Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion (24 page)

When I told Mr. Guppy that I trusted Jenkins implicitly I meant that most sincerely. For all that he was a servant, I trusted him with my reputation, and with my life. He was, after all, the only person, aside from my dear Mrs. Brayshaw, privy to a secret that would have ruined me, had it become public knowledge. Oh, many people knew that I had brought the mummy of a great Pharaoh back home with me. No one but Jenkins and my dear friend knew that I communed with it.

I kept the sarcophagus propped up inside a large closet. I don’t know that it helped Taharqa to appear to be standing, but I found the process less disturbing if I was able to converse with what remained of him face to skull. An unwrapped mummy is not a pleasant thing; it is mainly a skeleton, dark and discoloured, with odd scraps of less perishable parts such as hair hanging from it. It smells, not of the dead, but of the incense used in the embalming process. There are mainly wooden notes: cedar, sandalwood and myrrh, with a hint of cinnamon. The Egyptian priests were skilled in the arts of perfumery, and the scent of an unwrapped mummy will stay on your skin for days if you handle it. Yet no pleasant smell can detract from the baleful aspect of something thousands of years dead.

Taharqa, of course, knew nothing of English; and modern Arabic, in which I am mildly competent, bears no relation to the language of the ancient Egyptians. It would be wrong to say that Taharqa spoke to me. He had no lungs, throat or lips with which to do so. And while I maintained the fiction of conversation, and bolstered my own sanity by uttering words aloud to him, I was sure that this was not necessary to our communication. I report his words here as they appeared in my mind.

I once asked Mrs. Brayshaw if she ever heard Taharqa’s voice coming from my room, afraid that perhaps my neighbours, or the maid, might hear it too and wonder if I entertained a gentleman companion. She said only that she occasionally heard a sharp, whiny bark, like that of a jackal, and that perhaps I should buy a small dog that might make a similar sound. I followed her suggestion, but we soon discovered that no dog could live happily in our house. Something about the proximity to Taharqa infused the poor animals with terror.

I would be dishonest if I said that no such fears assailed me, especially when I first began to talk to him. However, after many months I had become much more sanguine about the ghastly process.

“Awake, Great Taharqa, I bring you news of the world beyond your tomb!”

As, I suppose, is the case with all successful monarchs, Taharqa had an insatiable appetite for political gossip. Though he had ruefully accepted the fact that he was long dead, and that the country he ruled with such effect had lapsed into decay, whatever strange ancient magics had kept his spirit bound to our mortal coil had also maintained his interest in the mechanics of power. Having not spoken to him for some months, I was able to offer the story of the Cape Colony’s annexation of the Transvaal. Taharqa continued to entertain the hope that the people of Africa would one day throw off our imperial yoke, and stories of war between native peoples and our settlers always encouraged him to provide me with favours.

I know not how he was able to see. His eyes, along with all of the other soft organs, had been removed in the process of mummification. Only the heart was ever left in the body. I had found no remains of that organ in Taharqa when I first unwrapped him, but a polished red stone, slightly warm to the touch, nestled between his ribs. I left it in place.

Despite the obvious emptiness of his blackened skull, scientific experiment had proved Taharqa’s claim that he could see objects near to him. Jenkins had placed Mr. Guppy’s stone, draped in sacking, where it would be visible to him. When I removed the covering I am certain I saw his dead body shudder. I had never seen such a reaction from him before, and was quite un-nerved by it. The temperature of the room seemed to drop, as if some cold and nameless power had suddenly fixed its gaze upon us.

“Where did you find THAT!” I emphasise the final word as if he raised his voice, though in my mind it was less of a shout and more of a rumbling bass tone that he adopted.

“It was brought to me, having been dredged up from the estuary near my home. I know the inscription is not Egyptian or Assyrian, but a great lord such as yourself will have seen the writings of many peoples. What can you tell me of it?”

“It is in the language of the Sea People, known to you, if I remember our conversations correctly, as the Philistines. They inhabited the sea coast north of Egypt. This stone praises an evil god known to them.”

“What sort of god, great king? How is he worshipped, and why is he evil?”

