The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  Both yesterday and today, Carter’s workforce had been excavating this barrier – or so we’d heard. And it seemed to be true: for two days, Miss Mack and I had watched huge quantities of flint debris being carted from a shadowy hole in the ground… not the most exciting of views, I felt. As I’d pointed out several times, there could be more tunnels and, for all we knew, they could all be blocked. They might extend two or three hundred feet into the rock, as those leading to the tombs I’d visited with Frances had done. Carter’s workmen could be engaged on this task for the next week, the next month, longer… in which case, Miss Mack was in for a tedious wait – and so was I.

  ‘I think they’re slowing down now,’ I said. ‘Maybe they’re taking a break. Not much seems to be happening.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, child,’ Miss Mack said, losing patience, ‘give me the binoculars.’

  I retreated to the shade of a rock, ate an apple, stared at the air. I was thinking of the meeting in London, which Miss Dunsire had described as ‘the handover’ when I passed from one protectress to another. ‘Ah, that must be your guardian angel, Lucy,’ Nicola had remarked, spotting the anxious figure of Miss Mack on the boat-train platform at Victoria. Nicola had looked her up and down, eyebrows arched, and then advanced, with me scurrying beside her. ‘Don’t tease,’ I was muttering. ‘Be nice. I told you, she’s very kind – and she isn’t stupid, either.’

  ‘Miss Mackenzie. At last!’ Nicola clasped Miss Mack’s hands, kissed her in the French fashion on both cheeks. Miss Mack recoiled sharply and then, as I’d known she would, over-compensated. She talked. On and on, while Nicola stood by, appraising her, a bemused smile on her face: So taken aback when she’d heard of the wedding… Gracious! Didn’t mean that, quite the wrong way of putting it. Sincere congratulations, overjoyed for everyone, the best thing that could have happened… so kind of Mrs Foxe-Payne to entrust her new stepdaughter to a woman she’d never met and didn’t know from Adam… Rest assured, vigilance, best possible care, old Egyptian hand, firm friends, would ensure Lucy wrote regularly, and kept up with her homework…

  I could sense Nicola Dunsire’s amused derision, her deepening scorn. I crimsoned with embarrassment, praying she’d see beyond that torrent of words to the essential good-heartedness of the woman who uttered them. She gave no sign of doing so. She glanced at her watch, smoothed the lapels of the exquisite suit she was wearing, allowed her beautiful satiric gaze to dwell on Miss Mack’s crumpled tweeds, her flushed complexion, her untidy hair escaping from its pins; she cut in on the word ‘homework’.

  ‘Indeed. Lucy must not let her standards slip. She must keep up with the work I’ve set her. I intend her to be intelligent.’

  There was a tiny pause: the word ‘intelligent’ hung in the air like a sword. Miss Mack lowered her eyes. ‘But Lucy is intelligent. At least, I have always believed so,’ she said in a quiet tone. ‘However, no doubt there is room for improvement, as there is for us all.’

  It was the gentlest of reprimands – I wasn’t sure whether Nicola even noted it. She gathered me in her arms for a farewell embrace. ‘Improve each shining hour, remember, Lucy,’ she instructed, in a teasing tone, over her shoulder – and then she was gone.

  In the heat of the Theban hills I considered the nature of shining hours. My plans were specific: I meant to return home and dazzle Miss Dunsire with the amazing progress I’d made while away. Accordingly – one poem, by heart, every day. I leaned back in the shade of my rock, opened the collection of Coleridge I’d brought and made sure I now knew Kubla Khan by heart. I did… Caverns measureless to man: would Carter and Carnarvon discover such caverns? Should I next learn sections of Christabel? I read on for a while, then closed the book and turned back to examine the Valley. From here, the view of it was magnificent: I could see its every twist and turn, trace the routes I’d followed with Frances, identify the tombs to which Herbert Winlock had taken us. The site of Carter’s excavations lay close to the ramped entrance to the burial place of Ramesses VI. So the tomb he’d found – if it was a tomb – was situated, as he’d believed, beneath the workmen’s huts, in that last unexplored section of his celebrated triangle.

  A few of his men had been posted to keep any tourists at bay – though I’d seen very few visitors and the Valley was now deserted. The only activity had been centred on Carter’s workplace, next to which a small white tent had been erected; but even this work seemed to be winding down. The noise of digging was intermittent, and the number of basket boys carrying spoil much diminished: perhaps Carter’s workforce was making ready to down tools for the day.

