Now we leap a period of some 1,850 years. Had we gone back in time that would take us back to the time of Senusert III, in Keith Taylor’s story. But we’ve come forward to the Napoleonic era and the rediscovery of the treasures of ancient Egypt. The early Egyptologists included Jean-François Champollion and Giovanni Belzoni and it is the latter whose exploits are the basis of the following story.
Kate Ellis is a former drama student and playwright who turned to writing detective novels with The Merchant’s House (1998), which combined her interest in archaeology and crime. So does the following.
They called my husband The Great Belzoni, and that name described him well. Six foot six and possessing the strength of ten men, Giovanni Belzoni was my world and we held to each other in poverty and riches . . . although for most of our marriage it was the former. When Giovanni Belzoni died the brilliance went from my life and left me with only debts and memories.
I look back now on our years together – on the time Giovanni performed as a strong man in a travelling circus, all the time longing for his hydraulic inventions to come to the notice of some rich patron, then on the years of searing heat and sand that we spent in Egypt – and they seem almost like a play, full of light and colour but seen from the distant darkness.
Giovanni was always careful to record the contents of the tombs he uncovered in Egypt. But one tomb went unmentioned in his writings because of what happened there in December of 1817; events which fill me with horror and sadness whenever I think upon them. The Valley of the Kings is a place of death, and thus it proved those 11 long years ago.
As I think back, I recall again the suffocating air and the fine dust of those forgotten tombs that we entered in dim candlelight. I can smell again the dry stench of mummified bodies which filled our nostrils and in my mind’s eye I see the Arab diggers, caked in dust like living mummies, passing baskets of debris from one to the other as they cleared out the underground chambers. Once Giovanni entered a tomb and mistakenly sat down to rest on a pile of rags and bones which he found, to his horror, to be broken mummies. I accompanied him on all his expeditions and became accustomed to such sights. But in the tomb of Hetsut I encountered death in another form.
We were working in the Valley of the Kings, shortly after Giovanni’s great discovery of the tomb of Seti I, a monument of such rich decoration that it was rumoured falsely at the time that a great treasure had been found within, when we came upon a small buried tomb which was the last resting place not of a pharaoh or great queen, but of some minor official or courtier. There were many such tombs in the Valley of the Kings but the discovery of each one caused my husband great excitement.
In our party were a dozen or so Arab diggers. But the one I remember best was Ahmut who turned up unexpectedly to help us. We had first met Ahmut in Cairo when Giovanni had demonstrated one of his wonderful hydraulic machines to the Pasha (there was no limit to my late husband’s genius). Unfortunately the machine went out of control when Ahmut shouted to his fellows to jump from a great wheel which, relieved of its load, flew back and injured two of our men who became entangled in its workings. Giovanni scolded Ahmut for his carelessness but I suspected at the time that he may have been bribed by my husband’s enemies to sabotage the demonstration. However I had no proof of this.
But it seemed that Ahmut now wished to make amends for his actions and Giovanni welcomed his help for he was a strong man and a good worker. But I was still wary of Ahmut and I thought at the time that my Giovanni was far too trusting of others.
Our servant James Curtain also accompanied us, as did Paolo Capeli, a distant cousin of Giovanni’s from Padua who had developed a fascination with Egypt’s past and seized every opportunity to join us on our explorations of that magical country. Neither James nor Paolo feared hard work and discomfort, although the accident with the Pasha’s hydraulic machine had left James scarred and Paolo with a crippled leg and a disfigured face. Both young men were willing workers and I enjoyed their company.
But there was another member of our party who contrived to make himself unpleasant and obstructive. This man was George Pargeter and he was one of the British Consul General’s staff – although one can only suppose that Mr Salt, the Consul General, was pleased to be rid of him.
George Pargeter held himself in high esteem, which is more than anybody else did. He lorded it over the diggers, speaking to all the Arabs with disdain, although he habitually dressed in Arab clothing, saying it was more comfortable in the unbearable heat. And it wasn’t only the Arabs who resented his arrogant ways: he ordered our servant James about with equal rudeness, although he treated Paolo with some respect as he was Giovanni’s kinsman.
