The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt (7 page)

‘Grim!’ said Paul, giving a little shudder of distaste.

‘Hard!’ said Owen, and realized suddenly that he was using the expression of the miners in the village he had known as a child.

The difference between the two expressions was the difference in perspective between the æsthete and the labourer. Owen had never been a labourer in that sense—his father had been an Anglican clergyman—but although on the periphery, he had known the shared life of a Welsh mining village. Now it came back to him unexpectedly. He felt suddenly that he knew the people here.

He did; although not quite in the way that he supposed.

As he slid off the back of his donkey, a surprised voice greeted him warmly.

‘Effendi!’ it said. ‘You are my father and mother!’

‘I doubt it,’ said Owen, and then, seeing who had spoken, embraced the speaker warmly. ‘Sayid!’

It was one of his favourite swindlers, last seen outside the Continental Hotel beguiling tourists with relics of dubious authenticity and patter of genuine imaginativeness. Astonished admiration of the patter had led Owen to pardon a few minor solecisms, thus laying the basis of a relationship which Sayid reasserted with eagerness every time he came to Cairo.

‘You have come to visit my home,’ said Sayid enthusiastically.

‘That is not the sole purpose of my visit,’ said Owen. ‘Nevertheless, I rejoice at the opportunity.’

Sayid, chattering excitedly, led him up the cliff. As they gained in height, Owen, looking back, could see the roofs of the houses below him, the little walled courtyards, the winding, higgledy-piggledy paths which took the place of streets.

There, at a corner where a barber had set out his chair and bowl and a small group had gathered expectant of miracles, sat Mahmoud, deep in conversation; and there, on the other side of the village, assisted unexpectedly by Tomas, was Miss Skinner, talking earnestly to another knot of villagers.

‘She gives baksheesh,’ said Sayid approvingly, ‘plenty baksheesh.’

‘You know her?’ said Owen, surprised.

‘Oh yes.’

‘And what does she give baksheesh
for
?’

Sayid looked injured.

‘Not
for
, out of. Out of the liberality of her hand, out of the generosity of her heart, out of—’

‘I know the lady, too,’ Owen cut in. ‘What is she giving baksheesh for? Things that you have found? Or is it things that you know?’

‘I do not understand that latter point,’ said Sayid. ‘We have tried offering her things that we have found. Alas, she knows whether we have truly found them. She gives good prices for what is genuine. Unfortunately, we are running out of that sort of thing.’

‘Business is bad, is it?’

‘Terrible. It won’t pick up until it get cooler again and the tourists come back.’

‘Meanwhile, you’re getting a few things together. I expect?’

‘A few,’ said Sayid non-committally.

Sayid’s house was at the top of the village, a gash in the rock covered over with slabs of limestone and sparsely furnished inside. Owen got the impression the inside wasn’t used very much. There was a bed-roll on the roof, which suggested that Sayid and his wife slept up there. Cooking was done on a brazier in the yard, and it was from there that Sayid’s wife shortly brought them cups of tea.

She also brought two very small children. Owen complimented Sayid on a growing family. Sayid, however, seemed a little depressed.

‘Both girls,’ he said. ‘If she goes on like this, I don’t know what I shall do. Have to get another one, I suppose.’

‘Child?’

‘Wife.’

Owen shook his head, commiserating.

‘The trouble is, it all costs money,’ said Sayid gloomily.

They sat on the roof watching the dusk close down and the stars come out. The only lights in the village came from the braziers in the yards and the occasional tallow lamp where someone was still working. The smell of fried onions rose strongly through the evening air.

‘Ya Sayid!’

It was somebody hailing from a neighbouring roof. Sayid rose to his feet.

‘They are finished. Come and see!’

Sayid hesitated.

‘Do not let me stand in your way,’ said Owen politely. ‘I must go now anyway.’

‘You are sure?’

‘I should go to see the woman. Perhaps she will offer me some baksheesh, too.’

Sayid laughed and they descended from the roof. As they emerged on to what passed for the street, the neighbour came rushing over.

‘Perfect!’ he said. ‘Perfect, this time. Come and see!’

