3
Among ‘the native population’ it was widely believed that the excavators had removed priceless antika from the tomb. Such rumours would be more easily rebutted if the government inspectors were allowed free access to it. These allegations of theft were without foundation, but were damaging to British interests in Egypt. As a spokesman confirmed, they were viewed with the very gravest concern, in government circles and at the British Residency.
4
Such issues must be urgently addressed before the formal opening of the tomb’s inner chamber. Any discovery made then must be handled with a sensitivity and openness lacking thus far. If not, it could prove the spark that would blow the magazine that was Egypt sky high. Lord Carnarvon should heed this warning, which the newspapers concerned offered with all due humility.
‘Do you think newspapers employ lawyers, Lucy?’ Miss Mack asked. ‘Some of it has that weaselly attorney sound, dear, don’t you find? Did you see any positive comments?’
‘There’s a couple of mentions of the conservation work – and how exemplary it is,’ I said. ‘And one of them points out that Mr Carter couldn’t have formed a better team to assist him than the Met’s. But The New York Times is asking what recompense the Met expects in return – and who is authorising it… Maybe that’s an angle The Book might want you to pursue, Miss Mack?’
She did not take this hint – most of my hints passed her by, as I was beginning to see. She picked up the four Arab newspapers she had purchased. Unlike the Western newspapers, which were days old by the time they reached Luxor, these were hot off the presses. Mohammed was summoned and asked if he would kindly translate. He did so. Al-Balagh, Al-Mahroussa, Al-Akhbar and Al-Siyasa – all spoke with one voice: Britain had already annexed Egyptian sovereign territory including the Suez Canal and the Sudan; now imperialistic British interests were annexing the tomb of an Egyptian king. By what right did an English peer deny Egyptians the right to enter the tomb and investigate these scandalous proceedings? By what right was he claiming half of everything found?
‘What if an intact sarcophagus is uncovered?’ Al-Mahroussa demanded. Was King Tutankhamun’s grave to be plundered by foreigners? Or would the current government, a weak-willed tool of the British colonialists, have the courage to rule that the tomb’s entire contents, not one whit less, belonged in Egypt, the rightful heritage of its people?
Seeing Mohammed’s angry reaction, Miss Mack sought to persuade him that Carnarvon was now attempting to solve some of these problems. ‘I hear he’s been in Cairo for days, negotiating with the authorities,’ she said. ‘They are trying to make special arrangements, Mohammed, so the Egyptian journalists will at least be given a tour of the tomb once a week. I believe even the British Residency is pressing for that now.’ Her voice tailed away; she was aware, I think, that this gesture was hopelessly belated and insultingly inadequate. Mohammed regarded her with stony eyes.
‘And what of the king’s mummy, miss?’ he enquired. ‘Is he to stay in his homeland? When El Lord takes half the treasures from his tomb, will he want his share of the king’s body too? What will he do then? Saw King Tutankhamun in halves?’
Miss Mack was silenced. Mohammed left us, and we sat for a long while without speaking. I stared fretfully at the Nile. I counted the multiplicity of houseboats that had appeared since news of the tomb first broke. I’d been keeping a note of their flags: today the tally was nineteen Stars and Stripes, seventeen Union Jacks and one Tricolour.
Miss Mack remained chastened, saying nothing. The accusations of grave robbery in the Arab papers had struck a chord with her: she had always felt that the archaeology of tombs verged on the sacrilegious. Rousing herself at last, she said that Mohammed’s image of Tutankhamun’s body, sawn in two, had shocked her to the core. ‘I fear it is all becoming like the Judgment of Solomon, Lucy,’ she said sadly. ‘And the wisdom of Solomon will be needed to solve it, dear, don’t you agree?’
‘Wisdom is in short supply, so there’s not much hope of that,’ I replied snappishly.
Miss Mack’s frequent recourse to the Bible grated: not on my reading list, I longed to say.
Miss Mack made no reply. Shortly afterwards, she retired to her cabin, and began banging the Oliver No. 9’s keys. The noise made my head ache. For the first time in Egypt, I longed to be elsewhere: a balcony with a view of the Acropolis; Paris; even Cambridge – anywhere but here. Feeling entombed, I took myself off on a walk through the hills. This did not cure my mysterious malaise, so I fled to the American House, in search of Frances.
