by Mike Ashley
I stepped inside the chamber and the men began to crowd in after me, the Arab diggers chattering excitedly away in their own language. James held back, hovering by the door, but Paolo limped in, as eager as the Arabs to see what lay within.
My husband beamed triumphantly. “My friends, the mummy appears to be intact.” Then he leaned into the darkness of the chest and frowned. “There appears to be some cloth beneath the mummy. Help me raise it up.”
Two of the Arabs lifted the small, bandaged corpse carefully out of its sarcophagus. Perhaps it had been roughly handled by robbers in the past for I saw that it appeared to have only one leg. For some reason I shuddered although such sights do not as a rule move me.
But as the mummy was placed carefully on the floor, one of the Arab helpers began to shout. I did not understand his words but the meaning was the same in any language. He had seen something that horrified him. Giovanni leaned again into the sarcophagus and I rushed forwards, curious to know what the Arab had seen which had caused such terror.
I stood by my husband’s side and looked into the chest. Lying there was what appeared to be a pile of dirty white cloth, stained a deep rusty brown around the middle. It took me a moment to realise that the cloth wasn’t ancient: it was one of the loose robes worn by our Arab diggers. The stain I recognized as dried blood and the head was swathed in red cloth, an Arab headdress. There was one man I knew who wore such a headdress and he had gone missing the day before.
I glanced at Giovanni and our eyes met. “Ahmut?” I whispered.
Giovanni said nothing but he lifted the headdress gingerly to reveal the face beneath.
I stepped back in shock, nearly colliding with Paolo who was craning his neck to see what was happening. For it wasn’t Ahmut who lay dead before our eyes – it was George Pargeter.
The authorities were satisfied that everything pointed to Ahmut’s guilt. He had quarrelled with Pargeter, violently according to one of the Arab diggers who had witnessed the event. The dagger found beside Pargeter’s body in the sarcophagus was the type owned by many of the Arabs and then there was the fact that the corpse’s face was covered by Ahmut’s distinctive headdress: I recounted my tale of Pargeter taking it from Ahmut’s pile of clothes but nobody paid me much heed. I was assured that his guilt was certain and the fact that he had absented himself from the camp without explanation confirmed it. Ahmut had murdered George Pargeter – and when he showed his face again he would be arrested.
Pargeter’s body was taken to Cairo and buried in haste. Giovanni and I did not make the long journey to attend the ceremony. Later I heard that only three of the Consul General’s staff had been present; the only mourners at a sad little funeral for a man who was little loved.
On the evening following Pargeter’s burial Giovanni was alone in the tomb examining its structure, for he was concerned about its safety, when he heard a sound and went to investigate.
He was surprised to find Ahmut standing at the tomb’s entrance and when challenged, he muttered aggressively in his own tongue, all the time staring at Giovanni with an expression of such hatred that my husband was immediately on his guard.
Now Giovanni had the strength of ten men so when Ahmut produced a knife from his robes and slashed at him, he merely caught the man’s arm and carried him out of the tomb over his shoulder like a helpless child. It was all over. Ahmut was to be taken off to Luxor under arrest.
But before he left the Valley of the Kings, Ahmut spoke freely, telling Giovanni of his fury at being cheated of his share of the treasure from Seti’s tomb and calling down curses upon him. It seemed that he had believed every word of Pargeter’s trouble making lies and had been away planning vengeance with some of the other men who had worked with him on Seti’s tomb. Giovanni explained to him patiently that Pargeter was lying, although he wasn’t sure if he was believed. Then he broke the news to Ahmut that he was wanted for Pargeter’s murder.
Ahmut appeared to be horrified by this turn of events. But as he was taken away, protesting his innocence, the rest of our party resumed work on the tomb in the smug belief that the murderer of George Pargeter was at last safely locked away.
