The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  ‘This is Mr Bee – Mr Bow… we’ve come to see the puppy,’ Peter said.

  ‘We’ve come to look after this infernal puppy,’ the young man corrected, in an affable way. ‘You are Lucy, and I am Brograve Beauchamp. Staying at Highclere for the first time and now, at long last, of service. You, Lucy, are to put on this apron, which Eve feels you may need. Then you are to go and admire Lord Carnarvon’s Egyptian treasures. Peter and I are to tend this charming beast. We have a bottle. We have milk. We have several towels, and I fear we’ll need them.’ Bending down to the puppy and grimacing, he ruffled its head, parted its fur, and nipped something between thumb and forefinger. ‘Off you trot,’ he said. ‘Eve’s waiting for you. I wish I could say she was waiting for me, but that’s life – one cruel blow after another.’

  I put on the white apron; it covered the pee-stains, even if it did nothing to alleviate the pungent, vixenish smell that still hung about me. I hastened towards the house; now was my opportunity; Eve would certainly know her father’s plans. If a fateful conversation was to take place between Carnarvon and Carter that night, Eve would tell me. Reaching the house, I found she was waiting for me; she took my hand and drew me into an enormous, cold and echoing entrance hall, and then into a further hall beyond, double height, Arthurian, rife with statuary, paintings and heraldic devices.

  ‘I hope people have been looking after you, Lucy,’ Eve said, in a distracted way, leading me along corridors and through rooms, until I’d lost all sense of direction. ‘It’s absolute mayhem here today. Howard’s on the warpath, and Pups is trying to avoid him – he’s exhausted, and he’s gone to lie down, I think, or maybe escaped for a walk – anyway, I’m deputed to show you his collection. Along here, dear, follow me.’

  We began walking along yet another corridor; we seemed to be in some remote part of the house; wherever we were, it was a silent as a tomb, the only sound Eve’s chatter. ‘And you met Mr Donoghue, I gather,’ she went on, ‘isn’t he just a marvel?’

  ‘I met three men. The first had a golf bag and was looking for someone called Biffy.’

  ‘Really, dear? I can’t think who that was.’

  ‘I met Mr Beauchamp, who gave me the apron. And before that I met a very small man. Not even as tall as me. He was wonderful. He says our puppy has lurcher in her.’

  ‘That’s definitely Mr Donoghue – Steve Donoghue – you must know, Lucy, who he is? Why, he’s one of the most famous men in Europe!’ She glanced at my blank face and laughed. ‘He’s a jockey, Lucy – the best in the world. He won the Derby last year and this. He can ride anything. He’s famous for his magical hands. Pups adores him – they’re the closest friends… You must have heard of him! No? Gracious! Lucy dear, what do you all talk about in Cambridge?’

  Saying this, she threw back a door, and we entered a large, dimly lit room; previously the Smoking Room, it was now known as the Antiques Room, Eve said. It was lined with dark mahogany-framed display cases. I passed from one to another, peering past the reflections on the glass at jewellery emblazoned with Egyptian enamels. There was a gold statuette of an Egyptian king; there were vases of iridescent glass, and alabaster bowls; there were hundreds upon hundreds of objects, all exquisite. They looked displaced; I felt the silent room sucked energy from them. I wondered how many visitors this private museum had, how often these objects were examined. Howard Carter would be working on their cataloguing during his stay, I knew, so there must be recent acquisitions to be added to those already here. I looked at the golden Egyptian king, striding forth into the afterlife, his gaze fixed on eternal glass doors in a cabinet in England.

  Eve had moved to the windows and was looking out across the lawns. I was longing to ask her about the man-to-man discussion slated for tonight, but unsure how to raise the issue. I kept wondering how the puppy was, whether the feeding was successful. ‘I hope Mr Beauchamp and Peter are managing,’ I said eventually.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Eve said. ‘I can see them from here, and they’re managing perfectly.’ She turned away from the windows. ‘Besides, Brograve can cope with anything. He’s such a nice man, Lucy. He dances divinely. In the election, he’s standing for the National Liberals, which makes Mother fume. Brograve is candidate for Lowestoft, which was his father’s seat, so it ought to be safe. But we’re all secretly hoping it will go Conservative.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘You’re very silent, dear. Look, isn’t this beautiful? It’s a heart scarab – the kind they placed over a king’s heart to prevent it confessing his misdemeanours during the Weighing of the Heart ceremony.’

