The Visitors (48 page)

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 the 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.