Tutankhamun Uncovered (83 page)

Meantime this current series is a work of art that I will keep protected within my library for ever. I look forward to the next. I and the entire Western world will be indebted to you for your scholarship, your intuition, your discipline, and your execution.

With kind regards,

T. E. L.

PS Should you do me the honour of replying to this letter I would be most grateful if henceforward you would address any communications to me as ‘Mr Shaw’. You see, in order to keep one step ahead of the news media and live in relative peace, I have been forced to assume an alias.

Carter looked over the letter once again, then carefully refolded it and placed it back in the envelope. He took a drink and looked up at the starlit sky. The Milky Way, the Nile of the cosmos, streamed sparkling over the blackness above him. He drained his glass and summoned another.

The waiter placed Carter’s refreshed gin and tonic on the table beside him. He drank it down in one and, with some effort pulled himself up. He walked across the bar and through the lobby towards the staircase which led to his room, steadying himself on the pillars as he left. He fumbled for his key, unlocked his door and went in. He pulled the door closed behind him, tossed the letter onto the sofa and let himself fall back onto the bed. He rested his head on the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling. Proud as he was at being honoured so by a man of such wordly fame, the responsibility was overpowering. ‘Love to but I haven’t got the energy.’ He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Carter awoke with a start at three in the morning. The entire notion had come to him in his sleep. ‘Lawrence himself. Why not? He’s a scholar of archaeology. A proven literate. Publicly famous. Expertise. Good publicity. Great mix. Use my notes. Those of Lucas, Mace, the rest. He would need to visit the museum. Spend some time there on the details of the objects. I could pay for that.’

Carter got out of bed and lit the lamps in his study. He sat down at the desk in his pyjamas and immediately began to write:

Winter Palace Hotel Luxor, Egypt.

24th. Mar., 1935

Dear Colonel Lawrence,

I was most gratified to receive your letter of 1st Feb. It was most timely. It would lift my spirits greatly should we have the opportunity to meet at least once more. And I have a proposition to make to you.

You are yourself a scholar of archaeology, as am I. The work you speak of in your letter is indeed necessary but, quite frankly, while it festers within me it is too much for my meagre inner resources to manage alone. I ail. From a cancer, so I am told by my doctor. I am not so bad that I cannot think, but I am bad enough that I have little energy little enough yet to write but far too little to delve into the depths of analysis that will be required to bring out the true value of the objects and their history in the late Lord Carnarvon’s discovery and, on top of all this, probably not that much time. But that’s the hypochondriac in me talking!

In any event, it occurred to me that, although this could be considered the deepest of impositions after so brief an encounter as ours, this work being so important, and your clear interest in seeing its conclusion, you might consider obliging me by joining in on this endeavour and helping me in its conception, execution, and its eventual completion. You are, after all, most handsomely qualified to take on such a task.

I must be frank. In this, I will expect of you the majority of the labour, any travel, the writing. I will act as the technical and historical referee, of course, and provide illustration where that is necessary. My hands, I am glad to say, remain steady. I fear I can do little more than this but, from my experience, I will closely advise you in the course of your work all the way to closure.

Having given this considerable thought, I am convinced this may be the only way I will be able to see my achievement completed. I await your reaction with the greatest expectations.

I am shortly to leave for home. Once I am re-established back in London I will attempt to make contact with you in Dorset. I very much look forward to seeing you again. Your most obedient servant,

Howard Carter

Carter folded the page and slipped it into an envelope dutifully addressed to a ‘Mr Shaw’. He called for Abdel to take the letter to the post office. The following silence brought him back to his senses. He was in a hotel. He was alone. It was four in the morning. He laid the envelope on the desk, walked back to his bedroom and fell into bed.

Carter returned to England in May. He had not received a response to his letter but this had not discouraged him. The mail system to and from Egypt was a good deal less than reliable and the period of transition lengthy. However, receiving no response to a telegram despatched while in transit, he decided to go directly to Dorset and seek Lawrence out for himself, unannounced.