He seized Sayid by the arm and then, encompassing Owen in his overspilling goodwill, caught him up too.

‘I—’ began Owen.

But the man was already urging them through a low doorway and into his house. Down by the river, in the houses that Owen knew, the first room was often given over to the family buffalo. This one was not. It was a workshop.

There were three windows, each giving light to a workman’s bench strewn with scarabs, amulets and funerary statuettes in every stage of progress. Some were of wood, some limestone and some clay.

What the neighbour had brought them in to show them, however, were some five ushapti images of glazed faïence, newly made.

‘Are they not good? My best work yet,’ said the neighbour, standing proudly beside them.

Sayid looked uncomfortable.

‘They are indeed fine—’

‘Don’t you like them?’ cried the neighbour anxiously. ‘Look! The glaze. My best yet!’

Sayid stole a glance at Owen.

‘They are remarkable,’ said Owen, picking up one of the figures. It was of a sower. The point of the images was that they were put in the tomb so that in the after-life they could work in the dead man’s fields. ‘As well made as any I have seen.’

‘There you are!’ said the neighbour, bursting with pride.

‘Yes, but—’ said Sayid unhappily.

‘Look! This one!’ said the neighbour, snatching up the figure of a ploughman bent to the plough. ‘Is it not fine? The hands, you see? I always find it difficult to do the hands.’

‘Exquisite.’ Owen picked up another one. ‘But what is this?’ he said, puzzled.

The neighbour looked slightly abashed.

‘It is one of us,’ he said.

‘A digger? But—?’

‘He’s in a trench, you see, over at the temple. He’s bent, because he’s digging. He’s just going to shovel some out.’

‘I see that. But—that is today, isn’t it? And these others are of long ago.’

‘Well, it’s all work, isn’t it? And I thought it would be nice to have some of us. This, actually, is Abdul.’

‘Very nice. A nice idea. But—when it comes to selling it—?’

‘Oh, they won’t know. No, don’t worry about that. They won’t spot it. After all, one figure is very like another. Though I do think this one—’

Owen looked around him. Some of the images were coloured. There beside them were the colours and brushes. To say nothing of files, gravers and little pointed tools like gimlets. A magnifying-glass of the kind used by engravers lay on one of the benches. Screwed to the bench was a small grindstone worked by a treadle. And there, in a corner, was a huge fragment of mummy-case, which showed where the old sycamore for the wooden figures came from.

‘You are well equipped,’ said Owen.

‘Have to be,’ said the neighbour seriously. ‘This is skilled work.’

‘Indeed it is. But—isn’t there good money to be had over at the temple?’

‘It comes and goes. I mean, they’re always digging somewhere but sometimes it’s a long way away and they don’t always need many men. No, this is much better. You have to work hard, mind, but the money comes in regularly.’

‘Even now?’

‘Well, not so much now, of course, but when the men go out in a month or two’s time they’ll need all the stock they can get. These will fetch very good prices, won’t they, Sayid?’ he said, stroking his figures fondly.

‘Er—yes,’ said Sayid.

Owen sighed.

‘A man’s got to live,’ said Sayid defensively.

‘Ushapti images?’ said Miss Skinner. ‘No. I don’t think so. Charming, but I have plenty.’

‘Then what—?’

Miss Skinner gave him a sidelong glance.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘these people have been plundering the tombs for centuries and in the process some fine things have come into their possession. It’s always worth offering them a special price. You’d be surprised at the things they produce.’

‘Not altogether,’ said Owen.

If’
said Miss Skinner venomously, ‘you could bear to deny me the pleasure of your company for even a few moments—’

‘I have no wish to force myself upon you, Miss Skinner,’ said Paul stiffly.

‘Then don’t,’ said Miss Skinner and walked off.

A little later they saw her setting off across the desert in the direction of the village.

‘What do I do? Go after her?’ asked Paul.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Owen.

Paul grimaced.

‘Sorry I brought you down,’ he said. ‘It all seems a bit of a waste of time.’

‘It was reasonable. She said she’d been attacked.’

