The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  She raised her head from the map, and gave Carter an appraising stare. ‘Which is why I’d guess that right now you’re looking for a particular tomb, belonging to a particular king, and he’s eighteenth dynasty at that. That’s why you’re concentrating on the Valley floor, Mr Carter, and that’s why you’re levelling down to the bedrock.’

  ‘You’re your father’s daughter. And you’re no fool – I’ll give you that, Frances.’ Carter took a swallow of whisky. ‘Lucy, your turn. You’re choosing the place for your tomb: how do you select it?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought of any of the things Frances has mentioned. I don’t know about them. I suppose I’d do what people have always done – I’d want to be buried near my family. Grandparents, father… ’ I paused. ‘My mother.’

  ‘I agree. Human instinct.’

  Carter drained his glass, tossed his cigarette into the fire, and crossed to the table. He bent over the map. ‘So, bearing in mind what you’ve both said, supposing I told you that your father’s tomb is… around about here… ’ He jabbed at the map with his forefinger. ‘And suppose I also told you that items relating to your funeral rites had been hidden a short distance from your burial place, somewhere around there… ’ He jabbed the map again. ‘And finally, that a very beautiful cup, bearing your name, and perhaps stolen from your tomb, had been found here… where do you think your actual tomb is located?’

  I bent over the map obediently, though my vision had blurred and I couldn’t see the triangulation points he’d indicated. All I could see was the grey stone in a Cambridge churchyard bearing my mother’s name and dates. Frances, like me, gave Carter no answer. Looking up, I saw she had fallen fast asleep, curled under one of those plaid rugs; her face was pale, and her eyelids flickered, so I knew she was dreaming. There was a silence. Carter, frowning into the fire, gave no sign that he was awaiting an answer; I felt he’d forgotten us.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Carter,’ I said at last. ‘I’m afraid we’re not much help – well, I don’t expect you thought we would be, not really.’

  ‘No matter.’ Carter began to roll up the map. ‘I work to a system,’ he went on, staring at the fire. ‘I don’t go out there and dig at random, though plenty of people have done just that in the past – and it served them well enough. But oh no, I work at it. Every tomb, every cache, the smallest find that’s ever been made in the Valley – it’s in these notebooks and I’ve mapped it. In that notebook, you’ll find the details of every king that’s buried there, the ones that have been found so far, which is virtually all of them, and the few – the one or, at very most, two – whose tombs should be there, but remain undiscovered. In this, I note the tomb robberies described in antiquity: they give me valuable clues. This records conversations with natives, men I’ve taken the trouble to cultivate, men like Girigar who know this place like the skin of their own hands… I know I’m on track. I know it’s there. Give me time, and I’ll find it––

  ‘I’m actually digging in the Valley for – what?’ He threw the notebooks onto his desk. ‘Weather permitting, four, at best five months a year. And how do I spend the other months, when I’m back in England, when I’m having a high old time at Highclere – with Carnarvon at the racetrack, at one of his shooting parties? I enjoy it, don’t think I don’t: but I never escape. I never shake the Valley off, it’s always in my mind. Thousands of miles away, a world away, and I’m always there, in the Valley, poring over its maps… I dream the damn place contour by contour – until sometimes I’m so sick of its tricks I swear I’ll never set foot in the accursed place again. Only I know that won’t happen. It’s got me by the throat. And one of these days, I’ll just drop like a dog and die there.’

  He was wrong in that prediction – but of course neither of us knew that then. I said nothing; his manner frightened me, and besides, it seemed wiser to remain silent for Carter wasn’t addressing me, I could tell. He was speaking to himself and seemed scarcely aware of my presence. I shrank back under my rug and half closed my eyes, so when he came to himself he could believe I’d been asleep like Frances and had heard nothing – I thought he’d prefer that.

  Watching covertly, I saw him roll up the last of the maps and gather the scattered notebooks that he’d tossed down as he spoke. I heard the gurgle of whisky as he refilled his glass. I heard him slump down in his desk chair and mutter something to himself. There was silence after that, and exhausted by the day, by too many things happening too fast, I began to drift into a troubled sleep. I was half under, somewhere in a tomb, I think, when I heard the door across the hall opening, then the sounds of footsteps and women’s voices. I rubbed my eyes and peered dazedly at my wristwatch. It had stopped.

