The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  ‘Give him to me,’ I said. ‘I have some barley sugar in my room. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Peter?’

  I held out my arms and the small trembling boy was bundled into them. He looked at me apprehensively, and wriggled at first, and I wasn’t sure how best to hold him, but I made the kind of soothing noises I could remember my mother making to me, and they seemed to have the right effect. I took him to my room, and found the barley sugar stick, and broke off a piece for him. He seemed to like its amber colour and twisted shape; he certainly liked its taste. The tears ceased.

  It took a long while to suck the sweet down to nothing, and by the time he’d done that he’d forgotten Frances’s scare stories – although I had not. I cuddled him tight and kissed his forehead, and told him that of course he was a good boy and not a bad one – he seemed very anxious on this point. When his eyelids began to droop, I tried to settle him for a nap on my bed. But the second he realised I was leaving him alone, he clung to me and began to cry piteously, so in the end I took him back to the bathroom, where we could keep an eye on him while we practised our dance steps. Its marble floor was cold and hard, but I made a deep, warm nest for him out of the enormous, soft towels that Shepheard’s provided; he snuggled down into them, put his thumb into his mouth, and in an instant was asleep.

  Later, when we’d finished our exercises, he woke up, toddled over and took my hand. He couldn’t pronounce my name, so he called me Lulu; he told me I had funny hair, but he liked it. I bent to kiss him again – he looked vulnerable, his skin still flushed from his sleep, and so sweet and trusting, that my heart gave a strange lurch. At his earnest request, I called him ‘Petey’ and he continued to call me Lulu. It was under this new name, and in this new guise, that, later that day, I was finally introduced to Howard Carter.

  9

  We were taking tea on the terrace at Shepheard’s when the meeting with Carter took place – and at our very own table. This scheme, initiated by Frances and endorsed by Rose, had been effected with the combined assistance of Helen Winlock, Miss Mack and an indulgent Evelyn. She had charge of Rose and Peter again that afternoon – Poppy d’Erlanger was, as usual, not in evidence. The waiters had entered into the game, installing us at one of the best tables, and bringing us double portions of cucumber sandwiches, biscuits with icing and cakes. There was a brief battle between Frances and Rose as to who should have the honour of pouring the tea. Rose had just won this tussle, and I was busy settling a cushion on Peter’s chair next to me, so he could reach the table, when I caught a waft of tobacco and lime cologne, and, looking up, saw Howard Carter.

  Removing his hat with a flourish, he bowed to us with great ceremony – or mockery.

  ‘Lord Hurst… Lady Rose – Frances, my dear child – what a splendid tea, and the most fashionable table on the terrace too. Am I permitted to join you?’

  He made a curt gesture that brought the waiters hastening to his side, a chair was produced, and he had seated himself before Frances and Rose, both pink with delight, had graciously informed him he could do so. He smiled that disconcerting smile of his, and I saw his penetrating brown-eyed gaze rest upon me.

  Frances, alert to the social niceties, was beginning to introduce us, when Peter interrupted. ‘Lulu,’ he said, banging the table with a teaspoon that Rose quickly confiscated. He liked the sound, and repeated it in an ululating way: ‘Lulu, Lulu, Lulu.’

  I had a feeling Carter already knew who I was, having perhaps discovered my connection to Miss Mack, and to steel and railroads. Something in the measured assessing stare he gave me suggested this, but if it were so he disguised it, merely nodding his head at me, and drawling, ‘Delighted,’ in a way that made me fear I should dislike him. I sat there on tenterhooks, nibbling a cucumber sandwich, hoping he’d redeem himself.

  ‘So do tell us, Mr Carter,’ said Rose, a good mimic, playing the hostess, ‘how much longer shall we have the pleasure of your company in Cairo?’

  ‘Just a few more days, Lady Rose,’ he replied. ‘I’ll wait until Lord Carnarvon arrives – then I’m off to the Valley.’

  ‘Well, I should think so,’ Frances put in. ‘I can’t understand why you’re still here. It’s late in the season for you. Why aren’t you in the Valley working?’

  ‘Because, Frances, I was ill last November – I had to have an operation in London, and then I was convalescent for six long weeks.’

  ‘Not a serious operation, I trust,’ said Rose, pouring tea.

