The Collector's Daughter

by Gill Paul

She was undeterred. “If Sionead can lift boxes down for me, all I need do is sit on the sofa and sift through them. It probably won’t take long. The container had such a curious smell I’ll know as soon as I open the right box.”

  Brograve agreed, after cautioning that she mustn’t overdo it. The telephone rang while she was still eating and he went out to the hall to answer it.

  “She’s much better, thank you,” he said. There was a pause. “No, I’m afraid she can’t talk to you today . . . I think we’d better leave it for a while . . . Why don’t you give me your telephone number so we can ring you when it is convenient? . . . And your address? . . . Yes, I understand . . .”

  The conversation went on for some time. Eve gathered that it was Ana Mansour and she was asking when they could resume their interview. She didn’t want to talk to her again until she’d found the missing container and could tell her an edited version of the truth. It was too awkward being forced to lie.

  Sionead came to take her blood pressure and dole out her morning pills: so many pills she would rattle if you shook her. She said that out loud and Sionead smiled politely, whereupon Eve suddenly remembered she had said it before. Probably many times.

  “The doctor’s coming at eleven,” Sionead said. “Just to check on you.”

  Eve felt bad for wasting his time. Everyone had made a big fuss about her feeling momentarily sleepy but she was fine now. Right as rain. She took a gulp of tea to get rid of the bitter aftertaste of the pills.

  After breakfast, she got dressed. Sionead was on hand to help but Eve liked to do everything herself, no matter how long it took. The brassiere was especially tricky. She had to fasten the hooks at the front, then wriggle it around into position before forcing her arms through the straps. Pulling a sweater over her head could easily turn into a comedy routine, with her staggering around as if in a straitjacket.

  When she was finally ready, she wandered through the flat, looking into cupboards and trying to decide where to start her search. There were cardboard boxes of photographs and letters, lots of mementos from her mother’s last home, Brograve’s files of financial documents, battered leather suitcases containing god-knows-what, and a bulging album of newspaper cuttings. On impulse, she lifted down the album and tucked it under her arm to take to the front room. A trip down memory lane.

  The cuttings started with the first triumphant announcements of the find: “New Tomb Found: Egypt’s Greatest,” “Discovery of the Century,” “Wonders Found in Luxor Tomb.” The story had been on the front page of every newspaper in Britain and Egypt, probably around the world too.

  The excitement hadn’t died down by the time she and Pups returned to London in mid-December. Some canny manufacturers had already rushed out Tutankhamun-themed merchandise in time for Christmas: tins of biscuits with Egyptian-style patterns on the lid, bracelets like snakes coiling up your arm, even a face powder compact with the head of a cobra engraved on it. Tutankhamun was all the rage for the next few years, with every flapper worth her salt drawing kohl around her eyes with that little flick at the sides and learning the Tutankhamun shimmy. Eve had shimmied herself a few times, and received a tongue-lashing from Almina, who called it “the epitome of vulgarity.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Valley of the Kings, November 29, 1922

  There weren’t supposed to be any journalists at the official opening of the tomb. This was an occasion to be witnessed by dignitaries, both British and Egyptian, who had made their way to Luxor from Cairo. Pecky Callender had arranged a hook-up with the Valley’s electricity supply so the interior could be lit and the visitors wouldn’t have to scramble around in torchlight.

  Howard had warned Eve and her father to be wary of talking to journalists. He didn’t want the place overrun by curious sightseers before he’d had time to get adequate security in place. They would have to pretend they were entering the tomb for the first time, and they mustn’t let slip about the existence of the burial chamber, because it wasn’t going to be officially opened until after he had catalogued the antechamber.

  Twenty-six of them were present when the gate was unlocked and the entrance was formally unblocked. Eve and Lady Allenby, wife of the British high commissioner, were the only women. Everyone was chattering with excitement as they waited in the sandy rubble field outside but Eve felt a tightening in her stomach as she worried that their previous entry might be detected.

