by Joan Hess
“Does it have a hypostyle hall, too?” demanded Caron. “I spent hours and hours looking at pillars yesterday. Frankly, when you’ve seen one pillar, you’ve seen them all. I thought we were going to—”
Peter held up his hand. “Enough. Thank you for the very informative synopsis, Inez. We’ll save those sites for another day. Let’s go on to the Valley of the Kings, Bakr.”
“Yes, very good, sir.” Bakr swung the van back into the trickle of traffic.
Inez was staring straight ahead, rigid with indignation. Behind us, Alexander muttered something to Caron that elicited a giggle. The last thing I needed was for Caron and Inez to squabble for the next two and a half weeks. Alexander was likely to be the incendiary spark, although I couldn’t blame him for his sophisticated charm. I decided that I needed to have a word with him, if only to remind him that he was entirely too old to flirt with seventeen-year-old girls. If he ignored me, I would have no option except to tell Peter to thrash him soundly for his impertinence (or however the Brits phrase it).
Peter leaned toward me. “They’ll work it out,” he said softly. “Remember when you were that age and some handsome older guy flattered you?”
“I do. That’s the problem.”
“Care to elaborate?”
I took a guidebook out of my bag and opened it to the chapter on the Valley of the Kings. Although reading in a car often makes me queasy, I was not at all inclined to continue a discussion about episodes in my past. Some of them were worthy of interment in a tomb that rivaled King Tut’s.
Bakr found a space in a parking lot clogged with tour buses and cars. After I’d made sure we were all equipped with sunglasses, sunblock, hats, and water bottles, we walked up a road to a strip of open-air shops selling sunglasses, sunblock, hats, water bottles—and an endless array of souvenirs. Local craftsmen had been driven away by purveyors of T-shirts, camera film, postcards, flimsy clothing, amateurish paintings, and colorful plastic figurines of ancient Egyptian gods and goddesses.
I was fingering a carpet of dubious origin when Caron grabbed my arm and dragged me aside.
“Why didn’t you tell me that guy—Alexander—was coming with us?” she whispered hotly.
“I didn’t think about it,” I admitted. “Last night at the cocktail party he asked if he might accompany us.”
“Look at me! My shorts are baggy and my shirt looks like it came from a yard sale. I didn’t even bother to dry my hair this morning, since we were going to be out in the sun all day. And Inez might as well be a shill at a sideshow attraction at some stupid county fair, trying to lure people inside to see a two-headed snake! I am so humiliated I Could Die.”
“Then we’re at the right place.”
“You are So Not Funny!” she snapped, then stomped away.
I caught up with Peter, who was defending himself from an eager merchant with a rack of glittery jewelry. Peter and I exchanged amused looks, then headed for a kiosk to buy tickets to enter the Valley of the Kings. Caron, I noticed, had retreated to the shade of an awning to apply lip gloss, while Alexander and Inez chatted nearby.
We rode in a faux trolley car up the hill to a concrete-block building. Soldiers stood in the shade, impassively watching mundane tourists and openly leering at scantily clad women. I studied the valley, no more than fifty to sixty feet across and defined by steep mountainsides lined with what I supposed were goat paths. It was hard to believe that over the millennia flash floods had carved this foreboding reddish brown canyon in the limestone. Wadis branched out on both sides; the map in the guidebook resembled a pinnated leaf. Boulders and chunks of rocky rubble continually tumbled down the cliffs, altering the landscape. The mutability, as well as the remoteness, had made a perfect hideaway for the priests to bury their pharaohs in hopes the tombs (and treasures within) would remain undisturbed. Now the valley was protected by the soldiers at the entrance and a few guards in a tiny building perched on the top of one of the cliffs.
