Chapter Twenty

London, January 1973

Brograve found some York ham in the fridge and made ham and mustard sandwiches, while Sionead prepared a pot of tea and set a tray with side plates, napkins, and some slices of Victoria sponge. Sionead carried the food into the sitting room and offered Ana Mansour a sandwich, but she shook her head, saying, “Not for me, thank you.” It was only then Brograve remembered that if she were Muslim, she wouldn’t eat ham.

“Would you prefer cheese and pickle?” he asked, but she said no, she had eaten before she came. She shuffled her papers and scribbled something on top of one sheet, lost in thought.

While Eve and Brograve were eating, Ana carried on talking. “We know Howard Carter took several items from the tomb and gave them as keepsakes to his friends. Many have since been donated to museums. British Egyptologist Sir Alan Gardiner gave an amulet to the Cairo Museum, saying that Howard Carter had given it to him as a gift but he felt uncomfortable keeping it. Howard’s niece, Phyllis Walker, sold some small items to the Metropolitan Museum after his death, and donated the remainder of his estate to the Griffith Institute in Oxford.”

Brograve expected Eve would leap to Howard’s defense. She had adored him and usually wouldn’t hear a word against him. Instead she agreed with Ana’s comments.

“You have to remember the context of the time,” she explained. “The Egyptian government was newly independent and kept changing the rules about ownership of artifacts every five minutes, or so it seemed. A decade earlier, archaeologists could keep their own finds, then a new law was passed that they could only keep half, but under the terms of my father’s concession to dig at that site . . .” She paused, and Brograve could tell she was making sure she got it straight in her head before she spoke. “If a tomb was untouched, the entire contents belonged to the Egyptian authorities, but if there was evidence of previous break-ins, then the archaeologists who held the concession got a share. So it was unclear.”

Ana nodded agreement but continued: “Howard Carter claimed to have made the most accurate and comprehensive records of any archaeologist to date, yet he neglected to catalogue the items that he purloined. Don’t you think that taints his records somewhat?”

Brograve objected. “The term ‘purloined’ is a bit strong. As my wife pointed out, the case was not at all clear-cut.”

“I’m sure he didn’t take anything significant,” Eve said. “Just little jars or shabti figures. There were hundreds of them lying around.”

“On the contrary,” Ana replied. “My colleagues suspect he did remove some significant items, and that’s what I hope to get to the bottom of—perhaps with your help.” She smiled. “You’re the last person alive who knows what really happened, so I’m deeply grateful you agreed to talk to me.”

Brograve knew Eve would be alarmed by this line of questioning, so he interrupted again. “Howard was a very close friend of my wife’s. We don’t want to be part of any campaign to accuse him of theft when he’s no longer around to defend himself.”

Ana corrected herself. “Of course not! I certainly wouldn’t use the word ‘theft’ for what was common practice in the old days. Everyone knows Heinrich Schliemann treated the gold found at Troy as his own personal treasure chest, and I’m sure my father didn’t question too closely where items brought to his dealership came from. He just bought and sold them to make a profit. But now, in the present day, we aim for more transparency.” A strand of Ana’s hair had tumbled forward and she smoothed it back, patting it into place. “Some new developments have raised questions about the whereabouts of several important items.”

“What new developments?” Eve asked, pushing her half-finished sandwich to one side. “Do you mean the discovery of Maya’s tomb?”

Ana smiled. “Ah, you heard about that. I might have known you would be up to speed. Would it be alright if I turn the tape recorder on again?” When Eve agreed, she pressed the button with a click.

“Did you ever come across the name Maya in connection with the tomb?” Ana asked.

“Of course,” Eve replied, watching the tape loop across the window on the top of the recorder. “Howard often spoke of Maya, the overseer in charge of the burial. He said it looked as though Maya had been rushing, perhaps because the death was unexpected. It appeared he had borrowed objects from other tombs because he didn’t have time to create enough treasure for Tutankhamun. That’s why different names were found on items.”

“Yes, that seems to have been the case,” Ana said. “Among Maya’s writings was a comprehensive list of the items that he placed in Tutankhamun’s tomb. Over five thousand of them! We’ve been translating it and comparing it with Howard Carter’s records, and there are many unexplained differences. Several valuable treasures seem to be missing and it is my job to find out what happened to them.”

“How do you know they weren’t taken by tomb robbers in antiquity?” Eve asked.

“Maya writes about those early robberies, but he is very clear that the robbers did not breach the burial chamber, where many of the missing items were placed. That hadn’t been accessed until Howard Carter got there.” She sounded stern.

Eve pulled her cardigan tightly around her body. “What kind of items?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.

Brograve grew concerned. He couldn’t see her expression from where he was sitting but he hoped the tone of this questioning wasn’t upsetting her. Should he ask Ana to stop? The doctor had said Eve was to avoid stress.

