The Ghost Reapers

by Jackie Ferris

  “Last night? Someone was here last night? Where were the guards?” Carnarvon rifled questions.

  “They broke in nearly three thousand years ago so the guards didn’t matter. I sent them to get coffee. The tomb raiders did a good job; the tomb was broken into not long after Tut died; at a guess, I’d say around two centuries after he was interred. Whoever broke in was not concerned about the King’s passage into the Afterlife.”

  He took out his linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. It was only just after nine but already the sun was scorching. “It’s the strangest thing, sir; they left the gold. Actually, they left everything. There’s another chamber; they broke into that too but they did not reseal it. With your permission, I would like to explore it. There might be clues as to what really happened there.”

  Carnarvon looked up at the cloudless blue sky; refusing Carter entry would only increase his suspicions. He slapped him heartily on the back. “Let’s get on with it then.” With a heavy heart, he followed the younger men down the steps and into the antechamber. He had not noticed the hole yesterday, probably because he was not expecting there to be one.

  Carnarvon tried to think. The secret society had only ever mentioned one break-in, which had been when the body was returned. How could they have got it so wrong?

  “Sir, are you coming?” Carter’s voice, echoing from the other side, made him focus. Carnarvon bent down, then squirmed his way into the hole. The narrow passage was oppressive. He had spent fifty-six years indulging in good food; now he wished he had occasionally said “no” to second helpings. He was dripping with sweat when finally he dropped the three feet into the second room.

  His companion was trying to clear a space and casting shadows around the chamber with his torch. There was hardly room to breathe, let alone move. The room was stacked with reed baskets and pottery jars, containing provisions for the afterlife. Royal furniture and expensive urns were strewn amongst the everyday objects. Whoever had ransacked the place was not looking for treasure.

  “This is sacrilege. No self-respecting Egyptian would leave their King in such a chaotic state.”

  Carnarvon proffered a smile, glad his companion had unwittingly provided him with a reasonable explanation. “You are right, it’s an absolute shambles. The grave robbers were searching for the real treasures in King Tut’s actual tomb. We are in luck; they clearly did not find any, nor did they get anything from here. The necropolis police must have disturbed them. It explains the chaotic state of the antechamber. The necropolis officials would not bother to restore order with the King long dead and already in the afterlife.” His smile widened into a grin. “It’s good news. It means his burial chamber is intact.” He patted Carter on the back, as if he were Susie, his favourite fox terrier. “Come on, no need to waste time in this annexe. To clear it, we need men with ropes. They can dangle them from the ceiling and take everything from the top, then work their way down.”

  He looked again at the mounds of unused objects. “This can wait; we have more interesting treasures to uncover.”

  Carter returned his grin, and then indicated the hole through which they had entered. “You first, sir.”

  Back in the antechamber, Carnarvon looked around the room. The chaos did not worry him. It was the paintings and artefacts that were making his heart stop. He was prepared for who they really portrayed, yet was surprised how feminine many of them were.

  Speculation was rife concerning the identity of Tut’s mother. Nefertiti was the primary candidate. Ten years earlier, archaeologists had uncovered a spectacular bust of the famous queen when they were digging along the banks of Nile, close to Amarna. Its timeless beauty confirmed her name: “the beautiful one has come”. The bust had sent everyone into a furore; the mere mention of her name was guaranteed to sell newspapers. This tomb and its artefacts would ignite the furore into a maelstrom. Carnarvon tried not to think about it.

  “Sir, these statues of Tutankhamun are exquisite.” He pointed to the two large figures he had examined earlier. “They must be his ka, guarding the entrance into his tomb. We should start work immediately to gain access. The treasures inside must be unimaginable.”

  Carnarvon nodded, feeling more comfortable. The gold would blind many to the truth. Only the paintings and artefacts inside Tut’s tomb would raise questions as to why so many related to Nefertiti. And even if they uncovered her mummy, connections would only be made to who his mother really was. It would stop there; they would assume she was buried there because she was his mother.

