The tent now glowed inside the silhouette of some grotesque creature began to move about. The lookout felt a little unsure of himself and summoned his colleagues to share his view of the curious light display below. The shape continued to change, flashing first from one panel of the tent and then another, growing, then becoming smaller, then growing large once more.
The Valley became filled with sound again. It was a low, lilting tone, dreamlike, wailing almost, like a host of mourners, the pitch rising and falling with each movement of the dark creature in the tent. The sound carried into the canyon and repeated, echoing to and fro between the towering walls. They had heard nothing the like of it before. With each echo the gathering crowd of mourners seemed to grow larger and louder.
Inside the tent, Adamson was sitting on his bunk listening to the chanting of monks, one of his new records. Suddenly he felt the need to relieve himself and, forgetting for a moment his confined surroundings, pulled himself bolt upright. His head connected smartly with the stout ridge pole and he fell to the ground in a senseless heap. The hurricane lamp rocked wildly about its hook, throwing distorted shadows off the jagged rocks around the valley flanks. The record jumped a track or two but continued to play. To the apprehensive onlookers, it was as if Lucifer himself and his choir of black angels had come to ignite the very rocks themselves and punish them for their evil intent.
The ghostly wailing; the revolving shadows; the flashing light it was all too much for the team of infidels. They took off pell-mell for the river, guns and all.
The sergeant had averted disaster but would remain blissfully unaware of his selfless actions. In the light of day, however, he discovered the sentries’ betrayal and it was with an aching head that he reported his findings to his
boss. “They must’ve scarpered while h’I was asleep, sir.”
“You’re sure nothing’s been touched?”
“Nuthin’, sir. Not a bleedin’ pebble.”
“We must count ourselves fortunate. And count yourself damn lucky, Sergeant. Be sure the police you select this time are well supported with affidavits from Monsieur le Directeur. I would even suggest that you get some police to watch the police... And...” Carter added after a short pause, “sleep, if you have to, but very, very lightly from now on. And I mean very lightly!”
“H’I won’t fall asleep again, sir. H’I promise. H’I’ll sleep in the day time. H’as Gawd is my witness....” After reflecting a moment, Adamson added, “H’and if I does drift orf but h’I won’t never, honest h’even the steps of a creepin’ dung beetle will wake me, let alone the stumblin’ platesameat h’of a bleedin’ fuzzywuzzy!”
Carter gave the sergeant a suitably stern look and returned to his breakfast.
After his patron had left for England, Carter took a couple of days in Cairo busying himself with the purchase of a car, photographic materials, restorative and preservative chemicals, packing boxes, and huge volumes of calico, wadding, surgical bandages and the like. The local tradesmen soon found themselves cleaned out of their entire stocks and rushed to the telegraph to replenish their inventories by the next available steamer.
On his return to Luxor, to his delight his old friends from the Met Herbert Winlock, his wife and his daughter, and James Breasted, his wife and son had established themselves at the ‘Palace’. All were eager to see the discovery as soon as Carter could accommodate them. He lost no time in getting ready for their first viewing.
He wanted the impact to be spectacularly rewarding, not unlike his own first fantastic glimpse, and he prepared accordingly. He had Burton’s lights fully on, flooding the antechamber and its contents with their brilliance, and suspended a white sheet from the lintel at the tomb’s entrance. The linen totally obscured what lay at the other end of the inclined entrance corridor.
When the group arrived at the tomb on the early morning of Christmas Eve, Carter, tweed suit, suede shoes and Homburg, was sitting on the spectators’ wall waiting for them.
“Families Winlock and Breasted!” he greeted his friends, and leapt down. “Welcome to the tomb of Tutankhamen! You are all going to relish this moment for a lifetime. Follow me.”
He gestured forward with his right hand and followed them down into the pit and down the steps until they stood before the threshold. A rectangular, pale reddish gold glow filled the sheet. A light breeze caught it and the image eerily rippled.
After an appropriate pause to build his audience’s anticipation, Carter continued. “Are you prepared for this?”