  ‘No, no – a mere bagatelle, involving gallstones. Lord Carnarvon’s surgeon wielded the knife, so I was in very safe hands. And then I stayed to recuperate at Seamore Place – that’s Carnarvon’s Mayfair town house, you know, so I was well looked after.’

  I swallowed the sandwich and stared at the tablecloth. I despised all name-dropping, and this was clumsily done; my disappointment deepened.

  ‘I couldn’t get out to Cairo until last week. So it will be a short season for us in the Valley this winter. It will be February before we start and we’ll finish off in early March. But we’ll be back up to strength for a full season this coming October. Meanwhile, I’ve been employing my time in Cairo very usefully.’

  ‘Have you been dealing?’ Frances asked, her clear voice carrying to the adjacent tables.

  Several heads turned, and Carter flashed that dangerous smile. Leaning forward, he said quietly: ‘Frances, I’ve used my eyes and my expertise. And I think certain collectors – and certain museums – will be pleased with the result. But let that be our secret, and don’t use that word, especially here in this nest of gossip mongers.’

  ‘Have you found some marvels?’ Frances asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  ‘One or two… yes, one or two. And my good friend Tano was generous enough to throw in a few small trifles. I’d been racking my brains as to who might like them – then I saw you all here, and I found I had my answer.’

  Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew some tiny parcels, wrapped in shiny white paper and sealed with red wax. I had been expecting three: to my surprise, there were four. Carter handed them to each of us in turn.

  ‘For me?’ I said. ‘But you don’t know me, Mr Carter.’

  ‘On the contrary. We’ve just been introduced. So don’t argue.’

  We all unwrapped our parcels eagerly. We three girls had each been given a single and exquisitely worked bead: Frances’s was obsidian, Rose’s carnelian, and mine lapis lazuli. Peter also had a bead, made of silver, and in the shape of a hippopotamus.

  ‘Ippo!’ he cried, delighted. He had difficulty with aitches.

  ‘Oh, they’re beautiful,’ said Frances, flushing with pleasure. ‘That is kind of you.’

  ‘Beautiful, and three thousand years old. Give or take a century.’

  ‘Did they belong to a queen, Mr Carter?’ Rose asked, in a hopeful way.

  ‘Maybe. Or to a king. Once part of a bracelet or collar, perhaps. They’re stolen goods, of course.’

  ‘Stolen?’ Frances was gazing intently at her bead.

  Carter shrugged. ‘Oh, stolen by some tomb robber, almost certainly. But nothing to worry about – we can forgive a theft that took place two thousand years ago, can’t we?’

  ‘They couldn’t be – they weren’t part of the Three Princesses’ treasure hoard, were they?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘But you must have done, surely? I thought––’ She broke off as Carter gave her a sharp glance, and then continued quickly: ‘Well, wherever they came from, they’re lovely. Look, Lucy – yours is carved to look like a nasturtium seed.’

  We all thanked him. Carter fell silent. He perhaps found our childish enthusiasm irritating, or was becoming bored – as I’d learn, his mood changes were sudden and often inexplicable. Having given the presents, he seemed to lose interest in them and in us. He asked our permission to smoke and lit a cigarette, using that silver box and gold holder I’d glimpsed before. He drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes on the oth
er guests thronging the terrace; I think he was noting who was there and with whom. He gave the impression of distancing himself, and dwelling on some private grievance, while half listening to our prattle. Rose was telling him at length about the game we’d played that morning in my sarcophagus bath, and Frances’s enactment of funeral rituals.

  ‘She performed the Opening of the Mouth ceremony,’ Rose was saying, ‘and it was horrible. It made Petey howl––’

  ‘Frances, you should know better than that,’ Carter interrupted sharply. He swung around in his chair to face her. ‘These were profound beliefs. Not a joking matter.’

  ‘I wasn’t joking, I was explaining,’ Frances protested.

  ‘To a three-year-old? What were you thinking of? Don’t do it again.’ He paused. Frances had coloured, and I could see she was hurt by this sudden reprimand from her hero. ‘You’ve been in the Valley,’ he continued. ‘You’ve been in those tombs. Did they teach you nothing? Tell me, were you never afraid?’