The mummy once more lay in its sarcophagus in which a bandaged piece of wood had been found, carefully carved to resemble a human leg. I guessed that the mummy had lost a limb and that it had been replaced by a wooden one either in life or during the elaborate funeral preparations so beloved of the ancient Egyptians.
My husband was uncharacteristically quiet as he worked and I sensed that Ahmut’s accusations had upset him. Nobody likes to be thought guilty of a crime they did not commit.
It is a rare death that touches no one and Pargeter’s violent end subdued our party’s spirits, even though few people liked the man. Paolo hardly spoke and James Curtain seemed worried, as though he had something on his mind that he could not share with others. The Arabs too worked without their usual chatter. And so I sat on a wooden stool in a hushed tomb, sketching by candlelight and recording every picture and symbol on the wall.
I did not mind being alone now that Ahmut was in custody, although I felt that Ahmut would never have harmed me. Pargeter had been the sort of man who caused men to hate him and I felt, perhaps, that he had reaped what he had sowed. But I was still uncertain of Ahmut’s guilt. Surely his grievances had been against my husband rather than the odious Pargeter, unless Pargeter had offended in some way that I was unaware of.
And there were so many others who had good reason to hate Pargeter, one of them being my own beloved husband who had been falsely accused by the murdered man of robbing Seti’s tomb. Giovanni had a temper when provoked and I feared that Pargeter might have pushed him too far. But I scolded myself for my disloyalty and told myself that my husband would never stoop to murder whatever the provocation. And yet I was still uneasy for I feared that the puzzle of George Pargeter’s death was not as simple as everyone thought.
But I continued my work, sitting in Hetsut’s burial chamber copying carefully every image on the walls. One wall was occupied by a depiction of the burial ceremony; the embalming of the body, presided over by Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the dead and the funeral procession. Two figures with what appeared to be sweeping brushes brought up the rear of the strange and colourful procession. I had seen this image before in other tombs and I had always thought it curious that such a mundane task as sweeping a floor could be part of the exotic ceremonies of ancient Egypt. I said as much to my husband when he entered the chamber with James behind him.
Giovanni smiled. “I was told once by a learned Arab, that it was called ‘bringing the foot’.”
I looked at him curiously, eager to hear more.
“It was the final rite. The footprints of the officiants were erased by dragging a brush along the floor.”
I glanced at James. His face was expressionless. I returned to my task but something nagged at the back of my mind, something I knew I had seen but could not quite recall.
James picked up a brush which had been left propped in the corner and began to sweep the sandy dust away from the doorway into the outer chamber and out into the passage. I watched him as he worked and recalled his words – “Someone ought to do something about George Pargeter.” I shuddered. James had changed since Pargeter’s death. And now, as I watched him sweep, I suspected that I knew why.
“James,” I said when my husband was out of earshot in the next chamber. “What did you really think of George Pargeter?”
“I know they say you shouldn’t speak ill of the departed, ma’am, but I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead. The trouble he caused and the things he said about the master . . .”
“Where were you on the night of his death?” I have always found it best to be forthright and I had always found James to be an honest young man.
He stared at me for a moment. “I was with some of the Arabs that night, teaching them to play cards. Anybody will tell you. I was there until midnight. Do you not remember that I came out to
investigate the strange noises from the tomb?”
He hurried from the chamber and resumed his sweeping with determination while I stared at the wall paintings listening to the rhythmic swish of the broom. I did not remember seeing James that night and the noises had been heard at half past midnight. If the noises had been Pargeter breaking into the inner chamber, then James could have killed him. But I was fond of James and I did not want to consider the possibility that he might be a murderer.
I tried to put the matter from my mind and I began to sketch the paintings on the far wall of the chamber, carefully writing down the hieroglyphics in preparation for the day when someone (my husband perhaps, for I had every confidence in his brilliance) would decipher the ancient code. Strange pictures covered the wall and as I stared at them I realized that they told a story.
