Tutankhamun Uncovered (61 page)

“You are too kind, your Majesty. But your praise is at the very least equally deserved by Mr Carter. I was all for calling a halt to our search. Had it not been for his tenacity and discipline, the tomb would still lie buried today.”

“Ah... yes... Carter. He is a small person. Testy, too. Few manners. I’m sure it was a necessary match, the two of you, but I’ll bet it’s been a difficult one at times. Your forgiving nature is a credit to you. I seem to recall a lingering nasty taste when his name and that of the French come up in the same conversation. Just as well a man of means and breeding can lend his name to this discovery. Don’t know that I could stomach an audience myself.”

“Nonetheless, with your leave, sir, I will pass your words of gratitude to my colleague on my return to Egypt late next month.”

“As y’ please, Carnarvon. He’s your cross. Now...” the king continued without taking a breath, “...I want the full story not a word not an observation left out.”

He stared intently at Carnarvon, his face the very picture of anticipation.

While in London during the first week of the New Year, Carnarvon sat at his desk to review, glance at and possibly read some of the mountain of mail that was addressed to his attention each day. He took it upon himself to read one in three. One of the three he hit upon on that particular day got his attention immediately and stopped him reading any more. In a macabre fashion it appealed to his superstitious nature. At the same time, however, it disturbed him.

The letter read:

Dear Lord Carnarvon,

My wife and I have some degree of psychic power. We do not use this to commercial benefit you understand, but nevertheless we are so gifted. From time to time we are visited. That is, we sense from time to time an alien presence and sometimes even establish a dialogue.

Be this as it may, we are writing to you on this occasion through no other compunction than a wish to preserve you from what we believe to be a mortal danger.

Last night we had read with interest the latest bulletin on the great discovery that yourself and Mr Carter have made in The Valley of the Tombs of the Kings in Egypt. We were discussing the latest findings when, without warning, the lights in our room began to dim. As the light faded an image of a woman in ancient Egyptian dress began to materialise. She appeared royal and she pointed to the desk upon which lay a pad of paper, and beside it a pencil. I felt compelled to pick up the pencil and place the point on the paper. I did not feel any sensation in my fingers but it must have been within just a few seconds of my picking up the pencil that the image disappeared and the light was restored. Both of us were extremely disturbed by this event, but we became absolutely thunderstruck when we realised that in those few moments I had actually written something on the notepad. And this is the reason for my letter to you. The words, all in capitals, read:

‘LORD CARNARVON NOT TO ENTER TOMB. DISOBEY AT PERIL.

IF IGNORED WOULD SUFFER SICKNESS; NOT RECOVER; DEATH WOULD CLAIM HIM IN EGYPT.’ We feel it our responsibility to bring this event to your attention. We are telling you this as fact. Make of it what you will. Whatever you decide to do now, my wife and I wish you well, and God’s speed. Sincerely,

The Hamons

The earl crushed the paper in his fist. He believed so fervently in the supernatural. But at the same time this discovery, after so many years of defeat, was of such monumental proportions that it had become literally the biggest news of the day. From shy and reserved, albeit rich beginnings, he had become a worldwide celebrity. Everyone who was anyone wanted to meet him and visit, or at least hear about, his encounter with the splendours of Tutankhamen’s treasure and experience the discovery of the body of the boy king himself. To distance oneself from such public notoriety was unthinkable.

With strength of will and not a little nervousness, he suppressed the fear which the note had generated and focused himself on completing his business in England and returning to the site as soon as practicable. But an uneasiness remained with him and haunted his sleep.

Carnarvon’s first and most important business of the New Year was lunch at his club with the manager of The Times, William Lints Smith. An old friend of the grandee’s notwithstanding, Smith was totally focused on the tremendous scoop he was about to secure for his newspaper. Similarly, the earl was absolutely certain of the unique and uncountable value in the exclusivity of this story, and of the stories he knew were yet to come. There would be no bargaining.

Friends they may have been, but this was business and Carnarvon was not about to elicit less than full value for the opportunity he would present to the man on the other side of the claret bottle. He didn’t have to worry. They were both gentlemen and Smith was in any case prepared to obtain the sole rights to the greatest story in newspaper publishing history at almost any price. He had come armed with a draft of their forthcoming agreement with everything complete but for a couple of gaps left for the final figures regarding the Carnarvon family’s compensation.