They all nodded eagerly.
Like a cavalier whisking his cloak to the side, he drew back the sheet in a single movement, permitting an instantly full view of the open doorway at the entrance to the antechamber some thirty feet ahead, and of all that lay beyond it against the opposite wall.
First there was absolute silence. Then Winlock’s daughter broke ranks and scampered down to the steel gate at the end of the corridor. The rest quickly followed. They pressed themselves against the gate as each tried to get sight of the treasures at either end of the room. The view was only partial but the effect no less startling.
Carter stepped forward and dismantled the padlocks securing the steel gate. He pushed it open and stepped down into the antechamber, beckoning to Winlock and Brestead to follow. “Just the two for now no room for more we might step on something.”
Carter stood quietly behind his colleagues with just the slightest suggestion of an expectant grin and, with the excitement of a child showing off his first two-wheeler, he waited for their initial impressions.
They were numb to the stifling heat. There was silence. At last Breasted, his mouth agape, turned and shook Carter vigorously by the hand. There were no suitable words.
Near midday in late December it was sharply cold. A crisp breeze cut the air. It was brilliantly sunny and the shadows of the leafless trees cut starkly black across The Mall and flashed against the windscreen of Carnarvon’s Daimler as he was driven towards the rotunda in front of the palace gates.
As he neared the palace, the earl swelled with pride. Recognition of this ilk was truly a moment to be cherished likely a once in a lifetime event. Nevertheless he felt totally relaxed. This paled in comparison to that moment of discovery. Nothing could eclipse it. The car drove through the gates and into the quadrangle and drew to a halt under the portico at the official entrance way. A brightly uniformed footman held the door for his lordship while another took his arm and helped him out and up the short flight of stairs. He bowed at the entrance to the reception room where the king awaited him.
“Carnarvon!” bellowed the king as he saw him enter. “I’ve been awaiting this moment ever since this time last month. Come and sit down, my good man. Take some tea with me. I wish to hear the full story from the man responsible for this great discovery. You have done your country a great service. A wonderful a truly wonderful achievement!”
“You are too kind, your Majesty. But your praise is at the very least equally deserved by Mr Carter. I was all for calling a halt to our search. Had it not been for his tenacity and discipline, the tomb would still lie buried today.”
“Ah... yes... Carter. He is a small person. Testy, too. Few manners. I’m sure it was a necessary match, the two of you, but I’ll bet it’s been a difficult one at times. Your forgiving nature is a credit to you. I seem to recall a lingering nasty taste when his name and that of the French come up in the same conversation. Just as well a man of means and breeding can lend his name to this discovery. Don’t know that I could stomach an audience myself.”
“Nonetheless, with your leave, sir, I will pass your words of gratitude to my colleague on my return to Egypt late next month.”
“As y’ please, Carnarvon. He’s your cross. Now...” the king continued without taking a breath, “...I want the full story not a word not an observation left out.”
He stared intently at Carnarvon, his face the very picture of anticipation.
While in London during the first
week of the New Year, Carnarvon sat at his desk to review, glance at and possibly read some of the mountain of mail that was addressed to his attention each day. He took it upon himself to read one in three. One of the three he hit upon on that particular day got his attention immediately and stopped him reading any more. In a macabre fashion it appealed to his superstitious nature. At the same time, however, it disturbed him.
The letter read:
Dear Lord Carnarvon,
My wife and I have some degree of psychic power. We do not use this to commercial benefit you understand, but nevertheless we are so gifted. From time to time we are visited. That is, we sense from time to time an alien presence and sometimes even establish a dialogue.
Be this as it may, we are writing to you on this occasion through no other compunction than a wish to preserve you from what we believe to be a mortal danger.
