Saqqara. It is not improbable that the effect of these pyramids is even more impressive than that of the Pyramids of Giza. They extend to a remoter antiquity; and the story they have to tell is only now being unfolded piece by piece to reward the patient excavations of scholars. What is here and has endured for 5,000 years may endure for five times 5,000 years; but equally in the subtle mystery which the scene creates, they might vanish in a moment, like the desert mirage, and the desert flow over their site with the tranquil assurance of infinity.
Cook’s Traveller’s Handbook for Egypt and the Sudan
The journey south to Saqqara took just over an hour. Clara, who put her bag on the seat next to her and feigned sleep most of the way to avoid conversation, opened her eyes to see that they were turning off the Great Western Agricultural Road. They were still within the fertile plain of the river and Clara was charmed to see farmers watering buffalo, and young boys playing mud larks on the bank. The road took them past sycamore and palm groves, through cultivated plantations and small villages clustered around carpet mills. The tour guide – an Anglo-Egyptian man who spoke in accented but fluent English – told them the region was renowned for its carpet weaving and on the return journey the tourists would be able to view some of the local women at work. But for now, they were heading for the pyramids.
They shortly drove through the village from which the area was named, and Clara looked eagerly at the modest traditional mud-brick houses, wondering where the Hassans lived. But the bus drove on until they reached the necropolis. Though not as iconic, the Necropolis of Saqqara was larger than Giza, made up of eleven pyramids, interspersed in a honeycomb of burial chambers and tombs dug into the ground. The tour group was accompanied by a pack of tame dogs that lived at the pyramids. They kept a wary distance but were always alert for dropped sandwiches or scraps from the tourists.
Clara, the bus passengers, and the dogs followed their guide around the complex. The most impressive monument above ground was the Step Pyramid that housed the tomb of the third-dynasty pharaoh, Djoser, designed by the great architect Imhotep. According to the guide it was the oldest pyramid in Egypt, predating the Giza pyramids by around a century. But Clara found the underground tombs, their walls covered in carved hieroglyphs and daubed with paintings, even more fascinating. However, once she’d seen half a dozen burial chambers she was ready for a break. And to pursue the real purpose of her visit to Saqqara.
As the group gathered to eat a packed lunch, Clara approached the guide and, with the subtle offer of baksheesh, asked if there was someone who could take her to the village. She explained that her uncle had recently died and had spoken fondly of a Qufti man who lived there. She said she would like to find him and tell him of her uncle’s passing. The guide quietly took the baksheesh, called over one of the curio hawkers who was following the tour group and spoke to him in Arabic. After a while he said, ‘This man will take you to the village. He will bring you back in time for the bus to leave.’
‘Do you speak English?’ Clara asked the curio hawker.
‘My Engleesh she good.’
The guide smiled and turned to Clara. ‘Not very good. But good enough.’
Clara thanked the guide and, ignoring the stares of the other Europeans in the tour group, accompanied the hawker and one of the dogs down the hill to the village.
‘Do you know Mohammed Hassan?’ asked Clara of her new guide.
‘I know.’
‘Does he still live here? I was told he had left and not come back.’
‘I know.’
Hmmm, thought Clara, suspecting the man had not understood her.
But a few minutes later they were standing in the yard of a house with intricately designed metal grates on the windows and doors, common to the area. The house was shut up.
‘House Hassan,’ said her guide.
There was a black cat lying on the front doorstep, curled up in the sun. It raised its head, looked at Clara with inquisitive green eyes, then hissed when it saw the dog. The dog was nonplussed, sat down and scratched its ear.
‘Is anyone here?’ asked Clara.
The guide looked at her blankly. Clara sighed and approached the door. The cat ran away. Clara knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again. Still no answer.
She turned back to the guide, hoping for some further information, but the man had lit a cigarette and sat in the shade of a palm tree, the dog settling down at his feet.
Clara was getting annoyed. Clearly the man’s English wasn’t ‘good enough’. It was not his fault, of course, but the guide from the bus should have made sure she had someone who could help her. She considered going back up the hill to the necropolis to find someone else, but then, spotted a woman standing in the doorway of the house across the road. She waved and strolled across. The woman watched her warily, but waited for her to approach.
‘Salam Alaikum,’ said Clara, repeating what she had heard one Egyptian say to another and hoping her pronunciation was acceptable.
The woman looked surprised and replied: ‘Wa Alaikum Assalam.’
Clara smiled at her. She was a woman of a similar age. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Clara, ‘that is all I know. I’ve only been in Egypt two days. Do you speak English?’
The woman stared at her for a moment, curious but not hostile. ‘I do,’ she said eventually. ‘Why you English lady no friends?’
Clara smiled again. ‘Oh, but I do!’ She pointed up the hill. ‘They are looking at the pyramids. But I wanted to come and see someone here in the village. And that man there,’ she pointed, ‘said he would show me.’
‘Who you see?’ asked the woman.
‘Mohammed Hassan,’ answered Clara. ‘At least I hoped to. Is that his house? The man with the dog said Mr Hassan lives there, but I’m not so sure.’
The woman nodded. ‘Yes. That Hassan house. But Hassan not there.’
