The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  ‘Now, now!’ Miss Mack wagged her pencil at him. ‘That is positively libellous, Mohammed. As if they’d dream of doing such a thing! And just supposing for one second that they did – I think Mr Engelbach might have something to say about it when he arrives on Tuesday, don’t you?’

  Mohammed stuck out his lip and became obstinate again. In his opinion the tomb was so crammed with treasures – many portable, many pocket-sized, he stressed – that hundreds, thousands, might disappear in the period between inspections, and no one would be any the wiser. However, he continued, brightening, there would shortly be an official opening of the tomb: that was the custom. There would be a splendid reception in the Valley. The British High Commissioner, Lord Allenby himself, would attend, with many other illustrious guests. And hotfoot from Cairo would, of course, come the great Director of the Antiquities Service.

  ‘Gracious! Monsieur Pierre Lacau himself?’ Miss Mack enquired. ‘Have you ever encountered him, Mohammed? Can you describe him for me?’

  Mohammed was happy to oblige. He had never actually met this famous man, he admitted, but he had seen him on his official visits to Luxor. And he was not the kind of man you forgot: ‘Seven feet tall,’ he said. ‘Looks like a holy man, hairy white beard down to here.’ He hit his heart region with his hand. Miss Mack scribbled fast. ‘A very wise man,’ he went on, ‘and a wily one too. El Lord will not pull the woollens over his eyes, miss. And as for Mr Carter… Ah!’ He sniffed the evening air and gave a sudden cry of consternation. ‘The dinner chicken is burning, miss. I must go.’

  He disappeared at a run to the galley regions where his wife’s nephew, a boy my own age, was in charge of our meal. We never discovered what Carter’s fate at the hands of Monsieur Lacau was to be, but the chicken survived its rough treatment and was delicious; we ate it with the keen appetite engendered by our long walk in the hills.

  ‘Monsieur Lacau is known as “God the Father”,’ I told Miss Mack, as we ate, hoping this detail might be of assistance to her. ‘That’s what the Metropolitan Museum archaeologists call him, you know. Because of the white beard, I think – and also his character.’

  I thought back to that conversation over dinner at Shepheard’s, the night Mrs d’Erlanger had disappeared. ‘Mr Lythgoe thinks Monsieur Lacau is devious,’ I went on, ‘and Mr Winlock said he was two-faced, that one minute he was smoothing his path with the powers-that-be at the British Residency, and the next he was sucking up to his new-found Nationalist friends. They thought he’d cause trouble.’

  ‘No gossip, now, Lucy,’ Miss Mack said in a reproving tone, noting this assiduously in her neat hand. ‘What kind of trouble might he cause, dear – did you glean that?’

  I fetched my diary, so I could be sure of all the details. I flicked through its earnest pages: a description of Mrs d’Erlanger and her fast dress, of the two Englishmen forced apart by waiters at the entrance to the dining room… Ah, here was my report of the conversation. I read it out. When I came to the end, Mis Mack shook her head disbelievingly.

  ‘Change the rules of partage?’ she said. ‘But they’ve been in place for years. In the case of a royal tomb, Lucy, the truly important pieces, the pièces capitales – the actual mummy, its coffins, the sarcophagus and so on – they automatically go to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo… though no archaeologist has ever found an intact burial, so that provision has always been academic, of course. But that is the only exception. Everything else is divided in equal shares between the Museum and the excavators concerned. You say Mr Winlock feared that arrangement would change?’

  ‘Yes. Monsieur Lacau believes that system is wrong. He takes the Nationalist view. He believes everything that’s excavated is the heritage of Egypt and must remain here for evermore.’

  ‘Are you sure of that, Lucy?’ Miss Mack’s eyes had widened in surprise. ‘The Egyptian Museum is stuffed to the gunnels already. Under that system, it would run out of space very fast; they sell things off now, in a desperate effort to cram in new discoveries. Are foreign excavators to cover the costs of excavation without any recompense? Are museums abroad to be denied any share of the objects they’ve discovered – things that would never have been found without their expertise, their funding, their years of labour? I cannot believe such a system would work.’

  ‘Neither can Mr Lythgoe. He intends to prevent it. And he’s already made his preliminary moves, too. He said the Americans and the British would pull out and cease excavating here if the rules of partage were changed. And once the Egyptians and Monsieur Lacau realised that, they’d back down.’