  ‘Well, no, not often. Maybe once, when the candles blew out and it was dark. But Daddy said I was being superstitious and foolish.’

  ‘Your father was wrong. Take it from me.’

  Frances flinched and subsided into silence. We all stared at Carter, who had raised his voice and now appeared angry. Peter put his hands over his eyes and began to tremble.

  ‘But I thought you liked the Valley and the tombs, Mr Carter,’ Rose said. ‘You live so close to it. You’ve worked there for years and years and years. You’ve made so many discoveries. Everyone says you––’

  ‘Oh, they do, do they? Then everyone is wrong. As usual. The Valley can be the most hateful place on earth. Or its opposite. Remember that. Frances, don’t meddle with matters you can’t understand. Learn respect. And watch your tongue in future.’

  With that, he rose to his feet, gave us all a curt nod, then turned and walked out. I stared after him, trying to understand what could have provoked this sudden harsh change. Both Peter and Frances were now in tears, and even Rose was disconcerted.

  ‘Gosh, he really is frightfully rude,’ she said. ‘And that cigarette holder is made of gold, which is such a boast.’

  I comforted Peter and thought over this encounter, trying to decode it. It was not the mention of the ‘Opening of the Mouth’ game that had caused the problem, I decided; it might have seemed that it was, but I felt the true cause was something that had been said earlier. That evening, when I had Frances alone, I asked her in a casual way who were the three princesses she had mentioned, and what was the story of their treasure. Frances was too quick for me; she clammed up at once.

  Defeated, I tried out the term on Miss Mack, who had never heard of such a hoard; she then asked Herbert Winlock if he had heard of it. She did so that night, across the dinner table at Shepheard’s. Several archaeologists from the Met were present that evening, including Albert Lythgoe, the conservationist Arthur Mace, and the photographer Harry Burton; they were deep in some abstruse argument. Miss Mack’s question instantly silenced them.

  ‘Three princesses? No, that’s not ringing any bells,’ Winlock replied, after a considering pause and in an easy tone. ‘But there are rumours of treasure hoards being discovered every other month, you know, Myrtle. These stories float around Cairo and Luxor, and very occasionally they’re true. But most of the time it’s the dealers who’ve invented them – it’s just their way of driving up prices. You’ll confirm that, won’t you, Lythgoe?’

  Albert Lythgoe nodded. He was somewhat prim, with faultless manners, though his gentleness concealed a steeliness of will, as I’d begun to notice. ‘I surely will,’ he said in his urbane way. ‘Egyptian antiquities dealers are the best storytellers in the world, bar none. Ripping yarns… no one can touch them for inventiveness, Miss Mackenzie – not even your hero, Rudyard Kipling.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Winlock smiled. ‘If half their tales were true, then the infamous tomb-robber families of Qurna would all be millionaires, Myrtle – and they were still living in mud huts the last time I passed that way.’

  ‘But the Treasure of the Three Princesses – a stolen hoard of treasure –– it does sound so very intriguing! It was Lucy who heard about it. You picked up on it at once, didn’t you, dear?’

  ‘Really?’ Winlock turned his lazy, amiable gaze towards my end of the table, and fixed me with his eyes. Frances, who was seated next to me, bent over her plate and began to crumble a bread roll with great concentration. ‘What very sharp ears you must have, Lucy,’ Winlock went on. ‘Now I’m intrigued. Who mentioned this fabled hoard to you?’

  ‘No one mentioned it to me, exactly,’ I replied. ‘I overheard someone talking about it in the Mousky bazaar the other day.’

  ‘Ah, of course. The bazaar. Well, that figures,’ he replied, in an imperturbable way, and changed the subject.

  I judged him successfully deceived, but I was wrong. A short while later, when Winlock thought himself unobserved, I saw him catch his daughter’s eye. Frances, flushed, her manner repentant, met his questioning gaze. Her father frowned, tapped his finger against his lips in an admonitory way – and then winked at her.

  Under the tablecloth, Frances’s hand reached for mine and clasped it. I knew what it meant, that clasp and the mischievous grateful glance that accompanied it: it meant I was thanked, that there were secrets here. I could accept that. I too had secrets – who doesn’t?

