‘How well would you sleep, if you’d just been told your services were being dispensed with?’ Wheeler gave her friend a look of scorn. ‘Sixteen years he’s been working for Lord Carnarvon. Took it like a lamb? My eye, he did. Mavis Marcelle, you’re a fool.’
‘Well, if I am, I’m not alone,’ Marcelle retorted, with spirit. ‘Lady Evelyn says Mr Carter has had enough of that godforsakenValley and those nasty dirty tombs, and he’ll be glad to escape the place. She says he may claim he loves that Valley, but actually he’s quite ambi––’ She hesitated. ‘What’s the dratted word? Ambigous? No, that’s not right.’
‘Ambivalent?’ I suggested. Marcelle nodded. ‘That’s it, it was on the tip of my tongue. Ambivalous about that Valley, that’s what he is. I think Lady Evelyn may have hit on it. What do you think, Miss Lucy? You’ve seen him working there. Do you think that could be the truth of it?’
I did not. I escaped from the kitchen as soon as I decently could, hastened upstairs and added a postscript to my letter to Frances. I can’t understand it, I scratched. No more funding, no more digs – and apparently Mr Carter’s accepted that, despite your father’s discovery. But I think he must be devastated, don’t you? I asked Marcelle straightaway whether Lord Carnarvon will now give up his permit to dig in the Valley of the Kings – but she didn’t know. I’ll ask Eve when I see her.
There was no need to interrogate Eve: the following day both she and Howard Carter turned up at the farm in her car, and he – to my surprise – showed a marked inclination to discuss the subject. He came into the farmhouse looking subdued. He’d come armed with a present – a dog basket for Rose’s puppy – and in the intervening hours, it seemed, he had remembered who I was. There were several references to my observation powers, smiling reminders as to lunches in tombs, buttered toast, his aunties’ famous fruitcake.
He spent some time exploring the farm with Rose, Peter and me, admiring the orchard, counting the swallows and their nests. He told us about the various animals he’d kept in Egypt over the years: the pet gazelles; the donkey so devoted it would try to follow him indoors; the horse that died of a cobra bite; and various pet dogs, none of which had long survived the dangers of a desert environment. He described his birdwatching expeditions by the Nile, and the watercolours of birds he’d painted. He began digging around in the barns and examining all those enigmatic farming artefacts, many of which he recognised – and I saw another side to Carter, hidden before: the countryman, the lover of birds, animals and wildlife. Yet when we sat down outside for tea, this side to his character vanished. He reverted to archaeologist – and he raised the subject of Egypt at once.
I thought the topic of the Valley made Eve uneasy, but Carter seemed calm: he had seen it coming for months, and he understood. He respected Lord Carnarvon for not mincing his words. ‘What I can’t stand,’ he said, ‘is diplomacy and double-speak. I’m not one of nature’s diplomats myself. I like to give it straight and hear it straight. Now I know where I stand.’ He blew on his tea. ‘And I can plan accordingly.’
‘Will you be going back to Egypt, Mr Carter?’ Rose asked.
‘Certainly. I do live there, Lady Rose. No fixed abode in England. I’m a bird of passage. My home is in Egypt, and I’ll be returning as usual this winter. Next month, late October, that’s the plan. My place needs some repairs – I’ll look into that. See my old friends from the Met, catch up with Winlock and Lythgoe.’
My chance had come. ‘What will happen to the permit to dig in the Valley of the Kings?’ I asked. ‘Will Lord Carnarvon give that up now?’
‘I imagine so.’ Carter looked pleased at this cue. He glanced at Eve, who was inspecting the tea things with great concentration. ‘The permit is coming up for its annual renewal, Lucy,’ he continued. ‘Lord Carnarvon will resign it in the next few weeks, I expect. No point in him hanging on to it now. It’s our difficult friend, Monsieur Lacau, who decides who gets it next, and he does not favour what he calls “amateur gentlemen” excavators. So the Valley permit will go to some learned body – most probably, one of the great museums.
