Tutankhamun Uncovered

by Michael J Marfleet

  “No breakfast. Coffee! Now! I go to meet with Zaghlool as soon as I have dressed.”

  Angry as he was and tense with a feeling of urgency, he nevertheless took the time to complete his normal morning routine. The man who emerged from his bedroom that morning looked the same as he had always done the white shirt; the bow tie; the tweed waistcoat and trousers; the beige suede shoes; the grey socks. There was no visible indication of the inner torment just the square, stubborn jaw and that expression of dogged determination.

  He picked up his jacket and Homburg, stuffed the letter into a trouser pocket, and walked purposefully outside to his car. Before he reached the ferry he met a policeman coming the other way. The policeman had another communication for Carter. This one was accompanied by a cover letter from Lacau which attempted to soften the tone of the order from the Under Secretary of State forbidding, until further notice, any access to the tomb to anyone who had not the express approval of the Ministry.

  This second salvo following immediately after the first hit well below the waterline. Carter’s mind was verging on a state of rage but his sensibilities told him that any attempt to reverse these orders was futile and he abandoned his Zaghlool mission. Instead he would go to confer with his team and develop a strategy.

  As he walked down to the ferry, the District Governor, whom he had not noticed in the crowd of people standing around the slipway, called after him. His timing couldn’t have been worse. “Mr Carter, sir! Mr Carter! While you are away may I make use of your car and driver to get to The Valley? We would be appreciative of a lift.”

  The policeman who had served Carter with the order was with the Governor. Carter glared at the man. “As a friend I would be only too glad to assist you, sir. But if your business is connected with this policeman, I am unable to. You will have to find some other means.”

  He briskly walked away.

  He found his friends eating breakfast at a private table on the veranda of the hotel. Burton wasn’t there but Lucas and Winlock were.

  “Drop what you’re doing and come with me at once! We must secure the tomb. The Minister’s refusing to allow the wives to enter before any Egyptians! Damned outrage! Time to teach him and that lackey Lacau a lesson! Time they realised just who they are dealing with here!”

  Carter threw the screwed up letter on the table in front of them. The two men, expecting a more normal working day for a change and to that point happily absorbed in their bacon and eggs, were absolutely astonished by Carter’s outburst.

  Before either of them could react, Carter continued. “We must lock it up! We’re downing tools! Give them a bellyful of a great British tradition!” He grinned. “Come on! No time to waste! We’ve got work to do! We’ll lock up Fifteen first. Clear your stuff up. Make sure everything is stabilised. Then the tomb... After this morning’s press party.”

  By now the two had read the piece of paper Carter had tossed at them.

  Winlock looked up. “This is not right. We must write a rejection to this order, Howard. Make a public statement. Let’s do it now, before we leave.”

  Carter looked at his friend. His eyes were afire. “Yes! Good idea. Something of the sort. But we have business on the west bank first. I’ll get with poor old Breasted later and between us we’ll draft it. Get it posted on the ‘Palace’ notice board. Capital!”

  After twelve attempts, each succeeding version a little less vitriolic than its predecessor, the finished public notice would announce that, due to the vagaries of the Public Works Department, Carter and his team would be ceasing work on the tomb and its contents and the tomb would be closed from midday of 13th February 1924.

  Apart from the puzzled guards who remained at the site, The Valley was deserted, unmoving, silent. Sand began to settle on the stairway to Tutankhamen’s tomb. The materials in Burton’s darkroom gathered dust. The faded funerary pall, still awaiting conservation, lay forgotten on the floor of the laboratory. A faint whiff of breeze lifted a corner. In the pitch darkness of the tomb the dead king lay in nervous peace within his opened sarcophagus.

  The Minister tucked a rolled up Egyptian pound note into the belly dancer’s waistband and rested back in his armchair to watch the remainder of the evening’s performance. His face held an expression of utter contentment. It had been, after all, a most satisfying day. He had been able to take the initiative and gain the public high ground over the arrogant Englishman a publicly political statement of the power he held over all that the English represented in Egypt.