  ‘Gracious me – how political it all is: I had no idea. I wonder if these proposed changes will affect Mr Carter and Lord Carnarvon now? I can’t see how they could. After all, they’re excavating under the terms of his current permit – and that stipulates a fifty-fifty split. I can’t believe Monsieur Lacau can change the rules retrospectively, can you?’

  ‘Mr Lythgoe seemed to think Monsieur Lacau was capable of anything. And Egypt has been granted independence, Miss Mack. The Nationalists will surely bring reforms, won’t they? So perhaps the Antiquities Department’s rules will change.’

  ‘Independence?’ Miss Mack gave an angry snort of derision; I should have remembered that, to her, this word was like a clarion call. She mounted her republican war-horse at once, and was off and away before I could say another word. ‘One can hardly describe Egypt as independent, Lucy,’ she said in fiery tones. ‘Not when there is still a British High Commissioner, not when the Residency still dictates every political decision that’s made. The British control the army and the civil service, and the Antiquities Service. It may have a Frenchman at its head, but it answers to British officials in the Ministry of Public Works, or some such dead hand… I can’t see that changing, even if they allow these free elections they’re campaigning for now. The British will cling on to power, even then. So Monsieur Lacau may want to alter the system, but I feel he’ll fail.’

  She sighed and turned her republican eyes to the darkening hills. ‘I think Mr Winlock must be overreacting, Lucy. I see little prospect of change.’ She gave herself a small shake. ‘Meantime, what a mine of information you are! The Book shall duly benefit. What a beautiful evening! Pour me some coffee, dear. I might have my cigarette now.’

  She lit it, and lapsed into thought. The fragrance of strong Egyptian tobacco mingled with the scents from the Nile. We sat in silence for a while. I riffled through the pages of my diary, thinking of Poppy d’Erlanger and the last time I’d ever seen her; thinking of Peter and Rose. The silence was broken when Miss Mack gave a low cry and, scrabbling for her notebook, wrote an aide-memoire in large letters: NB – The Division of the Spoils. Shortly afterwards, she felt inspiration had come to her and retired to her cabin; her Oliver No. 9 began its clattering, so I knew The Book was in full flow.

  I returned to my own cabin and wrote for a while. I brought my diary up to date, and wrote messages on the postcards I’d chosen for Peter and Rose: Mr Carter has found his tomb! I began another letter to Nicola Dunsire, from whom I’d not heard, as yet – but no doubt the post between Athens and Luxor would be slow. Writing to her made me miss her – and that made me restless. I returned to the upper deck of the boat and lay down on a bench under its awnings. I took with me one of the novels on the reading list Nicola had given me – Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. I bent over its pages, deciphering its small print by the light of a kerosene lamp, pelted by the white fluttering moths that were attracted to its flame; lying above the waters of the Nile, but imagining the Congo river and another part of Africa. The hours ticked by; the gates of night slammed shut one by one. In the distance, as before, the crouching shape of the American House was dark and unlit and the lights at Castle Carter blazed.

  The next day, the Monday, passed pleasantly – and rewardingly, as far as The Book was concerned. Miss Mack, accompanied by Mohammed, who had promoted himself to dragoman as well as cook, made an expedition to the local market held near t
he ferry landing that served the Luxor hotels. She returned with many bundles, everything from fly whisks to cucumbers – and told me that the rumours at the market concerning Carter’s find were becoming more imaginative by the minute. Mohammed had translated for her. ‘And Scheherazade herself couldn’t have bettered their stories,’ she said. ‘By the time I left, Carter had found not one but several mummified pharaohs and their queens – a whole hoard of them.’ She hesitated. ‘And there were more rumours of theft, I’m afraid. There’s a deep distrust of foreign excavators, Lucy. It’s really quite alarming.’

  I was sorry to have missed this. I’d spent the morning on the homework Miss Dunsire had set, calculating algebra, translating some speeches from Racine’s Phèdre, while keeping an eye out for the promised passage of Deputy Inspector Ibrahim Effendi, en route to the Valley of the Kings. His advent, Miss Mack said, was of great importance to The Book, and must on no account be missed.