‘The Metropolitan will get it. That’s my belief. They want it, I know that. They have the expertise, and they have the backing: virtually inexhaustible funds – or so I hear from my good friends Lythgoe and Winlock. The Met already has an excellent base near by: the American House is half an hour’s ride from the Valley, if that. Of course,’ he continued, in a meditative tone, munching cake, ‘none of the Met team is that experienced when it comes to the Valley of the Kings. Harry Burton’s dug there in the past, but it’s new territory for them even so. They’ll need to recruit some outside expertise. They’ll need the guidance of someone with a ready-made team of trained local men; someone who knows the Valley, who’s endured its tricks and its traps for decades… ’ He left the sentence hanging. ‘Well now, that was a fine tea,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I like it here. Such a beautiful day. I wonder, Eve, should we be thinking of getting back now?’
‘Have the Met actually said they’re after the Valley permit?’ Eve asked sharply.
Carter appeared to give this simple question considerable thought. After a long pause, he said: ‘They’ve been circumspect, Eve: let me put it that way. They have the greatest respect for your father, and they know my unshakeable loyalty to him. Lythgoe and Winlock wouldn’t dream of stepping on anyone’s toes. But once they hear your father’s pulled out, they’ll make their move. In my view, they’ll go after that permit immediately. The possibility your father would give up on the Valley was something they’d foreseen, I’m afraid: the decline in his health was noted back in February, and they’d drawn their own conclusions, made contingency plans. Inevitable, alas. You know how people talk, Eve. And archaeologists gossip like girls.’
‘Have you told the Met what’s happened, Howard?’ Eve’s tone became sharper. She had risen to her feet and was looking at him in consternation.
‘Good grief, no! Well, not yet… ’ He sighed. ‘I began writing a letter to Winlock this morning, as a matter of fact – after all, it’s no secret now, is it? All open and above board. I was pretty shaken after my talk with your father, Eve – I can admit that to you. I needed to get it off my chest to someone, so I thought it would help to write to my old friend Winlock. He and I are close, we’ve always got on well and I respect him.’
He frowned. ‘I could cable Winlock, of course,’ he went on. ‘Maybe I should do that – he’ll be anxious to hear the news. On the other hand, maybe I should let things settle for a day or two, wait till I’m calmer. What d’you think, Eve?’
‘I think you should wait. And I think you know that perfectly well, Howard.’
‘I’ll give it a couple of days, then. I’ll be guided by you,’ he replied, his tone humble, and turned away to inspect the view across the valley, the narrow ribbon of river below us, the blue-shadowed hills beyond. He sighed. ‘Absolutely right, Eve, as you always are. No point in my rushing things. I’ll let the dust settle. For a few days. What a restful place this is,’ he went on, in stronger tones. ‘I tell you what, Eve, why don’t you drive back to Highclere and leave me to find my own way home? Would you mind? I’m in the mood for a good long walk. Give me time to think things over.’
Shortly afterwards, this plan having been agreed, he put on his tweed countryman’s cap, straightened his tweed jacket, and strolled off across the fields. Eve left at once for Highclere, driving at speed.
The next report from the castle was that Lord Carnarvon had been told of the Met’s pressing interest in the Valley of the Kings’ permit – I felt sure Eve must have driven straight back to the castle that day to tell him. On being given this news, her father had laughed and said the Met men were welcome to it – more fools they, and he hoped they were contacting their millionaire donors right now, because they’d certainly need to.
I felt this reaction must be a blow to Carter, but it was he who reported it to us some days later, and he did so with no sign of dismay; on the contrar
y, it seemed to amuse him. He’d begun to visit Nuthanger quite often by then, usually on his own, strolling across the downs and taking the bridge across the river. On every visit, he appeared unconcerned as to his altered future. He said it made a change to be here, away from the smart pace of affairs at Highclere; he enjoyed the castle, of course, very much so – but it was good to get away, to clear his mind. He’d stay for an hour or so at the farm, sometimes chatting to Wheeler, sometimes to us. He would join in our games and was even prepared to play I Spy or Dumb Crambo with us. He liked card games too, we discovered, and was happy to play two-pack Patience with me, Snap with Peter, and poker with Rose, a game to which he introduced her.
Carter taught Rose the techniques of bluff and double-bluff, and how to retain a poker-face, useful techniques that she imparted to Peter and me. He taught her some amusing methods of cheating too, dealing from the bottom of the pack and so on, and we all spent many hours trying to perfect these tricks. Rose hadn’t the patience for sleight of hand; Peter’s small fingers weren’t yet deft enough, but I became quite adroit.
‘Not bad,’ Carter said, giving me a considering look, when I showed off the results of hours of card-sharping practice.
‘Better than your knitting, anyway,’ Wheeler pronounced sourly.