Last night we had read with interest the latest bulletin on the great discovery that yourself and Mr Carter have made in The Valley of the Tombs of the Kings in Egypt. We were discussing the latest findings when, without warning, the lights in our room began to dim. As the light faded an image of a woman in ancient Egyptian dress began to materialise. She appeared royal and she pointed to the desk upon which lay a pad of paper, and beside it a pencil. I felt compelled to pick up the pencil and place the point on the paper. I did not feel any sensation in my fingers but it must have been within just a few seconds of my picking up the pencil that the image disappeared and the light was restored. Both of us were extremely disturbed by this event, but we became absolutely thunderstruck when we realised that in those few moments I had actually written something on the notepad. And this is the reason for my letter to you. The words, all in capitals, read:
‘LORD CARNARVON NOT TO ENTER TOMB. DISOBEY AT PERIL.
IF IGNORED WOULD SUFFER SICKNESS; NOT RECOVER; DEATH WOULD CLAIM HIM IN EGYPT.’ We feel it our responsibility to bring this event to your attention. We are telling you this as fact. Make of it what you will. Whatever you decide to do now, my wife and I wish you well, and God’s speed. Sincerely,
The Hamons
The earl crushed the paper in his fist. He believed so fervently in the supernatural. But at the same time this discovery, after so many years of defeat, was of such monumental proportions that it had become literally the biggest news of the day. From shy and reserved, albeit rich beginnings, he had become a worldwide celebrity. Everyone who was anyone wanted to meet him and visit, or at least hear about, his encounter with the splendours of Tutankhamen’s treasure and experience the discovery of the body of the boy king himself. To distance oneself from such public notoriety was unthinkable.
With strength of will and not a little nervousness, he suppressed the fear which the note had generated and focused himself on completing his business in England and returning to the site as soon as practicable. But an uneasiness remained with him and haunted his sleep.
Carnarvon’s first and most important business of the New Year was lunch at his club with the manager of The Times, William Lints Smith. An old friend of the grandee’s notwithstanding, Smith was totally focused on the tremendous scoop he was about to secure for his newspaper. Similarly, the earl was absolutely certain of the unique and uncountable value in the exclusivity of this story, and of the stories he knew were yet to come. There would be no bargaining.
Friends they may have been, but this was business and Carnarvon was not about to elicit less than full value for the opportunity he would present to the man on the other side of the claret bottle. He didn’t have to worry. They were both gentlemen and Smith was in any case prepared to obtain the sole rights to the greatest story in newspaper publishing history at almost any price. He had come armed with a draft of their forthcoming agreement with everything complete but for a couple of gaps left for the final figures regarding the Carnarvon family’s compensation.
Having spent a little time reading all the provisions in the ten clauses, the earl said, “Five thousand pounds and seventy-five per cent.”
Smith nodded.
Perusal of the menu and the choice of a dessert wine had taken longer than the negotiations. Without further ado, they set to enjoying their stuffed quail.
Lord Carnarvon drained his brandy and blotted his lips with his serviette.
“A truly agreeable agreement, in all senses of the word, William. It’s good for The Times it’s good for Carnarvon it’s good for Carter. He hates publicity. He hates the public! Since publicity and the notoriety that accompanies it are inevitable, this arrangement will permit him the least and the best organised interference. I can guarantee he won’t be pleased with our arrangement, but he will be a lot less unhappy than he would have been had we permitted it to become a free-for-all. Trouble is, he probably won’t appreciate it and I have no doubt he will be downright rude to Merton on occasion. I hope your man has the personality for it, and a tough hide he’ll need it!”
They both laughed.
The little biplane leapt over the rim of The Valley clearing the rocks by just a few feet and, like a dragonfly hitting a downdraught, immediately fell towards the people milling about above the entrance to the newly opened tomb. All of a sudden The Valley was filled with noise. The roar of its engine bounced off every cliff face. Several of the Arab labourers scattered willy-nilly in fear for their lives. It swung so low that it kicked up dust and then climbed back out to make another turn.
“Bloody hell!” shouted Carter over the din of yelling men and machine. “I’ll bet that’s Weigall, sir!” he shouted at the earl, lately back from the festive season in England. “I told him he was barred from The Valley for the time being. Absolutely fumed about it. Not to be outdone he finds another way in. How the hell did he manage that?”
