Tutankhamun Uncovered (87 page)

A truly fabulous treasure trove! We adventurous three stood in silent amazement.

As I carefully observed the entire room, I remained speechless. Eventually I drew breath to steady myself and gestured with my finger. “The canopic chest... A true treasury... Everything looks complete, if not a little rearranged... And no exit... I believe... Yes... This could be all there is.”

Carnarvon interjected curtly, “Just listen to yourself, Howard. That last comment of yours must go down in the history books as the greatest understatement of all time!”

“Bless my soul, sir! Well. Yes. That it probably is!” I quickly responded smiling.

Then, after a brief pause, I said, “My friends. Take the time to drink in this moment. You will never experience its like again.”

I was deadly serious. Surely they must have shared the sheer intensity of it discovery of this sacred place, its violation, the silent, illicit entry, sharing the stale air of millennia, the enormity of intimate contact with so distant and uncorrupted a past in recent times at least.

“Have a good, long look,” I continued, “at what it is you are seeing, your lordship, Lady Evelyn. Commit it to indelible memory. Remember for ever this first view. We shall not see this repeated within our lifetime... perhaps anybody’s lifetime.” I truly believed that, and still do.

So saying, with all the drama that this moment so excellently afforded, I raised the torch above my shoulder and behind my two craning companions so that its jaundiced light brushed the interior of the room before us.

There we surreptitious explorers stood, in absolute silence, viewing and reviewing the inventory of objects laid out before us. While Evelyn and her father individually picked out a few pieces of special interest and examined them in detail from a distance, I methodically registered each piece presented within my field of view.

There on the left, behind the figure of Anubis, stood rows of boxes probably containing jewellery and personal items of clothing and toilet. Many of the boxes appeared to have been opened at one time and hurriedly repacked the contents partially spilling from beneath the lids. Some lay open, their lids missing.

In the corner was a large model boat and, on the right of the canopic chest, multiple rows of wooden shrine caskets. There had to be figures inside. And stacked above them I could count eight, maybe nine more model boats. Then my eyes fell back on the chest and the gentle golden figures holding it in the protective embrace of their slender, extended arms. There were two figures visible, each facing inwards on the two visible walls of the shrine, each looking towards one corner. From where I was standing, they looked like they were both about three or four feet high. By the insignia on their heads, I could tell they represented the goddesses of the south and of the west. Their counterparts would stand likewise against the sides which were as yet hidden from us.

Our silence was broken by a distant, anxious voice. “Carter! Carnarvon! Lady Evelyn! Can anybody hear me?”

It was Callender.

“Of course, Pecky!” I yelled back with some irritation. I found the interruption irreverent. “What is it?” “Oh... nothing... Just wondered where the hell you’d all got to. It has been so quiet for so long. Thought you could have fallen down a well or something.”

I turned to my colleagues smiling. They all laughed. It was a blessed release to the tension that had gripped us all since we had first scrambled through that tiny opening into the king’s chamber. Callender’s concern was understandable.

“The tomb is small, Pecky. But the wonderful bounty continues! We’re on our way back. Be with you and relate what we have seen in a moment.”

I turned to his lordship. “We must not overstay our trespass, your lordship for trespass it surely is. I believe we have seen enough to be able to plan our investigation with some degree of accuracy. That is something which we should now set our minds to diligently and with some urgency these next few days. I can already see that our good fortune is to become an enormous duty. We are charged with the responsibility to complete our excavations here correctly, as befits the bounty so fortunately bestowed on us... If you both now would be good enough to return the way we came, I shall try to negotiate my way around the other side of the king’s shrine to see if there is another chamber. I’d rather you did not come with me, if you don’t mind. There are a lot of objects on the floor and more feet will only increase the risk of damage or dislodgement. I will meet you on the other side.”

Carnarvon and Evelyn reluctantly left me to rejoin Callender. I shone the way for them with my torch until both had disappeared through the robbers’ hole.

In picking my way carefully around the walls of the shrine, I found no evidence of further openings. For a moment I felt disappointment, but soon pulled myself together in rationalising my extreme good fortune. My lack of perspective was almost comical.

I returned to my colleagues by way of the small opening in the burial chamber wall.

“Nothing else. Just the one room.

“Come, help me, I have to replace the bricks. Gather up some straw, Lady Evelyn. We must cover up evidence of the breach. The place has to appear undisturbed. Pecky, pass me that raffia basket lid, please.”