  They fell silent as they were led into the antechamber in twos. When Eve’s turn came, she didn’t need to fake astonishment at the sights. With better lighting, she could see the incredible jumble of objects more clearly—gilded thrones, a narrow golden bed, and the three bizarre animal couches. They took her breath away. She realized that the item she had knocked over in her haste must have been a chariot wheel, as one lay on its side.

  “The couches have the heads of a cow goddess, a leopard, and an Ammut,” Howard explained to the visitors, “a mythical creature that is part crocodile, part hippo, and part lioness.”

  “Golly! They look so modern,” Lady Allenby exclaimed. “I’d love one for my parlor.”

  “And here”—Carter showed them—“we have some shoes with images of Nubian captives on the soles, so that Tutankhamun would quite literally have walked on his enemies.”

  Lying beneath the furniture there were falcon collars, alabaster vessels, and a white wishing cup that Eve blushed to see was the twin of the one they had smuggled out in Howard’s jacket pocket. It was a huge storage room, brimful of objects the king might have needed in the afterlife. The sheer number of items, and the clear artistry of their design, made her shiver.

  At the other end of the antechamber was the entrance to the burial chamber, guarded by the two life-size statues. Eve held her breath, hoping no one would spot the evidence of the hole Howard had chipped in the wall, but they were too overawed by what they could see.

  “The guardian statues are similar but not identical,” Howard said. “One shows Tutankhamun in life, the other in the afterlife.”

  “Are you quite convinced it is Tutankhamun’s tomb?” Lady Allenby asked. “Not someone else’s?”

  “I am,” Howard affirmed. “There are other names engraved here and there, but his is the main one.”

  Eve knew that he had been finally convinced only when he saw the name on the seal of the shrine, but he couldn’t admit that. It didn’t matter. He was the voice of authority now. Everyone present listened to his pronouncements with unquestioning respect. The Egyptian officials whispered to each other and Lady Allenby kept exclaiming, “Oh golly!”

  Eve’s nerves began to settle and she felt a buzz of excitement at the enormity of the events she was part of. Of course, they’d talked about the possibility of finding an undisturbed tomb, but the reality was overwhelming. She was desperately proud of Howard and Pups.

  The following day brought more visitors: Pierre Lacau, director of the antiquities service, Paul Tottenham, adviser to the Ministry of Public Works, and Eve’s uncle Mervyn, first secretary at the British Embassy. She was disappointed he hadn’t brought his wife, Mary, and speculated that it might be because she was pregnant but Mervyn said no, it wasn’t that.

  “I’ll bring her another time,” he said. “For now, I’m here as a representative of His Majesty’s government.” He pulled a comic face, making Eve laugh.

  “Dignified as always, Uncle Merv,” she said. “I’m glad you are bringing suitable gravitas to your role.”

  “Talking of gravitas,” he said, “I hear you’re to become a respectable married lady. Congratulations, young Eve. When do I get to meet the man brave enough to take you on?”

  “I can’t risk you meeting him before the wedding in case you talk him out of it,” Eve joked, poking him in the ribs. “But in all seriousness, I hope he’ll be able to come and see the tomb before long, and I shall introduce you if you promise to be on best behavior.”

  Thinking about Brograve made her miss him terribly, but she busied herself h
anding around some of the heavy stone water bottles and helping to explain to visitors what they were about to see. In answer to their questions she told them there was no doubt this was the burial place of Tutankhamun, and that unlike every other tomb in the Valley, it had lain undisturbed since ancient times. She was enjoying her new role.

  One man was firing more questions than any other and when she asked his name he told her he was Arthur Merton, a reporter from The Times.

  Eve was nonplussed. There weren’t supposed to be any press there.

  “I wangled my way in,” he admitted with a wink. “You do know how big this story is, don’t you? Your name is going to be in the history books.”

  “All the credit goes to Howard Carter and my father,” she said. “I just tagged along for the ride.”

  “But you must be interested in archaeology,” he insisted. “You seem very knowledgeable.”

