“Master! Master! Come! There is something!”
As he had done every day this season, Carter was standing above the excavation watching and directing the men at their work, and looking for all purposes as fresh to the task as if he expected a discovery any moment. When he heard the man shouting, he immediately scrambled down the gravel bank towards him.
“What is it, Ali?” he shouted. “What have you found?”
“See, sir.”
The man gestured towards a crevice in the bare rock face. There, in a dark recess, faintly twinkling in the sunshine, lay a set of dirty bronze studs. They were the like of those shown in many wall illustrations, sewn in an even pattern on a funeral pall, the type that would have been draped over the frame enclosing the funerary shrines which housed a mummy’s sarcophagus and coffins.
Carter was cautiously encouraged by the discovery. While these studs could indicate that a tomb was nearby, they could also indicate that it was robbed, part of the debris trail of a hasty retreat. Judiciously he recorded the location of the find, the pieces numbered according to his system, and had them carefully packed.
But this excitement was short-lived. Another month passed with nothing to show for the effort. After years of toil, hundreds of tons of characterless rubble had been removed from the area. The tailings of the excavation now extended some considerable way towards the valley mouth, a testament to all the effort and dogged perseverance.
It was getting warm. It was time to bring another disappointing season to a close.
Carter left Egypt for England in April 1921 and, somewhat despondent at his melancholy progress, felt disinclined to return too soon. This time he had not prepared his men to begin work early the following season. He told them to await his return, saying he felt he was close and needed to be present at all stages of the dig from now on. The fact was that there was little of the area left to be cleared.
He felt depressed and did not know how he was going to go about confronting his patron with yet more of this fruitless news.
It was a glorious early May. At Highclere the rhododendrons were blooming in bursts of vibrant colour all over the estate. The contrast with the desert was so extreme that on his way along the drive to the house Carter felt compelled to stop the car and sit a while to take in the atmosphere. He pulled the car onto the grass verge, stopped the engine, rolled down the window and took a deep breath. There were rhododendrons all about him. The heavy, sweet scent of jasmine hung in the air. Carter got out of the car and walked into the shrubbery. Purples, reds, pinks, whites, yellows, blues, and oranges blazed all about him. He found a clearing, took off his jacket, laid it on the grass and sat down. Drawing his knees up under his chin and clasping his legs tightly in his arms, he gazed dreamily at the colourful spectacle. A breeze rolled through the trees and the massive clusters of blooms waved before him. As he stared with unfocused eyes into the panoply of colours, they slowly coalesced.
The colourful mixtures began to form into shapes. The features of the figures were indistinct, but there were many, all filing past him in serried ranks. The column had a slow, reverent, swaying motion. There appeared to be a funeral bier. He thought he could make out the shape of a coffin.
A sudden and brief gust of wind turned the flowers behind the leaves momentarily and the apparition disappeared into the shadows, like a body into its tomb.
Then the pain hit him right in the pit of the stomach, it seemed. It forced him to fall on his side in the grass clutching at his waist. He moaned some expletives and wriggled around for a while in an effort to find a more comfortable position. As he did so, the pain gradually abated and presently he found he was able to get to his feet. Still bent almost double, he hobbled back to his car. He dragged himself into the driver’s seat, pulled the starter and drove on to the house.
Carnarvon’s butler had heard the car approaching and was at the bottom of the steps ready to open the car door. By now the pain was coming back again and Carter, his body arched over the steering wheel, whispered something unintelligible to the man.
“Mr Carter, sir!” the butler exclaimed in surprise.
He leant in, took Carter by the armpits and pulled him from his seat. Once he had managed to get him out, he could tell the man was in too much pain to make his own way up the steps. He crouched underneath him, took the weight of his body across his back and struggled into the house. One of the chambermaids rushed up to him.
“Get the doctor, Mary!” shouted the butler with a sense of urgency. “Tell him Mr Carter is taken poorly. I will put Mr Carter on the sofa in the library and alert his lordship.”