My husband, too, disliked Pargeter and I heard him threaten to kill the man on more than one occasion, although I knew Giovanni well enough to be certain that such threats were idle and not to be taken seriously. Or I thought I did. For murder creates such suspicion and fear, even between loved ones, that nobody is sure of the truth until the guilt of the murderer is proved beyond doubt.
As I cast my thoughts back to the day when Hetsut’s tomb was discovered, I recall the sights and sounds as I waited to enter the tomb to help Giovanni record its contents. I was in the habit of sketching any paintings that decorated the tombs and copying carefully the strange writing known as hieroglyphics which at that time we could not comprehend.
While I sat in the shade of a rock, I was aware of a voice, braying and self-opinionated. I recognized it as George Pargeter’s and I sat still and listened, hoping he wouldn’t discover my presence.
“Of course Belzoni has the treasure hidden somewhere,” he said loudly. “I don’t believe he could have entered a tomb like Seti’s and found only painted walls. Not that I blame him for telling everyone he found nothing: I’d probably have done the same in his shoes. But it’s rather hard on your men. You’d think he’d have let you have your share of the spoils.”
I didn’t hear the reply. I was seething with anger. How could this braying jackass of a man cast doubts upon my dear husband’s honesty? I knew that Giovanni had found nothing in Seti’s tomb; no doubt it had been stripped by robbers some time in antiquity. But rumours and talk are like the floods of the Nile, they spread everywhere and are impossible to stop.
From his words I guessed that Pargeter’s companion was one of our Arab diggers. But I knew of only one that spoke good English. I flattened myself against the rock as I saw Ahmut hurrying past towards the entrance of the freshly excavated tomb. I had suspected that it was Ahmut who had received the dubious benefits of George Pargeter’s wisdom, although I knew the man had no love for Pargeter. In fact he had seemed to avoid him, as though there was bad blood between them.
I hoped that Ahmut hadn’t believed the poison Pargeter had been spouting and that he wouldn’t spread dissent amongst the diggers and cause them to demand their fair share of the non existent treasure of Seti I.
Ahmut discarded the distinctive red headgear he habitually wore and folded his outer garments neatly, placing them on a rock before entering the tomb. The dusty interior was no place for heavy desert robes.
When he had disappeared into the tomb I stepped out from the shadow of the rock, adjusting my hat so that my eyes were shielded from the strength of the sun. Then a voice behind me made me jump.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Belzoni – or may I call you Sarah?”
George Pargeter was standing there in his Arab robes, his head bare and the sun beating down on his sparse greasy curls. He was smiling ingratiatingly and I had to resist the temptation to slap his face.
“Mrs Belzoni would be more correct, sir,” I said coldly. I hesitated, but then I decided on the brutal and direct approach, for I doubted if such a man as Pargeter would respond to subtlety. “I should be grateful, sir, if you would refrain from spreading untruths about my husband. He found no treasure in the tomb of Seti and I fear that you may cause resentment and dissent amongst our Arab diggers if you suggest that he has cheated them in any way. Do I make myself clear?” I looked the man boldly in the eye and he had the temerity to smirk.
“Quite clear, dear lady.” He turned to go, fanning himself with his hand against the relentless heat. When he had walked a few yards he spotted Ahmut’s clothes lying on a rock. With a bold gesture he picked up Ahmut’s red headdress and placed it on his own head to keep the sun off his thinning pate. I watched and said nothing: when Ahmut discovered the theft he could deal with it himself.
As Pargeter hurried off towards the tents, I heard a sound behind me. I turned and saw James Curtain, our servant, staring at Pargeter’s disappearing back.
“You startled me, James.”
The young man looked at me, serious. “I overheard what he said, Ma’am. If he keeps spreading those lies about what we found in Seti’s tomb, there’ll be unrest. I know you did your best to stop him but I’ve met his kind before. He likes to make trouble.”
“I only hope that Ahmut has the sense not to believe him.”