“No man worships him, though all fear him. This is no god of man you have found, British woman. This is a thing of the deep seas. The Sea People, as they make their livelihood from the waters, live under the baleful eye of this god. They give their children to him in the hope that he will look away from their enterprises. His name is Dagon.”

I slept poorly that night, being much troubled by dreams of drowning. Mrs. Brayshaw informed me that I cried out several times in the night, and latterly slept so soundly that it was necessary to shake me awake least I miss the day. Though I am normally very partial to a good breakfast, I found myself unable to stomach the thought of kippers.

My morning plans for research of ancient Middle Eastern cultures were disrupted by a visit from a young friend, Elizabeth Winters. Lizzy, as she rather informally insisted on being addressed, fancied herself as a righter of wrongs and fearless seeker out of wickedness. I first encountered her at a meeting of the Bristol & Clifton branch of the National Society for Women’s Suffrage in Colston Hall.

Miss Winters spent much time investigating stories of merchants who continued to deal in slaves despite the abolition of their cruel trade. She also did much good work amongst the poor of the city, and could frequently be found distributing alms in places such as the immigrant community in St. Pauls.

“Thank you so much for making time for me, Miss Edwards. I fear that I have uncovered something quite terrible, and I need someone to talk to.”

Miss Winters was always uncovering something terrible, but I had rarely seen her in such a state. I encouraged her to explain.

“It is the Barrage Project, Miss Edwards, I fear that they are using child labour.”

“That seems highly unlikely. Their work is heavy engineering and construction, requiring great strength. Nothing that I have heard of would require people able to work their way into small spaces.”

“Nevertheless, they have been purchasing children from local orphanages.”

“What, Mr. Guppy?” I was shocked.

“No ma’am, his Chief of Works, Mr. Cartwright.”

“And you have proof of this?”

“I do ma’am. Mrs. Osborne from the Muller Homes will swear to it.”

“Well Lizzy, Mr. Guppy came to me yesterday for help with another matter. He may be unaware of what Mr. Cartwright has done. Leave it with me, and I will find out what I can.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Edwards. I’m so relieved. I shudder to think what might happen to those poor children.”

So do I, I thought, as I saw her out. The use of child labour on the Barrage Project seemed unlikely to me, but the words of the long-dead pharaoh echoed in my brain. “They give their children to him in the hope that he will look away from their enterprises.”

I spent the rest of the day studying the stone and its inscription, comparing it to others in my collection. I could not confirm Taharqa’s assertion that the language upon the stone was Philistine, for almost no record of that race exists beyond The Bible. However, I soon became convinced that the inscription was of modern origin. The marks on the stone were simply too sharp, too well formed even. For all that Mr. Guppy claimed to have dredged it up from the waters, time had not worked its way upon the stone. Besides, while the material did appear to be limestone, it looked more like what I could find locally in the Mendips than the rock I was used to seeing in Egypt.

The next day I sent a letter by mail to a friend in London. Being involved in Egyptology naturally brings one to the attention of people with a passion for ancient magic, the sort of people who, if they knew of Taharqa, would seek to use him to gain power and riches. I did my best to keep what I knew away from such people, but equally I kept an eye on their doings. Four days later, immediately after the bank holiday weekend, an answer arrived. The improvement that the railways have made to the mail service during my lifetime has been quite extraordinary. According to my informant, Mr. Cartwright of the Barrage Project was a known associate of Mr. Kenneth Mackenzie and others involved in the Rosicrucian Society.

On Wednesday I visited Mr. Guppy at the site of the Barrage Project. As chance would have it, I found him engaged in an altercation with some of the workers. Mr. Guppy, being still unwell, was not managing to impress his authority on his staff. However, a younger gentleman, dressed somewhat expensively, spoke severely to them and made it clear that they would receive no pay at all for the month should they refuse to go back to work. Even so, a handful of men walked off, swearing that they would have no more to do with such an infernal enterprise.

“It is pointless reasoning with these fellows “Mr. Guppy confided in me when the mob had dispersed. “They receive little schooling beyond religious instruction, and their parents teach them naught but what they need to help out on a farm. The government really should pay more attention to country-folk, for the Empire needs every good Englishman that we can breed.”