“Indeed. Well... What period do you think this piece comes from?”
Carter drew out a small ushabti from his desk drawer and handed it to the young man.
Aldred examined it for a few moments, turning it over in his hands. Carter noticed the boy’s fingers were trembling.
“Er...” The young man’s expression appeared confused.
Carter smiled with contentment.
“Umm...” He turned his face towards Carter. “Er... New Kingdom?... Circa 1350BC... Amenhotep III... Valley of the Kings.”
Carter was astonished, but he did not show it in his expression. He calmly handed the man another piece a small alabaster jar with a hieroglyphic inscription on it.
Once again the young man turned the object over and over in his hands, examining closely every facet of the piece. After a few moments, the same puzzled look. “Er...” He paused a moment. “I... Er...”
“Yes... Yes. Come on, my boy... Speak up.”
“Er... 11th Dynasty. Mentuhotep I. About 2010BC.”
Carter couldn’t contain his pleasure and surprise one moment longer. “Mr Aldred! Two absolutely fine, precise, and most impressive identifications! Tell me, sir, how did you do it?”
The young man looked confused.
“Well? Come on. I know you have not seen the pieces before. Tell me, how did you deduce their age and even their provenance?”
After a moment, Aldred took a deep breath and looked Carter directly in the eyes. “Well, sir... You see, sir... Er... Well it is written on the labels underneath them, sir. See?” He turned the last object upside down.
Aldred had thought it a trick but Carter had totally forgotten that the pieces were labelled. He laughed out loud. “Oh, my boy! While your Egyptological expertise has not yet been severely tested, your integrity certainly has!”
To Carter, the boy’s honesty was as strong an attribute as any academic knowledge. Carter decided this had been test enough and chose to turn the entire interview around.
“Mr Aldred. Is there something anything you would like to ask me about my experiences in Egypt these past forty-one years?”
The young man’s eyes lit up. There most certainly was.
By the time he’d downed his second Scotch, Carter was in full cry. He was in his element. The stories were rolling out one after the other and in explicit detail. Not all were technical. He talked about the troubles in Egypt; dealing with officialdom; dealing with visitors; pandering to dignitaries; balancing the archaeological work with administrative responsibilities; organising the fellahs; their pay; the equipment; the supplies; the lunches; the parties; the tours; the security; the concession agreements; the laboratories; the photography; the lifting tackle; the problems; their solutions. Not like a lecture this time, just stories, blow by blow, just as if they were really there. It was all so fresh in his mind. Once more, he felt the excitement of the planning, the anticipation, the discoveries new and wonderful things, one after the other.
The nature of Aldred’s perceptive enquiries was all Carter needed to make a most favourable assessment of the young man. He was really most agreeably impressed with his grasp of the subject and the depth of his knowledge. The boy had schooled himself most judiciously.
“And now, sir,” said Aldred, after Carter had concluded another story, “what next?”
“Ah!” responded Carter. “After Tutankhamen? Good question, my boy. Tough act to follow, as they say.” He looked wistfully out the window. Now nothing was real any more. Now he had to lie. It came easily.
“After I’ve completed the scientific work Tutankhamen’s not finished until that’s been done after that... Alexander. I fancy having a crack at finding ‘Alex’. Got some ideas, y’ know. Need to follow them up. I return next season. Would you like to accompany me? You’d be admirable help, I am sure, and you will learn a great deal.”
Aldred smiled. He had passed! “Sir, I am truly flattered by your kind offer. I know I would gain much from the experience. But I am currently set upon a course of education and would like to complete this before I apply myself in the field. I am fully committed, I am afraid.”
“Oh? And where would that be, Mr Aldred?”
“King’s College, sir... London, sir. I hope you understand, sir. Terribly sorry to miss the opportunity, but thanks all the same. Perhaps in a few years when I have completed my studies if you have not made the discovery by then, of course!”
Carter was not disappointed and fully comprehended the young man’s direction. ‘Well balanced. Makes his plans. Sticks to them,’ he thought.
