The Bone House (18 page)

“You are looking for Dr. Thomas Young, perhaps,” suggested the bold fellow.

“The very man,” confirmed Kit, pulling up short. “Do you know him?”

“I know him, sir.” The Egyptian raised his voice and shouted a single word of command, and the others promptly ceased their mewling and silently drifted away. To Kit, he said, “Your friend is not far.”

“Thanks,” said Kit, much relieved. “But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. If you could point me in the right direction, I’d be much obliged.”

The man smiled, his teeth a flash of white in the tangle of his matted beard. “It is no trouble. Please, follow me.”

Despite his obviously much reduced state, the man held himself with great dignity, walking through the crumbling ruins—shattered monuments on every side—as through a palace entire, treading lightly on the stones beneath his feet. Kit trailed along behind him, stumbling now and then over the rough, uneven surface, mindful of the treasures buried only a few feet underground. He had a vague memory of having seen photos of what in his day was—or would be—called the temple complex of Karnak—a vast acreage of honey-coloured buildings inscribed with every manner of hieroglyphs imaginable. The tumbled remains of the once-great temple now trampled underfoot would one day rise again. The acres of broken blocks would be set one atop another once more, the carvings would be lovingly restored, the walls and lintels, obelisks, and innumerable statues of gods and men would be reclaimed from the waste and wilderness of uncaring eons, and the whole made accessible to the tourists who would fill the hotel boats that would be built to ply the Nile and spill their human cargo over the ancient sites in a living flood.

But this—
this
wracked ruin was how the place looked before excavation became a big business in the land of the pharaohs. Considering what the sprawling temple complex would eventually become—yet another heritage site swarming with short-shorts and baseball caps—Kit much preferred seeing it like this: a forest of half-fallen columns and collapsed structures, many still bearing their original paintwork, with here and there a smaller temple or storeroom completely intact, standing firm against the ravages of time. Aside from the beggars and stray dogs—did the two always go together?—there was no one. Not a single T-shirt shop or Coca-Cola sign in sight. And Kit was the only foreigner.

The beggar guide led him through the haphazard maze of devastation, past primitive campsites of squatters and mounds of garbage—the locals dumped here, obviously—and over fallen remnants of mighty Ramesses’ imperious statues, at last reaching a small, square building, the front of which was obscured by a toppled obelisk. Around the back of this structure Kit glimpsed a white flap of canvas; a ramshackle lean-to of timber and canvas had been set up over a sizeable hole. Six or eight men in dirty blue kaftans and black turbans stood around the edge of the hole, ready to receive baskets full of sand and rock that were being lifted up to them.

“Here is the man you are looking for,” said his guide.

Kit regarded the ring of workers and thought there must be some mistake, and was about to say as much when a voice called up from the hole. “
Shukran! Shukran!
That will be all for now!”

A white straw hat appeared at the edge of the hole, followed by a round, whiskered face, flushed red by the man’s recent exertions. The fellow took one look at Kit and put out a hand. “Greetings, friend! I am Thomas Young. How do you do?”

Stepping to the edge of the hole, Kit bent and extended his hand to receive a hearty handshake. “Kit Livingstone, sir. I am well, thank you.”

“Would you mind terribly?” asked Dr. Young, still gripping Kit’s hand. “A small assist would be most useful.”

“Not at all,” replied Kit, who gave a solid tug.

The fellow scrambled out of the pit and patted the dust from his beige linen suit. “That is better.”

He straightened and, hands on hips, stood regarding Kit, his grey eyes keen behind small round steel-rimmed glasses. A compact, tightly knit man, he gave the impression of barely contained energy, like a coiled spring. Beneath his tropical linen he wore a white shirt and a waistcoat of yellow silk. The boots on his feet were of the heavy, serviceable type a military man might favour. “So!” he cried at last. “Here you are!”

“Here I am indeed,” confirmed Kit. The physician stood gazing at him as at a prize exhibit in a zoo until Kit, growing uncomfortable under the man’s scrutiny, blurted, “I believe we have a mutual friend.”