In the first picture a girl appeared to be dancing before an enthroned pharaoh. Then in the next I can only say that she was cavorting before a man who appeared to be in, how shall I say it, a state of excitement. Modesty forbids me to set down what was in the third picture but, as a married woman, I understood.
All these proceedings were watched by the same female figure who stood at the edge of each picture. Then, in the fourth picture, the figure emerged from the background and appeared to be attacking the dancing girl. The next showed the dancing girl tumbling into water and a huge crocodile approaching as her attacker watched. Then the next one depicted the girl struggling, her leg caught in the crocodile’s great jaws. I stared at the wall in horror. I knew that the mummy’s leg had been missing and, presumably, these pictures told the story of how she met her death.
But the story continued. Near the bottom of the wall it appeared that the dancing girl was maimed but alive and she was pointing an accusing finger at her attacker. There the tale ended. The dancing girl had obviously survived the crocodile’s attack. But there was no clue as to the fate of her tormenter.
I began to make a rough sketch of the paintings and a thought came to me. George Pargeter was dressed in Arab robes and he was wearing the red headdress he had taken from Ahmut a few days before. I had assumed that he had returned the headdress to its owner. But what if the murderer had assumed that too? What if someone had seen Pargeter entering the tomb and had thought that he was Ahmut? The tomb entrance was visible from most of the tents and in the dim moonlight . . .
There was one who had good reason to seek vengeance on Ahmut, the man who had caused the accident in which James had been scarred – and caused it deliberately. There was one who had been maimed for life by Ahmut’s reckless stupidity; left with a scarred face and a useless leg. How his resentment must have built up since the incident. What could have been more natural than for that resentment to be released like water from a dam when he found Ahmut alone and defenceless? Only it hadn’t been Ahmut. But if Paolo was the killer then he might not have known that at the time.
I had to discover the truth. Ahmut wasn’t a good man but I felt that I couldn’t let him die for a crime he did not commit. I may have been wrong – I prayed I was – but the more I thought about it, the more I had the uneasy feeling that Paolo had something to hide. I remembered now that he had not emerged from his tent when the rest of us came out in response to the fearsome cries. I had assumed at the time that he was asleep. But then he had said on many occasions that he didn’t sleep well.
The outer chamber was quiet. The Arabs, on my husband’s instruction, had begun to dig elsewhere in search of yet another tomb and when I stepped across the threshold into the chamber I saw that James had gone and that Paolo was busy packing the statues that we had found in the inner chamber carefully into boxes which would head for the British Museum.
When he saw me he gave a nervous smile. “Paolo,” I began. “It is good to know that Pargeter’s killer has been caught, is it not? We can all rest easier now.”
He nodded and turned away.
“Where were you when George Pargeter died?”
“I was in my tent,” he answered quickly. “I came out with the others.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“I was there.”
“My husband would never allow Ahmut to die for a crime he did not commit,” I said gently.
“And what of the crimes he did commit?” Paolo’s voice was bitter.
“You mean the accident with the water wheel?”
“It was no accident. He ordered his men to jump off it and left James and I, not knowing what was going on. He laughed when we became entangled with the machinery. It was deliberate.”
“So you killed him?”
Paolo looked shocked and shook his head. “James was injured too. Why don’t you accuse him?”
“Your injuries were worse.” I spoke gently. “If I or Giovanni were maimed as you have been and the one responsible thought it a joke then perhaps I would be tempted to seek revenge.”
Paolo looked at me. His eyes were large and dark. Were it not for his disfigurement, he would have been a good looking young man, beautiful even. “James had good reason to hate Ahmut too. And he detested Pargeter – I had no feelings for the man one way or the other. I am not guilty and there is no proof against me.”
Paolo was right. I could prove nothing. As I watched him limp away I told myself that I was probably wrong about him. Wasn’t James just as likely to be guilty? He too had good reason to avenge himself on Ahmut. Or if Pargeter had indeed been the intended victim, even my husband himself might have wished to prevent him from spreading his lies – although as a loyal wife, I refused to consider this possibility.