  I inspected the scarab, which was as large as a plate. That should weigh down the rebellious heart and shut it up, I thought. Eve began to consult Howard Carter’s catalogue to help us identify the objects on display. I remember looking at it over her shoulder, pages of meticulous drawings, lengthy notes, with codes for prices paid, and I remember that – at some point – Carter himself burst into the room. He was clad in loud tweed, with a bright red handkerchief spilling from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Ah, Eve.’ He came to a halt and glanced at me, but gave no sign of recognition. ‘I’m looking for your father,’ he said. ‘Hunting high and low. Can’t seem to find him.’

  ‘I’m not sure where Pups is – he had some estate business, I think, Howard. He’s fearfully busy. He’s probably closeted with Rutherford, or Maber, perhaps… Better not to interrupt him.’ Eve gave her dimpling smile. ‘You remember Lucy? From Egypt?’

  ‘Of course.’ He shook my hand. I could tell he hadn’t the least idea who I was. I’d been erased, I realised: the lunch in the tomb, the buttered toast by the fire at Castle Carter, his praise for my observation skills – it was as if none of that had happened.

  ‘Frances Winlock’s friend,’ Eve prompted. Carter’s eyes remained blank. His smile widened. ‘Ah yes, Frances. Smart girl, very quick on the uptake – I must be going. Rutherford, did you say, Eve? I might try the estate office then.’

  He was out the door before Eve could speak. She raised her eyes to the ceiling: ‘Oh, Lord! Now what have I done? If Howard tracks him down, my father will be livid. He’s been hounding Pups for the last three days. He’s here for two weeks, and if he keeps this up, he’ll drive us all mad. He can’t seem to accept – Pups isn’t at all well, Lucy. He’s been fearfully seedy all summer – colds, bronchial attacks – it’s so miserable for him.’

  ‘Will your father go back to Egypt again, Eve?’ I asked, seizing my opportunity.

  ‘Lucy dear, I think not.’ She hesitated, frowning at the cabinets. ‘The doctors say no, my mother says no. I think Pups has had enough, in many, many ways. So he’s been thinking it over, weighing the pros and cons, and he’s finally made up his mind: time to call a halt – no more excavating, no more Valley. I think it was a relief to him, Lucy, when he decided, but he still has to break it to Howard. Poor Pups! He’s going to tell him tonight, after dinner. He’ll be firm, of course, but he’s dreading it. To give up now – when Howard’s so certain he’s on the right track… Except Howard’s been certain for years, and he’s always been wrong. And one really can’t ignore that for ever, can one?

  ‘Pups does expect results.’ An indignant, faintly peevish note had crept into her voice. ‘Howard’s position – well, Pups does employ him, so Howard’s situation is really not a million miles from someone like Maber’s – he’s our Head Keeper, Lucy, and he’s a Norfolk man too, like Howard, oddly enough. At the start of the season Maber knows exactly what bag Pups expects on each drive, and he makes sure he gets it. If he didn’t, he’d find himself unemployed – very rapidly! Of course, we all know Howard’s role is a little different – and he’s become a friend, a dear friend. But… ’

  Her tone hardened: ‘But people should never presume on friendship, should they, Lucy? And I do get cross with Howard sometimes. He shouldn’t be bothering Pups now, and that was made perfectly clear to him.’ She consulted her watch. ‘My dear, will you forgive me? Let’s go and find
Rose – she’s with my mother, I think. Then I’d better run off and find Pups and warn him!’

  She gave me her sweet dimpling smile, and – how slow, how slow – I realised I was a nuisance who was in the way. I’d caused enough complications for one day. I too was in danger of presuming on friendship.

  I didn’t encounter Lord Carnarvon as I was leaving, and, given the apron, the state of my dress and my vixen smell, I was hoping to escape his wife too; I almost succeeded, meeting her only briefly on the steps outside, where she and Dorothy Dennistoun, deep in conversation, were waiting for a car to be brought round. Both women were wearing duster coats, large hats and motoring veils.

  ‘My dear! Eve’s told me everything!’ Lady Carnarvon said. She seemed unaffected by the powerful doggy odour emanating from me – perhaps she had no sense of smell, I thought hopefully. ‘The sweetest little puppy, Dorothy tells me. I adore dogs! I have three – or is it five now? So clever of you, dear – I’ve told Rose, if she has the slightest problem with it, she must telephone at once and I’ll send a man round to dose it… So glad to see you here, Laura. You must come over again… ah, here’s the motor at last. Goodbye, my dear.’

