Chapter Eight

London, October 1972

Brograve was reading his newspaper in the sitting room of their London flat when the doorbell rang, making him jump. It was one of Mrs. Jarrold’s days—she came on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—and he heard her talking into the intercom. She popped her head around the door.

“Dr. Ana Mansour to see you,” she announced. “She says she’s written.”

“Oh god!” It had been on Brograve’s mind to reply to her but he couldn’t think what to say. Eve was still showing signs of improvement but he didn’t think she was ready to be quizzed by a stranger. “You’d better let her in,” he said, folding his paper.

He heard the lift arriving on their floor and the clatter of the lattice metal doors being pushed apart. “This way, please,” he heard Mrs. Jarrold say, then a woman was standing in the doorway. He leaped to his feet.

“Dr. Mansour,” he said, holding out his hand.

She was attractive, with dark shoulder-length hair curled up at the ends like Jackie Kennedy’s, lightly tanned skin, and black lines painted around her eyes. Brograve wasn’t good at women’s ages but guessed she must be somewhere around forty.

“Lord Beauchamp.” Her hand was warm, with slim fingers. “I apologize for dropping in uninvited, but I leave London tomorrow and I was keen to speak to your wife.” She glanced around as if hoping to see her there.

He let out a long sigh. “Please sit down.” He gestured to a chair. “Can I offer you tea?”

While Mrs. Jarrold made drinks, Brograve explained about Eve’s health setback, and his reluctance to overburden her while she was still piecing her memories together.

The woman was sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that. Strokes can be devastating. I looked after my father for years after his stroke, so I know what a strain it can be.” Her expression was warm. “Is her memory affected, or is the damage mostly physical?”

Brograve thought back to Maude’s telephone call the evening after her visit. She had a theory that while Eve could remember details of events from the 1920s as if they happened yesterday, her memories seemed to fade in the 1930s and become vaguer the closer you got to the present day.

Brograve suspected Maude was right. The same thing had happened with previous strokes but most of the memories returned gradually as she recovered. The question was how you went about filling in the missing pieces. He couldn’t bear to see her upset, as she’d been when she heard about Emily.

“Her memory is patchy so I haven’t pushed too hard,” Brograve said. “Her speech is much improved, but I haven’t asked her about Egypt yet. That might be difficult for her.”

Ana Mansour paused, weighing her words. “I remember from my father’s case that our first instinct is to wrap them in cotton wool. It’s entirely understandable. But the scientific advice is that stimulation helps the brain to regain function more effectively than rest. I know your wife used to be an extremely knowledgeable Egyptologist.”

Brograve nodded. “Indeed, she was.”

Ana’s eyes fixed on his. “If that knowledge is still there, accessing it could help to refresh her neural connections and give her confidence.” She paused. “I might be able to help.”

“How do you mean?” He was wary.

She smiled. “What if you took me to meet her and introduced me as a visiting Egyptologist? I could say that I was keen to shake her hand, given her important role in the history of archaeology. She needn’t feel under any pressure that way.”

In normal circumstances Eve would enjoy that, Brograve thought. She’d be thrilled. But was it fair to bring visitors she didn’t know when she wasn’t at her best? Maude had arranged for a hairdresser to visit Pine Trees every week to wash and set her hair, but Eve couldn’t apply makeup with her weak right hand, so she wasn’t as well turned out as she had always been before. Besides, her speech was still slurred and unclear.

Ana Mansour continued: “I have a few photographs with me of Egyptian artifacts we’re working on. I could show them to her—not to challenge her, just to see if there is a reaction. If there is none, at least we have tried. But if she recognizes them, it might help to open up her brain.” She cupped her hands and mimed the opening of a flower. “‘Use it or lose it.’ Isn’t that what they say?”

Brograve pondered that. What she said had a certain logic, especially since Egypt had a special place in Eve’s heart. She had taken the photo of the Nile from his album. Was that a sign? But then he remembered about the mention of “anomalies” in Ana’s letter.

“You know Eve wasn’t present when the tomb contents were catalogued, don’t you?” he asked. “That was nothing to do with her.”

“I’m aware of that,” she replied. “I’m interested in her memories of the opening of the tomb. Perhaps our discussion will trigger something that could be useful, but if not”—she spread her hands—“it will be an honor to meet her all the same.”