  He studied Carter, whose eyes were full of wonder, not doubt.

  “We must proceed with caution, Carter. The treasure within this sarcophagus will blind people to the history held here. Gold is a transitory pleasure, but history transcends the ages. No one will care about the past; the gold will mesmerise them with greed. Everything must be itemised. Come, we should go, tell no one of what you have seen. My men will guard the tomb until we are ready to excavate it properly.”

  Carter patted his tweed suit, enveloping them in dust.

  “Perhaps we should have a local shaman exorcise the tomb first, sir. The natives have talked of little else but the mummy’s curse since we uncovered it; even the guards are leery of what lies beneath.”

  Lord Carnarvon threw back his head and laughed. “Do you think I would have let you search all these years if I was worried by a mummy’s curse? Besides, the curse will keep the looters away; nothing must leave this site without my say-so.”

  Carter stared at him, still doubtful. “When I returned home after we first discovered the tomb, before we had even cleared the entrance, my servant greeted me with a handful of dead canary feathers. He claimed that Tutankhamun’s serpent had eaten it because it had led us to his tomb.”

  “More like the local cat got it.” Carnarvon was wondering who else had been in the tomb. His information was inaccurate. If something so vital was incorrect, what else was wrong?

  “Perhaps, sir… none-the- less, sir, I urge caution.”

  “Caution, like patience, is not something I am blessed with; besides, I have already explained: these silly superstitions will work in our favour, not against us.”

  April 5th, 1923

  Carter was out of breath as he reached the grand reception area in the Continental Savoy Hotel, nestled within the upper echelons of Cairo’s inner city. The look on the concierge’s moustached face told him that he was already too late.

  “I am sorry, sir, Lord Carnarvon died a few minutes ago.” The man confirmed his fears in clipped English as he rubbed a strand of waxed moustache between his forefinger and thumb.

  Carter swallowed hard; the expected news was still difficult to accept. “The mosquito bite?”

  He looked up as the chandeliers in the grand reception hall flickered.

  “The doctor says the bite became infected after he shaved a few days ago. He must have cut the swelling with his blade. Once the poison took hold there was nothing they could do.”

  Carter remembered the canary feathers, then gasped as the lights went out. He shivered as he searched the concierge´s face for answers.

  “We are having problems with the lighting, sir; Cairo is still accustoming its services to electricity. It should come on again, thanks to the Will of Allah.”

  “Ah yes, Allah be praised.”

  “Do you wish to see Lord Carnarvon, sir?”

  “No, it will not be necessary.” His mentor had left strict instructions as to how the tomb should be cleared.

  There was nothing to be gained by peering through a lens of candle light at a waxy body with a red face, induced by infection.

  As Carter returned to the street, the humidity, even in the late evening, was overpowering. It was made worse by the blanket of darkness descending on the streets. The electricity was down throughout Cairo. He hurried home, unable to escape the image of the yellow canary feathers whirling through his mind.

  Months later news reached him of Susie, Carnarvon’s thre
e-legged fox terrier. She had died on his English estate at the same time as his mentor passed. Carter’s fears about the curse of the mummy, and his unheeded warning to Carnarvon, intensified. More remarkably, when Tut’s mummy was finally unwrapped in 1925, the wound on his cheek was in the exact spot where Carnarvon had been bitten. At that point, Carter decided that whatever they had unleashed when the tomb was opened was pure evil.

  Chapter Seven

  Newcastle upon Tyne, 26th March, 2015 AD

  Rich spicy aromas percolated from the sea of foil cartons on the pine trunk, separating Jazz from Francisco.

  “You said we needed to talk.” She was unable to hold his gaze as she made space for her plate by stacking one carton on top of the other on the battered trunk.

  “We also needed to eat. And so far I have done most of that.”

  “The food is excellent, but I don’t feel hungry; there is so much I want to ask you.”

