I can do. Just remember, I've got my eye on you." He turned his gaze toward the curators. "Which one of you is Weems?" he asked.
"I am, sir." The new First Assistant Curator stepped forward, looking very self-important.
"Good. I need to have a word with you." Weems paled a bit but otherwise gave no sign that he minded as he followed the inspector down the hall.
I glanced around to make sure everyone else was occupied. Mother was brushing Father off and Fagenbush was bossing poor Stilton about something, so I slipped off after the inspector, walking on quiet feet.
Yes, eavesdropping is a vile habit. Luckily, I wasn't eavesdropping. I was spying. Spying is noble, especially when doing it for a good cause, such as my parents.
"So, Lord Chudleigh says you're an upstanding sort of chap," the inspector said.
Weems puffed up a bit at this. "I like to think so."
"So tell me, have you seen anything suspicious the past couple of days?"
"Well, this whole place is a bit more dodgy than I was led to believe during the interviews."
Dodgy? How dare he! We weren't the slightest bit dodgy.
"The Third Assistant Curator seems a very nervous sort. Always twitching and clearing his throat."
"Go on," the inspector encouraged.
"Then, there's that Fagenbush fellow. He has a very guilty feel to him, even though I can't pinpoint why. Seems like he's always skulking around."
I wasn't sure how I felt being in agreement with Weems, even on Fagenbush.
"And," he continued, "no one can quite explain what happened to their former First Assistant Curator, at least not to my satisfaction."
"What about the Throckmortons?" Inspector Turnbull pressed on. "Have you noticed anything strange about them?"
"Well, Throckmorton is brilliant, there's no doubt about that. However, sometimes brilliant isn't too large a step from mad, if you know what I mean."
I clenched my fists. Beast.
"Yes, yes. I know exactly what you mean. Do continue."
"He works the oddest hours. Never seems to go home and is always muttering to himself. And that child of his? What's her name? Theodosia? Most unnatural child. Always underfoot and watching me."
With good reason, I might add.
"By the by, did I mention that my greatcoat was stolen?"
"Yes. Three times now."
"Well"—Weems's voice became defensive—"have you found it?"
"Can't say as we have, sir, since we're a little distracted BY ALL THE BLOOMING MUMMIES RUNNING AROUND," the inspector hollered.
There was an awkward silence, and then Weems spoke, much more circumspectly this time. "Well, I thought they might be related, that's all."
"I doubt it. One last thing." There was a rustle of paper as Turnbull pulled something from one of his pockets. "Have you ever seen this man before?"
"No," Weems said primly. "I haven't."
"Are you sure? You've never seen him hanging around the museum? Or talking to Throckmorton?"
"No, no. I'm quite sure. I'd remember someone as disreputable looking as that. Who is he?"
Inspector Turnbull grunted. "The Grim Nipper. And if you see him, or anything else fishy, let me know. Here's my card."
Weems took the small white card from the inspector. "Thank you. I'll be in touch if I find anything else out."
The rotten little snitch! He was going to blab everything he learned straight to the police!
He continued, "I'm glad to do whatever I can to help. I must say, this isn't nearly as respectable a museum as I'd hoped."
The inspector bid Weems good day, and I flattened myself against one of the columns, hoping he wouldn't see me as he moved on to Edgar Stilton's office. I realized that this would be a good time to get away to see Wigmere. Everybody was busy and no one would notice if I slipped out. Pleased with my plan, I hurried to the west entrance and opened the door.
And immediately spotted the tall man in the undertaker's coat and battered top hat leaning up against the building across the street. When he saw me, he quickly glanced down at the newspaper he was pretending to read. Then it hit me. This must be the Grim Nipper! And he had been skulking around the museum for days.