  The next morning, with time running out and Madame’s test imminent, Frances redoubled her efforts to improve my ballet. First position, second, third, fourth, fifth: when I’d finally contrived to make one foot point east while the other pointed west, she seemed pleased.

  Turning away, and frowning into the glass at our mirrored reflections, she said in a casual way: ‘By the way, did I ever tell you the story of the Treasure of the Three Princesses? It was the most fantastic hoard, Lucy. It was found during the war, in 1916, I think. There had been heavy rains, the sands shifted – and there it was. It was found by some men from Qurna, who did what they always do with finds like that: they fenced them – to a dealer in Luxor. His name is Mohammed Mohassib. When we go to Luxor, I’ll show you his shop. It’s – munificent.’

  Examining her reflected feet, she began to perform the first five ballet positions. ‘Mohassib then did what he always does when a hoard like that comes his way. He parcelled it up into small lots, and put out feelers for buyers. He tried playing them off against one another, as the dealers always do. The jewels were fabulous, Lucy, and their price was sky high – and if someone hadn’t intervened the collection would have been broken up and scattered around the globe… Someone did intervene, though. Several people intervened, in fact: Lord Carnarvon, Mr Carter, Mr Lythgoe – and my father.’

  She performed a pirouette. ‘They decided it was time Mr Mohassib was taught a lesson, so when he approached the Met, he was told it wasn’t interested… which rattled him badly. When other buyers heard the Met wasn’t buying, they lost interest too, so the price started to drop. And then, abracadabra! Mr Carter stepped in and bought them, on behalf of Lord Carnarvon… But Lordy was just a front for the Met, and – imagine this, Lucy! – he sold them on to us at cost price: that was the secret deal all along! Mr Carter got a percentage, I think – and everyone gained. We got the collection intact for the Museum, and at a very good price. Lordy had the pleasure of outwitting one of the wiliest dealers in Egypt, and Mr Carter’s become financially secure for the first time in his life – at least that’s what Daddy’s saying… It’s taken all these years to acquire the jewels, and Mr Carter snaffled the very last batch of them the other week – isn’t that splendid? I expect he’ll pass on the good news to Lord Carnarvon when he arrives. Any day now, Lucy!

  ‘I hope I’ve got the details right,’ she continued, giving me a small reflected glance. ‘That’s the story I’ve heard. Some people were talking about it in the bazaar.’

  ‘Of course they were. And in Arabic too.’

  ‘My Arabic improv
es by the day. As yours does, Lucy.’ She laughed and pressed one finger against her lips. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, the first five positions.’

  I performed them, and better than I’d ever done before. Frances clapped approvingly.

  ‘Well, well, well! Who’d have thought it?’ She planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘At last you’re learning, Lucy.’

  10

  The next day – it was the momentous day when I performed my test for Madame, and passed it – I was whisked down to a celebratory tea on Shepheard’s terrace with Frances and her mother. There we were joined by Evelyn, and – astonishingly – by her elusive friend, Mrs d’Erlanger. Some while after that, by a mysterious process, caught up in the currents of rush and confusion that seemed always to attend her, I was transported to the bedroom of Poppy d’Erlanger’s suite at Shepheard’s: I can still smell the lilies, the smoke of Turkish cigarettes, and the musky scent she was wearing.

  ‘Hellishness! Rose, Peter – please help me,’ Poppy was saying, on a note of nervy desperation. ‘Whatever shall I wear for dinner tonight? Look at these horrid things! What possessed me to buy them? Eve, Frances, Lulu – advise me. I simply must make the right choice.’

  We’d been in the room less than ten minutes, and Mrs d’Erlanger was standing amidst an ocean of clothes. A spring tide of chiffons and silks was lapping around her; a torrent of lace, organdie, fur and tweeds was cascading from her wardrobe onto the floor, and this flood was now several dresses deep. A flotsam and jetsam of frothy underwear, scarves, hats, gloves and shoes had been cast up on every surface in sight. One exquisite green snakeskin shoe with a diamanté buckle had drifted towards my feet, and Frances, seated next to me on the carpet, was awash in the foam of a lace nightdress. Peter, half asleep on my lap, was stroking some polar silvery fur, while Rose – a practical girl, as I was discovering – was extracting a tangle of silk stockings from the debris.