The Visitors (21 page)
She gave me a narrow look. ‘Thanks to Mr Carter, he’s built up a wonderful Egyptian collection, you know – Daddy says it’s one of the best private collections in the world. Lordy has a very good eye, and Mr Carter has an even better one, so there’s that consolation. But it must be dawning on him that it’s easier to buy beautiful things than it is to dig them up – I mean, look!’ She gestured to the army toiling below us. ‘All that labour, and they could still miss some glorious tomb by a foot, two feet.’
‘If it exists. If it hasn’t been rifled.’
‘That too. Come and meet Girigar.’ Pointing out a small tent, she drew me towards it. ‘He’s been Mr Carter’s
reis
for decades now – before that he worked for the Welshman, Harold Jones. Mr Carter says Girigar has the sharpest eyes in the Valley… Oh, it’s so hot. Aren’t the flies awful?’
Reaching the tent, we retreated into its stuffy airless shade. There I was introduced to Girigar, Carter’s foreman, a thin, elderly man, who greeted us with great ceremony. He lit a primus stove, plied us with tea and opened a tin of Rich Tea biscuits. Taking me to the mouth of the tent, he courteously explained the system of excavation being used. I had the impression that he expected few discoveries at this particular site. Meanwhile, he took pride in the fact that this was, in part, a family endeavour: two of the overseers were his brothers, he said; the tall man supervising the Decauville track was his eldest son, and the very small boy – the one carrying the water flask – that was his grandson, six years old tomorrow, a bad boy, up to a thousand tricks.
‘What is his name?’ I asked.
‘Ahmed.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Years he’s been pestering me, “Grandfather, let me come to the Valley, let me work like the other boys, look how strong I am!” Finally, I talk to Mr Carter and I say, “Mr Carter, sir, this year, let us find work for my grandson, who bears my name, and is a good, industrial, hard-working boy, and will do you pride,” and Mr Carter says, “Ahmed Girigar, since it is you who ask, I agree,” and so the boy comes… and what does he do? He falls asleep. He plays. One ambition this boy has and one only: to ride on the railway, bouncing along, falling off and getting his skull bashed in. I have told him: do that once, I forgive. Do it twice, and I beat you so bad you fall down.’ Girigar smiled mournfully. ‘A lie, miss. I’m an old fool, who dotes on this naughty grandson too much. But he doesn’t know that: watch.’
Issuing from the tent, Girigar shook his fist and bellowed a stream of vituperation. His little grandson, who had slunk off to a shady corner where he’d been engaged in a fine game, making stones skip, leapt to his feet and scurried off to refill his leather water flask. He nearly collided with Miss Mack and Helen, now covered in white dust, who were retreating to the refuge of the tent. Girigar at once busied himself boiling fresh water for tea. Frances, who had been silent and thoughtful all this while, scanning the rocks below, grabbed my hand. ‘Quick,’ she whispered. ‘Now’s our chance, Lucy.’
Telling her mother we were going to inspect the Decauville in all its splendour, she drew me from the tent into the rolling clouds of white dust below. When she was sure that we were safely out of sight, she led me aside, into the confines of a narrow wadi on the opposite side of the Valley. We ran up it, until we were well away from the workmen and hidden from prying eyes. We came to a halt, flushed and sweating, in a space encircled by tall, fluted rocks. The heat was intense, the baking air sullen and unmoving. From her pocket Frances produced the small pink purse with its confetti of evidence. ‘Now we dig,’ she said. ‘By this stone here. It’s the perfect marker.’
I looked uncertainly at the stone. Weathered, rounded, deeply fissured, rose-red, it was taller than a man, sculpted by sand and wind into a suggestion of a female shape. It had stony breasts, curves that might have been thighs and hips and, if you squinted, blind eyes in a beautiful, passionless face. I reached up to stroke the stone’s long tresses, which lay in limestone rivulets about its slender, vulnerable neck. Something moved in those tresses. I drew sharply back. ‘What about scorpions?’ I said.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Lucy! We’re only digging a little hole. Get on with it.’