I placed the raffia lid over the hole and piled some dried reeds around it. After making a quick note of their position, I pushed some small alabaster vessels in amongst the straw to give the illusion of original chaos. We removed all traces of our footprints by brushing the floor of the chamber with our hands and, one by one, we clambered through the hole in the antechamber doorway and back into the entrance corridor.

I felt much like a naughty boy exiting the apple orchard with my hoard. I daresay the others felt much the same. The illicit intrusion had been wonderful but, I confess, emotionally exhausting. There was the added physical fatigue. The sense of relief at being once more outside... It was overwhelming.

He tightened his grip on the little horse and raised his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. The room had darkened about him. It had become almost ebony black. He felt heavy, as heavy as that brick on the mantelpiece, but at the same time warm, comfortably warm. A sense of peaceful satisfaction descended on him. His eyelids fluttered for a moment and then closed.

Then, in the darkness, like diamonds, a few bright stars began to sparkle. There was a pattern to them. He recognised it immediately. It was the constellation of Orion. As he watched, the envelope of the seven stars loomed above him... ever larger... ever brighter. As they grew nearer, he began to make out a figure standing within the central star. The figure was dressed in brilliant white linen which tightly conformed to the shape of its body. On its head it wore a tall, white crown. In its clasped hands, crossed against its chest, it held the emblems of kingship. Gradually it grew closer, finally enclosing him in its comforting celestial embrace...

Putney Vale Cemetery, 19th April, 1939...

It is a fresh, sunbathed April day. New growth pushes up through the ground everywhere. Blossoms fill the trees. Flowers of all colours line the cultivated borders of the parks. The air is filled with birdsong. It is one of those days when, no matter what your troubles, it feels good to be a part of the boundless energy all about you.

She had returned to plant some more permanent blossoms on his grave. The remains of the bouquets, limp and curled in on themselves by a late frost, lie in tatters over the low mound. She clears away the dead material and, using a trowel she had brought in a carrier bag, she makes a number of holes in the earth. She plants the bulbs, carefully pressing them into the soft soil and thinly covering them. She weeds the remainder of the area and stands back to regard her accomplishment. ‘Next year, it will look much nicer,’ she thought.

“Miss Dalgliesh!”

The call is from her left, within the walls of the graveyard. Startled to hear her name called out, she turns in the direction of the sound.

Two gentlemen emerge from beneath the low hanging branches of a mature copper beech.

“H’it is Miss Dalgliesh, is it not?”

She is a little apprehensive at first but her face soon lights up with a broad smile of recognition. “Bless my soul, Sergeant Adamson! It is so good to see you. What a most pleasant surprise. He will be so happy you are here.” She looks in the direction of the grave.

The two walk up to her.

“Miss Dalgliesh, may h’I introduce Father Seamus. A h’old acquaintance of poor Mr Carter.”

“Father Seamus,” she acknowledges. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure...”

“Oi’m most pleased t’ meet you after all this toime, Miss Dalgliesh. Howard spoke of you so often. Oi ’ave come to know y’ well Oi t’ink.”

Dorothy expresses her embarrassment with a nervous nod.

“Happy he may be to see us, Miss Dalgliesh, t’ be sure, but Oi’m unhappy in meself for not being d’ one t’ administer his last roights, as ’twere.”

“Frankly, Father, I don’t think he needed them. I hope I don’t offend by saying so but perhaps, knowing him as you did, you will understand my meaning.”

“Oi t’ink so, an’ roight enough, Miss,” agrees the priest. “Oh. Are y’ still ‘Miss’ Dalgliesh?”

That embarrassed nod again. “Yes. For a while I did take another name but now I am ‘Miss Dalgliesh’ once again.”

Adamson clicks to attention and chimes in. “H’it’s a real h’onour t’ be ’ere, Miss. World won’t see the like of ’im again, an’ that’s a fact.”

All three look down at the grave and nod appreciatively.

“Tell me, Father, Sergeant, why did you not come to the service?”

“Out of d’ country. Anyway, not invited, Miss.”

“Me neither,” says Dorothy. “Didn’t stop me, however.”

“Well, moi dear, when all’s said an’ done, y’ can’t ’ave two priests at a funeral. T’other would feel d’ pressure of me presence, if y’ know what Oi means competition.” The priest winks.

