The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 13
I looked at her in alarm.
“Sir Sherlock has told you about the fire, hasn’t he?” She read the blank expression on my face. “No, I don’t imagine he has. Discretion seems to be his watchword. Well, then, you may not believe certain parts of my story, but it is all true. It occurred only three months ago, when one night I woke up on the floor beside our bed. This was odd, because I sleep on the side of the bed next to the wall. My husband sleeps on the outer edge. I was too disoriented to make anything of it, though, and crawled back into bed, where I soon fell asleep.
“Only to wake up once again on the floor! I was bewildered, but I thought I must surely be dreaming and once again got into bed. At that point, fully awake, I felt myself rise through the air, only to be once again dumped on the floor. That was when I saw the smoke curling round the bottom of the door. The spirits were trying to save my life.
“The sitting room was already ablaze, but I shook my husband awake, and we were able to get the children out safely through a back window. By the time the fire brigade arrived, the house was already a ruin. We had nothing. So when Sir Sherlock presented his offer, it was a godsend.”
I didn’t know what to make of her story, but the fire was obviously real. Did my heart melt for her? I’m afraid not. But the tiniest window had opened into her soul. She had left her children for her children’s sake. That I could admire.
On our port side slid into view the temples of Karnak and Luxor, breathtaking in their majesty, so old that they seemed wrought by time itself rather than the hand of man, as if those towering columns had been carved from sand by wind and water over the course of ten thousand years. I felt as a little child, staring up at the knees of giants. Tall obelisks reaching for the sky, hundreds of columns marching hand in hand with reticent sphinxes, doorways guarded by the gods.
On the starboard hand reared up hills of blistered limestone, snaggletoothed and bloody, which screened the Valley of the Kings. There waited at a mooring point, seeming very small indeed by comparison, a guide with camels and donkeys, and a crowd of boys alongside, to escort us on the last leg of our journey. We were going to explore the tomb, even before we registered at our hotel on the opposite bank.
It crossed my mind—indeed, made a great deal of sense to me— that perhaps Holmes had conceived of this elaborate charade wholly for Mrs. Roberts’s financial benefit. It would be like him. And if that were true, perhaps he had insisted on my company for the purpose of healing the rift between us. That, too, would be like him. Since Reichenbach, of course. Not before.
“There’s a barge coming up behind,” Beauchamp’s voice said. I turned to see him and his good lady wife staring back at a steam barge, low in the water like a crocodile, coming up on us fast astern.
“I’m not surprised. Carter may have moved up his whole schedule,” said Lady Evelyn thoughtfully.
I had no clue what she meant by that, but I was too excited by our imminent arrival to give it much thought. Holmes arrived on the scene with an uncharacteristic scowl. I would learn soon enough what had angered him.
We were greeted at the jetty by a tall fellow with unkempt black locks and a cadaverous face. A heavy moustache was nailed to his upper lip. He introduced himself as Arthur Mace. I recognized the name as a member of Carter’s team, but I could not recall what specialty was his. I didn’t recall whether he had a doctorate or not, either, so I decided to refer to him simply as “Mace.”
There were donkeys for the ladies—that is to say, for Miss van Vredenburch and Mrs. Roberts. I suppose a donkey would have been an insult to Lady Evelyn. She greeted her pony with a fond embrace and an apple she had brought all the way from Monte Carlo. They were old friends, these two.
There was some hilarity in mounting the camels. First they are made to kneel, and sitting astride them seems easy. But then they rear up on their hind legs first, in a perverse contradiction of every other four-legged animal on the planet, and if one is not leaning back as far as possible, one is liable to be pitched forward and wind up on one’s bottom on the ground. All right, I wound up on the ground. Ha-ha. I still feel the bruises. Then they are impossible to guide in any one direction, whether because of the flies in their eyes or a natural curiosity to explore the unchanging landscape around them. Luckily the swarm of boys was supplied with sticks to keep them moving in the right direction. And the gorge we traversed was narrow enough there was only so far they could go astray. We were warned by Mace to keep to one side, however. There was a sort of miniature railway laid down in the center of the path, which was tricky for the camels to navigate. I was too busy trying to keep my seat to ask what the thing was for. I was soon to find out.