The girl took off up the stairs and the butler, the dead weight of Carter now causing him considerable discomfort, pushed through the library doors and with some relief, rolled the incapacitated archaeologist off his back and onto the sofa cushions. He loosened Carter’s collar and hurried off to get the earl. By the time they had returned, the doctor was already prodding at Carter’s abdomen and receiving intermittent groans from his unfortunate patient.
“My God, Howard! What is the matter?”
Carter responded. “Sorry... Sorry about this, sir. The pain has passed or at least it will if this butcher of yours will stop messing me about.”
The earl’s doctor, a surly man known for his morbid sense of humour, turned to address his employer. “Mr Carter, your lordship, is decidedly not at his best. I fancy he does not deal with pain too well. I believe he has gallstones. He will need to be hospitalised. Go under the knife, I fear.”
As he said this, his face took on an inwardly pleasing but outwardly menacing grin. He turned back to the whining invalid. “The knife, Mr Carter.”
Carter’s words were punctuated by quick breaths as he winced at each stab of pain. “I’ve been experiencing... abdominal pains... For some time now, sir... but never this bad... Seems... seems I will have to... get it seen to.”
The doctor chimed in merrily again. “Yes indeed. Messy operation, by all accounts. Got to go in deep. Blood all over the place. Nasty. I’ll get him a bed at your lordship’s hospital in Leeds. Sir Berkeley Moynihan, m’ lord. You know him well. Poetry with knives. However, the Irish, y’know, not known for their accuracy.” With this parting reflection he disappeared.
“Don’t mind him, old boy. Sick sense of humour for a doctor but a good man at his trade for all that.”
Carnarvon turned to the chambermaid. “Better make him up a bed right here for the present, Mary.”
“Yes, your lordship. At once, your lordship.” And she trotted off upstairs again.
With the earl’s doctor’s help, Carter was found a hospital bed within twenty-four hours. His surgery was over before the day was out.
The healing period, however, was a lot longer. He did not leave the hospital until a month and a half had elapsed, and then he had to rest up in Carnarvon’s London home until he was fit enough to travel.
Carter arrived in Cairo on 25 January 1922, still a bit sore. That did not stop him hurrying to reacquaint himself with the local dealers in search of any new material that might have turned up while he had been away. Nor did it stop him making forays into the markets. Practically three months of the winter season had been wasted.
His patron arrived early in February. Carter was resigned to this visit. He’d had a good run of relative solitude, and it was time to pay his dues.
As things turned out, it was just as well this was a short season. Carter was not fully fit and tired easily. The ever sensitive Carnarvon could see it. The earl would urge him to close his day’s work and get to bed earlier than usual. After repeated encouragement from the earl to take things easy more than he could take, really and the season’s lack of success having monotonously followed the pattern of the last few years, Carter was relieved to be able to return to England prematurely. He was happy to accept that he had no need to prolong his stay and had willingly taken his patron’s advice. He left in April. The earl himself had gone by the end of March.
>
But in the parlour room of the steamer, on the trip back to England, as he nursed his aching abdomen with an ill-advised Scotch, Carter began to whine to himself. ‘Damn this unfortunate malady,’ he brooded. ‘Bloody poor timing. Could have done with a full season’s work. Might have found it by the time he’d turned up. Another bloody year up the spout.’ He swallowed a large mouthful and spoke out loud, “Another bloody year up the spout!”
“Language!”
This retort came from a fat, ageing priest in full black habit and dog collar who had just entered the room. In his right hand he carried an empty champagne flute.
“Seamus!” shouted Carter in happy surprise. “What great good luck! Where have you been all these years?”
“Well, Oi was going t’ ask you exactly d’ same question, Howard. Actually Oi’m surprised you reco’noised me so quickly. Oi have grown a little, have Oi not? An’ not in all d’ roit places. Lost a tad on top, an’ all.”