He sighed. “Well, if I don’t find Alexander the Great within a couple of years or so I think I’ll be for hanging up my trowel and watching the antics of the likes of you, my boy. Damn good luck to you.” He smiled warmly at the young man.
They shook hands firmly and Aldred took his leave. There would not be a second meeting. Carter wrote his official recommendation on Aldred that very evening.
During his winters in Luxor, Carter was not accustomed to receiving letters, so this one came as a bit of a surprise. He took it from the silver plated salver balanced on the waiter’s fingers and looked at the address on the envelope. He was pleased to note that it was not a telegram, so surely it would not be urgently unwelcome news. It was written in an educated hand, but not one he recognised. He slid his finger beneath the flap and eased the paper out. It was a single sheet inscribed on both sides.
Clouds Hill, Nr. Bovington Camp, Dorset
1st. Feb., 1935
My Dear Carter, Forgive this impulsive note. Out of the blue, I know, but I am sure a gentleman with your capacity for observation will remember our meeting, lamentably all those years ago.
I brought to you a miscellany of artefacts which I had been fortunate to come by in the deserts of my recent travels of the time. I am sure you will recall.
The reason for my letter is that I have just finished reading the third and final volume of your ‘magnamopus’ in three parts ‘The Tomb of Tutankhamen’ and am so impressed with the achievement that I felt myself compelled to communicate with you at once.
By a stroke of damnable luck, I departed Cairo just three months prior to your magnificent discovery. This irks me deeply.
So, sir, I am writing belatedly to congratulate you on your work. But I know that this is only the ‘trailer’, as they say in the moving picture theatres. You have great plans, I am sure and, no doubt, you are already hard at work upon it, and at great pains to complete the scientific study that should accompany such a find of this magnitude. I look forward to the publication of this future work and humbly request that you reserve a first pressing for this brief acquaintance of yours. A bit of a nerve, I know, but I can recall from our first meeting more than a passing commonality in our interests. Besides, you owe me, do you not?
Meantime this current series is a work of art that I will keep protected within my library for ever. I look forward to the next. I and the entire Western world will be indebted to you for your scholarship, your intuition, your discipline, and your execution.
With kind regards,
T. E. L.
PS Should you do me the honour of replying to this letter I would be most grateful if henceforward you would address any communications to me as ‘Mr Shaw’. You see, in order to keep one step ahead of the news media and live in relative peace, I have been forced to assume an alias.
Carter looked over the letter once again, then carefully refolded it and placed it back in the envelope. He took a drink and looked up at the starlit sky. The Milky Way, the Nile of the cosmos, streamed sparkling over the blackness above him. He drained his glass and summoned another.
The waiter placed Carter’s refreshed gin and tonic on the table beside him. He drank it down in one and, with some effort pulled himself up. He walked across the bar and through the lobby towards the staircase which led to his room, steadying himself on the pillars as he left. He fumbled for his key, unlocked his door and went in. He pul
led the door closed behind him, tossed the letter onto the sofa and let himself fall back onto the bed. He rested his head on the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling. Proud as he was at being honoured so by a man of such wordly fame, the responsibility was overpowering. ‘Love to but I haven’t got the energy.’ He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Carter awoke with a start at three in the morning. The entire notion had come to him in his sleep. ‘Lawrence himself. Why not? He’s a scholar of archaeology. A proven literate. Publicly famous. Expertise. Good publicity. Great mix. Use my notes. Those of Lucas, Mace, the rest. He would need to visit the museum. Spend some time there on the details of the objects. I could pay for that.’
Carter got out of bed and lit the lamps in his study. He sat down at the desk in his pyjamas and immediately began to write:
Winter Palace Hotel Luxor, Egypt.
24th. Mar., 1935
Dear Colonel Lawrence,
I was most gratified to receive your letter of 1st Feb. It was most timely. It would lift my spirits greatly should we have the opportunity to meet at least once more. And I have a proposition to make to you.