So we did somehow make progress, bumping along, however slowly. We knew we were drawing close when we could hear a loud voice chanting in Arabic—midday prayer, I supposed.
Lady Evelyn sat up straight and proud in the stirrups. We descended into the valley. I would have said we descended gingerly, but the camels paid no attention to our directions and treated all ground the same, whether it was sloping or level. Once we came forth from the gorge, the boys were hard put to it to keep them in line. We descended into the wide Valley of the Kings and had our first sight of the of the tomb of Tutankhamun.
It wasn’t much to look at. I hadn’t expected a pyramid, exactly, but I had hoped for something more than what we were greeted with. It was a mound of dirt, not even a hill. It was backed by tall walls of limestone, brooded over by El Qurn, the highest point in the Theban hills. There was a rectangular hole cut into the rock, blacker than night, with an iron gate and a small sentry box beside it, nothing more. This was the famous tomb of Tutankhamun. Surrounding it were mounds of rubble on either side. There were a few more pockmarks in the hillside farther off—more tombs. Of course, there were the native workers, the fellaheen, all in ragged robes and tortured head wraps, standing staring at us with bald curiosity, while the muezzin had stopped in midchant. Weren’t they supposed to be kneeling on prayer rugs, all facing—? I had no idea in which direction Mecca lay.
And onlookers, a whole crowd of them, which I had not expected at all. What they were doing there was not clear. Westerners by their clothes, they stood around aimlessly, or sat on flimsy folding chairs, mainly staring at the hole, as if they expected a dragon to issue forth at any moment. It was certainly warm as dragon’s breath in that valley. Some examined guidebooks, some read newspapers, some shared food or drink from picnic baskets. Some were frankly napping in whatever meager shade they could find or devise. There was an endless clicking of little Kodak cameras, a sound so pervasive it might have been a plague of locusts. They could’ve been a crowd waiting for a cricket match to begin.
“Who are all these people?” asked Mrs. Roberts, echoing my thoughts.
“Tourists, gawkers, newspapermen.” Mace emphasized this last with a definite sneer. “They’re quite a nuisance, really. All wanting to be part of the Tutankhamun experience. They hope to get a glimpse of Tutankhamun’s knickknacks. Or evil spirits.” He darted a quick glance at Holmes to see if he was offended. “Plenty of treasure on display now at the Cairo Museum, but they seem to believe the best is yet to come. They’ve been coming here every day since news leaked about the discovery.”
I am happy to report that I was able to dismount my camel with my dignity intact. The boys took the mules and the pony off, for shade or water, but the camels remained where they were, like mud bricks.
As we approached, I noticed the muezzin had a book in his hand. Was he a novice, still learning the prayers? I expected the fellaheen to get back to whatever work they were up to, perhaps sifting through those huge mounds of rubble. But they didn’t move at all. They kept staring at us in a way that made my skin itch.
“I don’t see any buildings at all,” I said, looking around.
“What did you expect?” asked Mace.
“I understood from the papers that a great deal of work was going on right here. Cleaning and cataloging and such,” I said.
“Indeed, I do most of the cleaning. I’m the conservator. But we don’t do it out here in the sun. We’ve set up a conservation laboratory in the tomb of Seti just over there. Far more practical.” He pointed to another cave, not far away, disappointingly like the first.
“You work in another tomb?” said Mrs. Roberts, plainly aghast at the idea.
“It’s a big tomb, with lots of room, not like Tut’s little squat,” said Mace, as if that were her objection.
“And that is where we’ll find Mr. Carter?” Holmes lifted his glasses, trying to get a better look in the glare of the sun. I felt in my pocket and withdrew my sunglasses.
The sudden wail of a whistle from the river made us all jump.
“Just wait a bit, he’ll show. He’s heard the barge’s whistle.”
“Is that why they stopped with the prayer? I imagined they must be glad to see you, Lady Evelyn,” I proffered. “See how they stare?”
“What did you think Hassan was reading?” asked Mace, with an odd little smile.