He frowned at the mention of Ahmut: since the incident with the Pasha’s machine, James had avoided the man’s company. I think that he blamed the accident on Ahmut’s recklessness, and not without just cause for I was there on that day and I witnessed all.
“Someone ought to do something about Pargeter,” said James suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer my question but excused himself on the grounds that he had to enter the tomb to help my husband. I turned away as he discarded his shirt, unmoved by his nakedness for no man was a match for my Giovanni. But I had noted the livid scars across his back that had been caused when he had become entangled in the machinery of my husband’s great invention.
James disappeared into the tomb’s small dark entrance. Giovanni and Paolo were already inside and I thought how hard Paolo worked in spite of his lameness which didn’t appear to have affected his speed or his strength. I pictured them inside the hot, airless chamber, inhaling the dust of centuries and I was glad that I would not be called upon to enter the place until it was cleared and aired. I had no fear of tombs or the spirits of the dead Egyptians, but I detested dust.
And yet perhaps I should have been more fearful of this particular tomb.
It was two days before the passageway was cleared of the sand and dust that choked it. The Arabs worked from dawn to dusk and my husband too, aided by James and Paolo, dug and toiled until at last they reached the tomb’s outer chamber.
I had not seen George Pargeter since I had scolded him for spreading false tales about my husband and I was told that he had gone off to Luxor on some unspecified business. He was not missed. The Arab diggers seemed happier in his absence as he had a habit of standing watching them work, hands on hips, like some great pharaoh overseeing his slaves. No man likes to be treated thus and the Arabs were proud people. Ahmut, I suspected, seemed especially to dislike him but I didn’t know why.
So when Pargeter turned up at the tomb near the end of the working day, I was disappointed to see him: I had hoped his absence would be longer. While the men were working in the outer chamber I waited in the shade of the tomb’s entrance passage. Suddenly the bright sunlight streaming into the narrow corridor was blocked out by a black shape surrounded by a halo of light. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw it was a large robed figure which I took to be one of the Arab helpers, for all men look the same in those long robes when that light is dim. I uttered a clear greeting in the Arab tongue but the figure spoke back in English.
“Mrs Belzoni. Wherever your husband is, you are never far away.”
My heart began to beat fast because George Pargeter made my flesh crawl. There was something in his voice, a veiled threat perhaps, that I did not like.
“My husband is inside the tomb. They have reached the outer chamber.”
“But what of the inner chamber? If there are treasures to be found, that’s where they will be.”
“My husband is no treasure hunter,” I said angrily.
He made no reply but entered the passage and the closeness of his body as he edged past me confirmed that he was no true gentleman.
I followed him to the outer chamber of the tomb which was now being cleared and swept. I could see marvellous paintings on the walls that came alive in the flickering torchlight.
“Well, well,” Pargeter began, causing the workers to look up.
I saw Paolo give the man a nod of greeting, for he was always a good-natured young man who bore his afflictions bravely. James Curtain scowled at the newcomer and returned to his task of sweeping the debris of years from the sandy floor.
My husband addressed the newcomer, doing his best to conceal his dislike. “Come in, Mr Pargeter, and see how well we progress.”
“What have you found?” Pargeter spoke greedily, more interested in wealth than antiquities.
My husband shrugged his great shoulders, shoulders that had supported ten men in his days as a strongman. “Many things, Mr Pargeter.” He pointed to Paolo who was carefully packing a statue of a crocodile-headed god into a wooden crate. “I fear this chamber has been robbed of many treasures but the thieves have left us with a few artefacts that will gladden hearts at the British Museum.”
“And what of the inner chamber?”
“It is late,” my husband replied. “We will enter it tomorrow.”
“Where is the entrance?”
My husband pointed to the great slab of plaster that sealed the adjoining chamber. I saw that James Curtain was watching nervously. The Arabs watched also, regarding Pargeter with something between suspicion and hatred. He was not a popular man. Only Paolo continued his work as though he had no wish to be involved in quarrels and unpleasantness. My husband’s strong face was a neutral mask. He would avoid trouble if he could.
“Where is Ahmut?” Pargeter asked suddenly.