He arrived at Wareham at 12p.m. on Thursday the 30th. As he emerged from the extravagantly Victorian station, there was a solitary taxicab parked at the threshold. Carter opened the door and threw his bag inside. “Bovington Camp, cabby. I understand the home of a Mr Shaw’s is located nearby there. The address is ‘Clouds Hill’. Do y’ know the place?”

“Oh yes, sir. Ev’ryone round these parts knows ’is place. Real gen’l’man, sir, but not one f ’ socialising wiv the locals. Kept to ’imself. Bit of an ’ermit, y’ might say.”

The past tense comment was lost on Carter. His mind was filled with expectation and hope. “Will y’ be wantin’ lodgins for the night, sir? There’s ‘The Bear’ in the ‘Igh

Street. Should be comfortable enough for a gen’l’man of your standin’, sir.”

“Mmmm?” Carter was preoccupied with anticipation. “Not right now. Worry about that later. ‘Clouds Hill’ first, if you please, cabby.”

They drove off.

Within a few miles they turned off the main road and were alone driving down long, narrow country lanes.

The cabby regarded his passenger in the mirror. “May I ask why you wishes to see ’is place, sir?”

“You may not,” answered Carter rudely.

The cabby, summarily put off, remained silent for the remainder of the journey. After a few miles they turned left at a signpost for Bovington Camp. Almost immediately the taxi drew up at a gate on the left.

“This is it?” asked Carter.

“The very place, sir.”

The cottage lay just a few feet from the road. It was largely hidden from view by a tall hedge. Carter got out of the taxi and looked about him. There was not another sign of human habitation anywhere to be seen.

Truly a lonely cottage in the country. Carter felt strangely comforted by the thought.

“Please wait for me, cabby. I shall return presently and let you know how long I expect to be. Should you leave I’d be lost out here. I doubt many taxis come by this way looking for fares.”

“Right you are, sir.”

He unlatched the gate and walked onto the gravel fronting the area between the house and a small, shed like garage opposite. The cottage was tiny little more than a two storey box with a single pitched roof and four small windows at the front. Its only remarkable feature was a tall, central brick chimney with a tiled spark cover at its top. The structure was quite out of scale with the rest of the building. It portended that a veritable furnace might lurk below.

Carter approached the front door and rapped briskly on it with his knuckles. He waited a while, listening for signs of movement within, but there was nothing. He walked over to one of the tiny windows and peered inside. The lace at the window made it almost impossible to see anything. He could make out a camel saddle and a sofa spread with a colourful blanket. But there was no light inside and, stepping back from the cottage and looking up, no smoke from the incongruous chimney either. It did not look at all lived in.

Perhaps Lawrence was abroad again. No wonder he had not received a reply to his letter.

Carter returned to the taxi with a heavy heart. “Let’s find a place to rest my tired head, cabby. Is there somewhere closer than driving all the way back to Wareham?”

“Bere Regis, sir, on the Dorchester road. Drax Arms should see you awright, sir. In the main street at the top of the ’ill. Nice people. Me an’ me team plays skittles there. Better beer than in Wareham.”

Carter was not interested in the cabby’s observations and, as the taxi made its way north, he gazed absentmindedly at the countryside. He would have to enquire if anyone in the town knew of Lawrence’s whereabouts. Pointless going all the way back to London if the man was expected to return within the week.

Arriving at the Drax Arms, Carter paid off the cab driver and knocked at the door to the lounge bar. Presently there was a turning of keys and a sliding of bolts. The door was flung open to reveal a rather large, red-faced lady in a floral print cotton dress covered by a stained, blue and white striped apron.

“Yes?”

“My name is Carter. Do you have lodgings for the night?”

The lady regarded the plump gentleman standing before her. The weather was unseasonably cool for late May and he wore a long, dark overcoat that reached almost to his ankles, black shoes, black leather gloves, a grey scarf at his neck and a black Homburg, and he carried a moderately sized, leather travelling case. Looking, therefore, relatively well-to-do, if a trifle moribund, he passed inspection.

“Well, you’d better come in then.”

Carter removed his hat and followed the woman inside. She took him through the bar to the back and up the stairs.

