by Gill Paul
“We are clearly heathens,” Maude announced. “And there are four of us. So I christen us the ‘Unholy Quadrumvirate.’ Such will be our name forever after.”
“Can you be a heathen and still talk about christening?” Emily quibbled. “Alright, why ever not!”
Eve felt like the luckiest girl in the world to have made such interesting friends so early in her first Season. After the isolation of her teenage years at Highclere, it felt as if she had struck gold.
* * *
One of the Pine Trees nurses brought a tray of tea for Eve and Maude, with some digestive biscuits on a plate decorated with painted bluebells. Eve was glad that Maude poured the tea because her left hand was shaky. She’d had many a spill trying to pour herself a glass of water from the jug by her bed.
As they sipped the tea, Maude told Eve about Lois’s visit the previous week. She rarely came to town so they had had a lot of catching-up to do. They’d gone shopping on Bond Street and then to see a show, and they scarcely stopped talking for ten hours straight.
“How’s Em-m-ly?” Eve asked. “Have you seen her r-rec-ently?”
Maude frowned, twisting her lips to one side before answering. “Emily died, Eve. Over twenty years ago. It was breast cancer, like her mother before her. You came to her funeral, at Holy Trinity Brompton. Remember?”
Eve clutched her face in shock and burst into tears. How could Emily be dead? She could picture her as a young girl, swaying to the music of a jazz band, with her pretty blond curls and wide brown eyes. Poor Emily. The first of them to go.
Brograve bustled in at that moment, carrier bags in hand. He took in Eve’s tears and glanced at Maude for an explanation.
“She’d forgotten Emily had died,” Maude told him, passing Eve a hankie and patting her hand.
Brograve put his arm around her and stooped to kiss her forehead. Maybe now wasn’t the time to ask her about Egypt and Tutankhamun. Loads of people died after that, and it would be cruel to remind her while she was still so fragile. Imagine how awful it would be if she mourned each one anew—like losing all your loved ones in one fell swoop.
Chapter Eight
London, October 1972
Brograve was reading his newspaper in the sitting room of their London flat when the doorbell rang, making him jump. It was one of Mrs. Jarrold’s days—she came on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—and he heard her talking into the intercom. She popped her head around the door.
“Dr. Ana Mansour to see you,” she announced. “She says she’s written.”
“Oh god!” It had been on Brograve’s mind to reply to her but he couldn’t think what to say. Eve was still showing signs of improvement but he didn’t think she was ready to be quizzed by a stranger. “You’d better let her in,” he said, folding his paper.
He heard the lift arriving on their floor and the clatter of the lattice metal doors being pushed apart. “This way, please,” he heard Mrs. Jarrold say, then a woman was standing in the doorway. He leaped to his feet.
“Dr. Mansour,” he said, holding out his hand.
She was attractive, with dark shoulder-length hair curled up at the ends like Jackie Kennedy’s, lightly tanned skin, and black lines painted around her eyes. Brograve wasn’t good at women’s ages but guessed she must be somewhere around forty.
“Lord Beauchamp.” Her hand was warm, with slim fingers. “I apologize for dropping in uninvited, but I leave London tomorrow and I was keen to speak to your wife.” She glanced around as if hoping to see her there.
He let out a long sigh. “Please sit down.” He gestured to a chair. “Can I offer you tea?”
While Mrs. Jarrold made drinks, Brograve explained about Eve’s health setback, and his reluctance to overburden her while she was still piecing her memories together.
The woman was sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that. Strokes can be devastating. I looked after my father for years after his stroke, so I know what a strain it can be.” Her expression was warm. “Is her memory affected, or is the damage mostly physical?”
Brograve thought back to Maude’s telephone call the evening after her visit. She had a theory that while Eve could remember details of events from the 1920s as if they happened yesterday, her memories seemed to fade in the 1930s and become vaguer the closer you got to the present day.