  My guardian angel was still on the alert, but I was beginning to lose faith in her reporting skills. So far, the gathering of information had consisted of these walks and a shameless attempt to interrogate our cook Mohammed, who, according to Miss Mack, would convey the all-important reactions of a man born and bred in this area. She had then discovered that he could be an even richer source of material: Abd-el-Aal Ahmad Sayed, Howard Carter’s major-domo, encountered on our previous visit, was his uncle.

  Mohammed, grilled at length that morning, had proved richly informative. It was universally known, he said, and had been for over two weeks, that Mr Carter had already uncovered a tomb. This discovery had been predicted by his uncle Abd-el-Aal and by all the other servants at the Castle, the instant Carter arrived from Cairo to begin his dig. Carter had brought with him a cage containing a bird unknown in Egypt, a canary; the servants instantly understood that, Inshallah, this golden songbird was a good omen – so they were not surprised when that first step was found, only three days after its advent. They’d been sure that the stairway then revealed must inevitably lead down to a tomb filled with treasures, and had at once christened it ‘The Tomb of the Golden Bird’.

  Unfortunately, and in circumstances that were opaque, this bird had been eaten by a cobra some days later. A cobra decorated the crown of all ancient Egypt’s kings, so the snake’s sneaking into Carter’s compound and snacking on the canary was not a good omen; quite the reverse. However, Mohammed continued more cheerfully, the cobra had subsequently been shot by Mr Carter’s good friend, Mr Pecky Callender, on whose watch the disaster had occurred: he had dispatched the snake with two blasts from a shotgun. And this first golden bird had now been replaced with a second, brought by Lady Evelyn from Cairo; so perhaps the ancient gods would be appeased and all would be well.

  In any case, Mohammed went on, in a more confident tone, it was well known throughout Qurna and Luxor that the current activities of Mr Carter and El Lord in the Valley were a blind: fabulous treasures, tons of bullion, had already been removed from the tomb and spirited away. This booty, which included a mummified king and his gold coffins, was on its way to England right now and would never be seen in Egypt again; it had been looted weeks ago, then collected from the Valley by a fleet of aeroplanes.

  Miss Mack, who had been taking rapid notes, stopped him at that point. ‘Now, now, Mohammed,’ she said, ‘you know that can’t be true. Land an airplane in the Valley? That’s just plain ridiculous. Besides, it may not even be a tomb, and they’re still in the first stage of excavating. I watched them with my own eyes yesterday.’

  Mohammed stuck out his lip and regarded her in an obstinate way. As I’d learned on my previous visit, the Egyptian notion of truth was often elastic and imaginative; it differed from Miss Mack’s somewhat hard-line, narrow-minded Yankee approach. It did not always admit the concept of facts and, given the choice between two versions of events – one likely, unvarnished and dull; the other unlikely, glittering and resonant – it went for the Homeric alternative. Miss Mack, who never appreciated such distinctions, became fretful at Mohammed’s stubborn refusal to recant. ‘Fairy stories like that,’ she said reproachfully, ‘are of no use to me whatsoever, Mohammed. The canary I like. The canary I can use. Thank you. But airplanes? I shan’t waste a single piastre on them, I assure you!’

  Mohammed pledged immediate reform, a newly in
dustrious approach. Thus, while we we’d been up here in the hills, our binoculars trained on Carter’s excavations, he’d also been working on the case. This very afternoon he was visiting Castle Carter, where he would cross-question his esteemed uncle Abd-el-Aal on Miss Mack’s behalf. He would report back this evening. I sighed: I really could not understand why Miss Mack needed such a go-between. Why couldn’t she walk up to Carter’s castle and do her own investigating? I had suggested this; several times. Miss Mack reacted with scorn. ‘Lucy, I’m sorry, but you don’t grasp the methodology of journalism,’ she said. ‘That approach would be premature – even fatal. No, dear – by indirection, find direction out. I’m laying the groundwork. I shall move on to interviews in due course.’