“The Koran, I suppose.”
He merely laughed at that, and I thought he was about to elucidate the matter, when we saw Carter indeed pop his head out of the other rabbit hole—the tomb of Seti.
“Ah, yes, here he is now,” Beauchamp said.
In the far distance, a cloud of dust rose up. When the dust cleared, I saw a whole crowd of workmen gathered round the tomb’s mouth. The crowd resolved itself into a line, and soon they were passing sealed wooden boxes from hand to hand and stacking them on low railroad cars, which I hadn’t noticed before. This, I surmised, was the reason for the rails.
There was Carter among them, shouting instructions at the top of his voice till he was hoarse, gesticulating like a windmill. There was a string of armed guards there, too, keeping the onlookers at bay. It was all a bit chaotic. It seemed as if Carter was clearing out the tomb, from barrels to beads. A knot of workmen nearest us, though, was still just standing, staring at us, occasionally pointing and whispering to each other. They knew nothing of manners.
I had seen him in the newspapers often enough, stripped down to shirtsleeves, his watchful eyes and resolute mouth set against his sunburned face. The Carter revealed to us when the dust settled, stocky and rather short, in a three-piece suit and pomaded hair, looked more like a harried accountant as he knocked the dust from his homburg.
The distances seemed vast in the emptiness of the landscape. But it only took a minute for him to join us. Mace hailed him as he neared.
“Visitors? I haven’t time for visitors today. Besides, Burton is taking pictures of the sepulcher.” Then he recognized Lady Evelyn. With two steps he had her in his arms. “Evie!” He picked her up and twirled her. Then he must have noticed the sour look on Beauchamp’s face. He set her down gently and shook Beauchamp’s hand gravely. “Good to see you, old chap,” he said.
“It’s Lady Evelyn,” said Beauchamp sententiously.
“Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you at the pier. Everything is running behindhand.”
“We know. We just missed you in Cairo. Some new to-do with the government?” Lady Evelyn inquired.
“Outrageous. I wish I had your father still to deal with them. You’ll be wanting to see the sepulcher. But surely you don’t need me to lead you on a tour.”
Carter seemed to take in the surroundings for the first time. “Why are those fellaheen standing around? What’s happened?”
“They turned to stone as soon as these fellows appeared on the horizon. I think they’re a bit overawed by our visitors,” replied Mace.
“Nonsense, they’ve seen the Lady Evelyn before. Hassan, get these men back to work.” He spoke to the tall black in the striped djebellah, who had been chanting.
“I meant Sir Sherlock. Hassan was just reading to them from The Hound of the Baskervilles. They are gazing upon one of their heroes.”
Hassan nodded solemnly and clapped his hands. The men slowly came to life, but they still cast sidelong glances at Holmes.
“The Hound is the fellaheen’s favorite story,” said Mace. “They identify the hound with Anubis—whom many have claimed to sight in the darkness.”
I’ll admit this gave me a chill. I still remembered that spectral hound, black, silent, and monstrous.
As the men bent to their tasks, Hassan’s clear voice took up the tale again in a singsongy manner. It didn’t much sound like The Hound of the Baskervilles to me.
“I thought you’d like to meet our guests. This is Sir Sherlock and his associate, Dr. Watson,” said Lady Evelyn, trying to get things back on course.
Carter’s face went black. “Oh, yes, you’re Holmes,” he said in a clipped voice. He did not offer his hand, which took him down a notch in my estimation.
“Congratulations on your find,” said Holmes, graciously, I thought, considering Carter had nearly bitten him.
But Carter was just getting started. “You’re the one who’s desecrated Lord Carnarvon’s memory with your talk of curses and elementals.”
“Howard, really—”
“No, they might as well know the truth, Evie. I was against you people coming out here at all. If it weren’t for Evie—”
“As you have made abundantly clear, Mr. Carter, we don’t need you for our undertaking. You have your work to do, and I have mine,” said Holmes stonily. “I do hope afterward you’ll be willing to entertain a few questions.”