  I didn’t correct my name or inform her there was no telephone at Nuthanger: I was reluctant to be seen, let alone to speak, and there wasn’t time anyway. Lady Carnarvon, so tiny – five feet of beaky-nosed, buzzing, compressed energy, a marvel of furbelows, scarves and milky, glistening pearls the size of a wren’s egg – was there and then gone. Five minutes later, Wheeler emerged from the servants’ quarters, another car appeared, a French Panhard, with Rose, Peter and puppy in the back, and we could leave at last.

  The little dog had been tightly swaddled in a towel. It looked like one of the mummified babies I’d seen in the Egyptian Museum. ‘This is the best present ever, Lucy,’ Rose said, cradling it, then scratching herself. ‘I’m going to call her Bluebell. Mr Beauchamp says she drank a whole bottle of milk––’

  ‘And a half,’ said Peter, also scratching.

  ‘Did Mr Beauchamp mention fleas?’ Wheeler sniffed. ‘Keep that filthy thing wrapped up. This car will need fumigating. You’ll all need fumigating. No one sets foot indoors when we get home – not till I’ve dealt with it.’

  ‘Where were you, Lucy?’ Rose went on. ‘You missed all the fun. We had tea with Lady Carnarvon, and she showed us that Marie Antoinette blood, which was still bright red, as if it spouted from her chopped-off head yesterday… And then Lord Carnarvon took Peter to admire his cars, there’s twenty-three of them, and the Bugatti can do well over sixty. Then he showed us his wireless set! I’ve never seen one before, and it’s huge, with an aerial like a crucifix, and we were allowed to twiddle the knobs and listen.’

  ‘A man talked out of it, Lucy,’ Peter said, putting his hand in mine. ‘A man I can’t see. A ghost man.’

  ‘And then we came outside and had a long talk to Mr Carter. I told him the story of how Wheeler and I outwitted my father. All the details! Half-wages and everything! He was mightily impressed, wasn’t he, Petey?’

  ‘Jolly impressed. He said we’re conning little beggars.’

  ‘He gave us a tip to share. A whole sovereign,’ Rose cried, triumphant.

  ‘What is a beggar, Wheeler?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Nothing you need worry your head about,’ said Wheeler, with finality.

  I turned to the window; we were halfway down the drive. In the distance, striding across the lawns from the direction of one of Highclere’s follies, I saw the familiar figure of Howard Carter. He was walking rapidly, a stooped and weary-looking earl at his side. Lord Carnarvon was limping and keeping up with difficulty; he was wearing his Tennysonian hat and leaning on his stick.

  Carter was gesticulating and speaking with emphasis. So he had tracked Carnarvon down, I thought; he might not yet know the fate that awaited him, but he had, meanwhile, found his quarry.

  24

  That night, I wrote to Frances to describe the events at Highclere: perhaps that man-to-man conversation was happening as I wrote, I thought. It was dark outside the farm; at Highclere, they would be coming to the end of dinner. I imagined the women withdrawing, the port circulating among the male guests, and then Lord Carnarvon taking Carter to one side. I wondered which of the many, many rooms at Highclere he’d select for their interview. I tried to imagine what he might say, and how Carter would respond. I felt sure that Carter would now inform him of Herbert Winlock’s discovery. And once given that key information, once Carnarvon knew it was not just a king they were pursuing, but a named king, whose tomb must be there, it was obvious he would relent – he couldn’t abandon the Valley now, surely?

  I left the letter to Frances unsealed: sooner or later, I would hear the results of these after-dinner discussions, and I planned to add the final details as to Howard Carter’s fate in a postscript, the instant I heard them. I was impatient for the latest news – and I did not have long to wait.

  The following morning, as hoped, Eve’s maid Marcelle turned up for her weekly visit to Wheeler. She came over by bus, looking very chic in a handed-down dress of Eve’s and a new hat. She strolled along the lane, paused in the yard to admire the puppy – now bathed and flea-powdered – and then wandered into the kitchen for her regular gossip. Marcelle was sure to tell me what had happened; unlike Wheeler, she was rarely evasive, tight-lipped – or reticent.

  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––’