Most likely the tomb belongs to Tutankhamun, but what if it’s Hatshepsut’s? I could have been wrong about the site and its potential link to her. I suddenly feel terrible about all the disagreements we had before he left. Howard had only been trying to secure success for us—this season or next—and I’d fought his efforts for reasons of my own.
Flinging open the Library door, I race down the hallway into the two-story Saloon. Here, sound resonates throughout the rest of the house. Then, in my loudest voice, I yell, “Papa! I have news!”
Chapter Fifty-Six
NOVEMBER 24, 1922
VALLEY OF THEKINGS,EGYPT
How long the trip to Egypt had seemed. The usual whirligig of ships and trains and automobiles and camels dragged on and on, so keen were Papa and I to reach the Valley of the Kings. By the time we step off the overnight train from Cairo to Luxor and I spot Howard on the platform, I race into his arms in a blend of excitement and relief. He seems flabbergasted by this outburst of physical affection, the sort that usually doesn’t pass between us. But these are not ordinary times.
“What can you tell us?” Papa asks before Howard can even inquire about our journey. Before we can even gather our bags. “Have you gone inside the tomb?”
The follow-up telegrams hadn’t elucidated Howard’s find. Other than labeling the tomb stairs and entrance as undistinguished, he has not shared any details. Certainly no description of the tomb’s owner has been forthcoming, and I speculated with Brograve—one of the few people who’s been told about this astonishing development—about the contents. Papa and I had surmised that Howard doesn’t yet know; but now that we’re here, we can wait no longer.
“Yes, Howard.” I clap excitedly. “Have you been in the interior yet?”
Howard motions for us to keep our voices down, and I whisper, “What’s wrong?”
He draws close to us, and answers quietly: “The locals have got wind that a big discovery has happened in the valley. I think one of the men told his family, despite our strict instructions. I’m tryingto keep the news quiet so we don’t get a crowd at the site. Or worse, thieves.”
This warning silences us. I don’t trust myself not to ask probing questions, so I stay quiet as our trunks are loaded in the waiting vehicles and we drive to Castle Carter. Papa and I decided that we should stay with Howard, as his house is closer to the Valley of the Kings. The fact that Mama’s toothache prevented her from coming with us made that decision easier. She would never stay anywhere but the Winter Palace. Brograve will likely come later with Mama; and perhaps when they arrive, we’ll move to the hotel.
When we pull up to Howard’s domed, traditional mud-brick house at the foot of the road leading to the valley, I notice that several donkeys are corralled out front, tied to the trunks of palm trees. Howard follows my gaze and says with a smile, “Knowing you as I do, Lady Evelyn, I assumed you’d want to head directly to the site. Once you had a cup of tea and changed, of course. You haven’t lost all civility, even though you’re an archaeologist.”
I beam at him; I adore being called an archaeologist. “You know me well, Mr. Carter.”
“There better be a saddled donkey waiting for me, Howard. I cannot wait another hour to see this tomb,” Papa says, and we burst into laughter.
Thus fortified with tea and biscuits and changed into our khaki cotton work clothes, we mount the donkeys and ride to the valley not even an hour later. Several others ride along with us, including one of thereisand Arthur Callender, a trustworthy friend of Howard’s who is an engineer with the Egyptian State Railways and whom we know from past digs. My scarab is in my pocket. Maybe this trip back to Egypt will bring the luck I keep hoping to glean from it.
As we approach the cleft in the beige cliffside that must be the tomb entrance, I see that the other two workers are assembled around the opening, waiting for us. I’m relieved to see no one else at the site—no onlookers, tourists, press, or Egyptian officials.
I turn to Papa and exclaim, “Can you believe it, Papa?”
“We wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for you, darling Eve!” he calls back. “I would have given up before we reached this point.”
After dismounting from our donkeys, Papa and I march over the rocky terrain to the tomb, where Howard stands, talking with areis. Little Ali rushes to my side, and I ruffle the boy’s hair. “Lady Evelyn,” he whispers to me in French, “I was with the men when they found the tomb.”
Ali and I grin at each other, until Howard calls us to attention for an announcement. “For your arrival, the men have cleared away the remaining debris that was blocking the tomb door. We left it there until today to keep the tomb shielded from sight.” He gestures to a pile of stone and soil to the right of the opening. “The men tell me that what looks like rubble actually contains an astonishing array of artifacts.”
Papa and I walk over to what I’d assumed was a pile of rocks and stones. Upon closer examination, however, I see shards of vessels—some colored and some alabaster—fragments of seals, and bits and pieces of jars.
“My God,” Papa says, as he studies the heap. “We could spend weeks sifting through this alone.”
“We don’t have weeks, Lord C.” Howard’s voice is deadly serious. “Since word has already begun to leak, we need to investigate and secure the tomb before news spreads like wildfire. We can circle back to those objects afterward. I’ll have the men guard them or transport them.” It occurs to me that the note of deference I typically hear in his voice is muted, or altogether gone. He and Papa’s roles have shifted, even switched.
Howard leads us back to the tomb entrance. Carved into the rocky hill is a set of rough steps, progressing downward. At the base of the stairs is a stone doorway, more of a slab than what I imagined a tomb entrance might look like. Before we proceed down the stairs to inspect it, Papa sets up his photographic equipment and tripod and records the site.
Howard and I then descend the sixteen stairs to the doorway. The stone slab is covered in a thick layer of soil left over from the debris, which we begin to brush away. I know that the men could have cleared this off before we arrived, but I am grateful they didn’t. This could bethemoment when we discover the owner of the tomb.
As I’d hoped, the oblong outlines of a cartouche begin to emerge under the dirt. My breathing grows shallow with excitement as the hieroglyphics begin to grow more distinct under my brush. Suddenly, I know whose name is spelled out here.
I murmur to myself. “It’s not Hatshepsut. It’s Tutankhamun.”
I feel Howard’s hand on my shoulder, and I realize he’s trying to comfort me. My disappointment is deep, even though it shouldn’t be. I knew the tomb was unlikely to belong to Hatshepsut. Tears threaten, but I remind myself of what this discovery means for Papa and Howard—and what it could mean for me in terms of future excavations—and I force myself to bury my feelings of defeat.
“I’m so sorry, Eve. I know how desperately you wanted this tomb to be hers.”