“Did you not receive my reply to your cable? As I explained to Eve, my dance card is full up the rest of this week. I’ve got more important things to do than entertain you and your ragtag bunch.”
Ah, there was the reason for Holmes’s scowl.
“I see your courtesy to the dead does not extend to the living,” returned Holmes.
Then I was blinded. I suppose we all were, for I heard Carter shout, “Merton, get that bloody camera out of my face!”
As the flash faded, I could just make out the offending photographer by squinting.
“Let’s have one of you together with Sir Sherlock, Carter. The great detective and the great excavator,” said the photographer.
“Arthur Merton, the great pest,” said Carter, by way of introduction. “London Times, my taskmaster.” He was aggravated but eventually acceded to the photographer’s wheedling, which surprised me. I didn’t know at that time that the Times provided a significant portion of Carter’s funding. The two men posed next to each other, scowling for the camera.
Arthur Merton gave off a patrician air unusual among newspapermen. His was a commanding presence. His bald head and round face were shaded from the sun by a homburg, but his penetrating eyes lanced through the shadow. He didn’t mind laying hands briskly on people to pose them as he saw fit. He knew just what he wanted and was finished in only a minute or two, which was extremely fortunate. Any longer and Holmes and Carter might have come to blows.
“No pictures of us, Arthur,” said Lady Evelyn.
“Right, right, you’re not here. I am in receipt of your memorandum of the tenth.”
Once he had exacted a promise of an interview from Holmes, he seemed to lose interest in us and began snapping pictures of the cargo loading, which was proceeding apace.
“And who might you be?” Carter asked, catching sight of Mrs. Roberts.
“Estelle Roberts. Consultant,” she piped up bravely.
“Consultant on what? The supernatural? Should I pour milk and honey on the threshold? That’s what one occultist advised.”
“I suppose they’d appreciate the gesture, but it’s not as if they actually eat,” she replied saucily.
“Well, that’s a relief, anyway,” said Carter. He let his eyes travel over Miss van V., a little too long, I thought, but then he seemed to dismiss her. Her own eyes were hard and incurious.
“What’s got you so surly, Howard?” asked Lady Evelyn.
“He had a crowd of a long-faced dignitaries to deal with at the opening just the other day,” offered Mace.
“Nonsense. Their silly questions that would have you laughing in fits, Evie,” remonstrated Carter. Every time he said “Evie,” Beauchamp flinched. Rightly so.
“Oh, yes, I read in the papers, you’ve opened the sepulcher! That should be cause for celebration. Unless—” Lady Evelyn did not conclude her thought.
“The sarcophagus is a bloody mess,” said Carter.
“Oh, no! But—the mummy is there,” she said.
“Oh, he’s there right enough. But some sort of black pitch was poured in all round him by the priests, and it’s hardened. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to chip him out. Come see. I ought to check on how Burton is coming along with his photos, at any rate.”
As we turned to follow, Sherlock Holmes said under his breath, “It’s not adoration in their eyes, but fear.” And, looking at the workers, still staring underneath their lashes, their eyes bright and tracking our every move, I recognized the truth of his words.
“But why should they fear you?” I asked in a whisper.
“Not me, I think. Mrs. Roberts.”
Estelle Roberts? How could anyone fear her? Although I’ll admit she was a bit intimidating to the uninitiated. Those eyes of hers. But really—they were watching her. For heaven’s sake, why?
“They sense her powers,” he hissed.
Oh, piffle.
I was concerned as we approached the tomb that we would have to feel our way blindly down the shaft in the dark and cursed myself for not having bought a torch in the Cairo bazaar. But then I realized it must be well-lit if they were taking photos. It would all be all right.
I was right—and wrong. There were lights strung up all the way down. Blessed light. I strode over the threshold confidently. We were barely six steps in when all at once the lights blinked out.
I froze. In that dank, hot tunnel I felt a cold breath at the nape of my neck.
“Engelbach! Bloody hell!” exploded Carter. He did not apologize to the ladies for his language, which was gauche in the extreme.
I shot a look back at the entrance. There was still a square of light that marked the tomb entrance. I thought surely we would turn around and go back. We did not.