  As he probed, Eve’s enthusiasm got the better of her. She told him about Howard’s hunch years ago that Tutankhamun’s tomb might be around here, and about his gridblock plan of the Valley identifying this spot beneath some old workmen’s huts. She told him about Hussein the waterboy stumbling over the top step, and Howard excavating the staircase, then sending them a telegram that made them rush out from England. Whenever she stopped talking, Arthur asked more questions, keeping her divulging more until it was his turn to be shown inside.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, and it was only then it occurred to Eve that perhaps she should have checked with Howard before letting her mouth run away with her. It was just too thrilling to keep to herself. Besides, the story would come out sooner or later.

  After Uncle Mervyn had been shown around the tomb, she traveled back to the Winter Palace Hotel with him via donkey cart and then felucca. He was clearly impressed by what he had seen in the antechamber and kept asking questions.

  “What makes Mr. Carter so convinced that Tutankhamun’s coffin lies behind that wall?” he asked. “It looks to me more like a furniture repository than a king’s burial place.”

  “Oh, he’s very sure,” Eve said. “There are all kinds of signs.”

  Mervyn was still puzzled. “But Tutankhamun artifacts have been found in other tombs over the years. I hope he is not going to be disappointed when he breaks through. Maybe it’s another one of these red herrings you keep finding in archaeology.”

  “I promise you it’s not a red herring . . .”

  It was so frustrating not to be able to convince him that finally Eve couldn’t keep quiet any longer. Mervyn was family. Surely it was safe to confess to him? “If I tell you a secret, do you promise you will never tell another soul for as long as you live?”

  After he promised, she told him, in hushed tones, about their nighttime visit, when they had broken into the burial chamber and seen the shrine with Tutankhamun’s seals intact. “Without a doubt,” she told him, “it was the greatest moment of my life.”

  Mervyn stared at her, openmouthed. “Oh god, I hope that never comes out. It would be disastrous. Carter should have known better.”

  Straightaway, Eve regretted telling him. What was she thinking of? That was the second time she had been loose-tongued in the matter of a few hours, but she simply couldn’t help herself.

  “You won’t say anything, will you?” she pleaded, clutching his arm. “My head would be on the chopping block.”

  “I promised, didn’t I?” He drew a finger across his lips. “I want no part of it. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation never happened.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Luxor, December 1922

  Two days later, when Lord Carnarvon was handed a copy of The Times, which had been shipped out from London, the discovery of the tomb was front-page news. He scanned the story, frowning, then looked up at Eve.

  “Did you talk to this man, Arthur Merton?” he asked.

  Eve blushed and admitted she had.

  “Honestly, Evelyn!” he rebuked. “What did Howard tell us? You must exercise more discretion. It’s a very delicate situation with the Egyptians and you could ruin things for all of us.”

  “What does it say?” she asked, shame-faced, and he handed her the paper. Arthur Merton hadn’t taken notes while they were speaking but she recognized the passages he quoted as her own words exactly and was amazed at his memory. It was an object lesson in dealing with the press.

  “I’m sorry, Pups. I’ve been an idiot. I’ll apologize to Howard, and I promise it won’t happen again.” She blushed deeper, thinking of her even greater indiscretion with Uncle Mervyn and hoping fervently that never came to light.

  Howard was working nonstop, constantly in meetings with officials, sending or receiving telegrams, and showing around the dignitaries who kept arriving in a continuous stream. He had approached the Metropolitan Museum asking for assistance and they sent Arthur Mace, their Australian-born assistant curator of Egyptian Art, and Harry Burton, an experienced photographer of antiquities. Both men were in Egypt already and they arrived in Luxor with their wives in early December. Although they were a generation older than Eve, she befriended the two women—Winifred and Minnie—and they became companions in the mêlée.

  “Such a shame your mother couldn’t be here,” Winifred said, and Eve explained that Almina ran a private hospital in London so it was hard for her to get away. In fact, when Howard’s telegram arrived she had telephoned her mother’s London house and been told by the butler that Lady Carnarvon had gone to Paris. Eve had no idea why, but she sent word to the Ritz Hotel in Place Vendôme, since that’s where she always stayed. Almina had many friends in Paris and thought nothing of traveling across the Channel for a party.