30
It was February before Miss Mack and I entered the tomb for the first time. No doubt we could have visited it earlier, had she pressed for an invitation as others such as Minnie Burton certainly did, but Miss Mack would not have countenanced such an approach – she would have regarded it as ill-mannered and exploitative. As a result, we were forgotten or overlooked. I never discovered who procured for us this belated ‘invitation to view’. It might have been the melancholy Mr Callender, who had taken to visiting our houseboat on his river walks. It might have been Eve, who often passed our boat and called in to see us. I always suspected it was Frances, who in her direct way simply told Howard Carter to invite us – though this she strongly denied.
Whoever was responsible, a note was delivered by Pecky Callender one hot afternoon. It read:
My dear Miss Mackenzie,
I shall be delighted if you and Lucie would care to visit our tomb tomorrow. I suggest you come to the Valley at four o’clock when with luck our Scourge the tourists and pressmen will have departed but no doubt Eve will be there. Messrs Mace and Lucas will be glad to show you our ‘laboratory’ and if I am not free Callender will look after you and explain procedings to the best of his ability.
Sincerely yours,
Howard Carter
PS Perhaps Frances might like to acompany Lucie?
Frances did like: she had viewed the Antechamber with her parents at Christmas, when all its glorious contents were still in situ; I suspected she had seen it several times since as well, but was too tactful to say so. But she was excited to see it in its denuded state. ‘Now’s our chance, Lucy,’ she explained, as we rode our donkeys up the Valley track. ‘I want to work out when this famous opening is going to be. We’ll be able to tell when we see the Antechamber. It’s pretty well emptied now, Mr Mace says, so they must be going to open up the inner chamber in the next few days… I think they’re hanging on until Lord Carnarvon gets back from Cairo.’
‘He’s gone to Cairo again?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Just for a day or two. On his own. A flying visit. Intrigue and negotiations… Also, he had to see his dentist there.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Lordy’s in agony, apparently – his teeth keep falling out, and Eve says he’s feeling terribly seedy. Daddy says he’s trying to get that Rex Engelbach man fired. I expect he’s arguing about partage, and the arrangements for the opening too – they want King Fuad there, you see, and all the top brass, so it’s complicated. Especially with the Combine breathing down their necks.’
‘Has Eve not gone to Cairo with her father then?’ I asked, as we rounded the rocks and entered the Valley. Eve rarely left her father’s side, so this also surprised me.
‘No. Eve says her father thinks it isn’t safe for her there. There were two more assassinations last week – all British officials are armed now. You daren’t go to the Mousky bazaar any more. Eve has stayed here because Luxor is safe – or so she claims.’ Frances gave me a sidelong look. ‘You remember how she and Mr Carter were last year when we had tea at his house?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, see what you think now. They’re very thick together; everyone’s talking about it. Thick as thieves, Daddy says. That’s just one of his jokes, of course.’
I was familiar with Herbert Winlock’s jesting remarks – by then I knew just how double-edged they could be. I said nothing. I felt I was in a better position to understand Eve’s rel
ationship with Carter than I had been the year before: I had watched Nicola Dunsire, watched my father and learned. I was twelve now; I was experienced.
There was no sign of Eve or Carter when we finally reached the tomb. It was very hot that day, over one hundred degrees in the shade, and, as Carter had predicted, the heat had driven most tourists and pressmen from the Valley. Numbers dropped in the afternoons anyway, as the excavators now worked in the tomb only in the mornings, concentrating on conservation work in the afternoons. A small group of people remained by the tomb when we finally reached it: three elderly women, sitting in the shade of a propped umbrella and knitting; a couple of excitable young men with box cameras; and an overweight, pink-faced man I recognised as the journalist, Weigall; he was seated on the retaining wall, scribbling in a notebook. As we approached and dismounted, Arthur Mace emerged from his laboratory and came across to greet us.
