Tutankhamun Uncovered (62 page)

“Shhh! He’ll hear you!” Dorothy cautioned back in a whisper, catching Stanley’s eye as she did so. Her faced flushed with embarrassment. She felt so obvious that she was compelled to speak up.

“Captain Stanley, however do you manage one of those things? They look so terribly fragile. As if a breath of wind would break their wings.”

“Very easy, Miss Dalgliesh. They’re truly easy to fly and much tougher than they look, I assure you. Doesn’t take much brains to fly one of those things, otherwise I wouldn’t be a pilot! You must let me show you. It’d be me pleasure.”

“Oh, Captain Stanley, I should love that!” Dorothy innocently beamed. She was genuinely excited by the thought. “May we all have a go?”

Carnarvon cut in before the captain could answer. “Now just a minute. Let’s not get too hasty. These things are not that safe. Don’t want to go losing anyone. I think it better we all keep our feet squarely on terra firma. Me for one, anyway, thank you.”

“Me too,” chimed in Carter. “Got more important things to do below ground. Thanks all the same.”

“I understand your feelings, sirs, and respect ’em. If you’d rather not try it I’d be the last to push you.” He turned to the ladies. “Really, though, the plane is very safe and very reliable never had a problem with her.”

‘Always a first time,’ thought Carter, maliciously.

But Dorothy wasn’t to be dissuaded. “Well, I really would like to have a go. Even if I am to be the only one. White feathers the lot of you!”

There was some slightly embarrassed giggling from the other two ladies and fairly stern looks from the seated men.

“It will be my great pleasure, Miss Dalgliesh. You will be in the best of hands, I promise you. When would you like to try?”

“Would tomorrow be convenient?”

“Tomorrow it shall be. Let’s say ten o’clock. I shall have my beauty all spruced up and ready to receive you. She has never carried a lady before.”

Carter wasn’t pleased. Worse, he was jealous. But he didn’t show it. He’d not felt this kind of emotion before. It confused him and he was not at all good at dealing with feelings he did not understand.

Later, when Dorothy and he were alone, his tone was critical. “No, I don’t approve,” he told her. “Not the kind of thing for young ladies to be doing. Not right at all.”

“Better than sitting under a parasol for hours waiting for you to emerge sweating and grimy from the depths with some new object in your arms,” she responded cuttingly. Then, seeing the disappointment in his expression, she placed her hand on his and said, “Sometimes it’s worth the wait, however.” And she smiled.

He smiled back.

She knew where his thoughts lay now. Fact was, he had very little real time for her. There was just too much else to do. He couldn’t afford the preoccupation. Their smiles reflected a mutual understanding.

He kissed her hand and she bade him goodnight. Tomorrow she’d see what he looked like from the air.

While this social banter was taking place Weigall, still recovering from the shocking news that exclusivity of the reporting rights was irrevocably committed, had noticed a man within the group to whom he didn’t believe he had been previously introduced. The man was busily writing away on a notepad.

Carnarvon observed Weigall’s attention and all at once realised he had been remiss during the original introductions. “Forgive me, Mr Weigall. I forgot Mr Merton of the London Times.” He waved his arm. “Mr Weigall Mr Merton.”

“A pleasure,” noted Merton, distracted from his note taking.

“All mine,” answered Weigall, hiding his distaste.

During this momentary interruption, Merton had noticed that his notebook was being overlooked from behind his chair by a ponderous lady who was extending herself for a better view. He pretended to ignore her and immediately resumed his writing. Within a few moments, the woman pulled herself upright and moved away across the room, fanning herself briskly.

Weigall picked up on this interaction and gestured quizzically at Merton. The reporter turned the face of his notepad towards Weigall. In plain, large and very legible capital letters he had written: ‘IT IS UNLADYLIKE AND RUDE TO LOOK OVER A GENTLEMAN’S SHOULDER’.

Weigall laughed; Merton smiled, it was perhaps the only cordial exchange they would ever have, but the intensity of the situation had been softened.

The wind was so fierce in Dorothy’s face that she squinted even though she was wearing goggles. As the fragile biplane dipped its wing steeply to the right, she dared herself to look down into The Valley. Like so many foraging ants, people were streaming around in columns along the narrow valley corridors beneath. It was easy to make out where the tomb was situated. There were so many people about the place. It was obviously the spot.