We both knelt down and dug into the sand and soil at the base of the stone. This proved difficult, for it was heavily compacted: the crumbling lime, soaked by floodwaters after rains, had formed a substance that was unyielding, like half-set cement. We removed a sandal each, and dug with them. Stoutly made, and of tough leather, these were a good tool: after fifteen minutes’ sweating labour, with torn hands and broken nails, we had achieved a hiding place about a foot deep. Frances hauled me to my feet, told me to bow my head and concentrate, and embarked on what she claimed was a sacred prayer to the powerful sisters Isis and Nephthys: it would ensure a swift return for Poppy, preserve her secrets eternally, and cause confusion to her enemies – Mrs Burton being top of the enemies’ list. I suspected this prayer was more of Frances’s made-up mumbo-jumbo, but she uttered it with such conviction, and on such a weird imploring keening note, that it took effect. I too began to believe. I closed my eyes and offered up a silent invocation: I felt it eddying out from me, into the hot still air, up, up, up into the blue empyrean where the kites circled and the gods awaited.
‘Beloved and revered goddesses,’ Frances chanted, switching to English. ‘O Isis, O Nephthys, may your wings enfold and protect the secrets of our friend, Poppy d’Erlanger, and may they carry her back to us and Rose and Peter without delay.’ Frances paused. Then she added: ‘Now, Lucy: give me your
ankh.
’
‘What?’ I took a step back. ‘You never mentioned that. I will not.’
‘I know you’ve got it on you. You always have. We
both
have to make a sacrifice, or it won’t work.’
‘That
ankh
was a present. It’s special.’
‘I
know
it’s special. That’s the whole point. It has to be something you really love. I’m sacrificing
Poppy’s lipstick. Look.’ She produced the lipstick from her pocket, and examined it sadly. ‘Come on, Lucy – give me that
ankh
. Hand it over. No grumbling. When you make an offering, you have to do it with a glad heart, surely you know that?’
I thought this was pushing it, but in the end I gave in. With great care, we placed the
ankh
and the lipstick in the hole; we each gave the pink purse a ceremonial kiss and gently lowered it on top of them. We knelt down again on the hot sand, joined hands, and refilled the burial place. As we did so, we felt a sudden change in the air: the faintest of breezes shivered across our skin – Frances said this meant the twin goddesses were responding. When we had finished stamping on the sand, all trace of our excavation had disappeared; the soil looked as it had before: mute, undisturbed for millennia.
We turned back to the main Valley and, as we reached it, saw to our surprise that the workmen were already downing tools, although it was still only three in the afternoon; one of them greeted us with a warning gesture and a grimace; he shouted something in Arabic and gestured upwards. Tilting my head back, I saw the sky was changing colour with astonishing speed – air blue, darkening to a bruised mauve. Above the summit of el-Qurn in the distance there was now a spreading stain of dark purple, as if the sky had begun bleeding.
‘Storm coming,’ Carter shouted, striding towards us. ‘The wind’s getting up – can you feel it? Rain any minute… ’
As he spoke, the hot dry air, so motionless for days, came alive: it tugged at my hat, and scraped a razor down my arms. The sand at my feet begin to crawl away from my shoes, as if shifting on a tide of thronging invisible insects.
‘I’ve sent for the donkeys – they’ll be here soon.’ Carter came to a halt, and shouted up at the tent: ‘Girigar, tell the ladies we need to leave at once. If we go now, we’ll make it back to my house before the rain starts.’ He shouted some last instruction in Arabic, then swung back to us: I’d never seen him look more exhilarated – almost exulting.
‘About time the Valley put on one of its shows, eh, Frances? Don’t be scared, Lucy – we’ll be back at Castle Carter before the worst of it hits.’ He turned and pointed to el-Qurn, where the swirling clouds were now black, torn into rags and tatters. ‘Feel it?’ He yelled the question. ‘Feel the electricity?’
As he said that, I suddenly felt the charge:
KV
,
KV –
the hot air pulsed with energy, thousands of volts, fizzing, incendiary. Frances and I ran for the donkeys, but before we reached them, the first stinging squall of rain came in. We ducked our heads, clung on to our hats, and ran faster. I heard the wind come hissing along the Valley; as we reached the donkeys and clambered astride them, I looked back. Above the hills, over the high pyramid point that was the cobra-goddess Meretseger’s domain, the clouds coiled. The sky simmered and swirled, cracked wide, and spat out the first forked tongue of lightning.
By the time we reached the shelter of Castle Carter, the sky was black and afternoon had become night. At the house gates, there came a huge, deafening thunder clap and the sky released a deluge. Carter, who had escorted us out, had ridden ahead for the last hundred yards to alert Abd-el-Aal; we found the servants were waiting for us. They came running out into the yard, splashing through pools of water, holding lamps, grabbing at the reins of the nervous shying donkeys, and urging us inside. ‘Quick, miss, quick,’ the boy Hosein said, pulling me down from the saddle. ‘Fire lit, dry off, tea soon – good storm, English rain – run now, yes?’