Carter claimed that he liked being at the farm because it took him back to his childhood in rural Norfolk; he’d also grown fond of Rose’s little dog, he said, but he feared it was the runt of the litter and would never thrive – and in this he was right. The little creature was never strong. But during the puppy’s happy weeks at the farm, Carter brought it several more gifts, and one afternoon, he drew it as it lay snoozing on its back in the sun, in sprawled surrender to sleep. He presented this clever lightning sketch to Peter, and Peter gave it to me, many years later.
Caring for the little dog, meanwhile, was becoming exhausting, as both Carter and Wheeler had warned it would be. The puppy was so young and frail that it required feeding every three or four hours, all day and all night. Wheeler refused to have anything to do with it; it was our problem, and we’d have to cope with it. She said she’d brought up four brothers and sisters, and nurturing a puppy was exactly the same as nurturing a baby, non-stop work, non-stop worry and no sleep. The little dog was greedy; if she drank too much milk too eagerly, she’d get colic, and would lie on her back, stomach distended, whimpering and whining. At first, Rose and I took it in turns to do the night-time feeds, but Rose was a heavier sleeper than I, and complained so vociferously that after a few days I took it on. I’d read my Egyptian books in my room until I heard Wheeler going to bed; when I judged another hour had passed, I’d creep downstairs, prepare the bottle, give the puppy her midnight feed, soothe her and return to bed again. She was confined to the kitchen regions, but she soon learned to make a babyish, plaintive, penetrating cry that echoed up to me through the floors and chimneys. Somewhere around three or four, this summons would wake me, and I’d pad down to her again. These expeditions made me sleepy during the day, but I came to love them. It was peaceful there, sitting on a cushion on the kitchen floor, close to the warmth of the banked wood range, one oil lamp lit, with the tiny creature cradled in my arms. I began to believe that she loved and trusted me – that I alone possessed the powers needed to soothe her.
After a week or so of this routine, the lack of sleep began to take its toll. I was down to three hours a night by then; the puppy was going through a fretful phase; sometimes she’d sick up the milk, then fall asleep, then wake demanding more milk just half an hour later. This made me anxious; I was so on edge, I’d wake long before it was time for a feed, and find I couldn’t sleep once it was over. Wheeler was displeased. ‘Look at you,’ she said one morning over breakfast. ‘Bruise marks under your eyes – you’re exhausted. It’s Rose’s birthday in three days – and at this rate, you’ll be sleepwalking through it. This afternoon you go to bed and you rest for two hours minimum, young lady.’
On another occasion I might have argued, but I felt so peculiar that morning, sick and faint, with an aching head and cramps in my stomach, that I gave in. I went upstairs after lunch and lay down on my bed in my petticoat: Wheeler drew the counterpane over me and rested her hand on my forehead. ‘Well, there’s no fever anyway… ’ I saw wariness flash across her face: ‘You don’t have a pain anywhere?’
I denied it. She gave me an aspirin anyway. ‘Growing pains,’ she diagnosed. ‘Get some sleep. I’m taking Rose and Peter to the river – and I’m taking that blasted puppy too, so there’s nothing to wake you. We’re in earshot, so you shout if you need me.’
I was asleep before she left the room. I closed my eyes and drowned: oblivion closed over my head like water.
When I woke, I had no idea how long I’d slept, or what time it was. I felt hot and sweaty; the house was silent. Opening the curtains, I saw the sun was still high and bright; there was neither sight nor sound of the others. I still felt dizzy and removed – that typhoid smoke seemed to have clouded my mind again, but the dull ache in my head and my stomach had gone. I washed, found a clean dress, then padded barefoot downstairs.
I was in the kitchen, making myself some tea, when I realised the farm had visitors. Parked in the corner of the yard was Eve’s racing-green car. Eve must have walked down to the river to join the others, I thought, and then, moving to a window that overlooked the valley, I saw I was not alone at the farm after all: Howard Carter was sitting outside in the sun, gazing at the chalk downs opposite. He was so silent and unmoving that the swallows were flitting within a few feet of his head.
I made a cup of tea for him and took it outside. He thanked me but seemed scarcely aware of my presence. He fell silent again, and showed no inclination to speak when I drew up a chair and sat down at the table with him. I still felt light-headed and had no inclination to speak either, so I sipped my tea and debated what illness I might have; whether it was serious or a trivial passing affliction, from which I’d already recovered. The latter, I decided.