As the little plane wheeled above the dusty crags, she felt a tap on the shoulder and turned her head.

Stanley yelled at her, “Do you want a closer view, Miss Dalgliesh?”

The plane had been bumping from side to side as it flew over the tumbling thermals which rose in waves from the midday oven between the walls of the valley. She was beginning to feel a little queasy. She mouthed words declining the offer but he didn’t hear them and, convinced he had read her lips correctly and believing her to be the adventurous kind, he turned the aircraft into a looping, precipitous dive towards the crowd below. Dorothy caught her breath. The yellow ground loomed up towards them and all feelings of sickness were at once extinguished by extreme and unadulterated fear. The engine screamed and she could see the shadow of their plane grow as it plummeted earthwards. As the little aircraft bore down on the crowd, the expressions of alarm in the eyes of the spectators beneath grew ever closer.

Stanley pulled back on the stick and the plane briefly levelled off. To Dorothy it was like a freefalling lift swinging to a sudden stop. The pressure was too much. Involuntarily, she was compelled to discharge her brunch into her lap. But the slipstream caught most of it and an astonished pilot became the unfortunate recipient as glutinous particles of partially digested eggs Benedict splattered across his face and goggles.

The obscenity, however, was secondary. In panic, he clawed at his goggles to clear his vision. They were low in The Valley and the cliffs were close about and above them. He instinctively pushed forward the throttle and pulled up on the stick to climb, not knowing if he was already too late to negotiate the cliffs which, through a slimy fog of congealed albumen and yoke and puréed ham, he now briefly glimpsed. A great wall of solid rock rose directly ahead of him.

The little plane pulled itself almost vertical as it struggled to gain altitude, finally breasting the cliff top and disappearing over the other side. But for the crowd’s excited babble, The Valley was left in relative silence.

As Stanley pulled back on the throttle and allowed the biplane to flutter downwards to the first piece of flat land he could find that was sufficient in length for him to land safely, Dorothy threw up again. This time the issue remained with her and her fouled pilot was spared another pasting.

The plane skidded to a furiously dusty stop and Stanley killed the engine. He tore off his goggles and threw them to the ground. The odour all about him was revolting. For the moment, he restrained the urge to clean himself off and called to his passenger. “Miss Dalgliesh! Miss Dalgliesh! Are you all right?”

She was panting too hard to answer. The whole tumbling ride had been quite too much for her to handle. Exciting perhaps, but an ordeal notwithstanding.

Stanley pulled himself out of his seat, threw his leg over the side and placed his foot in the step below her position so that he could assist her. “Miss Dalgliesh! Are you all right?”

She slowly turned to face him and then burst into uncontrollable laughter. Surprised, but at the same time gratified that she was not overly distressed, Stanley lost his precarious purchase on the side of the plane and fell backwards to the ground. When he had gathered his senses and once more pulled himself up to her side, she was still laughing.

“Good God, woman, what in the name of Hades ails you?”

“What a ride, Mr Stanley! What a ride! And you look much the worse for it!”

She started giggling again. Dorothy reached down for her handbag and pulled out her powder compact. She opened it and faced the mirror towards him so that he could see himself. She giggled once more. “I am afraid, Mr Stanley, that I have soiled myself, your plane, and you. I am so sorry. Perhaps I am not so much the air traveller that I had wanted to be.”

“You had me very worried there for a moment, Miss Dalgliesh. It was foolish of me to have played such tricks with the aeroplane. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Perhaps we should find somewhere where we can clean up a little. The smell is most unsociable!”

“Can you stand another short flight? It will be the quickest way to the hotel.”

“I will give it a try. But mind you fly straight and level this time, Mr Stanley.”

“I will indeed, Miss D. I will indeed. I have no wish to be soiled again by the fair hand of a lady.”

Dorothy laughed momentarily, then quickly sobered herself as Stanley swung the prop and the engine chugged back to life.