‘And then she unsaid it. Afterwards. “Silly me.” Only I don’t think Miss Skinner is at all silly.’

‘Nor do I. So why did she unsay it?’

‘She obviously wanted to play it down.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘Because she didn’t want too many questions being asked.’

‘And then again, of course, one asks why that would be?’

‘She was doing something that she ought not to be.’ Paul frowned. ‘Only that doesn’t seem likely, does it? She seems to take it for granted that God is on her side.’

‘And you’re the chap who’s hindering her from getting on with God’s investigations.’

‘So are you. She doesn’t want you asking questions.’

‘When we were in Cairo she was
glad
I was going to be asking questions.’

‘Ah, but she’s been in Egypt a bit longer now. Maybe she’s abandoned hope. Of Egypt. Of you, old chap.’

‘Thanks.’

‘She thinks she can do better herself.’

‘I don’t blame her.’

‘But if she thinks that,’ said Paul, ‘why cry for help? Because she
did
cry for help, you know when we pulled her out.’

‘A wobble. A moment’s self-doubt. Rare, for Miss Skinner. Probably unique. Knocked her off balance. Just for a moment.’

‘And then she came on balance again and didn’t want anything to do with us. Could handle it all herself.’

‘But what,’ said Owen, ‘is
it
?’

‘Ah, well there you have me. It all comes from being a stupid aide-de-camp and not the Mamur Zapt. You think she feels she’s on to something?’

‘On to something?’ said Owen.

‘Connected?’ said Mahmoud. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

‘Your man yesterday said he thought Abu was on to something and that’s why he was killed.’

‘Everyone in Egypt thinks his neighbour is on to something. And then if he gets killed, that gets taken as proof.’

‘He thought Abu might have been wandering around —’

‘Looking for treasure. Yes, I know. That’s another great myth. Everybody knows that the Der el Bahari villagers have been robbers for centuries, so it stands to reason that in that time they must have amassed a huge treasure. Of course, no one asks why if that’s the case the present inhabitants spend their time selling relics for a living.’

‘If everyone thinks so,’ said Owen, ‘Abu may have thought so.’

‘And wandered round at night on the off-chance he’d find it?’

‘Why else would he be wandering around?’

‘Theft.’

‘What of?’

‘Equipment. Cable, that sort of thing. He was leaving in a day or two. Something small that he could smuggle.’

‘So you don’t think he was on to something?’

‘No. Nor the other one. I’m treating them both as accidents. And I’m trying to find evidence of negligence.’

‘Are you finding it?’

‘No,’ Mahmoud admitted. He looked up at the great rim of cliff. ‘It’s like that,’ he said. ‘A wall. A wall of silence. They won’t say anything.’

‘Your chap yesterday —“

‘He had a grudge. He was prepared to talk. But he had nothing to say.’

‘The others?’

‘Tomas’s men? Wouldn’t say a word. A bit frightened, I think. The place, the people. Me. They’re only here for a few days and then they’ll be off. Keep your head down. Nothing to do with you.’

‘Weren’t the two who were killed Tomas’s men?’

‘Another crew. Didn’t know them. They say.’

‘And the villagers?’

‘Nothing to do with them. Outsiders. Their own fault.’

‘Can’t you get anywhere on the negligence angle? Aren’t they worried it might happen to them?’

‘No.’

‘Too well bribed?’

Mahmoud looked at him.

‘If I could only prove that—!’

‘And how long, Captain Owen, are you proposing to stay?’ asked Miss Skinner sweetly, as they sat at supper.

‘I think I may return tomorrow.’

‘Indeed?’

Miss Skinner put down her fork.

‘Then allow me to say, Captain Owen, how greatly I appreciate your solicitude. It was, perhaps, unnecessary, but that was my own fault, and I am truly grateful that you should go to such lengths. I shall convey that formally to the Government.’

Owen bowed acknowledgement.

‘You and Mr Trevelyan.’

‘Most kind of you, Miss Skinner,’ said Paul, concentrating on his supper. ‘I, of course, will not be returning with Captain Owen.’