Inez was well prepared. “There are sixty-three excavated tombs. The first, down that path on the right, belongs to Ramses VII, and has been open to tourists since Greek and Roman times. Ramses IV is next, and it has graffiti on the walls dating back to 278 B.C. Farther up and on our left is the tomb of at least six of the fifty sons of Ramses II. This tomb has one hundred and twenty-one chambers and corridors, making it larger and more complex than any other tombs that have been found to date in all of Egypt. On the right is the tomb of Ramses II, who was the son of Seti I. He and his father both had sarcophagi made of alabaster.” She paused for a breath. “The farthest tomb is that of Tuthmosis III at the end of the—”
“That’s Tut,” Alexander said, gesturing toward a long line of tourists waiting in front of an entrance with a barred gate, “or Tutankhamun, if you prefer. It’s officially known as KV62. Only one other tomb has been found since 1922, and that was in 2006. There was great hope that KV63 would also be filled with gold, jewelry, and of course a mummy or two. The media and the Egyptologists were breathless with anticipation.”
“And …?” said Caron. She’d managed to nudge Inez away, and now was gazing at him with something closely akin to adulation.
“Although it contained seven coffins, none had a mummy,” Inez said before Alexander could respond. “The stone jars and the coffins held fragments of pots, fabric, and natron, a form of carbonate salt used for cleansing and cosmetic purposes as well as mummification. The style of the lintel above the door is similar to the one at Tut’s tomb, leading to speculation that it might have served as a storage area for another tomb built for Tut’s wife, Ankhsenamon. Their two known daughters were stillborn, their mummies found in Tut’s tomb.”
“Fascinating,” Caron said as she gazed at the cloudless sky.
Alexander may have been the dilettante son of a baron, but he was not oblivious of the tension. “I say, Inez, you’re better informed than I. Shall we all go have a look inside it?”
“Before we do that,” Peter said, “why don’t we have a look at the excavation in progress?”
“We met Dr. King last night,” I said to the girls. “Her college in Maine is funding the project.”
Alexander snorted. “In theory. Only colleges and foundations with established programs in Egyptology are granted concessions to excavate. They in turn allow individuals to raise money and do the actual labor. Howard Carter had Lord Carnarvon as his patron. These days, archeologists rely on private donations made through the college. My father, among others, has given a goodly sum to this project.” He paused to light a cigarette. “It allows him free access to the site, which is off-limits to the tourists. It also allows me the same privilege, and all of you as my guests.”
A group of Asians swarmed by us, camcorders readied. A much livelier group of Germans, the women dressed in tank tops and the men bare chested, brayed at some private joke. An older woman sat on a low wall, fanning herself with an open guidebook. A few determined parents ignored their whining offspring as they trudged up the winding road. Babies in strollers fidgeted and fussed.
The site we were seeking was only a couple of hundred feet past King Tut’s entrance. It was ringed with yellow rope tied to rods, and a large truck was parked within a short distance. I’m not sure what I expected, but this appeared to be little more than a good-sized hole, maybe ten feet across, situated between the road and a steep incline. People milled about the rim, talking and gesturing. A tarp had been rigged on poles to provide a small patch of shade. The only activity seemed to come from the native workmen, who were going in and out of the hole with baskets made of what looked like sections of old tires.
Dr. King was the first to notice us. She pulled off her cloth hat and fluffed her blond hair with her fingertips. Tucking her sunglasses in her shirt pocket, she chirped, “Alexander, what a lovely surprise. I was hoping your father might come out today, but perhaps I can catch him later. All of you are welcome to duck under the rope and join us. Can we offer you some tea? Nabil, Hasham, get chairs
out of the truck.”
“Don’t let us disrupt the work,” Alexander murmured.
“No, it’s no bother. We’re always pleased to see you.” She stared at Inez but, like the rest of us, could think of nothing to say. Her attention shifted to Peter. “We didn’t have the opportunity to be introduced last evening, Mr. Rosen. I do hope we’ll have a chance to get to know each other better. In a sense, we’re both detectives, although my clues are found in antiquity. I’d love to hear about your more spectacular cases, perhaps over drinks in the hotel bar some evening?”
Although I did my best not to bristle, Peter sensed my displeasure. “I believe you met my wife, Claire Malloy. This is her daughter, Caron, and Inez Thornton.”