Frances and I ran: there was a car parked outside Carter’s entrance, and we had to dodge around that; it was less than ten feet to the shelter of the veranda and yet in that short distance we were soaked. We hurried inside, swiftly followed by Miss Mack, wringing out her old-fashioned voluminous skirt, and by Helen, who was laughing and excited. ‘Oh these Valley storms,’ she cried. ‘Wasn’t that spectacular? Did you
see
that lightning, Myrtle? Look at my poor hat – silly thing, it’s completely drowned. Lord knows how we’ll get home in this. Frances, Lucy – are you all right? Heavens, you’re both soaked to the skin. Abd-el-Aal, do you have some towels – some rugs, perhaps?’
‘Warming by fire, this way, please,’ Abd-el-Aal replied, ushering us ahead into a hall. From behind us came the sound of running footsteps, of shutters being slammed against the storm. Hosein, bringing up the rear, swung the entrance door closed and barred it – and I suddenly understood why Carter’s house had acquired the name ‘Castle’. It might not have battlements, a moat or a drawbridge, but it had its defences all the same. The storm was now shut out, the wail and the thump of the wind diminished to a whisper – and I could imagine how these defences would slam shut to protect Carter from anyone he regarded as an enemy. Given Carter’s character, there’d no doubt be numerous candidates. ‘This way, this way,’ Abd-el-Aal, was saying. ‘Hosein, more firewood, tea double quick – through here, honoured ladies.’
He threw open a door, bowed, and stood back to admit us. Helen entered first, then we all bundled into the sanctum of Carter’s sitting room. I found myself in a square, pleasant space, lit by oil lamps and the flames of a huge banked fire. Removing my wet hat, rubbing rainwater from my eyes, I had a quick glimpse of bookcases, of maps, of plain plastered walls, a bright woven rug, and of welcoming chairs grouped around the fire; of a place where a man could be comfortably alone, and perhaps often was.
‘What a marvellous fire! Quickly, girls, come and dry off,’ Miss Mack was saying, extricating herself from the huddle we’d formed by the door. Leading the way, she was advancing towards the fireplace, her hands held out to the warmth of the flames, when she came to a halt so suddenly that we all cannoned into her. She said, ‘Gracious, Mr Carter – I didn’t see you. Oh, I’m sorry, we’re interrupting you —’
Helen, who had been blocking my view, took a small step backwards; she appeared nonplussed, perhaps embarrassed. Peeping around her, I saw to my surprise that Carter was indeed already there – and that he had a guest. He’d been bending forward over a wing chair to the right of the fire, and had been speaking to its occupant in a low voice as we entered. Somehow he’d contrived to wash and change his clothes in the short interval since he’d ridden off ahead of us: he was now dust-free, improbably sleek and spruce in clean country tweeds. The occupant of the chair remained hidden from where we stood – but as Carter straightened and hastily stepped away, I realised that the tall back of the chair was concealing someone female. I could see two slender silk-stockinged legs, the pleated edge of a skirt that was inches shorter than any that Helen, let alone Miss Mack, would have countenanced, and a pair of exquisite snakeskin shoes, with little heels, a strap across the instep and gold buckles.
I stared at those shoes. Frances gave a low gasp. The same idea entered both our heads at the same moment; our eyes met, hers alight with triumph. Her offerings and prayers had
worked
, I thought; I should never have doubted her. Isis and Nephthys had brought Poppy d’Erlanger back to us – and with astonishing speed.
My heart lifted.
Miss Mack and Helen had also registered the woman’s presence; they too had noted the haste with which Carter stepped back as we entered. Both now seemed rooted to the spot. I saw them exchange a quick interrogatory glance. A silence fell; it was broken not by Carter, who appeared incapable of speech, but by the occupant of the chair. The woman gave a muffled sound of distress, stood up and revealed herself: she was hatless, and her hair was dishevelled; her face was smudged with tears – or could it be the rain, had she been caught in the storm, as we had? I stared at this small, agitated stranger – I caught a drift of her scent. With a lurch of dismay, I recognised her. Not Mrs d’Erlanger.
‘Oh, Helen – Miss Mack, thank God you’re here,’ Eve said, holding out her hands in an odd imploring way. ‘I came over in the motorcar, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, I went to the American House, but they said you were in the Valley, so I started off for there… and then this awful storm came in out of nowhere, and everything was so
dark.
It was so
hellish –
the track turned into a river bed in seconds. I tried to turn back, and then I skidded, and the car got stuck and some natives pushed me out and I thought if I came here, Howard would––’