  “About Dad?”

  “About everything.”

  Francisco wiped his mouth with a paper towel. “He wrote you a letter.”

  “He could have sent it.”

  “He wanted me to give it to you in person.”

  Balancing his plate precariously next to hers, he stretched behind the chair to retrieve his briefcase. A moment later he pulled out a sealed brown envelope and held it out to her. The word “Jazz” was typed on it in black letters.

  She took it from him and then hesitated.

  “Open it, it won’t bite.”

  Feeling like she was holding a ghost from the past, she bit the inside of her mouth as she tore it open.

  The letter was written in black ink on white A4 paper. There were several pages. It was dated a month ago.

  “Do you mind reading it aloud? I can guess the content, even though Dad did not show it to me.”

  She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair.

  “My dearest Jazz,

  “You always were Jazz, not Jasmine, to me. I called you Jasmine in Francisco’s and his mother’s presence out of respect for your mother’s wish to name you after the exotic flower.

  “I have written so many letters to you. Somehow I feel braver writing. I know I will never see you again as certainly as I know this is my last letter to you. I am dying. The cancer will take me. Do not grieve, my dear daughter. It will be a relief. Knowing I could never talk to you again means I have died a slow death. I doubt if Hyacinth told you the truth.”

  Jazz inhaled deeply. “Truth? What truth?” She glared at Francisco

  “It’s not only history that is the victim of lies; families, up close and personal, are victims of deceit too.” He pointed to the letter. “Read it, it’s all in there.”

  She thought about it. Even from the small part of the letter she had read, it was obvious that her father bore no resemblance to the dark picture that her mother had painted. She began to read:

  “I was forty-four years old when I met your mother in Venice. She was a pretty young thing. Unfortunately for everyone, I found my early forties troubling. Half my life was over and what was to come stretched in front of me like a dreary path of predictability. I relieved the boredom by attending conferences. The Antiquities Committee could always be relied upon to choose interesting places. My lecture: “Nefertiti: a Woman for Our Times” was received favourably; naturally I was on a high as I strolled into St Mark’s Square.

  “The open-air orchestra played Puccini’s Turandot beneath a canopy of midnight velvet. Platinum stars glinted with mischief as they pierced the darkness. Your mother sat at a table, away from the crowds. Her blonde hair shone like the midnight sun. I was drawn like a moth to the light.

  “I am not proud of the night we spent together. The next morning, your mother left for England. A day later I flew to Cairo. We exchanged phone numbers although I did not expect to see her again.

  “To my chagrin, I failed to mention my misspent night of passion to my wife; sadly, fate had other ideas. Three months later I received a phone call from your mother. She was pregnant. I will be eternally grateful that my wife forgave me, on the condition that I went to England and agreed to provide for you and your mother.

  “I bought the house you were brought up in. I pretended to be married to your mother, for Hyacinth’s sake and yours. Your mother insisted that I had no say in your upbringing. My compliance was the action of a cowardly man. I loved my wife. I barely knew your mother but I did love you. I was desperate to tell you the truth, but I had made your mother a promise. My respect for her meant that I could not break it.

  “You know me as a man who risked his reputation by forging a papyrus so blatantly incorrect that a schoolboy might have penned it. I will not insult your intelligence by asking you to believe me; I merely ask you to consider the facts.”

  Jazz grasped the letter, then waved it. “Is this true?”

  Francisco narrowed his eyes. “My parents told me the story.”

  “Your mother really knew about me?”

  “The whole family did. Dad wasn’t ashamed of you, he loved you.”

  Jazz tugged at a stray strand of hair, then wrapped it around her finger.

  “I can’t begin to imagine how you feel, Jazz, but it might help if you read on.”

  She let the strand of hair drop from her fingers. Her voice shook as she read.