  He despised the West and all it stood for. In his younger years, he had been militant, one of the bolder ones, and had suffered time in the British Army penitentiary for it. But that was all behind him now. Now it was his turn to write the protocol, make the laws, force compliance. And just today he had succeeded in pulling off a most satisfying public coup. He had cancelled the Carnarvon concession and barred Carter and his colleagues from entering the Tomb of Tutankhamen. On his orders the padlocks Carter’s team had put in place had been forcibly removed and replaced with new ones with different keys.

  As he reflected on his day’s achievements, a sinister smile broadened across his face. He took a sip of coffee and refocused his attention on the rhythmically swaying, perspiration oiled torso barely an arm’s length away from him.

  “Ibrahim!” Carter shouted.

  He knew the little man from his previous life with Theodore Davis. He had been the reis in charge of their labour force. The diminutive Arab was sitting upon the low wall which surrounded the pit above the entrance to the tomb.

  “Ibrahim! What in the name of Allah are you doing, man? And what are these militiamen doing here?”

  The Arab at once jumped down and bowed apologetically.

  “I am commanded by the Inspector of the Antiquities Service to...” He took a deep breath and then blurted out quickly, “to stop anyone from entering this place... in... including you, sir!”

  “Ibrahim, you scoundrel, you should know damn well there is work in progress here.”

  Carter stopped a moment to gather himself and attempt to reason rather than harass the man. He began again in a softer tone.

  “Ibrahim, you need to understand the situation. As we speak and dawdle at this entrance a huge slab of stone hangs precariously above the coffin. A coffin of unsurpassed beauty and magnificence, Ibrahim. Had you set eyes on it you would not so stupidly keep me from my work. What will happen to that priceless work of art should the stone fall? In all the time we worked together I never took you for a foolish man.”

  The reis felt decidedly uncomfortable. After a long pause he finally gathered sufficient strength to whisper back. “These are my orders, sir.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from under his sweaty headband and nervously stretched his hand towards Carter.

  Carter snatched it from him. It was another Service Order issued by Lacau. He only had to read the first paragraph banning all entry to the tomb and specifically mentioning Carter himself.

  Carter couldn’t believe this was happening to him. To him of all people. Lacau surely had not the intelligence to use Carter’s strategy against him call his bluff? It was unthinkable.

  The unthinkable then occurred to him. Perhaps that had been his mistake all along. He had never given a second’s thought to a carefully constructed conspiracy by those whom Carter considered so inept. But now, in seriously underestimating Morcos Bey Hanna’s tactics, it appeared that the Egyptologist’s arrogance had been skilfully exploited by the Egyptian.

  The angry Carter turned back to Ibrahim, his face an expression of abject disgust. “Just you remember, Allah watches this place. He sees that which you do. He sees it is unworthy of you to betray an earlier loyalty.”

  To any Arab of conscience such scolding from his past master, whom he had always respected, would have fallen heavily upon him. But to this man the duty in hand and its forthcoming financial compensation were easily the more important. The eyes of Allah were upon him, yes, but so they were at all tim
es, and there was money in his hand besides.

  Once more, Carter lost the fragile control he had over his temper. “Unlock the bloody gate, Ibrahim! At once!” he shouted. His face flushed. The entire valley roared back. It was as if a crowd of Carters was shouting at the reis.

  The Arab tilted his head to one side, shrugged his shoulders and made an ‘it’soutofmycontrol’ gesture with his hands. “The militia guards the entrance, sir. I have no power over them.”

  Carter became yet more agitated. He thought for a moment. ‘Thank God the earl was spared this experience. Prevented from accessing that which is rightfully his an insult of diabolic international proportions.’