“This’ll be your room then. Barfroom’s at the end of the landing. ‘Ot water’s from a gas boiler above the barf. You’ll need to call me to get it working. Got a temp’rement ’as that boiler. Won’t work for just anyone. Clean towels is in your room. If you’ll be wanting dinner, I’ll need to know no later than five o’clock. Rarver you didn’t really since I ’as to ’elp wiv the bars. There’s a fishandchippy jus’ down the road.”

“I’ll take care of myself tonight, thank you.” Carter was weary of the instructions.

“Please yerself. Brekfust is downstairs in the parlour ’tween eight and nine. If you’re late I can’t promise you’ll get any.”

“Thank you,” said Carter trying to close the bedroom door on her. “I will not be late. Good afternoon.”

Finally left to himself, Carter removed his coat and jacket and hung them in the tallboy. He threw his suitcase on the bed and opened it. From pockets around the inside, he withdrew a matching set of tortoiseshell hairbrushes, a comb, a shaving brush, a cutthroat razor and a sharpening strap. These he arranged neatly on either side of the water stand. From a sleeve in the lid, he drew out a small journal. He left his clothes in the case, closed it up and slid it under the bed. The metal studs in the base of the bag made a dinging sound as they made contact with the jerry, pushing it out of reach.

He sat down at the small dressing table and began to draft a letter to his niece, Phyllis Walker. Having been thus far unsuccessful in taking this first positive step towards beginning the scientific work on the tomb, he felt pregnant with anxiety. He had to unload on someone.

Sometime later, but only two pages completed, he became conscious of voices below. The bars had opened and, it seemed, people around these parts lost no time in filling them up. He felt in need of a drink himself. It was an easy decision. He put the cap back on his fountain pen and closed his journal. He looked in the mirror and slicked back his hair, put a comb through his moustache, pulled on his jacket and went downstairs.

The fact that Carter had not bothered to change but had gone down to the bar in the same clothes he had been wearing all day was out of character. After the many years of his associations with the rich and famous, he had matured the habit to wash regularly and change for dinner. This time, however, his mind was preoccupied with his objective. All he thought about was meeting the man he had not seen for who knows how many years and getting his next his final great project started.

“Travelin’, sir?” asked the proprietor as he placed the gin on the bar.

“Mmm...?”

“Just passin’ through, sir? On yer way to sumplace else?”

“No.” Carter wasn’t in the mood to talk. “No. Here to see an acquaintance of mine.”

“Well then, sir. Welcome to our little part of the world. I ’opes yer enjoys yerself here, sir. If yer needs any directions, just ask. Only too glad to ’elp.”

The man left to serve the noisier clientele in the public bar.

Carter sighed and rested back in his chair. He tasted his drink. Not as strong as those to which he had become accustomed over the years. But that’s the way they do them in the provinces, he thought.

He turned to observe the proprietor as he served drinks to the others in the lounge. It was clear that the man knew these people well. Carter could hear them talking about their families mostly gossip; a mixed babble; little of substance. Then, all of a sudden, someone, Carter couldn’t detect who, mentioned the name, ‘Lawrence’.

Carter stood up. He wasn’t sure what to do next, or in which direction he might move but, now standing prominently in the middle of the bar room, with his glass in hand, he had made himself obvious enough to shut down the local chatter.

A deep, expectant silence descended on the small bar. Carter stood rigidly in the centre of the room. He quickly realised he was being observed intently by nearly every person in the lounge. For a moment he felt an extreme sense of embarrassment. But then he thought about all the dignitaries he had dealt with in the past the meetings, the dinners, the society parties, the tours. Dealing with the general public had been a chore, but it had become second nature. He spoke up. “I am new to these parts. Came to look for Colonel... er... Mr Shaw. Believe he lives near here. Any of you know him?”

The recognition in the faces about him signalled immediately that he was in the right place. But there was something else. The publican came out from behind the bar and approached him. “Mr Carter, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Thought as much. Stayin’ upstairs, right?”

“Yes.”

Carter sat back down in his chair.

“Owner told me.”