Brograve suspected Maude was right. The same thing had happened with previous strokes but most of the memories returned gradually as she recovered. The question was how you went about filling in the missing pieces. He couldn’t bear to see her upset, as she’d been when she heard about Emily.
“Her memory is patchy so I haven’t pushed too hard,” Brograve said. “Her speech is much improved, but I haven’t asked her about Egypt yet. That might be difficult for her.”
Ana Mansour paused, weighing her words. “I remember from my father’s case that our first instinct is to wrap them in cotton wool. It’s entirely understandable. But the scientific advice is that stimulation helps the brain to regain function more effectively than rest. I know your wife used to be an extremely knowledgeable Egyptologist.”
Brograve nodded. “Indeed, she was.”
Ana’s eyes fixed on his. “If that knowledge is still there, accessing it could help to refresh her neural connections and give her confidence.” She paused. “I might be able to help.”
“How do you mean?” He was wary.
She smiled. “What if you took me to meet her and introduced me as a visiting Egyptologist? I could say that I was keen to shake her hand, given her important role in the history of archaeology. She needn’t feel under any pressure that way.”
In normal circumstances Eve would enjoy that, Brograve thought. She’d be thrilled. But was it fair to bring visitors she didn’t know when she wasn’t at her best? Maude had arranged for a hairdresser to visit Pine Trees every week to wash and set her hair, but Eve couldn’t apply makeup with her weak right hand, so she wasn’t as well turned out as she had always been before. Besides, her speech was still slurred and unclear.
Ana Mansour continued: “I have a few photographs with me of Egyptian artifacts we’re working on. I could show them to her—not to challenge her, just to see if there is a reaction. If there is none, at least we have tried. But if she recognizes them, it might help to open up her brain.” She cupped her hands and mimed the opening of a flower. “‘Use it or lose it.’ Isn’t that what they say?”
Brograve pondered that. What she said had a certain logic, especially since Egypt had a special place in Eve’s heart. She had taken the photo of the Nile from his album. Was that a sign? But then he remembered about the mention of “anomalies” in Ana’s letter.
“You know Eve wasn’t present when the tomb contents were catalogued, don’t you?” he asked. “That was nothing to do with her.”
“I’m aware of that,” she replied. “I’m interested in her memories of the opening of the tomb. Perhaps our discussion will trigger something that could be useful, but if not”—she spread her hands—“it will be an honor to meet her all the same.”
He supposed that sounded fine. “When were you thinking of visiting?” he asked. “She has good days and not so good days.” Sometimes she was exhausted after her morning physio sessions, with a woman whom Eve jokingly called “Sally the Sadist,” and she always seemed more forgetful if she hadn’t slept well.
“I am flying to Cairo tomorrow. We could either go this afternoon, or it will have to wait till my next visit. It’s entirely up to you.”
Suddenly Brograve felt impatient to see if this strategy would work. “Let’s go today,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”
* * *
Brograve normally walked to Pine Trees but when he suggested it, Ana glanced down at her boots, which were elevated on platforms at least two inches high. Why did women wear such treacherous footwear? If she went over on her ankle, it would probably break. “I’ll get the car,” he said, and went to fetch it from the car park beneath their apartment bloc
k.
When they got to Pine Trees, he greeted the receptionist and waited for her to buzz open the door that admitted visitors to the rooms, all the while worrying that he might be making a mistake and this could upset Eve badly.
She was sitting in her chair by the window, and she beamed at him as he walked in. “I’ve been w-watching a shquirrel,” she said, then noticed the woman behind him. “Oh, hello! A v-visitor!”
Brograve made the introductions and invited Ana to sit in the other armchair while he perched on the bed, wondering how to bring up the reason Dr. Mansour was there. He didn’t have to, though, because Eve took over the conversation.
“You’re from C-cairo?” she asked. “M-my husband and I m-met there. It’s a w-wonderful city but I expect m-much changed from my d-day.”
Since the stroke, Brograve had never heard her speak so clearly. She must be making a special effort for their visitor.
“You were there during the transition from British rule, were you not?” Ana asked.
