An Evening With Dr. Thomas “Mummy” Pettigrew

Intro: I did my project on the spectacle of Victorian mummy unwrapping events, wherein spectators would gather to watch a medical professional, Egyptologist, or other “qualified” individual unwrap an Egyptian mummy. I focused specifically on those held by Dr. Thomas Pettigrew, a surgeon who became well-known for holding both public and private unwrappings during the early to mid 19th century. The following is a short story which seeks to simulate the experience of attending an unwrapping.

Queue

The line outside the theater is long, and you hope to make it through the crush of sweating bodies in time to be welcomed in. Your friends say they only let in one or two hundred people, and at least fifty of them come bearing gratis invitations from Dr. Pettigrew himself. You rub five shillings between your sweaty fingers, still smudged with dirt from a day’s labor in the local factory. It’s about your entire day’s wages, but an evening with Mummy Pettigrew is one you’re convinced you won’t forget. 

You find yourself standing in the queue behind a fashionably dressed man and woman, who are deep in conversation with a gentleman whose curling moustache, top hat, and tailed coat demonstrate to you that he does not often visit your part of town, unless to collect rent payments from sorry souls like yourself. This group seems unbothered by the long line of attendees waiting to pay at the front, something that makes more sense to you once you see the two crisp invitations sticking out of the first man’s pocket. 

“Ever been to one of these before?” the first man inquires, fiddling with his pressed bow tie. You shake your head no. 

The woman introduces herself as Lady Beckwith, and she and her husband’s companion as the esteemed surgeon Dr. Charles Clarke. Dr. Clarke, owing to his profession, has been to several of these sorts of events before. 

“It’s the frontier of science, I swear it,” Dr. Clarke says, producing a pipe from his pocket. “Pettigrew may have his quirks, but there’s no better way to learn about the human body, even if the process is a bit macabre.” He strikes a match and lowers it into the bowl of the pipe, then begins to puff merrily away. The smell of tobacco joins the others that cling to the streets of London; urine and cooking food and perfume. 

Lady Beckwith shudders. 

“I find it all a bit dreadful,” she sighs, “But it is the fashionable thing to do. Everyone is talking about Dr. Pettigrew and these frightful unwrappings. I would be terribly dull at dinner parties if I delayed going any further than I already have.”

Several paces behind them is a man wearing a turban and elaborate eye makeup, whom Lady Beckwith identifies as the antiquarian Professor Thutmose Akhenaten–originally christened, she tells you in hushed tones, a Mr. Robert Turner. You process into the dark theater behind the three of them, taking care not to step on Lady Beckwith’s trailing bustle.

Inside the Theater

You are not given long to find your seat before the lights dim. The ground is still littered with bits of trampled meat pie and sweet rolls from an earlier show, which Lord Beckwith loudly comments on. Dr. Thomas Pettigrew stands at the front of the room, shrouded in spotlight. He’s a clean-shaven man in his mid-40s, whose pale face is framed with dark, curling sideburns. In front of him, the mummy lies prone on a table, surrounded by what you assume to be Egyptian memorabilia; yellowed texts filled with bunched, crouching characters, necklaces set with winking jade and faience, and amulets in the shapes of animals and unblinking eyes lined in a manner not unlike Professor Akhenaten’s. The mummy itself swaddled in tattered linen, looking more like a ghastly doll than a corpse. 

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for making your way to my humble display this evening. Before we begin, I wish to enlighten you with a few details about Egyptian culture and the burial process,” says Pettigrew. You shift your weight from one foot to another, squinting through the bright lights to try and get a better conception of the mummy. “The ancient Egyptians took many steps to preserve their dead,” continues the doctor, undeterred by the persistent whispers and shuffling of the crowd as they crane their necks towards the corpse. “They also spared no effort in leaving identifying details. Thanks to the work of Mr. Jean-François Champollion and his brilliant Rosetta Stone, we can examine these hieroglyphs and safely deduce that her name was Nephthys.” 

Behind you, Professor Akhenaten snorts. Champollion’s work is not widely accepted by all those interested in Egyptology, and Akhenaten clearly does not rank among his supporters. Amidst the clamor, a dark shadow has appeared at his side. 

“Who is that?” you whisper to Lord Beckwith, who seems to be as socially connected as his wife. He peers discreetly at the other man, whose gaudy turban has begun to unravel.  

“His daughter,” he says in a low voice, “Ms. Florence Turner. An occultist.” She’s wraithlike enough for you to believe him, with long, dark hair straggling free from its braided updo and staining the white chest of her dress. She does not appear to be listening to Pettigrew’s gilding of Champollion’s achievements, but stares at the mummy in open-mouthed reverence. 