  After lunch, Miss Mack and I were at last rewarded with a sighting of this man: he was immediately recognisable from Mohammed’s description: large, wearing the coal-black suit of officialdom, sporting a red fez, mounted on a mule. He passed our dahabiyeh at around one-thirty, acknowledging Mohammed’s shouted greeting with a lordly wave of his hand. He must have been more industrious than Mohammed had claimed: two hours passed between his disappearance into the mouth of the Valley and his reappearance.

  Miss Mack had decided Ibrahim Effendi was a vital witness; accordingly, on his return trip, Mohammed lay in wait, blocking his path. Ibrahim Effendi reined in his mule and the two men proceeded to have a lengthy conversation in Arabic; baroque compliments and courtesies seemed to be exchanged. They parted with great cordiality. Mohammed then returned to the boat, his face fixed in a furious scowl.

  ‘Quickly, Mohammed,’ Miss Mack cried. ‘What did he say? What did he see?’

  ‘Pah!’ Mohammed spat. ‘Ibrahim Effendi is even more of a fool than I took him for, miss. He says they’ve found two small rooms only, stuffed to the roof with gold, as the whole world already knows… but no mummy. He tells me there is a sealed wall at one end of the first chamber, and the king’s mummy may lie behind that wall. A third wall, miss! At once I could see that this third wall was a matter of the utmost importance! But El Lord and Mr Carter have not opened up this wall yet: they have not been near it, they have not touched it – or so they convince Ibrahim…

  ‘“Aha! So, tell me, did you inspect this wall closely, Ibrahim Effendi?” I ask him at once. “Did you immediately go right up close and poke it about, the way I would have done? Did you ensure there had been no Britisher skuldugging, jiggery-pokus and mischief-making?” No, Ibrahim said to me, no, he damnation well did not: he is Deputy Inspector of Antiquities and he knows what he is doing – unlike some fool fellahins he could name. Besides, the path to that wall was blocked with treasures, golden thrones and marvels, miss – and he couldn’t trample these priceless antikas underfoot. So he gives the vital wall the keen-eyed once-over from a distance. And then he leaves.’

  Miss Mack wrote industriously. Mohammed drew himself up, cast a venomous glance at the departing back of Ibrahim Effendi and raised a prophetic finger: ‘So you see, it is as I, Mohammed Sayed, predict: Ibrahim is a testy man, quick to take offence. He is a buffoonery, who believes every rubbishy nonsense that is told to him. Trust me: the king’s golden mummy is indubitable behind that suspicious wall, and by tomorrow morning Mr Carter and El Lord will have stolen it. That is the fact of the matter and I weep for my country. I weep also for my cousin’s half-brother’s aunt. Had circumstances been differing, she might have married me, and now she’s saddled with that jackass.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Miss Mack said, some while later; Mohammed had retreated to the galley, from which came the furious noise of rattling pans. ‘I fear there is some history between Ibrahim and Mohammed, Lucy. I sense he is a little biased – what do you think? Still, he has made some extremely serious points. This three-day absence of Mr Engelbach is the nub of the matter. Mr Carter and Lord Carnarvon knew he’d be away. I feel they should have waited for him to be present before they entered this antechamber – yet they decided to press on. I’m not sure their permit gives them that right. People might say they were taking advantage of the Chief Inspector’s absence… Gracious, how very difficult this reporting can be! One does not know whom to believe. I shall be glad when we see Mr Carter and Eve and her father – then we’ll have the truth at first hand, don’t you think?’

  I did not reply. I was by no means sure such a meeting would elicit the truth: Howard Carter could be slippery, as I’d seen; Eve was open, but biased by the defensiveness she felt for her father, and Lord Carnarvon had the unpredictability of an aristocrat. With lordly disregard, he might furnish Miss Mack with the entire story of their discovery, yet he was equally capable of fine-tuning or disguising it. I did not want to crush Miss Mack’s hopes, so kept these doubts to myself.

  That evening, following our now-established routine, Miss Mack smoked her Egyptian cigarette, then retreated to her cabin to wrestle with The Book. I remained on deck, deep in Heart of Darkness – but that night my reading was interrupted by a strange and unsettling development.

