Ghosts by Gaslight by Jack Dann Page A

answer.
    I sat waiting in the large, elegant drawing room, secretly pleased that the day had turned chill and overcast again beyond the heavy drapes, and watched Ramose. There were fourteen things that he could do really well and tending the fire was one of them. He propped and stilted in his best penny-dreadful/ Boys’ Own Paper mummy fashion over to the grate, poked it several times, then set down the poker and moved to the side, waiting for his next task.
    Mrs. Danvers ushered in my guest and left us without saying a word, just as I had instructed. Dr. Kray was very well presented, a tall handsome man in his early to middle forties, with a neatly trimmed beard and wearing a suit of the finest tweed. The golden watch-chain in his waistcoat pocket had a fob in the shape of a Horus falcon, proclaiming something of his trade in antiquities. I had no doubt that the Horus was genuine.
    I stood, crossed to him, and shook his hand. But before we could exchange more than a few of the usual pleasantries, I had the distinct if modest pleasure (modest given what was to follow) of seeing his eyes go large at the sight of my favorite manikin.
    “Good Lord, Trenton!” Kray said. “Bendeck mentioned that he’d heard one or two odd stories about you, but I would never have thought this! Tell me that you haven’t revived one of them!”
    “Hardly, Dr. Kray. It’s a construct, nothing more, made to resemble one of the partly unwrapped mummies from Maspero’s 1881 DB320 cache from Deir el-Bahri.”
    “It certainly looks authentic to me!”
    “You’re kind to say so. But listen and you will hear the clockwork. It’s all Bryson gears and a rotating oriete of my own design. A fairground diversion, nothing more. Still, if I time it right, you will think it is responding to my commands. But please do be seated.”
    There were three armchairs arranged before the fire, two in a semicircle facing the cheerful blaze, my own somewhat to the right so I could survey the whole room: the single door, the heavily fastened drapes that deadened most of the street noise, the darkly shrouded shape over by the southern wall.
    Even as Kray took the armchair nearest my own, I called, “Ramose, the port, if you please,” and the mummiform stirred, moved forward once more, propping and stilting, half toppling along, very much like one of those clever manikins you sometimes saw in the better klatsches and salons mécaniques off Fleet Street.
    The port had been poured out earlier by Mrs. Danvers, of course, three sets of glasses on three separate trays, all placed carefully out of sight of where Kray now sat. (Ramose was far from having the dexterity to actually pour drinks from a decanter.) This way the bandaged form need only lean forward and bring up the first tray, then do a slow turn, which put it close by Kray’s elbow.
    With an admiring chuckle at the cleverness of the whole thing, the antiques dealer took a glass, crying, “Bravo! Truly marvelous!”
    Ramose straightened, moved behind the semicircle of chairs, and brought the tray and the other glass to me.
    Herbert Kray sipped his port, then set his glass on the small occasional table before the chairs. “Dashed clever. I’d love to know the trick of it. But to business, Mr. Trenton. Your message said that you might have a prime antiquity to sell.”
    I too set aside my glass. “Let us let Ramose do his other party trick first.” I made sure Kray saw me take out my timepiece, seem to be consulting and calculating an exact timing. “Ramose, please show our guest the WH38.”
    Again, as if responding to the spoken command, the mummiform jerked into life. With a whirring of gears and the distinctive click-shift-lock of the Bryson armatures, he stiff-legged to the shrouded shape looming behind the curve of the armchairs. Kray craned about to follow the whole thing, showing the same wide-eyed delight as before, watching as the mummy stopped, raised one bandaged, hook-clawed hand and seized the