Because of all the clutter in this tiny space, sudden movements were impossible, but she carefully shifted her feet and tremblingly raised her lightstick high above her head. What seemed like a hundred eyes stared directly at her. Statues, shabtis, cats, leopards. Painted eyes. Wooden eyes. Jewelled eyes. The tomb was full of eyes and all of them were looking directly at her.

For one moment, she considered bolting for another chamber, but that would take her further from the way out. This was the only exit. If she moved into another chamber and it got between her and the door again . . . Panic crawled across her mind.

Right. No. Stop. Think.

As with Luke, it was her training that kicked in. This room was her exit and Time Police protocol said the first priority was always – always – to secure your exit. She heaved a heavy wooden chest across the floor until it was directly underneath the entrance hole. The one she had come in by. Standing on it, she peered up the tunnel. Back to the surface. . Back to another world. The real world.

She thrust away a picture of herself struggling back up through the limescale chippings as something seized her ankles and dragged her back again . . . kicking and clawing . . . breaking her fingernails on the rough, rock chippings . . .

She could see the green lightstick she’d left halfway down the tunnel still glowing. Almost the whole length of the tunnel was visible and the way was clear.

Stepping back down off the chest, she was a little concerned to find her boots had left dusty footprints on the fine carvings. Echoes of her grandmother’s voice came down through the years.

She needed a weapon. Something with which to defend herself. She checked her string and then stooped and picked up the chair leg again. A small part of her mind told her she was an idiot and it wouldn’t be of the slightest use against a long-dead king.

Hefting it in her hand, she stopped to think. Actually, no, he wasn’t, was he? He hadn’t been dead that long. Not long enough for the smell of wet plaster to dissipate. Nor the faint whiff of sweet perfume hanging in the air. Nor the smell of burning – whatever that was all about.

She would discover later that the chemicals used to embalm the mummy had caused it to smoulder within its own sarcophagus and actually, at some point, it had spontaneously combusted. She would be very grateful she hadn’t known that at the time. A flame-enveloped mummy, rising out of his sarcophagus, roaring in rage and anguish and revenge was not something to think about at any time, let alone when he could be less than two feet away.

Again, the light flickered. Just fractionally. A split-second later it burned as brightly as before. Luke was right. The lightstick was faulty. It was nothing. Nothing to worry about. Everything was fine.