  Carter rose and quietly left the room. I heard him say, ‘They’re both asleep. Worn out, the pair of them.’ Then he closed the door. Straining my ears, I caught murmurs from the three women, forceful interjections from Carter, but no actual words. By the time Miss Mack and Helen came in to wake us, a plan had been decided upon, it seemed – though there was no further explanation.

  ‘Now, my dears,’ Miss Mack said gently, and I could see that she was anxious and Helen had been crying. ‘Now, children, we want you both to do just as we say, no questions and no arguments. It’s too late to ride back to the American House on the donkeys, and we’re all far too exhausted. So Eve is kindly going to drop us off in her motorcar, and Mr Carter is coming with us. Then he’ll escort her back to Luxor and her father––’

  ‘But why?’ Frances protested, struggling with her rug and sitting up. ‘Why can’t Eve come and stay with us? She could go back to the Winter Palace in the morning.’

  ‘Darling, what did Miss Mack just tell you?’ Helen said, in weary tones. ‘Eve’s father is expecting her back at the hotel, and she can’t drive there on her own when it’ll be dark any minute – that’s out of the question. Just do as you’re told, Frances. And when we get home, both of you will go straight off to bed. Now, come along, please.’

  We trooped out to the car to find that while we’d been inside the fastness of Castle Carter, the Valley’s mood and its weather had altered once again. It was now dusk: a still, calm and beautiful evening. The last of the evening sun lay along the Theban hills, a sickle moon hung low over el-Qurn; the acacia trees by Carter’s house were unruffled by wind, and the air, refreshed by the storm, was sweet with their honey perfume. We climbed into the car, Carter seating himself next to Eve, the rest of us cramped in the back; the boy Hosein ran out and cranked the engine.

  ‘Now please don’t be nervous,’ Eve said in a shaky voice, as the car started. ‘I’ve been driving since I was twelve.’ No one answered, and we began bumping along the rutted track to the American House. After we had gone a hundred yards or so, Eve said in a sudden distracted way: ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered something – the canary! I never bought you that canary, Howard —’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ Carter replied. ‘Calm down. Concentrate on the driving, Eve.’

  The car hit a deep rut, tilted, juddered and then righted itself. I saw Eve struggle with the gear lever; we careered forward as she accelerated.

  ‘Watch out… the visibility’s going,’ Carter said. ‘You just missed that boulder – put the lights on, damn it.’ Reaching across, he flicked switches, and the headlights came on.

  ‘The canary would have brought us luck,’ Eve said. I saw a tear fall from her cheek. In a bright vacant tone, she added: ‘That’s much better. I can see the way perfectly now.’

  I saw them exchange a glance, Carter’s piercing and interrogatory, hers placatory. Eve then concentrated on the track, and her driving steadied. We continued bumping along through the hills towards the American House. It was not far – a mile at the most; for the duration of the journey not one further word was spoken by anyone.

  We watched as the car accelerated away; Eve and Carter disappeared in the direction of the Nile and the ferry, and we were quickly ushered indoors. We were given hot baths – in ti
n baths in our bedroom – then we were brought glasses of warm milk, and put to bed: ‘Like infants,’ Frances said bitterly, when the lights had been switched off, and the door closed. She sat up in the dark – I could just see the outlines of her white nightdress, her pale face and her wide eyes. She leaned across towards my bed. ‘What time is it, Lucy?’

  ‘I don’t know. My watch has stopped. It’s dark outside now.’

  ‘What’s happened, do you think?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, why aren’t they telling us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whispered back. ‘But whatever it is, it must be serious.’

  ‘Mr Carter didn’t say anything? While I was asleep?’

  ‘No. He just talked about the Valley, and his searches there and —’

  ‘His demons? He does have demons – I’ve heard Daddy say so.’

  She sighed and fell back on her pillows. We both lay there in silence, while the ceiling fans revolved with a soft rhythmic swish. ‘Did you notice, Lucy,’ she said, ‘Mr Carter and Eve? When we first walked in? When we thought she was Poppy?’

  ‘Yes, I did notice. They were different together. In the car too.’