‘Les tricoteuses,’ he said with a smile, gesturing towards the three placid, knitting women. ‘They’re here every day, all day. As is that prince of cads, Weigall. If he starts pestering you with questions just ignore him.’ Mace began to cough. ‘Sorry. It’s the sand,’ he said. ‘All the chemicals Lucas and I have to use – the fumes build up. But I’ve been inhaling mummy dust for the last fifteen years of Met excavations, which doesn’t help. My poor lungs are shot… Come and see our lab when you’re done with the tomb,’ he added. ‘Where’s Callender got to? Ah, there he is – he’ll guide you.’
Pecky Callender had emerged from underground and was bruising Miss Mack’s hand. ‘Not a whole lot to see,’ he remarked, leading us towards the steps. ‘But you’ll get the feel of it. It’s hot down here. Very. If you come over faint, Myrtle – or you, young ladies, just say. I’ll whisk you out in two ticks. First aid. Yes indeedy.’
Frances, veteran of tombs, gave him a look of mild scorn. She led me down the sixteen steps, Miss Mack and Callender following. The steel gate Carter had installed was open, and the heat from the Antechamber beyond was fierce. It exhaled into our faces, then breathed in and sucked us along the approach corridor. Its damp intensity brought me to a halt on the threshold; even Frances faltered. The room beyond, so often described to me and so often imagined, was much smaller and more confined than I’d expected. The pale plaster that covered the walls was disfigured by a strange creeping pinkness, by blossoming stains. They had crept their way across the bare wall opposite, an area once piled, I knew, with treasures. Now these were gone; the mottled stains created patterns, the suggestion of watching faces concealed in the walls.
‘Spores,’ Callender said from behind me. ‘Fungi or mould. Not sure what’s causing it. Not sure what it is, actually. Lucas has run tests. It’s the alteration in the humidity, he thinks.’
‘It’s spread since I was last here,’ Frances said in an uncertain voice. ‘It’s spread a lot.’
‘Well, it does. Every day. Too many people in here, perhaps. Or my lights.’
He gestured to my right, where two large arc lamps had been fixed. Frances and I took a step towards them, and the heat at once intensified. Beyond their dazzle, I saw two tall black and gold figures, and realised they were the sentinels Eve had described, still standing guard in the emptied tomb. Their obsidian eyes glittered at us. As we gazed at them, one of those eyes closed, then reopened. I gave a startled cry.
‘Did he wink at you? He does that,’ Callender said. ‘It’s the gilding – tiny fragments break off. They cling to his brows, or his eyes. Then they get dislodged again, and for a moment you think––’ He cleared his throat. ‘Optical illusion. Nothing to worry about. Take a close look, they won’t hurt you.’
Frances and I hesitated, then approached. My nervousness began to abate: the statues were a little taller than I was, imbued with an eternal stillness; their faces were beautiful, and their expression profoundly gentle. If they had turned and spoken to me – and I felt that if I were alone with them, they might – I would have answered them without fear.
‘This is the wall to the inner chamber, Lucy,’ Frances said in a low voice, and I realised that of course it was: this was Mohammed’s important wall, the one that might conceal the boy king’s final resting place. Frances began to point out the seals on its surface: there were one hundred and fifty-one of them – she’d counted. ‘You’ve moved the rushes and the basket that were here,’ she said, in a sharp tone, glancing at Mr Callender. ‘The ones at the base of the wall. You’ve put this boxing in. When did you do that?’
‘Yesterday. Getting ready for the opening.’ He gestured to the boxwork covering the lower section of the wall. ‘Tomorrow I’ll box the statues in too. Lord Carnarvon wants them in place for the great opening. He insists they be visible and Carter insists they be protected. So they’re staying and I’m boxing them in. It’s called compromise. Plenty of that at the moment.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Myrtle, you’d like to look at the statues, I expect? Should have covered them up today. Disobeyed orders. I knew you’d want to see them.’
Miss Mack was touched by that. She gave him a grateful glance and stepped forward. In silence, she stared at the statues, meeting their steady obsidian gaze. Before anyone could demur, she lifted her right hand and rested it against the wall they guarded. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. She appeared to be listening.