  “I was at the height of my career when the infamous papyrus was handed over to the Egyptian authorities. Reputedly, I wanted to convince the world that Tutankhamun was Nefertiti’s son. Why use a demotic script which had only appeared hundreds of years after Nefertiti’s death? To compound my error, I wrote it on A4 typing paper. Schoolboy mistakes!

  “Twenty years ago I was close to the truth. People in the shadows were afraid of what I might uncover. I use the term uncover, not discover, because our rulers are not politicians or economists; they are the people of the dark, without religions or countries. Their actions against me proved what I had only dared to suspect.

  A secret organisation keeps the truth hidden. They move like shadows, operating on the dark side of our existence. They orchestrated my downfall. I call them the Ghost Stealers, because they stole our past.

  Francisco works for them.”

  She threw him a puzzled look but continued reading.

  “Don’t be afraid, his work is legitimate. He is not involved in the conspiracy.

  Remember one of your Nan’s favourite sayings: ‘keep your friends close but your enemies closer’. She was right.

  “As an employee, Francisco can watch them. When I was in jail I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I worked hard to feign the symptoms, because it is an illness people pity. No one paid attention to me. They believed themselves safe.

  “I was a poor father to you, Jazz. Allow me to change that in death. Our theories are two sides of the same coin.

  “Francisco will help you to access information which proves your suspicions about the Shroud. The shadows guard the truth, which is hidden deep within the Vatican vaults. As my daughter, you are a person of interest to the Ghost Stealers. Your obsession with the Turin Shroud has transformed their interest into suspicion. The delicate matters you allude to suggest you possess classified knowledge. Do not speak further on Twitter. Listen to Francisco. Go with him to Cairo. I have information there that will eradicate your doubts about me. Please remember that Francisco is being watched too. If they see you with him they will kill you both.”

  Jazz looked up from the letter; her eyes filled with anger and guilt. “This is ludicrous far-fetched drivel. What’s more, I can prove it. I only posted my theory on the Shroud last night.” She stabbed the paper with her finger. “The death threat is a bit dramatic too, even with his penchant for melodrama.” She swallowed hard, remembering the “welcome to your death day” threat.

  “He tweeted you regularly.”

  “He couldn’t know what I was thinking. He did not know me.” She stabbed herself in the chest with her finger.

  “He guesse
d where you were going with the Shroud. He said the need to stretch the envelope was in the genes.”

  “This is ridiculous.” She threw the letter into the pile of foil cartons as Francisco pulled a face.

  “I don’t expect you to take everything on board immediately.”

  “That is kind of you,” she bristled, staring at the discarded letter.

  “I don’t blame you for being angry.” He studied the confusion on her face. “You are the one looking for answers, Jazz. Perhaps if you finish reading his letter everything will make more sense.”

  She considered his words, knowing that she needed to calm down. The letter was destroying her past, but it also held answers. Her hand shook as she picked it up and then continued to read aloud.

  “I changed Francisco’s nappies, I dried his tears. He was a young man when I was in jail. He never missed a visiting day. My breath is his breath. I did not share such intimate moments with you, but I always felt connected. I hope that, if I share some of my beliefs, you will understand.

  “Tutankhamun was buried in haste; yet his death was far from unexpected. He was a sickly youth who could barely walk, let alone ride. Why were six golden chariots buried in the tomb with him?

  “His burial place was one of the few not to be looted. Why did the grave robbers leave it alone? Nefertiti, his stepmother, was the most famous woman in the known world. She was loved by her people; then, suddenly she disappeared. Odd, don’t you think?”

  Jazz nodded, immersed in her father’s words.

  “We share a love of patterns. Institutions follow patterns. When their predictability is broken something is wrong. History is one of our oldest institutions. Its account of the Turin Shroud breaks the pattern system; the Church’s denial is inexplicable. Nefertiti’s sudden disappearance, at a time when she was the most feted person in the world, is unbelievable. The incredible array of riches discovered in Tut’s tomb does not make sense. He was an unremarkable boy king, overshadowed by his Regent and Vizier Ay.