“Yes,” agreed Thomas Young amiably, “I rather believe we do.”

“Wilhelmina—”

“Striking girl,” said Thomas, stirring himself. “Most remarkable young woman. Possessed of a strength of will one encounters only rarely. A genuinely unique individual.”

“She’s all that,” conceded Kit.

“Come, sir, it is the heat of the day. We must not stand out here jawing like a pair of yahoos. I have a jug of lemon water standing by. Splendidly refreshing. Will you share a drink with me in my tent?”

“I would be delighted,” replied Kit, falling into the more formal rhythms of nineteenth-century speech. “I am positively parched.”

“Khalid!” shouted Thomas. “We are retiring to my tent. Rest the workers now and give them something to eat and drink. Tell them we will resume at the usual time. When you have done that, join us, please.”

The servant made a slight bow and then, turning, clapped his hands for attention. As the workers moved off, Kit observed, “You sent him to look for me.”

“I did,” replied the doctor, leading the way to a large tent that had been erected in the scant shade of twin palm trees. “Every day at this time he went to look for you. I thought if you came at all, it would be in the morning. It is just too hot later. It is still early in the season,” he said, “and already it is beastly—much too warm for this time of year.” He stepped to the entrance of the tent and held aside the opening flap. “I fear I shall soon be forced to suspend excavations. Pity.”

Kit ducked under the flap and into a commodious, well-ventilated space that was less tent than open-sided marquee. Two sides were hung with gauzy material; periodically, a servant would come by to sprinkle it with water using an olive branch and a wooden pail—a primitive but surprisingly effective form of air-conditioning. The reprieve from the heat and hammering sun was instant and welcome, and Kit could not help offering up a sigh of relief.

The interior was divided into two distinct areas: a working place with a desk and lamp, three folding chairs, and a wicker settee, and a sleeping place with a cot shrouded by insect netting; the two were divided by a standing screen of woven palm fronds. The slightly uneven floor was covered by heavy Egyptian carpets laid one atop another. It was, Kit decided, the temporary abode of a well-seasoned traveller, one who knew and understood his surroundings. This was further demonstrated when the doctor removed the lid of a covered bowl and drew out a roll of wet cloth. “Put this around your neck,” he said, passing the roll to Kit. He took one for himself and draped it around the nape of his neck. Kit did likewise and instantly felt the better for it.

Beside the desk stood a small tripod bearing a large oval tray of brass; on the tray were a painted pottery jug and several upside-down glasses. A shallow bowl of almonds sat beside the jug, and it was to this that Thomas Young was first drawn. “Here, my good fellow, get some of these into you,” he said, offering the bowl.

Kit took a few of the heavily salted almonds and popped them into his mouth; his host did the same.

“You need the salt in this heat. It’s good for you. Prevents heat prostration.” Returning the bowl to the tray, he waved Kit to a chair. “Please, sit down, Mr. Livingstone. We will rest awhile and chat.”

Kit lowered himself into the canvas chair and accepted a glass of the pale yellow liquid. It was tepid, but the sharp tang of the lemon made it palatable. Thomas settled into his chair behind the desk and sat gazing at his guest from behind an untidy mass of papers and various drawing utensils. Kit sipped his water and waited for his host to begin.

“Do I dare ask if you have brought something for me?” wondered Thomas at last.

“As it happens,” replied Kit. He placed his half-empty glass on the tray and, fumbling at the buttons on the front of his shirt, produced the brown paper package he had retrieved from the hotel. “I was instructed to deliver this to you unopened. As you can see, I have obeyed these instructions.” He rose and, holding it in both hands, ceremoniously placed the paper-wrapped bundle on the desk before his host. “I am happy to pass this to your care.”

Thomas made no move to pick it up, but sat with his hands folded before him, regarding it quizzically. “Do you know what is inside the wrapping?”

“No, sir, I do not,” replied Kit. “I was not told. Do you?”

“In part.” Thomas raised his eyes to Kit and then returned to his survey of the parcel. “If it is what I think it is . . .”