“Yes.” Stumbling over her words, Eve described an incident from her first visit, when an Egyptian man ran up to the donkey cart they were traveling in. He was wearing a headdress and his eyes and teeth sparkled white against his dark skin. She had smiled, thinking he was being friendly, but instead he shouted, “English out! Death to imperialists!” and spat at her. Eve smiled. “I was r-rather shaken, as you c-can imagine.”
Ana nodded. “The British called it a protectorate rather than part of the empire, but their hold on the army and police force made it paternalistic.”
“I always th-thought you should have your f-freedom,” Eve said. “They said it was German spies who had encouraged n-nationalism during the w-war, but Egyptians h-have such an ex-tra-or-din-ary . . .” She paused, unable to think of the word.
“History?” Brograve suggested. He was stunned at how articulate she was today. Where on earth had this come from?
“C-culture,” she continued. “Unique culture. They should c-clearly have b-been s-self-governing.” She took a deep breath and he could tell the stammer was driving her crazy. “T-tell me, what is your area of s-study?”
“The Valley of the Kings.” Ana smiled. “I understand you know it well. I did my first digs there as a young archaeology student, and now I am engaged in a research project. Perhaps you would like to see pictures of some artifacts we’re studying?”
“I-I’d l-love to,” Eve said, leaning forward.
Brograve braced himself. This might be the moment when she got distressed if she couldn’t recognize anything. In that case, he would intervene and change the subject.
Ana opened a slim document wallet she’d been carrying and passed across a sheet with a colored image printed on it. Brograve couldn’t see what it was.
Eve smiled as she took it. “Amun-Re,” she said. “I know this f-fellow. He was in my father’s collection at H-Highclere. He was found at K-Karnak and H-Howard thought he was Eighteenth Dynasty.”
Ana nodded. “We’ve been reassessing and think it might be later than Howard Carter believed, perhaps after the reign of Ramesses XI.” She pulled out another sheet of paper and passed it across.
“Opening of the m-mouth ceremony,” Eve said straightaway, squinting at it. Brograve rose to fetch her glasses from the bedside table and helped her to put them on. “So the d-deceased can eat and drink in the afterlife.”
“Do you recognize where the image comes from?” Ana asked, then, without waiting for an answer, she passed another picture. “Perhaps this will help.”
There was a simple cartouche drawn in black on the white sheet of paper.
Eve gave a broad smile. “That’s the b-bird for ‘u’ and the ankh for ‘l-life.’ Tu-t-ankh-amun.” She pointed to each of the elements in the hieroglyphic. “The opening of the m-mouth p-picture was on the wall of the b-burial chamber. I could never forget that. It was one of the d-defining experiences of my life.”
Brograve turned so neither of the women could see the tears prickling his eyes. All these months, it seemed he’d been underestimating her. Everything was in there, locked away. Ana had been right; all she needed was stimulation.
Chapter Nine
London, October 1972
Eve was overjoyed to have passed the tests Ana Mansour set for her—they were clearly tests. Of course she remembered Tutankhamun! How could she not? She watched Ana slide the images back into her document wallet, thinking that she seemed very fashionably dressed for her profession. Archaeologists tended to wear practical clothing, both in the field and elsewhere.
She thought of Howard Carter’s baggy three-piece suits with patched elbows, the shirts with fraying cuffs, and the sloppily tied bow ties. By contrast, Ana was wearing a slim skirt and matching belted jacket, and some gold earrings and a necklace with a twisted knot design. There was no wedding band on her ring finger, no rings at all. Eve didn’t know if Egyptian women wore wedding rings; she’d never been close enough to check. The ones she used to see in the streets of Cairo wore veils that covered their hair and faces, leaving only the eyes visible.
She guessed Dr. Mansour’s age to be late thirties, maybe forty. Surely she must be married. She had beautiful eyes, a golden leonine color, and her skin was unlined, her figure trim. Some man was bound to have snapped her up.