This was something I could answer for I kept an eye on the Arab diggers and it was I who paid them for the work they had done. “He was here this morning but he hasn’t returned this afternoon,” I said, wondering why Pargeter was so interested.
“No matter,” the man said lightly. He turned to my husband. “Come on, Belzoni, smash that entrance down. I’m sure we’re all agog with curiosity to see what lies within.”
My husband raised himself to his full height and gazed down on Pargeter’s head. “As I have said, Mr Pargeter, the hour is late. The men have worked hard and wish to finish for the day.” He looked at me and spoke. “Sarah, my love, please show Mr Pargeter out,” he said as though we were in a London drawing room rather than the tomb of an ancient Egyptian.
Pargeter had no option. As I followed him from the tomb I noticed that he looked back longingly at the door to the inner chamber as though he would have smashed it open there and then were it not for the presence of so many people to restrain him.
As he returned to his tent which was pitched some way from the tomb, I watched him and I thought how like an Arab he looked in his robes; it was only the sickly pallor of his skin that betrayed him as an Englishman. And as I watched I found myself wondering where Ahmut had got to and why Pargeter had been so keen to learn his whereabouts.
But I was not to know that next time I saw George Pargeter he would be dead.
I know now that the owner of the tomb was called Hetsut. And I know her story, thanks to Monsieur Champollion who in 1822, after long examination of the strange granite stone found at Rosetta, gave us the key to the mysterious writing we call hieroglyphics.
If I had been able to decipher the symbols on Hetsut’s tomb back in 1817, perhaps I should have guessed the identity of the murderer sooner but as it was, I had only the pictures painted on the wall as a clue to Hetsut’s fate. Since then I have learned, by careful translation of the hieroglyphics I copied painstakingly as we explored the tomb, that she was a favoured dancer in the court of Seti I. And I know now how and why she met her terrible death.
But on the night two of our Arab diggers came to our tent saying they had heard noises coming from Hetsut’s tomb, we knew nothing of its occupant. The paintings on the walls of the outer chamber had shown a woman apparently dancing before a pharaoh but there were no other clues. My husband’s main concern was whether or not we would find the inner chamber disturbed by the robbers who had stripped so many of the tombs we had explored.
Giovanni went out of the tent with the Arabs to look inside the tomb by torchlight and he found that the entrance to the inner chamber had been smashed, leaving a hole large enough for a man to enter. Assuming that robbers were about, he posted guards there for the rest of the night. But all was quiet: whoever had entered the tomb had hopefully left empty-handed.
So it was that we assembled at the tomb the next morning. My husband entered the outer chamber first, towering over the Arab diggers.
“Somebody broke into the inner chamber last night,” he announced.
There was a murmuring and Giovanni stood, looking from one face to another for signs of guilt. Even James and Paolo were not spared his fierce gaze but I had my own suspicions. I was certain that George Pargeter had returned the night before to break into the tomb chamber and I feared that he would have taken away any portable treasure he found within. I cursed Pargeter as I thought of his greed and arrogance.
My husband asked James and Paolo to help him enlarge the entrance. Then he called for a torch which he thrust into the dark chamber and I rushed to his side, eager to see the interior.
I could smell the stale air and I could just make out that the walls of the chamber were richly painted with figures that glowed and danced in the flickering light. Women with eyes as wide and mysterious as a cat’s watched from the walls as Giovanni stepped carefully inside.
As the light from his blazing torch flooded the chamber, I noted the absence of footprints on the thick dust of the floor: George Pargeter had moved the door aside but had not entered: perhaps he had lost his nerve. A dark Egyptian tomb would be a fearful place for one alone at night.
And yet it looked as though the tomb had been entered at some time in its history. Statues of animal-headed gods stood around but some lay smashed on the ground and the lid of the painted wooden sarcophagus was pushed aside as if the mummy it contained had risen back to life and left its resting place. I watched from the doorway as Giovanni approached the sarcophagus with a blazing torch held high above his head. I saw him bend over the painted chest and when he smiled I guessed that the mummy was still there in its appointed place.