Having spent a little time reading all the provisions in the ten clauses, the earl said, “Five thousand pounds and seventy-five per cent.”

Smith nodded.

Perusal of the menu and the choice of a dessert wine had taken longer than the negotiations. Without further ado, they set to enjoying their stuffed quail.

Lord Carnarvon drained his brandy and blotted his lips with his serviette.

“A truly agreeable agreement, in all senses of the word, William. It’s good for The Times it’s good for Carnarvon it’s good for Carter. He hates publicity. He hates the public! Since publicity and the notoriety that accompanies it are inevitable, this arrangement will permit him the least and the best organised interference. I can guarantee he won’t be pleased with our arrangement, but he will be a lot less unhappy than he would have been had we permitted it to become a free-for-all. Trouble is, he probably won’t appreciate it and I have no doubt he will be downright rude to Merton on occasion. I hope your man has the personality for it, and a tough hide he’ll need it!”

They both laughed.

The little biplane leapt over the rim of The Valley clearing the rocks by just a few feet and, like a dragonfly hitting a downdraught, immediately fell towards the people milling about above the entrance to the newly opened tomb. All of a sudden The Valley was filled with noise. The roar of its engine bounced off every cliff face. Several of the Arab labourers scattered willy-nilly in fear for their lives. It swung so low that it kicked up dust and then climbed back out to make another turn.

“Bloody hell!” shouted Carter over the din of yelling men and machine. “I’ll bet that’s Weigall, sir!” he shouted at the earl, lately back from the festive season in England. “I told him he was barred from The Valley for the time being. Absolutely fumed about it. Not to be outdone he finds another way in. How the hell did he manage that?”

Adamson chimed in above the row. “Give me a rifle, sir, and when ‘e comes back for anuver run I’ll ’ave ’im out the sky h’in the blinkin’ of an eye. That’ll fix ’im... for good an’ all!”

“Isn’t he now a reporter, Howard?” the earl shouted back over the din.

“Daily Mail.”

“Well, we needn’t worry at all about that. They’re not going to get the story. I’ve fixed it already.”

The noise died momentarily as the aircraft disappeared over the ridge.

Carter looked puzzled. “Fixed it? What do you mean, ‘fixed it’, sir?”

“Negotiated an exclusive rights contract with The Times whilst I was away. A story such as this has to be fully reported in the best newspaper in the world. It is inconceivable to have it any other way. Besides, an exclusive contract will mean badly needed money in me pocket, Howard.”

The financial aspects were of no concern to Carter. He estimated the number of non-constructive interviews and pestering he might become exposed to. The daily presence of reporters was more than he wished to contemplate at present.

“Believe me, Howard, this is for the best. All interviews will be under our control at specific times and no other. You will be able to carry out your important work to a schedule which only you will control. I promise you the least hindrance... and no Mr Weigall.”

Carter would be glad of that.

The earl gestured skyward as the biplane came in for another low pass. Everyone held their ears. As the plane swept past and opened up its throttle to make the climb over the cliff face, Carter noticed the camera lens flash in the sunlight.

“Damn man’s taking pictures of us, your lordship.”

“Can’t stop him taking pictures, Howard. Tourists are taking pictures all the time.” “Yes, but he’ll be publishing them, sir.” “Not the official ones, Howard. That’s all that matters to us. Official

pictures with official captions the only correct ones.” “If you say so, sir. If you say so.” The earl’s personal complacency aside, Carter couldn’t help his irritation.

As the noisy biplane disappeared over the ridge line, Carter saw an object fall to the ground about twenty yards in front of him. He trotted over and picked it up. It was a piece of paper wrapped tightly around a small pebble. He opened up the paper and read the few hurriedly scribbled letters inside: ‘SAY CHEESE! W.’

He rolled it up once more in his fist and threw it to one side out of the earl’s field of view.

The encounter in the Winter Palace bar that night was inevitable. There were only so many places with Western style comforts that one could go to in Luxor and the press were in all of them.

“Hope we didn’t blow your hats off today!”