“Did your interest in archaeology come from your father?” she asked Eve.
“Pups and Howard C-Carter both indulged my c-curiosity from a young age. And H-Howard taught me how to dig during my first w-winter in the Valley. I loved it from the s-start.”
Recently, Katie had been teaching Eve to slow her speech right down. “You attack a sentence like my Labrador attacks her food bowl,” she commented. “But if you space the words out more, your tongue will have time to find the vowels and consonants.”
It was true, Eve thought. She’d always had a lot to say, but if she tried to speak fast now she tripped, helter-skelter, over the words.
“My father was a dealer in antiquities, based in Cairo,” Ana said. “He and Howard Carter sometimes did business together.”
“Really?” Eve was excited. “Perhaps he knew my f-father too?”
“He would have loved to meet your father and shake his hand,” Ana said. “He was only a young man when Tutankhamun’s tomb was discovered, just starting out in his trade, and he said it made him very proud to be Egyptian. The fact that it happened only months after Egyptian independence was particularly special—as if we were at last demonstrating to the world the greatness of our heritage.”
“I think the world has always r-recognized the genius of the Ancient Egyptian c-craftsmen,” Eve said. “I was bewitched by their work at an early age. D-did your f-father visit the tomb?”
“Not till much later. It was hard for ordinary Egyptians to get access. My father told me many stories of digs in the years before the discovery, though, and I know you were present at some of them. Weren’t you there, for example, when Mr. Carter found the Merneptah embalming oil jugs?”
“It was me who found them!” Eve exclaimed. “My one true c-claim to fame!” She was overjoyed that Ana had asked about them. They weren’t important in the scheme of things, but they’d always been special for her.
* * *
It was the twenty-sixth of February, 1921. Eve and her father were digging with Howard in the Valley. She’d been working on an area near the eastern edge of the concession when she spotted something pale glinting in the sand. She felt with her gloved fingers and was thrilled to realize it was an object, about six inches long, and it seemed more substantial than an animal bone.
“Howard!” she called, with a ripple of excitement, and he was at her side in an instant.
“You’ve got something there,” he said. “Well done, Eve.” He eased it out slowly, using a delicate-pointed probe, and brushed it down with a fine brush. It appeared to be some sort of vessel, long and narrow, with the remains of a handle on one side.
“Alabaster,” Howard said. “Pro
bably used for embalming oil.”
“Might I hold it?” Eve asked, and was breathless when he passed it to her.
“No other hands have touched it for thousands of years,” he said, grinning. “How do you feel?”
“Like a proper archaeologist.” She cradled the vessel as carefully as she would a newborn baby. “This is the best feeling in the world.”
* * *
“It was the first significant find in that concession,” she told Ana. “There were th-thirteen jars altogether, engraved with the name Merneptah and that of his father, Ramesses II.”
Brograve was staring at her with astonishment and she realized she had barely stumbled in the whole sentence. Ana Mansour was smiling encouragement.
“Howard had ex-excavated Merneptah’s tomb in . . .” Eve forgot the date. Damn. Katie said just to keep talking if she couldn’t remember a word. “KV8,” she said. “That was the tomb number. He said it had some rather lovely w-wall paintings, though much faded.”
“But it was you who found the jars. I’ll make a note of that. You should be credited in the archives!” Ana took out a notebook and turned to an unmarked page, where she scribbled something down.
“It was Pups’s concession,” Eve said, secretly pleased her name would appear in the records. “Tell me, have you done much fieldw-work? Where have you dug?”
Ana closed her notebook again but kept it on her lap. “I was honored to be part of the team that discovered the Lighthouse of Alexandria four years ago. That was a special moment but, as you know, no one person can claim credit for finds of that magnitude. There were several of us involved, all researching different aspects.”
Eve shook her head. “In the case of T-Tutankhamun, it was definitely Howard’s find. He just knew it was there. Theodore Davis, the American archaeologist, had sponsored a team that dug within six feet of it and gave up, but Howard had a plan . . .”