I stole a look at Carter’s face: his expression was calm – as calm as I’d ever seen it. I turned towards the valley, where I caught a glimpse of Peter on the far side of the river, and of a woman in a pink dress. For a muddled instant I thought it was Poppy d’Erlanger – I often sensed her presence in this house; then I realised that it was Eve. ‘There! A pike,’ I heard Peter cry. The two figures vanished.
‘Well, it’s all settled at last,’ Carter said, in a quiet voice. ‘One last dig in the Valley. Lord Carnarvon agreed to it last night. He’s changed his mind – or, to be more exact, I changed it for him.’
He still seemed almost unaware of my presence, indifferent to it, anyway, so I said nothing. I waited.
‘I let it lie for a few days – always a good tactic,’ he went on, after a long pause. ‘Then I went to him with a new proposition. No maps, no arguments – we were past all that. I said: Give me one last chance. The permit’s still in force. Let me dig that one last area by the entrance to Ramesses VI’s tomb. It’ll take me six weeks, probably less, to clear the rest of those workmen’s huts. I have Girigar and my team ready and willing to work. It costs five Egyptian pounds a day to employ them, that’s thirty-five Egyptian pounds a week. Add in ancillary costs and let’s say a six-week dig will cost around two hundred pounds sterling… Not much, in the circumstances, when there’s so much riding on it.
‘I told him: that’s what it will cost, and I’ll cover all the expenses: my own salary, the men’s wages. There’s no need for you to risk your health or come anywhere near Egypt. I’ll handle it. The dig can be finished before Christmas. If I find nothing, at least we know we’ve exhausted every possibility. If I find anything, however large or small, it’s yours, just as it would be if you were funding the dig… I pointed out it was our last throw of the dice. Worth a punt. In my view, anyway.’
Carter fell silent then, and after a long pause I felt I could risk prompting him, so I said: ‘And then Lord Carnarvon changed his mi
nd and agreed?’
‘Yes. He’s a betting man. I knew he would. He might have been touched, or amused – it’s difficult to tell with him. Oh, and he won’t accept my offer. He’s paying for it.’
We sat in silence while I considered this. Carter’s suggestion that he should bear the costs of the dig reminded me of Wheeler’s half-wages gambit, and I wondered if that ploy might have influenced him. I didn’t mention this possibility, but I did ask whether Lord Carnarvon had been swayed by the fact that the Met might be after his permit.
‘Could be. The idea that they could make a discovery that had eluded him for years might have alarmed him – I hope it did. He’d never admit it, if so. The main thing, the key thing, is he knows I won’t give up. If I don’t find him a tomb, I’ll damn well find it for someone else. It’s there – and it’s mine. This year, next year, ten years from now: however long it takes. I’ll find it, if it kills me.’
Carter lit another cigarette, and drew on it deeply. He stared at the hills opposite, his face sullen and brooding. ‘Does Lord Carnarvon know about Mr Winlock’s discovery now?’ I asked, after another long pause, during which Carter showed no inclination to say anything further. ‘Did you explain to him what Mr Winlock found? Frances told me about it, in her last letter, and I was so glad! I knew Lord Carnarvon would want to continue your work once he knew Mr Winlock had made a breakthrough.’
I faltered and came to a halt. Carter, who had not looked at me once during this conversation, had now swung around sharply and was glaring at me. I saw that the mention of Herbert Winlock was a mistake and my question had made him furious. He gave me a long, hard, withering stare.
‘I knew you were trouble,’ he said, ‘I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you in Cairo. Frances’s little friend, who’s been seriously ill, or so it’s claimed. Who’s so shy she can’t say boo to a goose, who pretends butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. The girl with too many names – Lucy Payne from Cambridge, Lucy Foxe-Payne from Norfolk, Lucy-Christ-knows-what, with her American connections. The girl I look at and think: is she what she claims – or an imposter? The sad little invalid who turns up in Cairo, then Luxor, then the Valley. The girl I take pity on and include in a lunch invitation, who then starts a row with her ignorant comments and ruins the occasion for everyone. The girl who turns up at Highclere with a sick, flea-bitten mongrel in tow, and embarrasses Eve in front of her guests. The rude, obstinate girl who insists on seeing Lord Carnarvon’s collection, no matter how much it inconveniences everyone else – and who then doesn’t have the manners to disguise just how damn boring she finds it.’
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