  The infuriated Egyptologist threw an obscenity at the Arab and stormed back to his car. The reis knew that he had been cursed but had no idea in what manner and cared less. He sat back on the rock wall and contemplated his next meal.

  As he rode back in the open rear seat of his car, Carter thought through his next action. ‘In the interests of upholding the dignity of my departed patron, there can be only one rational course. For true Englishmen, rudely wronged, in a backward foreign land populated with powerful unsophisticates sue. After all, the justice system is British based. Bring the fellaheen to their knees, in public, for all the world to see. Publicly embarrass the Egyptian government. A less aggressive approach is inconceivable.’

  Within hours of arriving in Cairo, Carter had retained the services of one

  F. M. Maxwell, the irascible lawyer who some years earlier had convinced a jury to convict Morcos Bey Hanna of treason and who at the same time had argued, unsuccessfully at the time, for the death penalty.

  To Howard Carter, the strategy seemed perfect, and the situation that this mixture of characters would create, a kind of poetic justice. In his command of Egyptian law Maxwell was undeniably the most accomplished of all Englishmen. He would make mincemeat of the opposition. To ensure that his forthcoming success was effectively communicated to the world’s press, Carter had Merton, the Times reporter, in attendance. The stage was set for a very public showdown. British post Victorian arrogance was dressed and ready to carry the day.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Turn For The Worse

  Tutankhamun and his people had much to be pleased about. Their engineering of the trial had been a great success. Carter was gone from Egypt hopefully for good. There were still visitors to the tomb, but the tours were formal and closely supervised, disturbance was minimal, everything was left in its place and the king’s body itself remained in relative peace. It looked at last as if the royal party and its group of loyal friends could once more resume a peaceful coexistence. But, before they could release themselves to the pleasures that accompany eternal afterlife, they had first to consolidate their position.

  “Before we can establish what still needs to be done here, we must first of all inventory everything in its current place in the tomb of Tutankhamen, and likewise every other tomb that the Carter party had requisitioned.”

  Pierre Lacau was surrounded by a group of white coated and red-fezzed Egyptian attendants who had eagerly made themselves available for conscription by the Cairo Museum in order to accompany him to The Valley. While his first inclination was to go to the tomb of Tutankhamen, he somehow felt compelled to begin with the laboratory tomb and, following his direction, like a well trained detachment of soldiers, his loyal platoon sallied forth.

  They stopped at the open doorway and looked inside. One of them observed the general situation of the interior and noted it down in his journal. All was as it had been that fateful day when Carter had been so unceremoniously barred from re-entry preparation trestles against either wall in the entrance corridor; underneath and against the walls, purpose-built crates, readied for their contents, the protective padding remaining carefully positioned within them and overlapping their rims; open trays of objects awaiting attention; and six cases of wines, each boldly labelled:

  FORTNUM & MASON LTD. 181, PICCADILLY, LONDON, W.

  Although behind his party of helpers, the Director General of the Antiquities Service towered head and shoulders above them and thereby commanded a very adequate view of what was in the chamber corridor.

  Without question, the objects on the tables still awaiting the conservators’ attention were lovely but there, a little more distant, was the cache of wine. Lacau’s inner senses were French after all, and he was naturally drawn in that direction first the inanimate treasures from an ancient past could wait for the time being. He authoritatively pushed his way between the men in front of him, walked over to the closest crate and removed the already loosened lid. There were three individual wine boxes remaining inside. He reached in and pulled one out, sliding the wooden cover off to look at the bottle. He became absorbed by its blood rich colour and for a few moments quite forgot himself, what he had come for, and who accompanied him. He took the bottle out and examined it closely, turning it gently. He held it up to the light which blazed in from the doorway. The sun’s rays sprayed a rippling magenta backwash across the white limestone walls behind him. Reverently he drew his hand over the wine bottle before carefully replacing it in its box.