You are yourself a scholar of archaeology, as am I. The work you speak of in your letter is indeed necessary but, quite frankly, while it festers within me it is too much for my meagre inner resources to manage alone. I ail. From a cancer, so I am told by my doctor. I am not so bad that I cannot think, but I am bad enough that I have little energy little enough yet to write but far too little to delve into the depths of analysis that will be required to bring out the true value of the objects and their history in the late Lord Carnarvon’s discovery and, on top of all this, probably not that much time. But that’s the hypochondriac in me talking!
In any event, it occurred to me that, although this could be considered the deepest of impositions after so brief an encounter as ours, this work being so important, and your clear interest in seeing its conclusion, you might consider obliging me by joining in on this endeavour and helping me in its conception, execution, and its eventual completion. You are, after all, most handsomely qualified to take on such a task.
I must be frank. In this, I will expect of you the majority of the labour, any travel, the writing. I will act as the technical and historical referee, of course, and provide illustration where that is necessary. My hands, I am glad to say, remain steady. I fear I can do little more than this but, from my experience, I will closely advise you in the course of your work all the way to closure.
Having given this considerable thought, I am convinced this may be the only way I will be able to see my achievement completed. I await your reaction with the greatest expectations.
I am shortly to leave for home. Once I am re-established back in London I will attempt to make contact with you in Dorset. I very much look forward to seeing you again. Your most obedient servant,
Howard Carter
Carter folded the page and slipped it into an envelope dutifully addressed to a ‘Mr Shaw’. He called for Abdel to take the letter to the post office. The following silence brought him back to his senses. He was in a hotel. He was alone. It was four in the morning. He laid the envelope on the desk, walked back to his bedroom and fell into bed.
Carter returned to England in May. He had not received a response to his letter but this had not discouraged him. The mail system to and from Egypt was a good deal less than reliable and the period of transition lengthy. However, receiving no response to a telegram despatched while in transit, he decided to go directly to Dorset and seek Lawrence out for himself, unannounced.
He arrived at Wareham at 12p.m. on Thursday the 30th. As he emerged from the extravagantly Victorian station, there was a solitary taxicab parked at the threshold. Carter opened the door and threw his bag inside. “Bovington Camp, cabby. I understand the home of a Mr Shaw’s is located nearby there. The address is ‘Clouds Hill’. Do y’ know the place?”
“Oh yes, sir. Ev’ryone round these parts knows ’is place. Real gen’l’man, sir, but not one f ’ socialising wiv the locals. Kept to ’imself. Bit of an ’ermit, y’ might say.”
The past tense comment was lost on Carter. His mind was filled with expectation and hope. “Will y’ be wantin’ lodgins for the night, sir? There’s ‘The Bear’ in the ‘Igh
Street. Should be comfortable enough for a gen’l’man of your standin’, sir.”
“Mmmm?” Carter was preoccupied with anticipation. “Not right now. Worry about that later. ‘Clouds Hill’ first, if you please, cabby.”
They drove off.
Within a few miles they turned off the main road and were alone driving down long, narrow country lanes.
The cabby regarded his passenger in the mirror. “May I ask why you wishes to see ’is place, sir?”
“You may not,” answered Carter rudely.
The cabby, summarily put off, remained silent for the remainder of the journey. After a few miles they turned left at a signpost for Bovington Camp. Almost immediately the taxi drew up at a gate on the left.
“This is it?” asked Carter.
“The very place, sir.”
The cottage lay just a few feet from the road. It was largely hidden from view by a tall hedge. Carter got out of the taxi and looked about him. There was not another sign of human habitation anywhere to be seen.
Truly a lonely cottage in the country. Carter felt strangely comforted by the thought.
“Please wait for me, cabby. I shall return presently and let you know how long I expect to be. Should you leave I’d be lost out here. I doubt many taxis come by this way looking for fares.”
“Right you are, sir.”
