My chance finally came when Wheeler called us inside for biscuits and lemonade at eleven o’clock. Once we were all settled at the kitchen table, Marcelle launched herself on an interminable description of the dinner at Highclere the previous evening, a description that focused on dresses and jewels. This delighted Rose, but not me. Lady Evelyn had worn this, Lady so-and-so had worn that, Lady Carnarvon had dazzled in her famous emeralds… Then she switched to the menu, the soufflés sent up, the chefs’ tantrums, the ongoing rivalry between the senior chef, who was French, and the pastry-chef, who was Austrian – and the sulks of the Ceylonese chef, hired solely to cook Lord Carnarvon’s curries, whose services were not required on this occasion. Such politics were dear to Marcelle; I knew that if I failed to tilt the conversation quickly, we’d be in for hours of below-stairs analysis. But I’d learned from Nicola Dunsire’s techniques, and at last managed to steer Marcelle in the direction I wanted. Within minutes, she was off and away. The events of the night before, she said, were a puzzle – a surprise to everyone.
‘We think Mr Carter must have sensed what was coming,’ she said. ‘Streatfield said he was in ever such a twitchy state all through the dinner. There were thirty at table, and Lady Evelyn made sure he had ladies he knows either side of him. But he barely ate a thing. His hands were shaking – all the footmen noticed that. His face was grey, they said, and he never uttered one word from the consommé onwards. Drank very little, which is unusual for him, because he’s fond of wine, Mr Carter. Refused the port too, I hear – and when someone, it was Mr Donoghue, I believe, took pity on him and asked him about Egypt, he gave a start, and knocked over his glass… Then, after the port, Lord Carnarvon took Mr Carter to the Antiques Room
–
just the two of them.
‘His lordship laid it on the line, Miss Lucy. I know that for sure because he told Lady Evelyn afterwards: she’d waited up to hear – and she told
me
when I was doing her hair for bed. No
ifs
or
buts
. No, “Let’s think this over.” His lordship knew
that
wouldn’t work: give Mr Carter an inch and he’ll take ten miles, he’s well known for it. No, his lordship broke it to him gently but firmly. He wouldn’t let him fetch out his maps – which Mr Carter was dead set on doing. And he made it clear there’d be no discussion or argument. He said to him: “My old friend, the Valley of the Kings is finished as far as I’m concerned. The end of the line has been reached at last.”’
I suspected this quote was apocryphal, but made a mental note of it. Marcelle was polishing this story, I felt; when I recounted it to Frances, I intended to polish it further.
‘But you know the extraordinary thing, Miss Lucy? Mr Carter took it like a lamb! We’d all been expecting one of his outbursts. Lady Evelyn was afraid he’d keep her father up half the night, arguing and haranguing him the way he does. But no: not one word of protest apparently. He took it on the chin like a gentleman, shook his lordship by the hand, got a little emotional at one point… but he pulled himself together. He said he understood the reasons for the decision, and he owed his lordship a great debt of gratitude for his unfailing generosity, for the years they’d worked together side by side. He said he believed they were friends – and they’d
remain
loyal
friends for the rest of their days. Lord Carnarvon was touched by that.
‘Isn’t that strange?’ Marcelle looked around the table at her audience. ‘To give in so easily? No one expected that – and last night Lady Evelyn was ever so worried. She thought there’d be a delayed reaction, one of Mr Carter’s tantrums this morning. But there’s no sign of any trouble so far. He was sunny over breakfast, I’m told, and he must have got his appetite back, because he wolfed down the devilled kidneys
and
the kedgeree. Streatfield says he was a bit distracted at first, not saying much, but by the end he was nattering away as if nothing had happened. He was going off to the Antiques Room to do some cataloguing when I left. I passed him in the south corridor. Quieter than usual, perhaps, and looked tired, so maybe he hadn’t slept too well, but––’
‘How well would you sleep, if you’d just been told your services were being dispensed with?’ Wheeler gave her friend a look of scorn. ‘Sixteen years he’s been working for Lord Carnarvon. Took it like a lamb? My eye, he did. Mavis Marcelle, you’re a fool.’
‘Well, if I am, I’m not alone,’ Marcelle retorted, with spirit. ‘Lady Evelyn says Mr Carter has had enough of that godforsakenValley and those nasty dirty tombs, and he’ll be glad to escape the place. She says he may
claim
he loves that Valley, but actually he’s quite ambi––’ She hesitated. ‘What’s the dratted word? Ambigous? No, that’s not right.’