“Yes, the fabled Mrs. Malloy,” Shannon murmured, appraising me as if I were an unsuitable candidate for her program. “You look as though you’re about to collapse from the heat and exertion. Please, do sit down in the shade. We have some water, although I’m afraid it’s tepid.”
“I’m fine, but thank you for your solicitude,” I said. “Is this all there is to the excavation? I anticipated something more dramatic.”
“Most people do. There’s a great deal more complexity to archeology than what one picks up watching simple-minded cable shows. A doctoral degree requires a vigorous regimen of academic studies, as well as field experience. My parents swear I could read hieroglyphs before I learned the alphabet.” She rested her hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “I’m sure you could, too, since you grew up surrounded by your father’s marvelous collection. Isn’t it quaint how so many Americans think the word ‘dynasty’ refers to a TV soap opera?”
It was obvious that Dr. Shannon King and I were not destined to become close friends. I didn’t know if her arrogance came from her advanced degree, academic status, or blond hair, but I was less than impressed. Before I could voice any of this, Peter once again came to my rescue.
“I understand the excavator is a German woman?”
Shannon was so engrossed in sending provocative glances at Alexander that she was startled. “Why, yes. Let me introduce you to Magritta and her staff.” She beckoned to a young man standing over two workmen who were sieving rubble on a wide frame. “This is Jess Delmont, one of my grad students. He’s spending the semester here.”
Jess Delmont lacked the panache of Howard Carter, or even Inez. He was short and dumpy, with frizzy brown hair in a ponytail and a sour expression. He managed a shrug. “Hey, yeah, pleased to meet you.”
“Our department requires a semester of fieldwork,” Shannon continued. “Jess was hoping for an assignment in Mesopotamia, but with the political situation, it just wasn’t feasible. Such a shame.”
“Such a shame,” he said, mocking her sugary tone. He returned to his previous spot and looked down at the workmen, his arms crossed.
“Well, yes,” Shannon said, disconcerted. “Let me fetch Magritta.”
Caron and Inez sat down on the chairs under the tarp, neither of them acknowledging the other’s proximity. I sighed, then cautiously approached the rim of the hole. Peter’s arm around my waist was comforting. In that I am not a spiteful person, I did not glance up to see if Shannon noticed, and I took no satisfaction in her faint frown as she descended a series of square steps ringed with rocks.
“Workmen’s huts,” Alexander commented. “They lived in villages several hours away on foot. They would stay here for ten days at a time, then go home for a few days. When the heat grew intolerable in the summer and the Nile flooded, they would stay home to plant crops.”
“But those so-called huts are only a few feet square,” I said. “They couldn’t live in them.”
“They stored their tools and whatever personal belongings they’d brought.”
I bent forward. At the bottom of the hole were several people. I recognized Wallace Laxenby, the garrulous photographer I’d met at Lord Bledrock’s cocktail party. Shannon, having lost her audience, had replaced her hat. A few minutes later, she reemerged, followed by a stout woman with cropped gray hair, leathery skin, and a square jaw. She regarded us with the beady stare of a snapping turtle.
“This is Magritta Vonderlochen,” Shannon said. “Alexander has brought Claire Malloy and Peter Rosen out to visit.”
“I see that.”
“Magritta and her late husband, Oskar, have been working in Egypt for more than forty years. It used to be quite easy for archeologists to get concessions to excavate, but these days they need approved sponsorship. MacLeod College is honored to oversee this particular project.”
Magritta’s lip curled in response to Shannon’s pointed remark. “This is true, but we still revere the glorious days of Borchardt, Brugsch, Lepsius, and Sethe. They did not have to beg for funds to pay the workmen, feed and house the staff, take menial jobs during the off-season in order to pay their own transportation. Nor did they have to answer to a personage such as Dr. King, who will take credit for whatever we find. The view from the podium is much nicer than that from the bottom of the pit.”
“There’s no need for this,” Shannon said coldly. “You’re lucky that MacLeod is allowing you to continue working the concession without Oskar. You’d best hope you make a significant discovery this season. The two of you have been at it for four years, and all you’ve found so far is a handful of shards. There are plenty of other excavators interested in this particular concession.”