‘No?’

Miss Skinner picked up her fork.

‘It’s not necessary, you know.’

‘I’m sure. However, I believe in keeping to arrangements.’

‘A true aide-de-camp,’ said Miss Skinner, attempting to spear a gherkin.

‘I believe in keeping to arrangements, too,’ said Parker. ‘Only I like to know what they are. How much longer are you going to be here?’ he said to Miss Skinner.

‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Miss Skinner, stabbing the gherkin successfully and raising it to her mouth.

‘Oh, aren’t you? Well, that’s a pity. Because I am and you’re getting in my way.’

‘There’s nothing to stop you getting on with what you’re doing,’ said Miss Skinner. ‘I’m merely observing.’

‘You’re poking your nose in!’ said Parker. ‘That’s what you’re doing.’

Miss Skinner merely smiled.

‘How long do I have to put up with this?’ Parker demanded. He turned to Mahmoud. ‘Come on, you’re the expert. How long do I have to put up with it? Do I have to put up with it at all? It’s not in the licence.’

‘A lot of things are not in the licence,’ said Mahmoud.

‘Well, perhaps they should be. Perhaps there should be something about visitors. Because visitors take time and time costs money. The group I work for have put up a lot of money for this dig, their only money. We’ve got rights! We’re bringing a lot of money into this country.’

‘Any money you’re bringing in, you’re taking out,’ said Mahmoud, and left the table.

‘What are
you
doing?’ said Parker, coming up behind Mahmoud.

Mahmoud was bent over examining the support stays in the colonnade. He did not reply.

‘You won’t find anything wrong,’ said Parker. ‘There or anywhere else. We know what we’re doing.’

Mahmoud took out a notebook and wrote something down.

Parker gave the post a shake.

‘It’s firm,’ he said. ‘Firm as a rock. You’d better make sure that’s what you’re writing down.’

Mahmoud put the notebook away and went on to the next post. Parker watched him in baffled anger for a moment and then went across to Owen.

‘Can’t you get him off my back?’ he said.

‘Mr el Zaki’s investigations are nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh, aren’t they? I thought the British ran everything in Egypt?’

‘Not the law. We don’t interfere with the judicial process.’

‘Don’t you? Well, it’s the only bloody thing you don’t interfere with. And if you don’t, plenty of other people do. Money talks, doesn’t it? And in Egypt it talks in a bloody shout. I’ve got the money, or at least the people who back me have, and I know what to do!’

‘You’re all right, then, aren’t you?’ said Owen and walked over to Mahmoud.

Mahmoud took hold of one of the supports and tried to shake it. It held firm. Mahmoud, however, took out his notebook and wrote something down.

Parker had followed Owen over.

‘You won’t be able to pin anything on me,’ he said to Mahmoud. ‘And do you know why? Because there isn’t anything to pin.’

Mahmoud ignored him.

‘But I’ll tell you what,’ said Parker, ‘sure as hell, I’ll pin something on you!’

Owen decided to take one last look at the place where Miss Skinner had been attacked, or might have been attacked. He asked Mahmoud to come with him and the Egyptian, who seemed to have finished his inquiries for the moment, readily agreed.

‘There’s not much more I can do here,’ he said. ‘In fact I might as well come back with you tomorrow. I can write the reports in Cairo as well as I can here.’

‘You’ve got to that stage, have you?’

Mahmoud shrugged.

‘Mainly because there’s not much in the other stages. They won’t talk. The post-mortem shows nothing out of the ordinary—frankly, the post-mortem practices up here leave much to be desired, but it’s too late, really, to ship them to Cairo. The work practices, well, I’ve checked them, as you know, but work practices in Der el Bahari are a bit different from what they are elsewhere and, again, there is nothing really too much out of line.’

‘No question of negligence, then?’

‘There’s the question of negligence, there’s plenty of questions, but no real answer. And if the doubts are only at the question level, they won’t bother to do anything.’

‘He gets away with it?’

Mahmoud shrugged. ‘He gets away with it.’