  ‘Do you think that could have something to do with it? Was that why Eve was so upset?’

  I considered this. I wasn’t at all sure what it was we had witnessed; all I knew was that I’d sensed something concealed – and powerful, like an undercurrent. ‘I don’t think it was that,’ I said. ‘Maybe it sort of contributed. But there was another reason too. Miss Mack knows what it is. And your mother. And they’re not telling us.’

  ‘Maybe they’ll explain in the morning,’ Frances said in a forlorn voice, but she did not sound convinced. We lay there in silence again. I looked at the shadowy scorpion nets across the windows, at Frances’s shrine of photographs, lit by a faint, flickering night light; her grandparents, her parents, her little drowned brother, lost to the cold waters off Maine.

  I closed my eyes and found I was in a tomb again, Frances leading the way, guiding me by the narrow beam of her flashlight. Deeper and deeper we went, our route twisting past doors and beckoning passages. Frances darted ahead, taking first this turn, then that one. I hastened to catch up with her. I knew we were in search of her brother, and our task was to bring the little boy back from the underworld, but I could hear the gates of night slamming shut behind us, and that frightened me. I wanted to ask Frances how we’d ever escape this labyrinth, but I knew that, to make her understand, I’d have to speak Coptic. Then her flashlight went out. I could see nothing, but my hearing was sharpened. I could detect the sound of rushing water, and, echoing along the passages, came the piercing cry of a child.

  ‘KV,’ Frances said, as sleep finally claimed me.

  17

  The next morning, Frances and I were woken early and told there was a change of plan: Miss Mack and I would be returning to the Winter Palace as arranged, but Herbert, Helen and Frances would accompany us. We were informed we would be meeting an important official from Cairo, who wished to speak to us. There was no cause for alarm: he simply wanted to ask us some questions, and when he did, we must answer him clearly and truthfully.

  No further explanation was forthcoming, though a great fuss was made about our clothes: both Frances and I had to wear dark dresses, jackets, gloves and our best panama hats. Miss Mack and Helen were sombrely dressed; Herbert Winlock wore a grey suit and a black tie. We waited for the official upstairs at the Winter Palace, in one of the hotel’s private rooms, where we sat without speaking. Helen and Miss Mack gazed at their laps and their kid-gloved hands; Herbert Winlock, grim-faced, stared into the middle distance. I stared at the room’s glass doors, which led out onto a balcony.

  Eventually, the official, who proved to be a tall Egyptian, wearing a black suit and a scarlet fez, poked his head around a door and, with wide smiles and an air of great benevolence, asked Miss Mack to be so gracious as to spare him some of her time. She disappeared into the room beyond, where she remained for some five minutes. Herbert Winlock and Helen were ushered in next, and their stay was longer. Finally it was our turn: Frances and I rose, and with trepidation entered the room. There, the benevolent official sat down at an ornate Empire desk, adjusted a bronze paperweight in the shape of the Sphinx, and invited us to sit opposite him.

  He was not alone in the room, I saw to my surprise: loitering next to a less splendid desk a few yards behind him, and looking profoundly ill at ease, was a young man I recognised. He had fair hair, a fresh pink complexion, and round blue eyes; he was wearing a British officer’s uniform. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I think we were introduced once, actually, in Cairo, at the Gezira Sporting Club? Tea that time, with Lady Evelyn? After the polo match? Ronnie Urquhart – well, Lieutenant Urquhart, I suppose I should say… here in my official capacity, request of the Residency and – er, so on.’

  ‘Also at my request,’ the Egyptian murmured, with a small glance in his direction.

  ‘Oh, gosh, yes – absolutely.’ Urquhart blushed and sat down. ‘So just ignore me, Miss Payne and Miss Winlock,’ he went on. ‘In fact, pretend I’m not here. Have to do all this by the letter, you see – bit tricky at the present time. Sensitive, you know. Adjustments, handover and so on.’

  ‘Perhaps we should commence?’ the Egyptian official said, with magnificent courtesy and the faintest hint of impatience.