‘I see,’ said Clara. This was reinforcing what Dr Rahman had told her, but she wanted to hear for herself. ‘Can you tell me where he is and when he will be back?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why you want?’
Clara went on to explain about her uncle Bob Wallace’s passing and that she wanted to tell Mr Hassan.
The woman listened, nodded, and seemed to accept the explanation. ‘Hassan go. Last summer.’
‘And his daughter, too? My uncle said he had a daughter. A girl called Maryam.’
‘Maryam his daughter. I not see Maryam. But Hassan, I see him go.’
‘Go where?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Every year go Quft. But this time no come back. For,’ she counted on her fingers, ‘six months.’
‘And Maryam did not come back either?’
‘No.’
‘Oh,’ said Clara. This confirmed what Dr Rahman had said. But she wondered if there was more information she could glean. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about Mr Hassan and his daughter.’
‘More?’ asked the woman.
‘Yes, please.’ Clara reached into her purse and withdrew some coins. She offered them to the woman. The woman assessed them, took them, and gave a little bow.
‘Please, come inside.’ She indicated that Clara should enter the house. Clara looked over at the man and the dog. He hadn’t moved. If he did, Clara was sure she could find her way back up the hill again on her own.
She followed the woman into the house. It was small but pleasantly furnished. She took off her dusty shoes, then was led into a sitting room with colourful carpets on the floor and comfortable cushions around a low table.
‘My name is Clara,’ she said as the woman indicated she should sit on the cushions.
‘My name Sara,’ said the Egyptian woman and seated herself opposite her guest.
‘Sara and Clara,’ said Clara and smiled. The woman gave a cautious smile in return. Then she called out something in Arabic. A few moments later two children arrived. A girl and boy of around twelve or thirteen. The woman spoke to them and the girl withdrew, while the boy gave a bow to Clara and said, ‘Salam Alaikum.’
‘Salam Alaikum,’ mimicked Clara in return.
‘This my son, Mansoor,’ said the woman.
‘Hello, Mansoor,’ said Clara, ‘My name is Miss Clara Vale.’
Mansoor bowed again. ‘Hello, Miss Vale, I am very pleased to meet you.’
Clara was relieved to hear that his English was fluent. ‘Oh, you speak English very well!’
His mother smiled and then nodded her permission to him to speak.
‘Thank you, Miss Vale. I go to the American school,’ he said. ‘My mother said I must answer your questions. She understands English quite well – she once worked for an English family – but she is not so confident speaking. So I will speak.’
Clara smiled. ‘That will be very helpful indeed.’
At that moment the girl came in carrying a tray of Egyptian tea. Clara could smell the hibiscus aroma. She waited for the girl to serve her, her mother and brother, before withdrawing.
I bet she’ll be listening at the doorway, thought Clara.
The woman and boy waited for Clara to take the first sip of tea, then partook of their own. After what Clara thought was a polite period, she said: ‘So, Mansoor, what can you tell me about Mr Mohammed Hassan and his daughter Maryam? Was it just the two of them who lived in that house?’
Mansoor looked to his mother. She nodded. ‘Yes, just them. Sayyid Hassan’s wife died when Maryam was born. So it was just them. Sayyid Hassan – that means Mr Hassan – did not marry again.’
Sara said something in Arabic. Mansoor nodded. ‘My mother said Sayyid Hassan’s sister helped with the baby in Quft, but when Maryam was older he brought her with him to Saqqara to work on the European digs.’
‘And how long have they been coming to Saqqara?’ asked Clara.
Sara held up both hands.
‘Ten years,’ said Mansoor.
Clara nodded. ‘And this was the first year they did not come back from Quft?’
‘Yes,’ said Sara and Mansoor together.
‘Do you think they’re still there?’
Mansoor looked to Sara. She spoke in Arabic. Mansoor turned back to Clara. ‘My mother wants to know why you want to know this. She does not think it is just because of your uncle.’
Clara’s eyes met Sara’s. They were shrewd and intelligent. She did not want to play the woman for a fool but nor did she want to talk about the mummy. Eventually she said: ‘You’re right, it is not just about my uncle, but it is mainly. You see, my uncle paid for a bursary to help Maryam Hassan attend the university. She was studying archaeology. Did you know that?’
‘We knew,’ said Sara.
Clara felt she was being tested as to her honesty so she decided to say as much as she could without mentioning the mummy or the smuggled artefacts. ‘So then, you must also remember that Dr Rahman from the university came here last autumn looking for Maryam. Was it you who told him they went back to Quft?’
‘Yes,’ said Sara. ‘So why you ask again?’
‘Because,’ said Clara, ‘I am the heir to my uncle’s estate, so I am also responsible for continuing – or not continuing – paying for this bursary. So while I was here in Saqqara I thought I would see for myself where Maryam lived and if she had returned. I see now she and her father haven’t. Assuming Maryam is with him, do you think they are still in Quft?’