  I stretched lazily in the warm sun and looked up at her with affection. The Book and its needs had her in their grip, I felt. We’d been up here in the heat of the hills all day. Miss Mack’s hat was askew; her grey hair was dishevelled; runnels of sweat ran down her face, yet here she still was, untiring, dedicated, remorseless as destiny, binoculars trained on the Valley below. As I watched her and smiled, she gave a start; she adjusted the glasses and said: ‘I knew it, Lucy. Something’s happening.’

  Turning to look at the dark entrance of the tomb below us, I saw she was correct. Excavations had finally stopped. Carter’s workforce, some standing, some hunkered down, were gathered silently together a short distance from the mouth of the dig. His reis, Girigar, was now standing at the top of the sixteen steps, peering down, his attitude expectant. There was no sign of the excavators, who must still be underground. The westering sun lit the peaks above the Valley and washed them in gold; below them, the shadows were lengthening fast. As always, the kite birds circled the updraughts and broke the silence with their cries. I felt the first flutterings of excitement, but for a while, ten minutes, perhaps more, nothing happened; below us, no one spoke or moved. I glanced back the way we had come: it was almost five o’clock – we’d have to leave soon, before the light began to weaken and the long, steep descent through the hills became treacherous.

  ‘Lucy, look,’ Miss Mack said, and I turned to see the unmistakable figure of Howard Carter emerge at last from underground. He was walking unsteadily; he paused to mop sweat from his forehead, and then looked about the Valley with a blind man’s gaze. Without a word, Miss Mack handed me her binoculars; by the time I had focused them on Carter’s white distraught face, two other figures were emerging from the dark: Lord Carnarvon, who seemed similarly dazed, and Eve, who was shivering violently.

  Eve wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and, in a sudden, impetuous way, embraced her father, then clasped Carter in her arms. Her father grasped both their hands; he seemed to be deeply moved and was saying something with emphasis. Carter made some reply and covered Carnarvon’s hand with his own. He gestured to one of the boys, who came running with stools, and Carnarvon sank down onto one of them, burying his face in his hands. Eve bent over her father. Carter crossed to the thin alert figure of Ahmed Girigar. The two men, who had worked together so long, spoke briefly; Girigar, turning to his workmen, said a few quick words. Their reaction was immediate: first one man, then another rose to his feet; they lifted their faces to the sky and tilted back their throats – and in unison they released a haunting sound, that long guttural ululation peculiar to Arab ceremonies, that whooping cry that can signify rejoicing or lament; the cry that, in Egypt, accompanies births, deaths, weddings and funerals.

  The unearthly howl swooped, echoed and re-echoed around the Valley like the voice of the long-dead; it pricked the hairs on the back of my neck, closed a cold hand around my heart – and if I shut my eyes now, I can hear it still, echoing down the decades: the crying out that told me Carter and Carnarvon had finally found their tomb.

  27

  The great discovery was confirmed for us later that day when, in a state of ebullient excitement, Mohammed returned from his fishing expedition at Castle Carter. He had hung around, he said, until seven o’clock when El Lord and his party finally returned from the Valley; he brought much news. Miss Mack at once retrieved her notebook and sat waiting expectantly, pencil poised. At once, words spilling over each other, Mohammed launched on his account of what had happened when, late that afternoon, the tunnel had at last been cleared of debris. The excavators had found themselves facing a second wall. Mr Carter had then, with the greatest care, made a small peephole in that wall, and thrust his arm through it, holding a candle––

  ‘A candle?’ Miss Mack interrupted. ‘Why not a flashlight, Mohammed?’

  ‘Foul gases, miss!’ Mohammed cried. ‘The air in the tombs is dangerous! If the candle extinguishes, take care… if it doesn’t, Mr Carter can proceed.’

  The candle had not been extinguished, it seemed. ‘There is a little rush of air, miss,’ said Mohammed. ‘It is the spirits breathing out as they awake. After three thousand years, they are disturbed for the first time. The candle flame wavers, then it grows strong. Mr Carter widens the hole, just a small bit, the merest fraction… and he peers into the darkness beyond. What will he see? Another tunnel? More stairs? No, miss, he sees gold. Treasures beyond imagination. King Tutankhamun’s treasures, lying there in the dark.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Meanwhile, El Lord and his daughter are standing by Mr Carter’s side, miss, filled with fears and excitements. They cannot breathe for the suspension. Minutes pass. Eventually, El Lord can bear it no longer and he says… Look, miss, I wrote down for you their very words. He says: “For God’s sake, Carter. Speak, man. Can you see anything?” And Mr Carter makes a sigh and answers him. “Yes, he says, yes. Wonderful things”… ’

  ‘Wonderful things? King Tutankhamun? Heavens above! Oh, Lucy!’ Miss Mack clutched at my hand.