  As he slid the cover closed once more, he couldn’t help but wonder. If he could secrete it away in the carpet bag he had with him, what chances were there that anyone would miss it? For a man of his position, such a thought was reprehensible and, with a reverence only a Frenchman could bestow (and only another Frenchman could recognise), he put the box back in its case.

  His helpers remained standing at the entrance, patiently awaiting their instructions. He was about to turn back to them when something made him feel he should look further. There was another layer of wine cases below the first. He removed the top case and looked at the one beneath. The romance of the label warmed his heart: ‘Chateau Margeaux 1888’. This was irresistible. Trying not to disturb the contents, he picked it up carefully and stood it on another crate. Expectantly, he lifted off the lid.

  As if awakened by the brilliance of light filling the doorway to the tomb, two wide-open eyes stared back at him from the small, chocolate coloured, carved head of a boy enclosed all about by a generous padding of straw.

  For a moment the Director stood stock still, his mouth agape but quite speechless. There were murmurings from behind him. By now, all had caught a glimpse of what he was looking at. His surprise at making this discovery and the placid exquisiteness of the piece itself had quite taken his breath away.

  He lifted it out gently by the base and examined it more closely. A few flakes of auburn paint which had fallen from the peeling cheeks lay behind in amongst the straw. He turned it over, then stood it on a nearby table. He examined the case more thoroughly for evidence of any identifying note. Carter had methodically catalogued every piece he had unearthed and this one surely would be no exception. But Lacau found no label; nothing at all.

  He ordered his men to get about their business of inventorying while he himself set about opening every case of wine in the corridor. In the event, all he encountered was more wine.

  Lacau had the Carnarvon party’s catalogue papers with him, and a cursory study confirmed that this piece had not been accounted for. The Director’s emotions moved from wonderment to conjecture and thence to suspicion. He shook his head. It was unthinkable. He had sufficient respect for Carter’s professionalism not to think him culpable. But he would not have so easy a time explaining the discovery to the Minister. He would need some convincing words from the man himself.

  Having assured that the piece now was clearly identified and described on the inventory being prepared by his assistants, Lacau took himself off to the Winter Palace to send a telegram.

  He had previously won a battle of principle with Carter. So far as the Director was concerned this was now behind them. In his own mind, common sense had prevailed. There was no one else that he had access to who could manage the continued clearance of the tomb so well as the arrogant little Englishman whom he had
ejected and excluded from the place in an atmosphere of some considerable public disgrace. But the deed was over and done with and that was an end to it. There would be no question now that Carter could elicit any agreement for a share in the past discoveries and those yet to come. Lacau and the Egyptian government were in complete control. All Lacau needed now was to get Carter safely back on the job by the next season. But it would be hard to persuade the Minister and, if this incident became public and went unexplained, well nigh impossible. Ironically, the country would suffer at the hand that had sought so skilfully to protect it. He therefore decided not to inform the Minister of his findings until he had allowed Carter himself to explain.

  Lacau had always been a realist. Carter’s eminent qualifications made him the only choice to continue clearance of the tomb. He was therefore anxious to give Carter the room to provide a full and credible explanation. He called for Herbert Winlock who, in Carter’s absence from Egypt, was acting as his proxy. He asked him to draft a cable describing the find and the circumstances in which it was discovered and politely request an explanation. In the event that no explanation was forthcoming, Lacau suggested that Carter might say it had been purchased. That would be a risky story but probably untraceable.

  Both spent many wakeful nights while they awaited a response. They need not have worried.

  Carter had received the cable when he registered at a hotel in Chicago on the third leg of his lecture tour in the United States of America. The gruelling schedule was taking a toll on his limited stamina. He took the envelope up to his room without opening it and did not settle down to read it until he had laid out his things, received a large gin and tonic from the room service waiter, and made himself comfortable on the sofa.

  Upon opening the small yellow envelope, he could thank his fatigue for the mildness of his shock. It had been a fear he had harboured subconsciously for too many months. At last he could come to terms with it.