We listened too, and I realised that the tomb was not a place of silence, as it had seemed at first, but an echo-chamber for the tiniest, most infinitesimal of sounds. The air eddied and sighed; there were little creaks, wooden protests, easings and shiftings in the walls, sounds like the trickling of gravel; the hot metal of the arc lamps sizzled and clicked. Miss Mack remained still and intent. Then she straightened, removed her hand from the wall and turned. Her face was bloodless.
‘I shall go outside,’ she said. ‘It is – I feel – Pecky, if you wouldn’t mind helping me.’
For a moment I thought she was about to faint, but Callender grasped her arm and she seemed to recover her poise. He led her outside. Left behind in the tomb, Frances and I clung to one another tightly. I think we both felt that we were not alone, that there was another presence here. We waited: it appeared to tolerate us. After a long eddying silence, Frances tugged at my arm. ‘You must look at this, Lucy,’ she whispered. ‘The last time I was here I had to crawl under one of the couches to reach it, and Daddy kept telling me to come out. He dragged me out by my heels in the end… but now it’s much easier to see in. Look, this is the little storeroom Mr Carter calls the Annexe.’
I turned to see that there was a small opening low down on the room’s west wall; the beams from the arc lamps were not directed that way, so it lay in shadow. Frances led me across and we knelt down. The opening was a jagged one, made by the thieves who’d plundered the tomb millennia before and left unsealed by the necropolis officials. I leaned forward and peered into the dusty space beyond, Frances crouching beside me. This area had not been cleared: as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness inside, I began to make out the tumbled shapes, the mountainous, precariously balanced pile of things: vases, chairs, boxes, rifled and rejected by the thieves, seized upon and cast aside. Some shapes I could identify, others not: I glimpsed an oar, a carved walking stick, an intricate boat, glints of gold, the faint phosphorescent gleams of alabaster. There was a strong scent emanating from the dark: unexpected, unnerving, the scent of ripeness.
‘I can smell fruit,’ I whispered. ‘Surely there can’t be fruit in here, Frances?’
‘There might be,’ she whispered back. ‘They found fruit in the Antechamber, Lucy. In baskets and in those strange, white, egg-shaped boxes. Fruits and meat and grains and vegetables. In three thousand years, none of it had rotted – it was sort of desiccated.’ She reached her hand into the dark space and felt around. Dust eddied. ‘All those provisions, stored away for his afterlife. Do you think the dead get hungry, Lucy?’
I thought of my lost mother, of lost Poppy d’Erlanger… Did the dead have appetites? To me, they were sad, shadowy,
irretrievable. ‘I can’t imagine that,’ I whispered.
‘Neither can I. But then I can’t imagine being dead… and if I do, when I try, if I try now, I can’t see anything. Just nothingness.’
She turned her face to me and fixed me with her dark bright gaze. ‘Do you think people know when they’ll die, Lucy?’ she then asked. ‘Do you think they foresee it?’
‘No, no, no,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sure they don’t. Don’t say that, Frances. Not in here… ’
‘Sorry.’ She grasped my hand tightly and began to cough. ‘Oh, this dust – everything’s covered in it,’ she said, ‘and the sand – it gets everywhere, it’s choking. Maybe it’s that horrid mould on the walls – I can’t breathe. Let’s go now, shall we?’
‘Yes, let’s.’
We both stood up and looked around the empty chamber one last time. A mischievous look stole onto Frances’s face. Releasing my hand, she ran across to the sealed north wall and, before I could prevent her, tapped it lightly. ‘Until we next meet,’ she said. ‘Farewell, King… ’ Then she laughed softly, which made her begin coughing again. I dragged her away. We both ran towards the stairs and, terrified, elated, made quick our escape – up and out, into the blessed air, into the hot light of the Valley.
The three women had abandoned their knitting; they were folding up their camp stools and making ready to leave. The two young cameramen had gone. The journalist Arthur Weigall was pocketing his notebook. He nodded to us as we drew level with him. ‘Beautiful evening. I think I’ll walk back over the hills,’ he announced, in a friendly tone. ‘My favourite route. Keeps me fit as a fiddle. I can make it to the ferry in under two hours from here – pretty good, eh?’
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