  Mohammed then launched on a long description of these wonderful things, this unimaginable treasure, King Tutankhamun’s gold, his jewels, and, gathering speed, he explained that today was a great day, but, Inshallah, tomorrow, Monday, would be a greater day still. In the morning, Carter’s friend, the engineer Mr Pecky Callender, would tap electricity from an adjacent tomb. With the aid of electric lamps, El Lord and Mr Carter would then re-enter King Tutankhamun’s tomb and explore it thoroughly––

  ‘Re-enter?’ Miss Mack enquired sharply. ‘You mean they’ve already been inside it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Mohammed replied, with impatience. He did not like interruptions. ‘Made the peephole bigger, then climbed inside. But there are two chambers, miss. Much to explore. Today, they only have flashlights. One quick look. Tomorrow, blazing electrics. Then they will certainly find the king’s mummy. It eludes them as yet – but not for long!’

  Miss Mack forbore to point out that, according to Mohammed that morning, the mummy had already been removed by aeroplane and was now in the Bank of England’s deepest vault – or possibly at Highclere Castle. She waited. In a jubilant rush, Mohammed then explained that, such was the splendour of the discovery, the world would be beating a path to Luxor very soon. First, the officials would come, then the bigwigs, the High Commissioner, the Sirdar, the Mudir of Qena, the Maamor of Luxor, Wise Bey from the police, umpteen Pashas, a host of other excellencies… He paused for breath; Miss Mack, who had been writing rapidly, leapt in.

  ‘Slow down, please, Mohammed,’ she said. ‘I need to get this straight for The Book. “Officials”? What officials?’

  Mohammed, who had a taste for bureaucracy and its abstruse ways, began to reel off details: the Antiquities Service in Cairo, he explained, would now be intimately involved. It was a solemn unbreakable rule that any excavator in the Valley must notify the Department the instant a discovery was made. Mr Carter and El Lord had done that; the Chief Inspector of Antiquities for Upper Egypt, an Englishman by the name of Rex Engelbach, had been summoned the previous Friday to examine the first sealed wall to the tomb. Having inspected it, he had enjoyed a convivial lunch in the Valley and had then departed for the city of Qena, where, unfortunately, he had an unb
reakable three-day engagement. He would not return until Tuesday – and we’d be sure to see him when he did, as he always travelled on a motor bicycle, a much envied, locally famous machine. Meanwhile, under the terms of El Lord’s permit, an interim inspection was essential, indeed belated, in view of the breakthrough today. In Mr Engelbach’s absence it would therefore be made tomorrow, Monday – by his Luxor deputy, one Ibrahim Effendi, a local man, husband to Mohammed’s cousin’s half-brother’s aunt.

  ‘And this is somewhat a tragedy,’ Mohammed remarked savagely. ‘Ibrahim Effendi is a grossly fat gentleman. He does not respect my cousin’s half-brother’s aunt as a husband should. I have umpteen run-ins with him since our schooldays. He is a fool and a bungler. El Lord and Mr Carter will dance jigs around him, confuse him utterly, and pull the woolliness over his eyes.’

  ‘What nonsense, Mohammed,’ Miss Mack said firmly, while noting all this down. ‘I’m sure Ibrahim Effendi is excellent at his job. They wouldn’t have appointed him otherwise. You must never allow personal animosity to distort your judgement, you know. Though the timing is odd here: it seems very remiss of this Mr Engelbach to disappear to Qena for three days at such an historic moment – what can he have been thinking of? Still, on Tuesday, I shall look out for his motor bicycle… A nice touch, that, I may well use it. And tomorrow I’ll be on the watch for this Ibrahim Effendi – a large man, you say?’

  ‘Elephantous, miss,’ Mohammed replied. ‘Wearing a red tarboosh, riding a mule. A lazy man, puffed up with his own importance. He will stay five minutes, write two pompous notes and depart. The instant he’s gone, El Lord and Mr Carter will remove all the treasures from the tomb. They will have the rest of Monday to loot it.’