“Based on the amount and quality of amulets tucked into her outer wrappings, we can also assume that she was someone of moderately high rank–a priestess, perhaps, or the daughter of a nobleman,” Pettigrew continues.

Lady Beckwith’s white-gloved hand flies to her neck. 

“Imagine,” you hear her whisper to her husband, “Them being able to tell all that from your corpse! Oh, I’m sick thinking about it.” He pants her hand gently, unable to tear his eyes from Pettigrew’s display. 

“Now, everyone, I must make note that the condition of this mummy cannot be guaranteed,” says Pettigrew, poised over the corpse in a way that feels positively Frankensteinian. “The flesh may have deteriorated beyond recognition, or the bones may have been damaged in transit.” At the mention of the subject’s bones and flesh, an excited murmuring overtakes the crowd.

“Good heavens,” says Lady Beckwith, fanning herself with her invitation. 

“I will now begin to pass around some of the amulets contained within Nephthys’ wrappings. Please do not linger too long over them to ensure that all attendees will have a chance to see.” 

This elicits a wave of excited chatter, from which you are not immune. The amulets begin to make their way around the room, accompanied by the rising smell of resin. You make polite conversation with the Beckwiths as you wait for one to reach you. One does, eventually, clutched in the spectral hand of Ms. Florence Turner. 

“Do you hear them?” Ms. Turner asks, her black eyes gaping and cavernous, one hand gripping your wrist as she palms the scarab amulet from her hand to yours.  You shake your head, not wishing to make a scene. The scent of embalming spices are heavy in the air now, mingling with the thick aroma of dust which coats the stage. 

“The voices of the dead?” She wets her lips, which are all peeling white skin and red blood, a pastiche of the abattoir. “They are screaming.”

Before you can offer your thoughts on the particular whims of the dead, Professor Akhenaten appears from the shadows and wrenches Ms. Turner’s viselike grip from your wrist. 

“You understand,” he says severely, “She is passionate about the unwrapping. The dead speak to her.”

You nod, rubbing at your sore wrist and trying to concentrate on Pettigrew’s words through the swelling scent of incense. Akhenaten and his daughter vanish into the crowd.

The Unwrapping

Pettigrew begins to undress the mummy in forceful strokes, and the room fills with the sound of ripping fabric. He piles the discolored linen on the floor at his feet. You’re amazed by the quantity of it; yards and yards of stained cloth, creased in the places it wrapped fingers and thighs. The people around you jostle for a closer look. 

Its face is black and taut, time having plastered its withered skin against its skull. Dr. Pettigrew is going on about the dehydration process, but you struggle to hear him over the sudden dryness of your mouth and fearful beating of your heart. While you’d snorted at Lady Beckwith’s sensitivities earlier, the thought of a flock of landed gentry picking apart your corpse in a few hundred years leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You wipe your wet palms on your pants, trying not to think about how they might ooh and ah over your pocket watch and toothless gums if you’d been born across the Mediterranean a few centuries previous. 

“As you can see,” Pettigrew says. “This particular specimen has retained some of her hair.” From your seat near the back, you can make out lank, dark strands laying over his gloved palm. “The nails are also still intact, and the skin–” A gasp erupts from the front of the theater. Dr. Pettigrew suppresses a ghoulish smile in the name of professionalism. “Parts of the skin yield when touched.” 

Lady Beckwith faints dead away. Lord Beckwith catches her with practiced ease. You muffle your snort into your handkerchief, trying to ignore the shaking of your hands.

Close

Pettigrew spends close to an hour manipulating the corpse, offering remarks about the preservation of such-and-such organ and the myriad treasures Egyptian history has to offer the modern British citizen, intellectual and laborer alike. When the mummy is at last nothing more than a shrunken corpse, gnarled hands upturned as though in supplication, Pettigrew relents. 

“As our evening draws to an end, I would like to offer an Egyptian prayer that the soul of Nephthys finds safe passage to the afterlife,” he says, hands poised worshipfully over the corpse. He says, in tones which shift like November shadows, several phrases in a strange language, then lowers his hands. The spotlight on Pettigrew dims, and the lights of the main theater warm to life. You say your farewells to Dr. Clarke and Lord and Lady Beckwith, and step into the cool night air, acutely aware of the teeth in your mouth and the skin on your hands. You do not speak for the dead, but even you know enough to shudder at the thought of being splayed on a table, the perfume of the grave filling the noses of all who come to spectate.