‘Ambivalent?’ I suggested. Marcelle nodded. ‘That’s it, it was on the tip of my tongue. Ambivalous about that Valley, that’s what he is.
I
think Lady Evelyn may have hit on it. What do you think, Miss Lucy? You’ve seen him working there. Do you think that could be the truth of it?’
I did not. I escaped from the kitchen as soon as I decently could, hastened upstairs and added a postscript to my letter to Frances.
I can’t understand it,
I scratched.
No more funding, no more digs – and apparently Mr Carter’s accepted that, despite your father’s discovery. But I think he must be devastated, don’t you? I asked Marcelle straightaway whether Lord Carnarvon will now give up his permit to dig in the Valley of the Kings – but she didn’t know. I’ll ask Eve when I see her.
There was no need to interrogate Eve: the following day both she and Howard Carter turned up at the farm in her car, and he – to my surprise – showed a marked inclination to discuss the subject. He came into the farmhouse looking subdued. He’d come armed with a present – a dog basket for Rose’s puppy – and in the intervening hours, it seemed, he had remembered who I was. There were several references to my observation powers, smiling reminders as to lunches in tombs, buttered toast, his aunties’ famous fruitcake
.
He spent some time exploring the farm with Rose, Peter and me, admiring the orchard, counting the swallows and their nests. He told us about the various animals he’d kept in Egypt over the years: the pet gazelles; the donkey so devoted it would try to follow him indoors; the horse that died of a cobra bite; and various pet dogs, none of which had long survived the dangers of a desert environment. He described his birdwatching expeditions by the Nile, and the watercolours of birds he’d painted. He began digging around in the barns and examining all those enigmatic farming artefacts, many of which he recognised – and I saw another side to Carter, hidden before: the countryman, the lover of birds, animals and wildlife. Yet when we sat down outside for tea, this side to his character vanished. He reverted to archaeologist – and he raised the subject of Egypt at once.
I thought the topic of the Valley made Eve uneasy, but Carter seemed calm: he had seen it coming for months, and he understood. He respected Lord Carnarvon for not mincing his words. ‘What I can’t stand,’ he said, ‘is diplomacy and double-speak. I’m not one of nature’s diplomats myself. I like to give it straight and
hear
it straight. Now I know where I stand.’ He blew on his tea. ‘And I can plan accordingly.’
‘Will you be going back to Egypt, Mr Carter?’ Rose asked.
‘Certainly. I do
live
there, Lady Rose. No fixed abode in England. I’m a bird of passage. My home is in Egypt, and I’ll be returning as usual this winter. Next month, late October, that’s the plan. My place needs some repairs – I’ll look into that. See my old friends from the Met, catch up with Winlock and Lythgoe
.’
My chance had come. ‘What will happen to the permit to dig in the Valley of the Kings?’ I asked. ‘Will Lord Carnarvon give that up now?’
‘I imagine so.’ Carter looked pleased at this cue. He glanced at Eve, who was inspecting the tea things with great concentration. ‘The permit is coming up for its annual renewal, Lucy,’ he continued. ‘Lord Carnarvon will resign it in the next few weeks, I expect. No point in him hanging on to it now. It’s our difficult friend, Monsieur Lacau, who decides who gets it next, and he does
not
favour what he calls “amateur gentlemen” excavators. So the Valley permit will go to some learned body – most probably, one of the great museums.
‘The Metropolitan will get it. That’s my belief. They want it, I know that. They have the expertise, and they have the backing: virtually inexhaustible funds – or so I hear from my good friends Lythgoe and Winlock. The Met already has an excellent base near by: the American House is half an hour’s ride from the Valley, if that. Of course,’ he continued, in a meditative tone, munching cake, ‘none of the Met team is that experienced when it comes to the Valley of the Kings. Harry Burton’s dug there in the past, but it’s new territory for them even so. They’ll need to recruit some outside expertise. They’ll need the guidance of someone with a ready-made team of trained local men; someone who knows the Valley, who’s endured its tricks and its traps for decades… ’ He left the sentence hanging. ‘Well now, that was a fine tea,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I like it here. Such a beautiful day. I wonder, Eve, should we be thinking of getting back now?’
‘Have the Met actually
said
they’re after the Valley permit?’ Eve asked sharply.