For Mahmoud, two principles came into opposition. On the one hand he was passionately committed to bringing wrongdoers to justice, believing that it didn’t happen often enough in Egypt. On the other, a stickler for the law and proper process—because he felt there wasn’t enough of that in Egypt either—he felt compelled to abide by requirements of proper proof.

Owen thought he was rather glad to get away for the moment from the inner wrestle.

They looked again at the corridor and again at the gap in the wall and then dropped down into the chamber into which Miss Skinner had fallen.

This time Owen had taken the precaution of equipping himself with a powerful lamp and so could see much better.

The chamber was about six feet high and ran back for some twenty or thirty feet. The roof was jet black, which at first he thought was paint but then, scraping it with a knife, found that it was a deposit formed, he guessed, by the exhalations from the bodies beneath.

The mummies ran back in rows to the other end of the chamber. They were piled five or six deep, except that in one place there was a large gap.

Mahmoud picked his way between the rows towards it and then stood looking at it for some time. Then he came back and heaved himself up out of the chamber and reexamined the gap in the wall.

Clearly puzzled, he dropped down again and this time went straight to the other end of the chamber.

Owen brought the light up to him. Mahmoud took it and shone it against the wall. There was what appeared to be a doorway but filled in. Mahmoud disregarded it.

‘False door,’ he said, and then went over the whole of the rear wall shining the lamp and feeling with his hands. Some mummies were in the way. He moved them and gave a grunt of satisfaction. He gave Owen the lamp and fell on his knees.

He was wrestling with what appeared to be part of the wall, but as he eased it forward Owen saw it to be a large separate stone. As it came out it revealed a gap behind.

Mahmoud took the lamp and shone it through. Then he pushed it through the gap and crawled after it. After a little hesitation Owen followed.

He found he was in another chamber similar to the first, although perhaps rather longer. It was full of mummies, piled high to the ceiling. Again there was that strange, sooty black.

There was a gap running up the middle of this chamber between the mummies, As he walked along it, his feet kept crunching on something and, looking down, he saw the floor was covered with broken bones and decayed mummy cloth.

Mahmoud touched some of the bones with his foot.

‘Crocodiles,’ he said.

The room was full of mummified crocodiles, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. They lay in regular layers, head to tail and tail to head.

The bottom layer consisted of large crocodiles, side by side, each one carefully mummied and wrapped up in cloths. Smaller ones were laid between the tails, filling up the hollows; and then, crammed into all the interstices, were dozens upon dozens of young crocodiles.

Each one was about a foot long and stretched out between two slips of palm-leaf stem, bound to its sides like splints. It was then wrapped from foot to head in a strip of cloth, wound round, starting at the tail.

The layer was carefully covered with palm leaves and then another layer, exactly similar to the previous one, built on top of it. And so on till the chamber was piled high to the ceiling.

Except that again there was that curious gap.

This time Mahmoud inspected it curiously and then went straight to the rear wall.

‘We could go on,’ he said to Owen. ‘Do you want to?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘There’ll be another exit. Like the other one.’

‘Who—?’

Mahmoud laughed.

‘When?’ he said. ‘It will be the Der el Baharis, though whether this lot or their fathers or their great-great-grandfathers—’

‘All right, then,’ said Owen, ‘but why? Isn’t it just mummies? Or were they looking for treasure?’

‘Treasure!’ said Mahmoud dismissively. ‘This is their treasure. Mummies. Haven’t you seen those mummies they sell outside the Continental? Cats, hawks, crocodiles? This is where they come from. Or places like this.’

‘They break in and—?’

‘Stock up for the next season.’

Mahmoud held the lamp high and shone it round. Everywhere there were mummies. And now Owen saw, among the crocodiles, mummies which could only be of humans.

‘So do you want to go on?’ Mahmoud asked again.

‘No, thanks,’ said Owen. He had the feeling, especially now that he had seen the human mummies, that he was obtruding on someone’s privacy.

He said as much to Mahmoud while they were retracing their steps.

Mahmoud was silent for a little while and then said:

‘That is why archaeology makes me uneasy. I see it adds to knowledge, to history. But it also—’