  As midnight was approaching, I heard the clatter of donkeys’ hooves in the hills. I could hear voices, the jingle of harnesses, carrying clearly in the desert air. Looking up from my page, I saw lights from lanterns and torches, moving between Carter’s house and the track beyond. I realised that a group of people were riding away from Castle Carter – several of them, to judge from the number of lanterns. Assuming they must be visiting guests, I expected them to take the track that led down to our houseboat, to the river and on to Luxor; to my astonishment, they took the opposite way, turning onto the track that led up to the Valley of the Kings. I watched them mount this path until they rounded the rocks at the Valley’s mouth and disappeared from view. Shortly after the lanterns vanished, all the lights at Castle Carter went out.

  I could scarcely believe what I’d seen: why would anyone risk the Valley in the dark, at night? I stayed on deck, watching for the return of the riders. The hours passed, tiredness crept upon me, and I fell asleep over my book.

  I woke as dawn was breaking: my watch said it was half past four. I was cold and stiff. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, only to find I was not alone; Miss Mack had joined me. Wrapped in a flowered dressing gown, she was seated near by; her binoculars lay in her lap, and her kind face was pale and troubled. ‘I couldn’t sleep, Lucy,’ she said, in an anxious tone, ‘I was worrying about The Book. I tossed and turned – when the birds began singing, I decided I’d never settle, so I’d get up to watch the dawn. Now I wish I hadn’t, Lucy. Look.’

  She gestured towards the hills and handed me the binoculars. I focused them and saw what it was that had caught her attention: a weary party of four, mounted on donkeys: Lord Carnarvon, Eve, Howard Carter and a tall, bulky man whom I did not know. They emerged from the direction of the Valley, picked their way between the rocks at its mouth, then headed down the track that led them the short distance to Castle Carter. Servants ran out to meet them, and all four dismounted. There were cries of greeting, then the group entered the house and disappeared.

  ‘I saw them leave for the Valley last night,’ I said, after a long silence. ‘I couldn’t tell who it was then, Miss Mack. But I heard their donkeys and saw their lanterns.’

  ‘What time was that, Lucy?’

  ‘About half past eleven.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’ I nodded, and she looked at her watch. ‘They’ve been away nearly five hours. How very, very strange. To go to the Valley at night, under cover of darkness. To return at first light. It does seem–– I fear it seems clandestine.’

  She rose and looked down at me sadly. ‘We must never speak of this, Lucy,’ she went on. ‘You do understand, dear? I’m sure there will be a perfectly reasonable explanation – and perhaps we’ll hear it in due course from Eve or her father or Mr Carter, tho
ugh we mustn’t dream of asking them, of course. But at the moment, with all these rumours of theft already flying about – you do see, Lucy, don’t you, how badly this could look? It could be very damaging. We must never, never speak of it – not to anyone.’ She paused.

  ‘I want you to give me your solemn word, Lucy.’

  I gave it to her – and I kept that promise for eighty years. I told no one what we’d seen, not even Frances. I finally broke my word late that evening in my garden in Highgate, when – knowing by then it could do no harm, all the participants being long dead, the events of that night having in the intervening decades gradually leaked out, though not, perhaps, in their entirety – I told Dr Benjamin Fong what Miss Mack and I had seen, from the deck of the Queen Hatshepsut.

  When I’d finished my account of a sighting that had taken on a dreamlike quality, as if it had been an apparition, Dr Fong sighed. ‘The Monday night,’ he said. ‘So it was then. I’d suspected as much. It had to be one of two days. It could have been the Sunday night, but the Monday always seemed the more likely to me. They had the advantage of electricity in the tomb by then. They must have decided to make their move between Ibrahim Effendi’s inspection Monday afternoon and Rex Engelbach’s at noon on the Tuesday – and they couldn’t risk being seen, so they had only the hours overnight at their disposal. So that is when they did it. That’s when the deceptions began.’

  He rose, and stood looking down at me. ‘Will you tell me one last thing, Miss Payne, before I leave? When you and Miss Mackenzie finally met up with Carter and Carnarvon, with your friend Eve, did any of them mention that expedition, explain why they’d gone to the Valley that night in secret? Did they tell you why they went, and what they found?’

  ‘No. We saw them some days later, at Castle Carter. Nothing was said on that subject. Miss Mackenzie and I kept our secret – and they kept theirs.’