He unlatched the gate and walked onto the gravel fronting the area between the house and a small, shed like garage opposite. The cottage was tiny little more than a two storey box with a single pitched roof and four small windows at the front. Its only remarkable feature was a tall, central brick chimney with a tiled spark cover at its top. The structure was quite out of scale with the rest of the building. It portended that a veritable furnace might lurk below.
Carter approached the front door and rapped briskly on it with his knuckles. He waited a while, listening for signs of movement within, but there was nothing. He walked over to one of the tiny windows and peered inside. The lace at the window made it almost impossible to see anything. He could make out a camel saddle and a sofa spread with a colourful blanket. But there was no light inside and, stepping back from the cottage and looking up, no smoke from the incongruous chimney either. It did not look at all lived in.
Perhaps Lawrence was abroad again. No wonder he had not received a reply to his letter.
Carter returned to the taxi with a heavy heart. “Let’s find a place to rest my tired head, cabby. Is there somewhere closer than driving all the way back to Wareham?”
“Bere Regis, sir, on the Dorchester road. Drax Arms should see you awright, sir. In the main street at the top of the ’ill. Nice people. Me an’ me team plays skittles there. Better beer than in Wareham.”
Carter was not interested in the cabby’s observations and, as the taxi made its way north, he gazed absentmindedly at the countryside. He would have to enquire if anyone in the town knew of Lawrence’s whereabouts. Pointless going all the way back to London if the man was expected to return within the week.
Arriving at the Drax Arms, Carter paid off the cab driver and knocked at the door to the lounge bar. Presently there was a turning of keys and a sliding of bolts. The door was flung open to reveal a rather large, red-faced lady in a floral print cotton dress covered by a stained, blue and white striped apron.
“Yes?”
“My name is Carter. Do you have lodgings for the night?”
The lady regarded the plump gentleman standing before her. The weather was unseasonably cool for late May and he wore a long, dark overcoat that reached almost to his ankles, black shoes, black leather gloves, a grey scarf at his neck and a black Homburg, and he carried a moderately sized, leather tr
avelling case. Looking, therefore, relatively well-to-do, if a trifle moribund, he passed inspection.
“Well, you’d better come in then.”
Carter removed his hat and followed the woman inside. She took him through the bar to the back and up the stairs.
“This’ll be your room then. Barfroom’s at the end of the landing. ‘Ot water’s from a gas boiler above the barf. You’ll need to call me to get it working. Got a temp’rement ’as that boiler. Won’t work for just anyone. Clean towels is in your room. If you’ll be wanting dinner, I’ll need to know no later than five o’clock. Rarver you didn’t really since I ’as to ’elp wiv the bars. There’s a fishandchippy jus’ down the road.”
“I’ll take care of myself tonight, thank you.” Carter was weary of the instructions.
“Please yerself. Brekfust is downstairs in the parlour ’tween eight and nine. If you’re late I can’t promise you’ll get any.”
“Thank you,” said Carter trying to close the bedroom door on her. “I will not be late. Good afternoon.”
Finally left to himself, Carter removed his coat and jacket and hung them in the tallboy. He threw his suitcase on the bed and opened it. From pockets around the inside, he withdrew a matching set of tortoiseshell hairbrushes, a comb, a shaving brush, a cutthroat razor and a sharpening strap. These he arranged neatly on either side of the water stand. From a sleeve in the lid, he drew out a small journal. He left his clothes in the case, closed it up and slid it under the bed. The metal studs in the base of the bag made a dinging sound as they made contact with the jerry, pushing it out of reach.
He sat down at the small dressing table and began to draft a letter to his niece, Phyllis Walker. Having been thus far unsuccessful in taking this first positive step towards beginning the scientific work on the tomb, he felt pregnant with anxiety. He had to unload on someone.
Sometime later, but only two pages completed, he became conscious of voices below. The bars had opened and, it seemed, people around these parts lost no time in filling them up. He felt in need of a drink himself. It was an easy decision. He put the cap back on his fountain pen and closed his journal. He looked in the mirror and slicked back his hair, put a comb through his moustache, pulled on his jacket and went downstairs.
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