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.”
“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 been 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.
I had to speak to Giovanni, to seek his advice. But as I began to walk towards the entrance Paolo grabbed my arm roughly which shocked me, as I had not thought him capable of such an act.
“I can’t let you tell, Sarah,” he said quietly. I detected a note of desperation in his voice and for the first time I felt afraid.
I broke from him and called out, half-expecting someone to come running to my aid down the passage. But there was nobody about. James must have left to help with the excavation of the new tomb. Paolo made another grab for me and I screamed. Then I heard something fall from the ceiling followed by a trickling sound, like sand.
Paolo held me tightly. I was surprised by his strength as I struggled, fighting with my nails and teeth like a cat. There was a deep rumbling noise from above and Paolo loosed his grip and looked up. Boulders and sand were raining from the ceiling of the tomb. It was collapsing. We had to get out.
I took advantage of the distraction to make my way down the passage. Behind me I heard more rumbling masking the sound of Paolo’s dragging footsteps as he gained on me: his lameness had never affected his strength or his speed. My steps felt slow and heavy as I ran and I seemed to make no progress. I had experienced such frustration in dreams but this was reality and if I didn’t escape I feared I would face death.
At last I could see the sun at the end of the passage and from the rumblings above I knew that the tomb of Hetsut was collapsing.
Paolo was behind me, breathing heavily, gaining speed. I knew I would only be safe once I was out in the open and I was concerned for Paolo: killer or not, I wanted him to escape the choking tomb.
Then I tripped on a stone which protruded from the wall and fell flat on the sandy floor of the tunnel. I could hear more rumblings and falling rocks. And I could hear Paolo behind me, the dragging of his left leg on the ground. I pushed myself up then there was a crash like thunder overhead as the whole tomb collapsed. I shielded my face and prayed.
A few moments later all was still. It was pitch dark and I put out a hand to feel rubble ahead of me, blocking the passage. Dry dust filled my mouth and when I tried to call Paolo’s name the answer was silence. I lay in the darkness, each breath an effort in the hot airless space that I feared would be my tomb.
I formed prayers in my mind and after what seemed like an age those prayers were answered. I heard my husband’s anxious voice calling my name and I replied as best I could, choking and coughing on the dust that filled my mouth and nostrils. I tried to take shallow, calm breaths as I listened to the clinking of my rescuers’ spades draw nearer. I would be safe soon in my Giovanni’s strong arms. But Paolo, I feared, was lost, buried in the tomb of the dancing girl to rest there with her for eternity.
I had not wished to give my dear Giovanni the news that a kinsman of his was a murderer. And yet how could I allow Ahmut to die for a murder he did not commit? I had to tell my story but I told it confidentially so that only Giovanni and the authorities in Luxor knew the truth. The rest, including James, thought that Paolo had died in a tragic accident, as did his unhappy family. An unlucky end for a young man who had had more than his share of bad fortune.
Six years after these events, in 1823, my husband died in Africa on an expedition to Timbuktu and I mourn him as much now as I did when I was first brought the dreadful tidings of his death. After the collapse of Hetsut’s tomb he never spoke of Paolo, and the last resting place of the dancing girl was sealed and obliterated from the records we made so painstakingly of our discoveries.
But now I am alone in the world I find myself thinking of Hetsut often. I have translated the hieroglyphics I copied from the wall of her tomb and I have discovered that she was mistress to a great nobleman whose wife was so jealous that she pushed her rival into the Nile where she was attacked by a crocodile and lost her leg. Hetsut died of her injuries several weeks later and the strange painted words on her tomb poured curses down upon her attacker.
Perhaps it is best that such a tale of such bitter hatred and vengeance should never be told. Such things belong in the world of Anubis, god of the dead, lord of the mummy wrappings.
As I sit here in my shabby room, writing by the light of a small candle, I try not to think of Paolo’s terrible death. In times of poverty and hardship it is best to think of pleasant things; of my dear, brilliant husband, the Great Belzoni with whom I shared so much.
I shall not allow Anubis to triumph.