Mansoor’s eyes beseeched his mother. They spoke rapidly in Arabic and then Mansoor said: ‘My mother says to tell you they are not in Quft. My father – who works for the Europeans at Luxor – visited Quft in January. When he was last home he told us he had tried to visit Sayyid Hassan there. To ask why he hadn’t returned to Saqqara and what was he going to do about his house. But Sayyid Hassan and Maryam were not there. Their family said they had not returned from Saqqara like we all thought. So now, we don’t know where they are.’
‘And we worry,’ said Sara.
Clara nodded. ‘Yes, that would worry me too.’
At that moment the black cat from over the road walked into the room. It looked around then, unexpectedly, jumped up on Clara’s lap. She was startled but didn’t push it down.
‘That is Maryam’s cat,’ said Mansoor. ‘We have been feeding it.’
‘It likes you,’ said Sara, her eyes looking intently into Clara’s.
Clara stroked the cat. It purred contentedly. ‘Thank you for telling me about what you heard from Quft. I will tell Dr Rahman that and then we will decide what to do.’ She finished the last of her tea and readied herself to leave. The cat didn’t move.
‘It likes you,’ said Sara again. Then she spoke to her son in Arabic. Mansoor gave his mother a curious look and then turned to Clara.
‘My mother said …’ He looked uncertain. She snapped at him. He nodded in compliance. ‘My mother said she thinks Maryam’s cat is telling her that she must trust you. She wants to tell you now about the strange man who was here. The man she thinks might know what happened to them. She hopes you might know him.’
Clara frowned in confusion. ‘What man is this? Why do you think I know him, Sara?’
‘Because he Englishman.’
Clara’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Tell me.’
Mansoor, at his mother’s prompting, continued. ‘The year before last, that would be 1928, an Englishman stayed with the Hassans for a few days. It was unusual for a European to stay in the home of a poor Egyptian, so everyone here in Saqqara noticed. Sayyid Hassan said he had met this man at Tel El-Amarna. That he had wandered into the camp there and was very sick. Sayyid Hassan, Maryam and a man he called Wallace – that is your uncle, I think – brought him back to Cairo.’
Clara’s heart was racing. ‘An Englishman, you say? Was it not a Scotsman?’
Mansoor shrugged. ‘Englishman, Scotsman, it is this same to us, Miss Vale.’ He smiled. ‘Like you cannot tell the difference between Egyptians – Bedouin, Arab, Berber – we cannot tell the difference between you. I am sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t be sorry,’ said Clara, quickly, ‘of course it’s difficult to know the difference. But can you remember this man’s name?’
‘Yock,’ said Sara. ‘Hassan call him Yock.’
‘Yock?’ asked Clara, immediately thinking of the man Yorke that her uncle mentioned in his letter. What was his name, Roger Yorke? No, Reginald. That was it, Reginald Yorke. Clara nodded. ‘I do not know him, but I think I know who he is. My uncle mentioned a man called Yorke that he and Mohammed Hassan found in the desert. Do you know why he was staying with Mr Hassan?’
Sara and Mansoor conferred before the boy said, ‘We do not. But they went away every day together then came back at night. For three days and three nights. Then Yock – Yorke,’ he carefully corrected himself, ‘left. We didn’t see him after that. But then, a few days ago, my sister said she thought she saw him again. She said she saw him in the Hassan house. She was playing with the cat and she said the man didn’t see her, but she saw him. He picked the lock to the back door, went into the house and was searching for something. And then he left.’
Clara gasped. ‘Did he have something with him when he left?’
Mansoor shook his head. ‘My sister said she didn’t see if he carried anything from the house. But she said she knew it was Yock. She remembered him from before. He had frightened her.’
Clara nodded. ‘Can either of you describe what this man Yorke looks like? My uncle said he had a beard. That’s the only description he gave. Can you tell me more?’
Sara called out and the girl popped her head around the doorway. Clara had been right, she had been listening. ‘This my daughter Rana. Rana, tell lady what Yock looks like now.’
Rana lowered her eyes shyly. Clara spoke gently to her. ‘Do you speak English too, Rana?’
‘Yes,’ said Rana quietly.
‘Can you tell me what this man Yorke looked like?’
The girl nodded and spoke while looking at her feet. ‘No beard. First time he come he had beard. Black beard. He was big man, but … but …’ She struggled to find a word and then spoke to her brother in Arabic.
‘Skinny,’ said Mansoor.
‘Yes, skinny,’ said Rana. ‘He looked sick. Skinny sick. But not now. Now he not sick. He fat now.’
‘Not fat like flabby,’ Mansoor corrected. ‘But big. Lots of muscles.’
Rana nodded. ‘Yes. Lots of muscles. And his nose was like someone hit him. Like the big men who … who …’ She said a word in Arabic.
Mansoor completed the sentence for her. ‘He looked like a boxer, Miss Vale.’
Clara shook her head in astonishment. Was it possible? Was this the same person? She reached into her bag and withdrew one of the photographs Bella had acquired from the newspaper office in Newcastle. She showed it to the family. ‘Is this the man you saw? Is this Yorke?’
‘Yes!’ they said in unison.
‘You do know him,’ said Sara, sagely.
Clara nodded. ‘Yes, I do. I met him once. It was about two weeks ago in England. But his name wasn’t Yorke. He told me it was Rupert Pilkerton.’