Or perhaps, unknown to me, one of the other Arab diggers may have had some feud with Ahmut or Pargeter. For the moment I dismissed Paolo from my mind. And as to James’ guilt, I did not like to think about it.
Two days later we had had no word of Ahmut. But my husband had other concerns.
After a few minor falls of earth from the roof, he feared that the tomb of Hetsut was unsafe. He forbade me to continue my sketches but I assured him that at the first sign of anything untoward I would leave the chamber for the safety of the open air. Giovanni was unhappy but I felt I was in no real danger. And besides, the story of the dancing girl and the crocodile had to be recorded for posterity.
When I returned to the inner chamber one morning to resume my work I found that I had James and Paolo for company. Paolo was still packing the artefacts we had found into boxes to be forwarded to the museum and James was cleaning up the last fall of earth from the passage floor.
I worked as they went about their tasks and after a while my eyes began to ache from drawing in the dim flickering light. I rubbed them and looked round, prepared to make some conversation with Paolo as I felt I needed a rest from my task.
But Paolo had left the chamber to carry a box outside and I found myself alone. Then, as I looked around the room, I noticed something unusual.
Where Paolo had walked his left foot had dragged along the floor, leaving a groove in the sandy dust. A footprint then a groove; a footprint then a groove, repeated wherever he had walked.
I could no longer hear the swish of James’s brush in the passage but I could hear the sound of Paolo’s dragging footsteps getting nearer.
As he appeared in the doorway I stood up and faced him.
“You killed him, didn’t you, Paolo? You killed George Pargeter.”
Paolo stared at me and said nothing.
“I knew I’d seen something strange and I’ve been trying to remember what it was. There were no footprints on this floor when my husband first entered this chamber. I recall it clearly.”
He shook his head. “You must be mistaken.”
“I am not mistaken. I remember it clearly. Whoever killed Pargeter and placed him in the sarcophagus went to the trouble of sweeping the floor. You are the only person who would need to obliterate their footprints because they are quite unique, don’t you agree?”
I saw panic on Paolo’s face, like a normally docile animal who has bee
n cornered and who must fight for its life. “What will you do?” he whispered.
“I will have to tell Giovanni and seek his advice.”
“He does not know of this?”
Foolishly I answered in the negative.
“So you are the only person who harbours these suspicions.”
I answered gently, in sorrow. For I felt pity for this unhappy murderer. “They are more than suspicions, Paolo. I fear they are the truth.”
He did not reply but stared at me with frightened eyes.
“It is my guess that you were watching from your tent when you saw a man you thought was Ahmut near the tomb entrance. Ahmut who ordered his men to jump from that wheel, leaving you and James in peril – Ahmut who caused your terrible injuries and showed no remorse. When he turned up here, you could bear it no longer. When you saw him entering the tomb alone you thought your chance for revenge had come at last and you followed him. You found him breaking into the inner chamber and you killed him. Then, when you discovered your mistake, you concealed Pargeter’s body in the sarcophagus. But you looked down at the ground and saw that you had left the distinctive footprints which would point to your guilt so you had to obliterate them, just as those who had buried the body of the dancing girl had brushed out their footprints during the funeral ceremony.”
“Bringing the foot,” he muttered. “I have heard of it.” He stood for a few moments, considering his next move. Then he looked me in the eye. “I cannot let you tell of my guilt, Sarah. Do you understand? It would bring disgrace to our family: Giovanni would not wish it.”
I shook my head. I could not let my good and noble husband shield a murderer. And I knew that, family or not, he would want justice to be done.
As the wife of Giovanni Belzoni who possessed the strength of ten men, I had always thought myself protected and invincible. So I was not prepared for what happened next. Paolo began to limp towards me but I stood my ground. I could no longer hear James’s busy brush in the passage outside but I was not worried. I was certain that Paolo would do me no harm.