  ‘Right. Yes. Spot on. So if you two young ladies would just answer the questions from – my colleague here. Nothing to be nervous about. You should address him as––’

  ‘El-Deeb effendi,’ the official said crisply. Urquhart subsided, picked up a pencil, and said nothing further. Mr El-Deeb settled himself in his impressive chair, and gave us a toothy benign smile. He remarked that it was an honour to meet us, albeit under difficult circumstances; he hoped we would forgive him, but he had certain questions that he must put to us. They concerned someone he understood was our friend, a most beautiful and accomplished woman, of the highest social standing in England, an intimate of princes and sundry other illustrious personages, a lady well known and much admired in Cairo. Her name, he said, frowning at us in a sudden fixed way, as if he suspected us of some heinous hidden crime, was Mrs d’Erlanger.

  He paused, and then informed us, as if it were an afterthought, that perhaps we should know he was a senior officer in the Egyptian police force, here today as an investigator… somewhat in the manner of the immortal Sherlock Holmes, a character whose deductions he was sure we enjoyed as much as he did.

  ‘Has something happened to Mrs d’Erlanger?’ Frances asked, interrupting him. We had both been transfixed, trying to make sense of this.

  I leaned forward: ‘That’s what we both want to know, El-Deeb effendi,’ I said in an imploring rush. ‘I thought – you see, no one has told us anything, and we’d like to understand. What has happened? Is Mrs d’Erlanger safe? Is she in Egypt? Has there been some accident?’

  The detective raised his hand, its palm towards us. He remarked, with less benevolence, that he would ask the questions. He asked us to think back to the last occasion on which we had seen Mrs d’Erlanger, at Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo. He consulted a notebook: ‘Today is 21 February. That would have been 7 February – two weeks ago. You can remember that occasion?’

  ‘Yes, effendi,’ Frances said meekly.

  El-Deeb was not a man to be rushed. He explained that he had already spoken to Lord Carnarvon, to his gracious daughter, and to several other people who had been present in Shepheard’s dining room that night. He had also spoken, at length, to Mrs d’Erlanger’s maid, Miss Wheeler, who had provided him with a description of the clothes Mrs d’Erlanger had been wearing on the night she disappeared. Since he understood we had been present in her room when these clothes were selected, he would like to confirm certain details. ‘Dress?’ he said, so suddenly and with so little benevolence that both Frances and I jumped. ‘Describe to me, please, what dress Mrs d’Erlanger was wearing?’

  ‘It was a pink d
ress,’ I replied, in a small voice.

  ‘Shocking pink,’ Frances added. ‘A friend of Mrs d’Erlanger’s designed it especially for her. It was made in Paris. Poppy – Mrs d’Erlanger liked it because it was fast.’

  The official wrote this word down, then frowned at it.

  ‘Look, I say, El-Deeb,’ Lieutenant Urquhart burst out in an anxious tone. ‘Don’t want to interfere, but that doesn’t mean a thing, old man. It’s just the way Poppy – Mrs d’Erlanger – it’s just the way she talked.’

  ‘Thank you, my English is fluent. I have been told it is Oxford irreproachable.’ The Egyptian gave Urquhart a quelling glance and, when he had subsided again, turned back to us. ‘So,’ he said. ‘A dress. Fast. Pink. Shocking. Made in Paris. What else?’

  ‘She had a fur with her,’ I said, anxious to be helpful. ‘A dark fur, a sort of wrap. I remember that, because Eve – Lady Evelyn – said she couldn’t possibly be needing it, it was too hot. But Mrs d’Erlanger said… ’ I hesitated.

  ‘What did Mrs d’Erlanger say?’

  ‘She said, yes, it was a hot night – but she needed the fur because she might be – she said she might be “trotting on somewhere”. After dinner, I think she meant.’

  ‘I see. And did you subsequently witness her with that fur, in the hotel dining room?’

  ‘Yes, we both did,’ Frances confirmed eagerly. ‘She was carrying it, then she put it over the back of her chair during dinner, and then she––’

  ‘She sort of tossed it over her shoulder, and took it with her when she left the dining room,’ I said. Should I mention the two men, the altercation between them and Poppy’s response? Better not, I decided.

  ‘Excellent. I commend your sharp eyes and your good memories.’ Benevolence restored, El-Deeb beamed at us again. ‘We will continue. Think very carefully, please. Was Mrs d’Erlanger wearing jewellery, and was she carrying a bag that evening?’