“The habit, the nose, the glass, Seamus. You are unmistakable. How the devil did you recognise me?”
The priest laughed. “You won’t loike dis... D’ serious expression. Saw it all d’ toime on our one an’ only previous trip. Never seen one loike it since. Doesn’t matter what shape you’re in dat expression gives you away every toime. Miserable old sod y’ are!”
Carter didn’t mind a bit he was elated. It was exactly what he needed at exactly the right time.
“Seamus. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you again. So many years. So much has happened. Have you time to talk?”
“Dis boat is on d’ water, is it not? Until Oi can get off dis tub on to droi land you have all me attention, Howard. Is it a confessional you’ll be wanting?”
“Don’t try me too hard in my present state, Seamus, please. I am, to say the least, a little fragile... mentally... at this point. Can I get you some more champagne?”
“T’ank you, Howard, no. Oi’d ’ave bin most grateful ’ad Oi bin wantin’.” He drew a halffull bottle from behind his back and placed it on the wine table. He sat down and eased back into the deck chair beside Carter.
“Well now. Where should I start?”
“How about from d’ beginnin’? Oi do ‘ave d’ toime.”
“Well now.” Carter, in his relief at finding a friend in this moment of melancholy was at a loss for words again. “Well now. The beginning...”
It had been some time. He tried to recall the events in order. A draught would help oil his senses.
“Cheers!” He clinked glasses with the priest, drank it down in one and began.
“After I left you at Alex I was taken almost immediately into the desert. The early impressions were magnificent. Hard taskmasters but great sights. All off the beaten track. Things millions never have the good fortune to see. And I a mere boy. It was such a lucky time for me. I worked with several important Egyptologists Petrie...”
“Petrie, indeed? Met him moiself. Ungodly man. Couldn’t aboide ’im. Got no soul.”
“Well, I agree with your impression. Not a man I could grow to love. But very inspired. Very clever. Very good at what he does. Good training for one such as I at that time.”
“Typical English Oirishhater!”
They laughed together. Carter refilled his glass and took another mouthful.
“Then it was Davis. American. Y’ know him, too?”
The priest reflected for a moment. “No. Don’t believe Oi’ve come across d’ man.”
“You haven’t missed much.” Carter chuckled and swallowed again. “Philistines, the Americans. Baptist I believe he was. Loadsa money. Arrogant. No bloody brains. No bloody class. You know the type.”
“Never had no toime for dem Baptists all foire an’ brimstone no fun. God loikes a happy flock.”
“Then... Then...” Carter paused.
“Yes, Howard? Yes? Well? Well? Den what?”
“Well... I met an English gentleman. You Irish wouldn’t understand, of course.” Carter was quite serious but the priest only laughed the louder.
“Loiked ’im, did you? One of dem, was he?”
“Seamus! That’s unkind. He’s a good man. Besides, he pays the bills.”
“Ah. Definitely one of dem. You’re lucky, Howard, that you’re not blessed with boyish good looks. In fact Oi would go so far as t’ say... a pretty ugly boy...”
“Do you want me to tell you what has happened these past years or don’t you?”
“Me apologies, Howard. Me apologies. Anoder drink would you be having?”
“Please... Scotch and water.”
Seamus waved to a distant waiter.
Carter, placated, continued. “He was introduced to me by the Director of Antiquities in Cairo Monsieur Maspero a good and a fair man... not like the Froggy bastard who took his place.” Carter took a breath. “Anyway this earl old money and all that, you understand needed someone who knew what he was doing. That’s where I came in.”
“Sounds loike a perfect union t’ me.”
“Fact is, this man was and is fascinated by Egyptian history and the acquisition of its artefacts, and I am the only man who can satisfy him...” Carter paused. “Er, poor choice of words...”
They both laughed.
Carter continued, “Finally got the right to dig in The Valley of the Kings. Been digging for four years. Know what has happened?”
Seamus was growing intrigued. “What?”