Adamson chimed in above the row. “Give me a rifle, sir, and when ‘e comes back for anuver run I’ll ’ave ’im out the sky h’in the blinkin’ of an eye. That’ll fix ’im... for good an’ all!”
“Isn’t he now a reporter, Howard?” the earl shouted back over the din.
“Daily Mail.”
“Well, we needn’t worry at all about that. They’re not going to get the story. I’ve fixed it already.”
The noise died momentarily as the aircraft disappeared over the ridge.
Carter looked puzzled. “Fixed it? What do you mean, ‘fixed it’, sir?”
“Negotiated an exclusive rights contract with The Times whilst I was away. A story such as this has to be fully reported in the best newspaper in the world. It is inconceivable to have it any other way. Besides, an exclusive contract will mean badly needed money in me pocket, Howard.”
The financial aspects were of no concern to Carter. He estimated the number of non-constructive interviews and pestering he might become exposed to. The daily presence of reporters was more than he wished to contemplate at present.
“Believe me, Howard, this is for the best. All interviews will be under our control at specific times and no other. You will be able to carry out your important work to a schedule which only you will control. I promise you the least hindrance... and no Mr Weigall.”
Carter would be glad of that.
The earl gestured skyward as the biplane came in for another low pass. Everyone held their ears. As the plane swept past and opened up its throttle to make the climb over the cliff face, Carter noticed the camera lens flash in the sunlight.
“Damn man’s taking pictures of us, your lordship.”
“Can’t stop him taking pictures, Howard. Tourists are taking pictures all the time.” “Yes, but he’ll be publishing them, sir.” “Not the official ones, Howard. That’s all that matters to us. Official
pictures with official captions the only correct ones.” “If you say so, sir. If you say so.” The earl’s personal complacency aside, Carter couldn’t help his irritation.
As the noisy biplane disappeared over the ridge line, Carter saw an object fall to the ground about twenty yards in front of him. He trotted over and picked
it up. It was a piece of paper wrapped tightly around a small pebble. He opened up the paper and read the few hurriedly scribbled letters inside: ‘SAY CHEESE! W.’
He rolled it up once more in his fist and threw it to one side out of the earl’s field of view.
The encounter in the Winter Palace bar that night was inevitable. There were only so many places with Western style comforts that one could go to in Luxor and the press were in all of them.
“Hope we didn’t blow your hats off today!”
Weigall slapped Carter on the back as he was leaning forward to place his Scotch on the coffee table. The drink spilled into the ashtray, extinguishing Carnarvon’s cigar. The two turned to glare at the man who had so rudely interrupted their elite gathering.
“Oh. Sorry chaps, er... ladies, your lordship, Carter, Callender, Breasted, Burton.” He acknowledged each member of the seated group with a repetitive nodding of his head.
“Please, let me get you another.”
He turned around quickly and called to the waiter at the bar.
“Effendi! A Scotch and...?”
“Water.”
“...Water for Mr Carter a double. And bring the box of cigars. My deepest apologies, your Lordship. Most clumsy of me.”
“Quite all right, Mr Weigall. Couldn’t be helped. Please, would you like to join us?”
“You are most kind, sir.”
Carter and Callender made room for him and he pulled up a chair.
“I don’t believe you have met the ladies. Some introductions are in order. Mr Weigall from the Mail Lady Evelyn, my daughter...”
He leant forward to shake her hand. “Delighted, Lady Evelyn.”
“...Miss Dalgliesh, visiting us from England for a fortnight...”
“Charmed.”
“...Mrs Burton and Mrs Breasted, accompanying their husbands during their travails with us.”
“Blessed, I’m sure.”
He shook the hand of each of the ladies. Following his recent blundering embarrassment, his fingers were wet with perspiration and each of them in turn wiped their right hands on their hankies; all except Mrs Burton who was wearing silk gloves.
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