Kit waited. The archaeologist neither altered his gaze nor made any move to pick up the packet. He simply sat staring at the string-bound square.

“Dr. Young?” said Kit after a moment. “Is anything the matter?”

“If this is what has been promised, history will change.” He raised his eyes once more, his round glasses glinting in the soft light of the tent. “You know that, do you not? The world will change.”

“Right.” Kit nodded. He could wait a little longer for that.

Outside, the braying of a donkey echoed across the ruins. As if in response to the sound, the doctor drew a sharp intake of breath and pulled the package closer. He lifted it, diffidently balanced between his hands—the very picture of a man trying to delay an action he might well regret. Kit could sympathise. Who could guess what Wilhelmina had put in that parcel?

“The thing must be done, I suppose,” Thomas said and, with trembling fingers, untied the string and peeled open the paper wrapping to reveal a curious assortment of objects: an old shilling coin, a letter, a newspaper clipping, and several printed pages that appeared to have been torn from a book—more or less what might be found in the average scrapbook—nothing that appeared likely to be of much importance, let alone world-shattering consequence.

Kit watched as his host examined the coin, then put it aside and lifted the letter, scrutinising it front and back. The letter was in Mina’s hand and addressed to Christopher “Kit” Livingstone in the care of Dr. Thomas Young. The white envelope was sealed and stamped, but the stamp had not been cancelled. Thomas placed the letter before him on the desk. “This alone would have been enough,” he murmured.

“Sir?” wondered Kit.

“See here,” Thomas said, pointing to the stamp—a simple black postage stamp with an engraved silhouette of a young Queen Victoria with the words
one penny
beneath—a fairly unremarkable example, to Kit’s eye.

“The stamp, yes?”

“This
stamp
as you call it”—Thomas touched it lightly with a fingertip—“has never been seen before—at least not by me.”

“May I?” said Kit, picking up the letter. “I see the letter is addressed to me.”

“By all means,” said the doctor. “You must open it at once.”

Kit slid his finger under the flap and drew out a single piece of plain white paper that read:
Kit—If you are reading this, you have met Dr. Thomas Young—the last man in the world who knows everything. Trust him with your life. Ever yours, Mina
. And that was all.

Thomas, in the meantime, had picked up the coin and now held it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over and over with a look of bewilderment on his face—an expression Kit guessed was highly unusual for the man. He passed the shilling piece to Kit for examination. The silver coin bore the profile of Victoria on one side and, on the other, a crown with the simple words
one shilling
beneath. Below Victoria’s disembodied head was the date: 1835.

“Have you ever seen the like?” asked Thomas.

“Yes, I have,” replied Kit, handing back the shilling. “Many times.”

The English gentleman simply nodded and laid the coin beside the letter. He picked up the newspaper clipping, glanced at it, and then looked at Kit. “Have you ever been to Kew Gardens?” he asked.

“Once or twice,” replied Kit. “It is a well-known attraction. People go there for picnics and a pleasant day out.”

The doctor set aside the clipping and, placing his hands flat on the printed pages torn from the book, he said, “This, I believe, will be the ultimate test.”

Kit could not think how to respond to this, so remained silent.

“Unless I am very much mistaken, our mutual friend will have provided me with undeniable proof that what she has claimed, outrageous though it seems, is in fact the naked truth.”

He then lifted the pages and, with a slightly trembling hand, offered them to Kit. “Would you read it to me, please?”

Taking the loose sheets, Kit scanned the top one quickly on both sides. It was merely the title page—torn hastily from the spine, it would seem, judging from the ragged edge; the reverse contained part of an acknowledgement by the author. “You want me to read this?”

“Please,” replied Thomas Young, removing his glasses and closing his eyes.

Kit cleared his throat and began: “A Course of Lectures on Natural Philosophy and the Mechanical Arts, by Thomas Young, MD. A new edition with references and notes by the Rev. P. Kelland, MA, FRS. London and Edinburgh. Printed for Taylor and Walton, Upper Gower Street. 1845.”