Weigall slapped Carter on the back as he was leaning forward to place his Scotch on the coffee table. The drink spilled into the ashtray, extinguishing Carnarvon’s cigar. The two turned to glare at the man who had so rudely interrupted their elite gathering.

“Oh. Sorry chaps, er... ladies, your lordship, Carter, Callender, Breasted, Burton.” He acknowledged each member of the seated group with a repetitive nodding of his head.

“Please, let me get you another.”

He turned around quickly and called to the waiter at the bar.

“Effendi! A Scotch and...?”

“Water.”

“...Water for Mr Carter a double. And bring the box of cigars. My deepest apologies, your Lordship. Most clumsy of me.”

“Quite all right, Mr Weigall. Couldn’t be helped. Please, would you like to join us?”

“You are most kind, sir.”

Carter and Callender made room for him and he pulled up a chair.

“I don’t believe you have met the ladies. Some introductions are in order. Mr Weigall from the Mail Lady Evelyn, my daughter...”

He leant forward to shake her hand. “Delighted, Lady Evelyn.”

“...Miss Dalgliesh, visiting us from England for a fortnight...”

“Charmed.”

“...Mrs Burton and Mrs Breasted, accompanying their husbands during their travails with us.”

“Blessed, I’m sure.”

He shook the hand of each of the ladies. Following his recent blundering embarrassment, his fingers were wet with perspiration and each of them in turn wiped their right hands on their hankies; all except Mrs Burton who was wearing silk gloves.

Weigall couldn’t contain himself. The opportunity couldn’t be wasted. The group resigned themselves to the inevitable interrogation.

“What a find, Carter! What a find!” He turned towards Carnarvon. “My congratulations, sir! My congratulations to you both! The world salutes you! The archaeological discovery of the century! No, the greatest ever!”

This was all a little too much for Carter who, as the returning waiter broke Weigall’s flow, couldn’t resist tempting fate. With a contemptuous grin beneath his moustache he said, “How many years was it you controlled The Valley, Weigall? Recall your comments of ‘amateurism’? How many times did you tell us that after Davis we were wasting our time? Bandied about his words (God rest his soul) ‘No more tombs’ all over the place, as I recall. Bit ironic this, don’t y’ think?”

Carnarvon broke in, “Now, now, Howard. No room for sour grapes. He came to give us his good wishes. Take it in the spirit in which it is given. Let bygones be bygones.”

Weigall, in any event, hadn’t taken Carter’s words seriously. He was concentrating on his next move in the golden opportunity now presented to him and stepped right in. “Your lordship,” he continued, “may I avail myself of some of your time for an interview? The Mail will see it is printed all over the world!”

“Ah...” The earl choked as he bit off the end of a new cigar. His response was clinically short. “Sorry, old boy. No. Absolutely not. Since you are so desirous of the facts, I suggest you refer to The Times as the authoritative source.”

Weigall’s condescending smile cleared from his face. He stared at the earl, speechless.

“Cat got your tongue, Weigall?” Carter provoked.

The silence continued for a moment or two more. Eventually, the astonished archaeologist-cum-reporter managed to pull himself together sufficiently to stammer out a few words. “An exclusive?”

Carnarvon nodded to him.

“You... you can’t do that.”

“Done, old boy.”

“But... Never heard the like... Can’t be legal...”

“It is. Better get used to it. Cause you less pain. Thanks for the cigar.”

The earl joined Carter in a wry smile.

Weigall was becoming angry. He was just about to blurt out something he would no doubt later regret when a man wearing jodhpurs, high leather riding boots and a short sleeved khaki shirt clapped him on the shoulder.

“Been looking for you everywhere, Wigger me old man! Going to introduce me to your lady friends?”

Between his embarrassment, disappointment, shock and anger, Weigall was now totally confused. But civility prevailed and he turned to introduce the tall stranger standing at his shoulder. “Er... Captain George Stanley. My pilot.”

“Your servant, ladies, gentlemen.” Stanley bowed. “My great honour to meet such a famous group. I hope I didn’t frighten any of you today. Just trying to get a good picture for old Wigger here.”

Minnie Burton turned to Dorothy Dalgliesh and whispered, “What stunning good looks, Dot. Lovely long blond hair. Such strong arms.”