Carter appeared to give this simple question considerable thought. After a long pause, he said: ‘They’ve been
circumspect
, Eve: let me put it that way. They have the greatest respect for your father, and they know my unshakeable loyalty to him. Lythgoe and Winlock wouldn’t dream of stepping on anyone’s toes
.
But once they hear your father’s pulled out, they’ll make their move. In my view, they’ll go after that permit immediately. The possibility your father would give up on the Valley
was
something they’d foreseen, I’m afraid: the decline in his health was noted back in February, and they’d drawn their own conclusions, made contingency plans. Inevitable, alas. You know how people talk, Eve. And archaeologists gossip like girls.’
‘Have you
told
the Met what’s happened, Howard?’ Eve’s tone became sharper. She had risen to her feet and was looking at him in consternation.
‘Good grief, no! Well, not
yet…
’ He sighed. ‘I began writing a letter to Winlock this morning, as a matter of fact – after all, it’s no secret now, is it? All open and above board. I was pretty shaken after my talk with your father, Eve – I can admit that to you. I needed to get it off my chest to
someone
, so
I thought it would help to write to my old friend Winlock. He and I are close, we’ve always got on well and I respect him.’
He frowned. ‘I could
cable
Winlock, of course,’ he went on. ‘Maybe I should do that – he’ll be anxious to hear the news. On the other hand, maybe I should let things settle for a day or two, wait till I’m calmer. What d’you think, Eve?’
‘I think you should wait. And I think you know that perfectly well, Howard.’
‘I’ll give it a couple of days, then. I’ll be guided by you,’ he replied, his tone humble, and turned away to inspect the view across the valley, the narrow ribbon of river below us, the blue-shadowed hills beyond. He sighed. ‘Absolutely right, Eve, as you always are. No point in my rushing things. I’ll let the dust settle. For a few days. What a restful place this is,’ he went on, in stronger tones. ‘I tell you what, Eve, why don’t you drive back to Highclere and leave me to find my own way home? Would you mind? I’m in the mood for a good long walk. Give me time to think things over.’
Shortly afterwards, this plan having been agreed, he put on his tweed countryman’s cap, straightened his tweed jacket, and strolled off across the fields. Eve left at once for Highclere, driving at speed.
The next report from the castle was that Lord Carnarvon had been told of the Met’s pressing interest in the Valley of the Kings’ permit – I felt sure Eve must have driven straight back to the castle that day to tell him. On being given this news, her father had laughed and said the Met men were welcome to it – more fools they, and he hoped they were contacting their millionaire donors right now, because they’d certainly need to.
I felt this reaction must be a blow to Carter, but it was he who reported it to us some days later, and he did so with no sign of dismay; on the contrary, it seemed to amuse him. He’d begun to visit Nuthanger quite often by then, usually on his own, strolling across the downs and taking the bridge across the river. On every visit, he appeared unconcerned as to his altered future. He said it made a change to be here, away from the smart pace of affairs at Highclere; he enjoyed the castle, of course, very much so – but it was good to get away, to clear his mind. He’d stay for an hour or so at the farm, sometimes chatting to Wheeler, sometimes to us. He would join in our games and was even prepared to play I Spy or Dumb Crambo with us. He liked card games too, we discovered, and was happy to play two-pack Patience with me, Snap with Peter, and poker with Rose, a game to which he introduced her.
Carter taught Rose the techniques of bluff and double-bluff, and how to retain a poker-face, useful techniques that she imparted to Peter and me. He taught her some amusing methods of cheating too, dealing from the bottom of the pack and so on, and we all spent many hours trying to perfect these tricks. Rose hadn’t the patience for sleight of hand; Peter’s small fingers weren’t yet deft enough, but I became quite adroit.
‘Not bad,’ Carter said, giving me a considering look, when I showed off the results of hours of card-sharping practice.
‘Better than your knitting, anyway,’ Wheeler pronounced sourly.
Carter claimed that he liked being at the farm because it took him back to his childhood in rural Norfolk; he’d also grown fond of Rose’s little dog, he said, but he feared it was the runt of the litter and would never thrive – and in this he was right. The little creature was never strong. But during the puppy’s happy weeks at the farm, Carter brought it several more gifts, and one afternoon, he drew it as it lay snoozing on its back in the sun, in sprawled surrender to sleep. He presented this clever lightning sketch to Peter, and Peter gave it to me, many years later.