“Bugger all. Pardon me. Virtually ‘b’all anyway. Damned unfortunate.” Carter went silent for a few moments. “It’s there you see. I know it’s there. Somewhere...” Carter was getting wrapped up in his emotions again. He looked down pensively.
Seamus broke the silence. “What is dere, Howard?”
“Tutankhamen, dammit! Tutankhamen! Why the hell...? Why ever do you think I’m in such a state?”
“An’ who may dis ‘Tutansomeone’ be when ’e’s at home?”
“I apologise, Seamus. I have been living with this thing for so long I totally forget it may be a mystery to others. Let me fill you in...”
“Before d’loight anuder drink,” cut in the priest.
Carter began his lengthy monologue and the two descended slowly but inevitably into a state of peaceful inebriation.
The price was paid the following morning. Carter awoke to a high and slowly rolling sea. Within minutes of becoming conscious, he was running for the bathroom.
When Carter arrived back at his lodgings in London he found recent mail from Carnarvon.
My dear Howard,
Welcome home. I do hope your trip was a comfortable one and that you had the
time to get some well needed rest. When you feel strong enough, it would be my
pleasure, as you well know, to entertain you here at Highclere. Perhaps you can
come when Newbury next meets the last week of June. We can have a grand old
time and take in a few brace from the grounds. Do say you will come, but I will
leave the timing up to yourself. I have few commitments that are expected to take
me away from here, but none that I should not be able to reschedule around your
own plans.
I want to show you how I have displayed our recent acquisitions from the
dealerships in Cairo.
Also there is much else for us to discuss.
I hope you will feel up to it shortly and I look forward to your reply.
Your ever admiring friend,
Carnarvon.
‘Much else for us to discuss.’ This was less an invitation, and more a set of marching orders. It was time to be called to account for the long years of disappointing results and what had, as Carter was only too well aware, grown into a considerable capital outlay. He had rehearsed the coming meeting many times over in his mind. He took time to count his blessings. There was comfort in the fact that he had been allowed to go this far in his search. Without result, the earl had freely given him his confidence for longer than any normal phi
lanthropist could be expected to tolerate. The impatient Davis would have withdrawn from the area long since and perhaps fired him to boot. It was almost a relief to Carter that the moment had arrived at last.
He was quite ready for it. There was no question that clearance of his ‘triangle’ in The Valley had to be completed, but he would not ask the earl for further funding. By now he had enough money saved to do it at his own cost. All he would wish from the earl was for him to agree to hold his concession for one more year so that the excavation could continue. He would go directly to his favoured spot, the workmen’s huts lying beneath the entrance to the tomb of Ramses VI, and get it over with.
He enjoyed a good sleep that night no more brooding.
At breakfast the next day, Carter pulled out his pen and paper and wrote back to his patron accepting his invitation and stating that he would be there no later than the first week of July.
When he arrived at the front steps of the great house, Carter was feeling remarkably fit. He was in the best of spirits. The adrenalin of excitement and anticipation that he truly should get this chance to dig where he had most wanted to these past few seasons buoyed him up. As he greeted Carnarvon in the library, his beaming smile was quite genuine.
For the first three days at the estate, they talked about anything but The Valley. Carter could tell that the earl was uneasy about how or when he could broach the subject. The Egyptologist decided it might even be to his advantage if he himself first broke the ice.
As they promenaded in the gardens, Carnarvon continued to eulogise his past season’s pheasant shoot. “Five hundred and thirty brace in one day, Howard. What do you think of that? Had a bit of help, mind you. Actually, never had so many guests at the house at one time. Capital session though. Haven’t enjoyed m’self so much in years.”
Carter spotted the opportunity and took it. “No, sir. The years have been pretty lean elsewhere, have they not?”
“What?” The earl feigned a lack of understanding for a moment. “Oh... The Valley. Aye. We have had a run of bad luck there, Howard. A long run.”
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