Secret of the Scarab

By Jay Roudebush

After eleven –year- old Robert Henry’s widowed mother dies in the 1918 Spanish Influenza Pandemic, he is left alone in the world and is sent to St. Jerome’s School for Boys, a bleak London institution for orphans and foundlings, where he is at the mercy of unfeeling adults and predatory older youths. Luckily for Robert, the school’s Headmaster discovers a distant relation of Robert’s who owns a small dairy farm in Devon. She agrees to have Robert come and live with her. Upon his arrival in Devon, he is greeted by Mavis McKenzie, a curt, stiff-necked spinster. Although they are distant cousins, she insists that he refer to her as “Aunt Mavis,” signaling the beginning of a relationship that takes a surprising turn.

A peculiar set of circumstances lead Robert to rescue and adopt a dog whom he names Anubis. In the meantime, he makes the acquaintance of a retired sea captain, Tristan Weatherby, who has moved into a cottage not far from McKenzie Farm. Weatherby repays a kindness by giving Robert an ancient Egyptian scarab that he purchased at a Cairo bazaar during his travels. The scarab ultimately becomes the focus of a fantastic adventure that includes kidnapping, heart-stopping escape and pursuit, and a hunt for buried treasure.

Secret of the Scarab is a story that will appeal to any reader who loves an exciting tale and is captivated by the mysteries of ancient Egypt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Roudebush
• Release date: May 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458146212

Jay Roudebush

Jay Roudebush is a retired teacher and private school administrator with a forty year career in education. He is also the author of a monograph on the American Impressionist, Mary Cassatt, which was published by Crown Publishers in 1979. He and his wife live in Washington, DC.

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SECRET OF THE SCARAB

by

Jay Roudebush

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Jay Roudebush on Smashwords

Secret of the Scarab

Copyright © 2010 by Jay Roudebush

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PROLOGUE

I know grandparents aren’t supposed to have favourites, but of course, we do.

For my birthday Alistair presented me with a handsome journal from Smythson’s bound in dark green leather, on the cover of which was my name, stamped in gilt:

ROBERT CHASE HENRY

He asked me to write my account of the tomb and how it came to be discovered.

For posterity, grandfather, he said. When I have children, I‘ll want them to know of your adventure first-hand. Besides, it will give you something productive to do, instead of simply watching the tube.

He was right, of course. Of all my grandchildren, Alistair is the most sensitive and sensible of the lot, and the one whose company I most enjoy. The rest of them visit from time to time, when they are compelled by their parents to do so. But they seem infinitely more interested in their precious cellular telephones than in an old man and his stories, and it always amuses me to see the ill-concealed relief on their faces when they approach for the obligatory goodbye hug. Sometimes, simply to amuse myself, I will beg them to visit longer, well aware that they will immediately invent reasons why they can’t. Although he doesn’t know it, I give Charlie high marks for his inventions, which get the most points for creativity and improbability, like his fabrication about the cat.

I digress; I was talking about the journal.

I avoided it at first, and for several weeks it sat untouched on my nightstand, surrounded by a phalanx of pill bottles, challenging me to deviate from my dull but comfortable routines. Old people grow quite fond of their routines, after all, and I was content enough to spend my days reading, napping, watching game shows on the tube, and playing the odd game of chess or backgammon with Monty Davenport in the parlor. I had long since given away my easel, paints, and brushes, as my hands were too unsteady for the work that once had consumed my life.

One rainy Saturday, I awoke from my midmorning nap with a start. I had been dreaming about the tomb—or some aspect of it—and quite suddenly I was overcome with an urge to set down an account of what happened.

Bless Alistair," I thought to myself.

Before I picked up the journal, I opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a little cardboard box. Inside were several bits of personal flotsam, including the scarab, nestled in a bed of cotton-wool. I extracted it and held it in the palm of my hand, gazing at it admiringly, just as I did when Captain Weatherby first presented it to me, three quarters of a century before. It was no bigger than a walnut and honey-colored, as ivory gets as it ages. Who would have guessed that such a small object could inspire such a great adventure?

But that is a story for the journal.

CHAPTER ONE

To this day, when someone touches my shoulder, I am reminded of the moment I allowed my mother to die. Or so it felt to me at the time.

I was holding her hand in mine, believing, in the magical way children do, that death-- even so formidable an adversary as the Spanish influenza—could not take her from me as long as I remained vigilant and we remained connected, our pulses beating as one. Death was either sly, compassionate, or both, for It waited patiently until I had fallen asleep in my chair at her bedside. When the ward nurse touched my shoulder I started awake, only to find that my mother’s hand was cold and lifeless and her face bore a peculiar translucent bluish tint.

Afterwards, it was if I had fallen into a dark and icy pond, where everything moved in slow motion, and even the sounds of my screams and sobs were muffled. I am fairly certain that I was administered a sedative that reduced me to a numb and speechless state, out of which I emerged hours—possibly days—later, having been delivered by the hospital authorities to the doors of St. Jerome’s Home for Boys. While I had not a clue about where I was, I knew why I was there: I was an orphan on the eve of my eleventh birthday, with no known living relatives and with virtually no resources.

