Chapter Thirty-Nine

London, March 1973

Patricia took Eve out for an afternoon while Brograve attended a formal lunch at the gentlemen-only Garrick Club. She had managed to get them an appointment with Leonard of Mayfair, hairdresser to the stars. Eve knew he cut the hair of Elizabeth Taylor and Jackie Kennedy, but when she tried to get him to gossip about his celebrity clients, he refused with a smile, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

“Let’s talk about you instead,” he said. “What’s happening in your life?”

Eve found herself telling him about her latest stroke, and about how hard it was to have memory lapses, and, as she talked, Leonard quietly worked miracles. Afterward she wished she had watched his technique instead of chatting away. He cut layers into the hair that had always been so frizzy and wayward, and when he finished it sat effortlessly around her face in a style that made her look years younger. She gasped with delight.

Patricia asked for a sculpted bob, like the signature look Leonard had created for Twiggy. While Eve waited, a young girl filed her nails, painting them a pretty peach color and massaging her hands with hand cream. She felt thoroughly spoiled.

Afterward they went to an Italian restaurant in Shepherd Market for a salad and a glass of champagne. Eve gazed at her daughter, so pretty with her new haircut, and felt grateful that she lived nearby. Mrs. Jarrold’s daughter had emigrated to Australia and tears came to her eyes whenever she mentioned her.

“Dad told me you’ve been talking to an Egyptian academic about Tutankhamun,” Patricia commented. “It’s nice they still want your knowledge after all these years.”

“I know,” Eve replied. “I think they’re trying to make sure I tell them everything before I kick the bucket.”

“Mum!” Patricia tutted dismissively, but it was true.

“She wants me to find that gold container with the smelly unguent inside, the one that came from the tomb. Do you remember it?”

“How could I forget?” Patricia exclaimed. “I was traumatized that time you dragged me into the bathroom and washed my hair in cold water and soap just because I had touched the damn thing.”

“Was it cold?” Eve made a face. “I’m sorry.”

“You totally overreacted and scared the life out of me.” Patricia sipped her champagne. “Thinking back, that container must be valuable. From the weight of it, I reckon it was solid gold.”

“Any idea where it might be?” Eve asked.

Her daughter shrugged. “I haven’t seen it since the day of the hair-washing trauma. Didn’t you think it might be cursed? I remember you muttering something to that effect.”

“Of course not!” Eve shook her head for emphasis. “But you never know what the Egyptians put in those unguents. It could have burned your skin.”

She felt ashamed, thinking back, but she’d done what mothers do—protected her child from possible danger. That instinct to keep Patricia from harm was as strong as ever, even now that she was in her forties. There had been four car bombs in London the previous month, planted by the IRA, and she had been unable to think or speak until she got Patricia on the phone and knew that she, Michael, and her grandsons were safe.

* * *

Eve was ringing Ana Mansour regularly now. She was curious about this woman with whom she shared a love of archaeology, and enjoyed hearing about her life. It was rare to make a new friend at her age, especially with the sheltered life she and Brograve were living while she recuperated. One day she asked about the discovery of the Lighthouse of Alexandria, and Ana told her that exploration was an exception in that it had been led by a woman, Honor Frost.

“I’m not a diver,” Ana said, “so I wasn’t down there on the seabed when she identified parts of the ruins in the eastern harbor. It wasn’t a dramatic moment in the way the opening of Tutankhamun’s tomb was—rather, it was the result of forensic examination over a period of months, and lots of cross-checking with existing records, which is where I came in. But I was thrilled to be part of it, of course.” She laughed. “Not nearly as thrilled as when I managed to meet you.”

“I’ve been wondering how you tracked me down,” Eve said. “It can’t have been easy.”

“On the contrary,” Ana replied. “I saw your interview in The Times after the British Museum exhibition opened, so I knew your married name, and then I found your Framfield address in Who’s Who.”

Eve was puzzled. What interview? What exhibition? “Is the exhibition still on?” she asked, testing the water.

“No, it closed in December, but it was the most popular exhibition in their history. Over a million people came to see it. Tutankhamun clearly still has the power to draw a crowd.”

There had been a Tutankhamun exhibition in London? “I wish I’d seen it,” Eve said.

There was a long pause. “You did,” Ana said. “You were at the opening ceremony, with the Queen. That’s when the Times journalist interviewed you and loads of papers ran your photograph, posing alongside the funeral mask.”

“Really? What year was that?”

“Last year. March 1972.”

Eve sighed. Her stupid memory. “I expect I’ve got the article in my cuttings book,” she said, then she cast around for a way to change the subject, embarrassed by her lapse. “How are your children? Have you spoken to them recently?”

“No.” Ana sounded forlorn. “My husband’s mother has asked me not to telephone or write to them anymore. She said it’s upsetting for them.”

“What?” Eve was horrified. “She can’t do that! Children need their mothers. Can’t your husband have a word?”

There was a pause. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Eve heard her strike a match. She’d always liked the smell of matches. Was it sulfur? She couldn’t remember.

“My husband and I are divorced,” Ana said. “I didn’t plan to tell you because lots of people don’t approve of divorce, but I feel as though I can confide in you.”

“Of course you can!” Eve exclaimed. “Gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“He got custody of the children and took them to live in his mother’s house so she can raise them while he runs his business.”

“But they’d be far better off with you than their grandma,” Eve protested. “What judge made such a crazy decision?” She didn’t know anyone who was divorced, hadn’t even realized it was possible in a Muslim country.

Ana inhaled her cigarette and blew out before replying. “It’s the way things are in Egypt. If I behave myself I’m allowed to see them from time to time. When I have enough money, I plan to hire a lawyer and fight for more access.”

Eve was scandalized. “I’ve never heard the like! In this country, judges almost always give custody to the mother. It’s the natural way of things. Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear. I wish I could help.”

“Well . . .” Ana took another drag on her cigarette. “I’m hoping you find some of the lost Tutankhamun pieces; then I’ll be able to return to Egypt and press on with my case.”

“Gosh, I hope so,” Eve said. “I’ll do my absolute best. We’re visiting Highclere in the first week of April and I’ll have a look there too.”

Afterward, she couldn’t stop thinking about Ana’s situation. It must be heart-breaking. She considered telling Brograve when he got back from his walk, to see if he knew anyone who might be able to help, but something stopped her. He didn’t have so many contacts in government since he’d retired, and besides, she had a feeling he wouldn’t approve of her telephone conversations with Ana.

Instead she went to look in her cuttings book, which was in the cupboard in Sionead’s old room, empty now that she had gone to live with some other people. The Times interview Ana had spoken of was at the back of the book.

The first thing Eve noticed was that the photo they’d used wasn’t too bad. Her hair had behaved itself for a change, and the suit she’d chosen showed off her trim figure. They had printed some lovely old pictures of her, Pups, and Howard Carter standing outside the tomb. Harry Burton must have taken them.

She had a pang of missing Pups. She’d never stopped missing him but sometimes it came back with a sudden intensity. Spiritualists would probably say his spirit was visiting her at those times. It was a nice thought.

The director of the British Museum was in one of the photos, and Eve remembered his face. He looked nice. Might she have given him the gold container for his exhibition? That would have been a logical thing to do . . . But if she had, Brograve would know about it, so that couldn’t be right. Funny that Patricia remembered her thinking it was cursed.

She left the cuttings book out on the spare bed, open to the page, planning to read the article later, but then she forgot and when she next came to look for it, it was gone. It was infuriating the way she kept losing things these days, as if objects in their flat had a life of their own. She rearranged the ornaments one day and the next they were all in the wrong places again. Maybe Mrs. Jarrold was moving them. That must be it.