The short flight back to a road close to the hotel was relatively painless. Stanley was doing his best to limit the chances of his receiving another face-full from the gentle maid up front. He had to make a couple of circuits while the fellahs cleared the traffic to allow him to land, but the turns were smooth and gradual and Dorothy felt no further discomfort. There was no bounce when the plane touched down and, within just a few yards, Stanley drew it to a halt. He leapt out and helped his passenger down.

She was a little wobbly in the knees when she first felt herself on terra firma but she soon found her feet. With a brief wave, she got into a horse and carriage that had drawn up in search of a fare and took off towards the hotel.

Stanley, disgusting flying helmet in hand, watched her disappear and then turned back towards his aircraft.

Dorothy was down to the bar first that evening. But, finding Stanley absent and seeing no one else she knew present at the time, she returned to her room to sit and read awhile.

Stanley was still at his toilet. He wanted to be sure he was absolutely purged of the dreadful concoction that had been liberally and indiscriminately sprayed on every part of him during their flight. He had totally immersed himself in fresh baths again and again until he was sure that the water remained clean. He was now at his mirror completing his shaving and oiling his blond hair, combing it straight back over his head without a parting. Finally, he balanced his black bow tie, pulled on his jacket, and departed his room for the bar. Even after such thorough preparation he could not resist stopping a moment and sniffing all about himself before committing himself to descend the stairs. As he turned the corner and took the handrail of the staircase, he heard his name called from behind.

“Mr Stanley! Wherever have you been all this time?”

“Miss Dalgliesh,” he acknowledged in surprise “My, you look lovely tonight.” He bowed.

“I know,” she quipped, trying to prise a more relaxed reaction from him. “Not difficult after the way I appeared just a couple of hours ago.”

Stanley, not used to such a show of temerity in a woman, was for a moment at a loss for words. “I, er... I did mean what I said, Miss Dalgliesh.”

“I know. Dot. Please call me Dot.”

“Dot it shall be. Likewise I would be most grateful if you could call me George.”

“George, then, it shall be. And what shall we do this evening, George?”

This was most destabilising for Stanley. The pilot was quite unused to ladies of so forward a nature. He grappled with how he might regain the high ground in this conversation. He needn’t have overly concerned himself. Dorothy was quite prepared to submit when the time was right. But he couldn’t read the signs and, to be fair, she wasn’t making them all that clear.

She had already thought through the consequences of leaving Carter to the splendid isolation of his work. She had no option. That course had been decided for them both the moment he had stepped into the antechamber. Whatever had been maturing before would be placed in suspended animation. There were no options. The task before him was so vast and so important that he could do nothing else. God only knew how many years it would be before they could visit one another again without his being entirely preoccupied with thoughts of what still lay beyond the threshold of that, or any other dark, stone doorway.

‘So, that aside, let’s see what this George Stanley is really like,’ she thought.

“I have to know. Have you managed to excavate every fragment of my breakfast from every crease in your skin? Do you feel finally cleansed?”

“Thank you, yes, Dot. I must confess it was an ordeal I have no wish to repeat.”

“Me neither,” she giggled. “I don’t know how I may make amends, George. Have you forgiven me?”

“Of course, Dot. It was my fault, after all, for being such an ass and flying with such lack of consideration. It is I who needs your forgiveness.”

“Forgiven you most surely are, George. And tomorrow if you have the time I should like to try again. But not in The Valley this time. Perhaps a more sedate flight to oversee some other points of interest that do not require such airborne gymnastics to get a good eyeful.”

“Well! You are the brave one. I don’t believe I have ever met such an adventurous lady. And I will be only too pleased to take you up tomorrow. We shall fly down river to Abydos. Take a picnic. Spend the day there. Just tell me when you would like to leave. Any time. Your choice.”

“Abydos... I have heard Howard speak of that place but he never took me there. I should love to see it! How about ten o’clock?”

“We shall meet for breakfast at nine.”

“Remind me not to have eggs Benedict.”

“Stop that scratching! It won’t get any better if you keep picking at it like that.” Lady Carnarvon had not had the greatest of evenings and the sight of her husband, in full evening dress, glass of brandy in one hand, a cigar clipped firmly between a couple of outstretched fingers, the other scratching away at a pimple on his chin, exacerbated her testy state of mind.