My dad, who largely had been a stranger since enlisting in the army when I was five, died at Passchendaele in 1917, and mother moved us to London shortly afterwards to take a clerical position with a manufacturer of coloured inks. While we had very little money, we settled into a relatively comfortable routine in our modest flat adjacent to a tiny park in North London. I adored her, and did my best to become the man of the house.

On Sundays when the weather was fine we would picnic in the park and then set out to explore the many wonders the city had to offer. My favourite destination was the British Museum, and in particular the galleries that housed the art and artifacts of ancient Egypt. I was utterly fascinated by Egypt, especially the mummy of Nesperennub, a high Egyptian priest whose casket had been unearthed some twenty years earlier in Luxor. Each time I gazed upon it I shuddered with morbid fascination and delight, causing mother to laugh and to squeeze my hand reassuringly. On days when the weather was less accommodating we would stay in and listen to classical music on the Victrola, and she would tell me stories about the lives of the composers.

Of the notorious Spanish Influenza pandemic I will write very little here, as there are numerous excellent books on the subject. Suffice to say that it came upon mother suddenly and violently one gray and dismal October morning, and shortly after, I found myself perched beside her in a crowded hospital ward filled with others similarly afflicted. Her passing set me upon a journey that began at the doors of St. Jerome’s, a journey that I could not have imagined in my wildest dreams.

Until I arrived there I had no sense of what squalor meant, but I quickly learned. The orphanage and school were housed in sooty three-storey brick building adjacent to the shabby little Anglican church from whence it derived its name. From its dim and narrow passageways to the cramped and oppressive dormitory rooms, it was as if some sinister force had been tasked with designing a singularly bleak and depressing warehouse for boys. I am certain Charles Dickens himself could not have done better. It was a uniformly dirty place, and the air was ripe and heavy with the odour of cooked cabbage and stale clothing. Little wonder I was overcome by revulsion and despair as I became aware of my surroundings.

I was escorted to a dormitory on the third floor that housed the fags, as boys from eight to twelve were dubbed, and was assigned a cot in the corner, next to a narrow, grimy window. By standing on my toes I was able to glimpse a vast, gray landscape of rooftops that led down to the Thames, and beyond that, to more rooftops. Immediately below me rose the belfry of St. Jerome’s church, which uttered a dull, metallic croak on the hour. A boy named Sandy Fitzhugh, whose cot adjoined mine, was deputized to show me about. He had one eye that was misdirected, making it disconcerting to talk to him, as one wasn’t quite certain who or what was commanding his attention. Nonetheless, he was a decent enough fellow, and I was grateful for his company.

In point of fact, Fitzhugh proved to be a godsend: he had been at St. Jerome’s since the age of six and knew the place like the back of his hand. Despite his unfortunate affliction, he was incredibly wise and crafty, and was a master of the informal bartering system that prevailed among the boys. Food, soap, and cigarettes were the commodities of choice, he told me on our tour, although almost anything was available and tradable, including gin and French post cards. Fitzhugh also showed me ways to move through the building using back staircases and corridors, routes that avoided the chambers occupied by some of the more dangerous older boys. On our way we passed other fags, scuttling along in the gloom like cockroaches. Within a few days, thanks to Fitzhugh and to the natural adaptability of children, I was able to find my way about.

That first night, alone in my bed I allowed the tears to come, and wept uncontrollably beneath my pillow over the loss of my dear mother and for the circumstances in which I found myself. I soon discovered this was a common practice at St. Jerome’s, where public displays of grief were considered unmanly. At lights out each night out I often would hear a chorus of muffled moans and sobs rise from the cots surrounding me, a disconsolate lullaby of heartbreak and loneliness.

At St. Jerome’s we were offered an education of sorts, by masters whom we suspected had been given the sack at other schools for sheer ineptitude, want of character, or both. With one exception—that of the drawing master, who admired my work and gave me encouragement--their classes were uniformly dull, and the only challenge they offered us was to appear as if we were awake and alert, hardly an easy task, given how very bored and hungry we were.

Under such circumstances one makes use of any possible advantage, and in my case it turned out that I had something of a flair for caricature, a talent that served me well. Not only did my doodling help to pass the time in classes, but I learned I could barter my work for sweets or other commodities from my mates. I had many requests for drawings of women, but having virtually no working knowledge of the female anatomy—and being by nature a modest boy—I demurred. My renderings of the less favoured masters were particularly prized, although inevitably one came to the attention of the Headmaster and earned me a savage caning. Nonetheless, the income from my drawings allowed me to accumulate a little squirrel hoard of food to nibble on when the hunger pangs became unbearable.

As one might expect, meals at St. Jerome’s were execrable and portions were skimpy, so that a good number of us were uniformly scrawny and malnourished, not to mention dirty. While food and cleanliness were in short supply, most of the fags—myself among them—were more preoccupied with avoiding older boys and doing our best to escape the attention of Matron, the Head Housekeeper and so-called nurse, a large, damp woman who managed the day to day operations of the place. We never did learn her name, although many of the inmates of St. Jerome’s tagged her The Sow, an apt name given her ample frame, piggy eyes, and altogether unpleasant disposition. For so large a person she was uncannily stealthy, and one never could be certain when she might appear and find one at fault. She had a hair-trigger temper, and at the slightest provocation would dispatch boys to the Headmaster for floggings. While I did a great many sketches of her, I thought it prudent