“H’at least we’re ’ere t’ see where ’e’s safely put away,” adds Adamson. “For ’is achievements ’e deserved a fifty-one gun salute, an’ no mistake. Grumpy old bastard forgive me language, Miss ’e may ’ave been at times, but h’I respects ’im more van any h’uver.”

Seamus ignores the sergeant and continues, “Dere’s anoder reason why Oi’m glad Oi came across you, Miss Dorot’y. Oi’ve recently returned from Egypt and Oi am d’ bearer of a letter which Oi believe should be delivered to Howard’s niece a Miss Walker, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Phyllis. She took care of him during his final illness.”

“Could y’ give this to ’er, please? Oi’m gettin’ too old for foindin’ me way around big cities loike dis. Oi’m told she lives around dese parts.”

“Marble Arch. But, to tell you the truth, although I have met her on one occasion, we are not even so close as to be called acquaintances. I’ll be glad to do it but, if it’s all the same to you, I will just pass it through her letter box.”

“Dat’s just foin. T’ank you Miss.”

Seamus hands her the letter.

“Now, can Oi tempt y’ to a wee drinkie, Miss Dorot’y, before we part company? Sergeant Adamson an’ me, we feels a wee bit of a t’irst comin’ upon us. De atmosphere in cemeteries fair drois d’ trote.”

Dorothy smiles. “Oh, that is very sweet of you, Father, but I must be getting back. I am presently living out of town and have a train to catch, and before that... a letter to deliver.” She waves the envelope at them. “I’d best be on my way.”

Adamson calls after her, “Take care, Miss Dorofy. Don’t speak to no Germans!”

The two men wave to her as she leaves the graveyard and then turn and walk over to the freshly turned grave. Standing on opposite sides of the low mound, they look down. The priest points to the grave with his walking stick.

“Not much of a ‘tomb’, Sergeant.”

“No, Father. Not much at all. All ’e would ’ave expected, though, I’ll be bound.”

“Oi’m not so sure, Sergeant. Oi t’ink ’e would ’ave loiked to ’ave been buried in d’ bowels of d’ earth loike all dose ’e did ’is best to remove from deir place of eternal sleep. Oi t’ink ’e would ’ave wanted ’is own food, ’is Scotch an’ soda, ’is gin an’ tonic, ’is champagne, ’is smokes, ’is ’omburg, ’is tweeds, ’is suede shoes, ’is bow ties, ’is furniture, ’is car, ’is ’orse, ’is pets, ’is books and ’is notebooks, ’is memories and ’is artefacts about ’im.”

“Per’aps. Per’aps not. Don’t forget, h’I spent dozens of days an’ nights cooped up in that ‘ole in the ground. Bloody spooky it was. Bloody glad t’ get away. ’E spent nigh on ’arf a year in h’every one of nine effin’ years in that ’ole in the ground. I don’t fink ’e wants t’ go back. No effin’ way... Yer reverent.” Adamson lowers his eyes apologetically.

Father Seamus smiles in acknowledgement and tips his hat to the grave.

Adamson crosses himself.

The priest regards him for a moment. “Don’t look so forlorn. It’s not far. Oi noticed one on d’ way in about a hundret yards from d’ gate.”

Adamson’s florid face lights up and the two set off for the nearest public house.

Dorothy takes a cab to Phyllis Walker’s address. Drawing up outside the house, she asks the cabbie to wait. She steps up to the front door, quickly pops the letter through the letter box, returns to the cab, and takes off for the station. There will be no second meeting.

On her way to Carter’s niece’s house she noticed that the envelope was not sealed. She did not resist the temptation to read it. (The text of the letter is quoted in James, 1992).

Flinders Petrie leans over the table in the reading room of the University College library and folds the first page of The Times back on itself. There is too much talk of warmongering for his tired eyes. He turns the pages one by one until he comes to the obituaries. The print is small and he pushes his reading glasses further down his nose so that he can focus a little better.

He rests back in his chair. There it is a suitably brief paragraph.

He reflects on the well publicised man he had trained all those years ago. He is proud of his younger colleague’s archaeological achievements exceptionally proud. For an individual from a working-class background, lacking in scholarly training, breeding, and every quality of etiquette and tact, he had, after all said and done, acquitted himself remarkably well in his work.