“Success requires diligence and perseverance. Oskar was convinced that we would find something of significance in this immediate area. When we open the tomb, it will be his final triumph. His life’s work will be validated.”
“If there is a tomb.”
Magritta scowled. “You know nothing except what you have read in books by pompous scholars who have never dirtied their hands or endured the suffocating heat and dust. You stay in that fancy hotel where you have every luxury, and then fly back to your insignificant college to prattle about the hardship. Look at your hands. Are they scarred and calloused?”
“I am not a common laborer,” Shannon retorted. “My objective is to evaluate your progress—which has been minimal, I might add. MacLeod College is losing enthusiasm for your so-called expertise. Oskar refused to write proper reports or even publish updates in the Egyptology journals. If you don’t do better, you’ll be reduced to digging holes in a sandbox in your own backyard.”
“How dare you speak of Oskar with such impudence!”
Wallace Laxenby’s face appeared from below. “What’s all this?” he sputtered. “Shannon, I won’t allow you to upset Magritta like this. If Oskar were alive, he would bound up the steps and turn you over his knee to paddle your well-padded backside until you shrieked for mercy.”
In the ensuing silence, everyone covertly assessed Wallace’s description of Shannon’s anatomy. I decided, although with only the faintest flicker of smugness, that Wallace had not been entirely inaccurate.
“How—how dare you!” she gasped.
Alexander cleared his throat. “I do think a glass of tea sounds like a jolly good idea. Claire, Peter, will you join me under the canopy?”
“Nabil, fetch tea,” said Magritta. “Jess, grab a brush and come back down with me. I need to get a better look at a shard before we extract it from the wall. Hasham, Hany, close your mouths and get to work. We only have a few hours left today.”
Shannon realized that a half-dozen tourists who’d paused on the opposite side of the yellow rope had overheard the distasteful conversation. Her face was flushed as she turned her back on them and began to scribble on her clipboard. After a moment, she went over to the truck and got into the cab.
“Perhaps we should leave,” I said as Peter and I sat down with the girls.
“Because of that spat?” Alexander chuckled maliciously. “It happens almost every day, and would in the evenings as well if Magritta were staying at the Winter Palace. She has a long-standing agreement with an Egyptian landlord to let a flat for six or seven months each year. I’ve never been invite
d there, but I expect it’s lacking in amenities. My father offered to put her up in an adequate hotel. He has a sense of noblesse when it comes to his employees. The butler was given a week’s leave to attend his mother’s funeral in Cardiff, and one of the upstairs maids was not sacked after she had complications from an emergency appendectomy and was bedridden for several weeks during the hunting season.”
“A true humanitarian,” Peter said.
I took a sip of the hot, sweet tea, then put down the glass. “I’d really prefer to go now. There’s really not much to see here. We can come back another day and go into some of the tombs.”
Caron and Inez avoided looking at each other as we all rose. Alexander stopped at the edge of the hole and called down that we were leaving. The heat from the sun overhead was noticeable as we walked down the road to the entrance. When we reached the van, Bakr seemed to realize that we were not inclined to chatter and mutely opened the doors for us. Alexander got in the front seat, relegating the girls to the seat in the back. I found a handkerchief in my purse and did what I could to wipe the dusty perspiration off my face.
After we were back on the highway, Alexander suggested that we stop for lunch at the restaurant he’d mentioned earlier. No one objected. The parking lot in front of the squatty building was almost empty, but it was well into the afternoon and the tour buses had already rounded up their inmates and headed onward.
We walked down a sidewalk alongside the restaurant and found a large table under an arbor. Alexander offered to order for all of us and dealt briskly with a waiter in a reasonably clean apron. Beers and sodas were brought to the table. I was beginning to find the silence more oppressive than the heat, but no one seemed willing to offer so much as an idle observation.
I was about to blurt out some inane comment when Alexander said, “I guess you’re wondering about Oskar.”
I hadn’t been, but the topic was more promising than the weather. “He’s deceased, I gather.”