Ana consulted a list on her lap: “Some quite distinctive ones: a wooden goose varnished with resin; and this . . .” She pulled a color photograph from among her papers and handed it to Eve. “This wishing cup should have had a twin because Maya said it was a set of two.”

Brograve stood and walked across to look over Eve’s shoulder. Shaped like a flower head, it had hieroglyphics around the rim. Eve had gone very quiet and he sensed she recognized it.

“It’s a shame you didn’t speak to Howard’s niece, Phyllis, about these,” Brograve said, in an attempt to deflect attention from Eve. “Unfortunately she died just a couple of years ago.”

“Oh no!” Eve exclaimed. “Is Phyllis dead?”

Brograve patted her hand. “We went to the funeral, darling,” he said, and Eve bowed her head. Phyllis had been a couple of years younger than she was. How sad.

“I’ve tried to track down everyone who visited the tomb in the early months, and it seems you are the only one left,” Ana said. “That’s why your recollections are so crucial. There’s a particular mystery I’m hoping you might be able to solve. Maya is very clear that he left a solid gold unguent container just inside the doorway to the burial chamber. It had a lotus flower engraved on the lid. It sounds distinctive, and yet Howard Carter doesn’t mention it. How could he have missed such a thing?”

Eve turned to Brograve with panic in her expression. How ironic it should come up after all these years. He wanted to urge her to tell a lie, just a white lie, but couldn’t think how to communicate that without giving the game away to Ana.

Ana was watching Eve closely. “Did you see anything like that?”

Eve opened her mouth to answer and stammered a little: “I-I d-d . . .” It was the first time in ages that Brograve had heard her stammer. And then she laid her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Her cheeks seemed very pale.

“Are you alright?” he asked, shaking her shoulder, and grew alarmed when she didn’t answer. He asked again. Eve was breathing slowly and deeply but she didn’t seem able to hear him. “Sionead!” he called, trying not to panic. “Can you come here, please?” He stroked Eve’s hair, murmuring words of comfort.

Sionead was there in seconds, and Brograve stepped back to let her get close.

“Can you hear me, Eve?” Sionead asked, speaking clearly in a professional tone. She placed two fingers on the pulse in Eve’s neck.

Eve’s eyelids fluttered and she nodded her head slightly. That meant she was conscious. Thank god! Brograve clutched his face. Ana stopped the tape recorder with a click.

“Can you open your eyes?” Sionead asked.

Eve opened them slowly, as if it took some effort.

“Follow my finger with your eyes,” Sionead instructed, moving her index finger from one side to the other. Brograve watched Eve’s pupils following the movement.

Please don’t let it be another stroke, he prayed. Please, I beg you.

“Now could you smile for me?” Sionead asked, and Eve curled the corners of her mouth.

Brograve didn’t think her face was lopsided, the way it had been in the hospital, but it was hard to be sure. “What do you think?” he asked Sionead, his throat tight with fear.

Sionead didn’t answer him straightaway but asked Eve to raise her left arm. Eve managed to lift it above her head. “Now the right,” Sionead said. It wouldn’t go so far. Eve hadn’t regained full mobility on that side.

“I think she’s just overtired,” Sionead said, looking him in the eye. She clearly had more to say but didn’t want to alarm Eve. “Let’s get her to bed for a rest.”

Brograve slipped an arm around Eve’s waist on one side while Sionead supported the other side and between them they helped her to her feet. She was astonishingly light, like a child—always had been. They walked her slowly to the bedroom and Sionead pulled back the covers, then they laid her down and tucked her in.

“Should I call a doctor?” Brograve asked, under his breath.

“Can’t do any harm,” Sionead said. “But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

Brograve walked through to the hall telephone. His legs were trembling as he dialed the number so he sat down on the chair. The receptionist promised that a doctor would drop by on his round that afternoon and he felt close to tears with gratitude.

There was a sound from the sitting room, and Ana Mansour appeared in the doorway, clutching her tape recorder. He was startled. Why was she still there? What had she been doing while they were putting Eve to bed?

“I’m so sorry your wife is unwell,” she said, touching his arm. “I hope it’s nothing serious. Might I telephone tomorrow to ask after her?”

Brograve nodded.

“You seem shocked. Is there anything I can do?” Ana asked. “Shall I make you a cup of sweet tea?”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head, wanting her gone. “Thank you.”

He stood to help her on with her overcoat, then ushered her out of the flat, leaning his forehead against the wooden doorframe as he listened to the clanking sound of the lift approaching. The old grandfather clock that had belonged to his great-grandparents gave a mechanical click as it reached the hour, then the gong rang out, muffled and doleful.