  With Minnie and Winifred’s help, Eve threw luncheon parties in the Valley, right next to the tomb. There was cold chicken and salads with Egyptian bread, and the local specialties of falafel, hummus, and pickled vegetables. She served fresh lemonade but no alcohol, not wishing to offend the Muslim workers, who were teetotalers.

  Eve enjoyed playing hostess. Her mother was famous for the extravagant parties she threw, both at Highclere and at Seamore Place, and Eve had watched the ways she induced guests to mingle and made sure no one was excluded. If asked, she would say she had learned more from her father over the years, but from Almina she had inherited a love of entertaining.

  Several guests asked her who Tutankhamun had been, and she explained that he had reigned from roughly 1332 to 1323 bc, and that he had unified the country after a split under his father, Akhenaten. Sometimes she amazed herself with the extent of her knowledge—there was seldom a question she couldn’t answer—but she had been reading books on Egyptology since she was a child and had learned from Howard, the master.

  On the thirteenth, Eve and Pups left Luxor to sail back to England. Eve couldn’t wait to get back, to see Brograve and to tell her London friends about the tomb—the bits she was allowed to talk about, that is. Pups had arrangements to put in place: he must speak to his lawyers, arrange funding for the important task of securing and managing the tomb, and he had supplies to order and dispatch to help Howard, including a motorcar that would be shipped across to Luxor and placed at his disposal.

  During the crossing, they were in celebratory mode, ordering champagne before dinner each evening and toasting Howard and Tutankhamun, the long-dead king. As they sailed past the north of Sicily, the volcanic island of Stromboli was erupting, providing an awe-inspiring display of red and orange flares shooting into the dark purple sky, as if nature itself were joining their festivities.

  They got a fast steamer this time, and a week after leaving Egypt, they caught a taxicab from Charing Cross station to their Berkeley Square house. A mountain of post was stacked on the desk in Pups’s study and he sat down to flick through it straightaway.

  “Look, Eve!” he cried, and she came running into the room to find him reading a short note on monogrammed paper. “It’s from the palace. King George and Queen Mary have invited us for aft
ernoon tea so they can hear about the tomb firsthand. Who would have thought it?”

  The telephone was ringing off the hook, and most of the callers were journalists wanting to talk to Eve or Lord Carnarvon about the discovery. They soon learned to let the butler deal with them; he had a knack for getting rid of unwanted callers.

  Their visit to the palace was exhilarating. Eve remembered how apprehensive she had been at her presentation to Queen Mary two and a half years earlier, yet now she was there as an honored guest. They were ushered by liveried footmen into a private drawing room, and spent an hour regaling the royal couple with descriptions of their experiences. Eve did most of the talking, describing everything from the baking temperature in the tomb and its peculiar musky scent, to the animal couches and the lifelike guardian statues.

  “It must feel rather a responsibility,” the king remarked, and Pups agreed.

  “One wants to do the right thing, for the sake of Anglo-Egyptian relations,” he said, “and also for the history books.”

  “Of course, it comes at a sensitive moment in the country’s history,” Queen Mary said.

  “I have every faith in Howard Carter,” Pups replied. “He has been working with the Egyptians for twenty-five years, he speaks Arabic fluently, and I couldn’t wish for a worthier ambassador.”

  “You are the one who made it possible,” the king said. “I want you to know your country is proud of you. We’re proud of you.”

  Eve was thrilled for Pups. He wasn’t a man who sought the limelight, and wasn’t especially relishing it, but she was glad his name would be in the history books. He deserved it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  London, January 1973

  Brograve wakened Eve when the doctor came to check up on her at eleven. It seemed she had fallen asleep on the sofa with the Tutankhamun cuttings folder on her lap.

  The doctor pulled up a chair alongside her and opened his bulky leather medical bag, rifling through for the equipment he needed. Eve peered in at the jumble of stethoscope, tweezers, bandages, and syringes, all in separate pockets and compartments. She had missed his name when he came the day before and it seemed too late to ask now, but he was friendly as he carried out the routine tests, checking her reflexes, her eyes, her heart, and so forth.