He supposed that sounded fine. “When were you thinking of visiting?” he asked. “She has good days and not so good days.” Sometimes she was exhausted after her morning physio sessions, with a woman whom Eve jokingly called “Sally the Sadist,” and she always seemed more forgetful if she hadn’t slept well.

“I am flying to Cairo tomorrow. We could either go this afternoon, or it will have to wait till my next visit. It’s entirely up to you.”

Suddenly Brograve felt impatient to see if this strategy would work. “Let’s go today,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”

* * *

Brograve normally walked to Pine Trees but when he suggested it, Ana glanced down at her boots, which were elevated on platforms at least two inches high. Why did women wear such treacherous footwear? If she went over on her ankle, it would probably break. “I’ll get the car,” he said, and went to fetch it from the car park beneath their apartment block.

When they got to Pine Trees, he greeted the receptionist and waited for her to buzz open the door that admitted visitors to the rooms, all the while worrying that he might be making a mistake and this could upset Eve badly.

She was sitting in her chair by the window, and she beamed at him as he walked in. “I’ve been w-watching a shquirrel,” she said, then noticed the woman behind him. “Oh, hello! A v-visitor!”

Brograve made the introductions and invited Ana to sit in the other armchair while he perched on the bed, wondering how to bring up the reason Dr. Mansour was there. He didn’t have to, though, because Eve took over the conversation.

“You’re from C-cairo?” she asked. “M-my husband and I m-met there. It’s a w-wonderful city but I expect m-much changed from my d-day.”

Since the stroke, Brograve had never heard her speak so clearly. She must be making a special effort for their visitor.

“You were there during the transition from British rule, were you not?” Ana asked.

“Yes.” Stumbling over her words, Eve described an incident from her first visit, when an Egyptian man ran up to the donkey cart they were traveling in. He was wearing a headdress and his eyes and teeth sparkled white against his dark skin. She had smiled, thinking he was being friendly, but instead he shouted, “English out! Death to imperialists!” and spat at her. Eve smiled. “I was r-rather shaken, as you c-can imagine.”

Ana nodded. “The British called it a protectorate rather than part of the empire, but their hold on the army and police force made it paternalistic.”

“I always th-thought you should have your f-freedom,” Eve said. “They said it was German spies who had encouraged n-nationalism during the w-war, but Egyptians h-have such an ex-tra-or-din-ary . . .” She paused, unable to think of the word.

“History?” Brograve suggested. He was stunned at how articulate she was today. Where on earth had this come from?

“C-culture,” she continued. “Unique culture. They should c-clearly have b-been s-self-governing.” She took a deep breath and he could tell the stammer was driving her crazy. “T-tell me, what is your area of s-study?”

“The Valley of the Kings.” Ana smiled. “I understand you know it well. I did my first digs there as a young archaeology student, and now I am engaged in a research project. Perhaps you would like to see pictures of some artifacts we’re studying?”

“I-I’d l-love to,” Eve said, leaning forward.

Brograve braced himself. This might be the moment when she got distressed if she couldn’t recognize anything. In that case, he would intervene and change the subject.

Ana opened a slim document wallet she’d been carrying and passed across a sheet with a colored image printed on it. Brograve couldn’t see what it was.

Eve smiled as she took it. “Amun-Re,” she said. “I know this f-fellow. He was in my father’s collection at H-Highclere. He was found at K-Karnak and H-Howard thought he was Eighteenth Dynasty.”

Ana nodded. “We’ve been reassessing and think it might be later than Howard Carter believed, perhaps after the reign of Ramesses XI.” She pulled out another sheet of paper and passed it across.

“Opening of the m-mouth ceremony,” Eve said straightaway, squinting at it. Brograve rose to fetch her glasses from the bedside table and helped her to put them on. “So the d-deceased can eat and drink in the afterlife.”

“Do you recognize where the image comes from?” Ana asked, then, without waiting for an answer, she passed another picture. “Perhaps this will help.”

There was a simple cartouche drawn in black on the white sheet of paper.

Eve gave a broad smile. “That’s the b-bird for ‘u’ and the ankh for ‘l-life.’ Tu-t-ankh-amun.” She pointed to each of the elements in the hieroglyphic. “The opening of the m-mouth p-picture was on the wall of the b-burial chamber. I could never forget that. It was one of the d-defining experiences of my life.”

Brograve turned so neither of the women could see the tears prickling his eyes. All these months, it seemed he’d been underestimating her. Everything was in there, locked away. Ana had been right; all she needed was stimulation.