and dates with the assurance of someone who has been asked the question dozens of times before. Morbidly, I wondered whether tourists fifty years from now would be discussing the hideous doom that had fallen upon the passengers of the
Everybody went to bed early that night. We were supposed to disembark at six forty-five for our visit to the Valley of the Kings.
III
The group that gathered in the lobby next morning was greatly diminished – only a dozen passengers, plus Alice and Feisal. Oh, and Perry. Sweet and Bright were not among them. John and Mary
I had been tempted to skip the tour too. A hasty glance at the itinerary had reminded me that several of the tombs we were to visit were described as ‘deep.’ I had acquired a violent aversion to tombs in general, never mind ‘deep’ tombs. But when I called Schmidt, hoping against hope he would be suffering from tummy trouble, he informed me he was on his way to breakfast and demanded I hurry up. So I hurried. Schmidt was determined to go ashore and I couldn’t let him go alone.
Before I left my room I collected the reels of tape and locked them in my safe.
The itinerary had reminded me of something else I had forgotten – the lay of the land. The modern city of Luxor is on the east bank of the Nile. The Valley of the Kings and the other ancient cemeteries are on the west bank. The boat had landed us on the west bank. It would then cross the river and moor, along with the other tourist steamers, and we would take the ferry across to rejoin the others in time for lunch. That meant I’d have to wait till afternoon before calling Karl or attempting to locate police headquarters.
The rising sun, behind us as we left the boat, turned the western cliffs an exquisite shade of deep rose. The air was cool and would have been fresh had it not been for a couple of dozen tour buses belching out pollution.
Feisal shepherded us towards one of them. As we stood in line waiting to climb on, I managed to draw Alice aside.
‘I’ve decided to resign,’ I muttered.
‘I’m about to.’
I asked how.
‘Someone will contact me this afternoon. Luxor Temple. I’m going to stamp my little foot and demand – ’ She broke off. The others had boarded the bus and Feisal was gesturing at us.
Schmidt had saved me a seat. He insisted I take the one next to the window so I could see the sights, which he described in a loud voice as we drove on. The man’s memory was absolutely astonishing. By his own admission he hadn’t been in Egypt for ten years, but he hadn’t forgotten a thing.
The drive took about fifteen minutes, through the cultivated fields and across the barren desert. We were headed straight for the cliffs. Then a cleft opened up; the road curved and passed through, into the desolate valley where for centuries the kings of the empire had been buried. Schmidt rumbled on, spouting statistics and historical data.
Louisa, brooding among her veils, was sitting across the aisle. She interrupted Schmidt’s lecture to say, ‘What of the tomb of the great queen Nefertari?’
‘No, no, that is not on today’s tour,’ Schmidt explained tolerantly. ‘It is in the Valley of the Queens, so called. Now this,’ he went on, without drawing breath, ‘this has changed since my last visit. The new parking place is some distance from the tombs, which is a very good thing since the buses caused much damage. This tram on which we will ride the rest of the way is electric . . .’
I wondered what the place looked like when tourism was at its height. It was bad enough now – a dozen buses, hundreds of people. As we got off the tram and trudged along a dusty path following Feisal, Schmidt said, in the loud mumble he thinks is a whisper, ‘How is with you, Vicky? Will it be too difficult, descending into the depths of – ’
‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have come if I couldn’t handle it.’
My sharp tone didn’t offend him. Nodding sympathetically, he took my arm. ‘I will be next to you at all times. There will be bright lights, many people.’
The first tomb was the easiest; it was also the one I didn’t want to miss. Tutankhamon’s tomb had been closed to tourists in the past. Like most of the others in the Valley, its wall paintings were deteriorating.
In itself the small tomb was relatively unimpressive. Unlike the long complex structures designed for royal burials, this one had only a flight of stairs and a single corridor, with a few rooms at its end. The accepted theory was that Tutankhamon had died suddenly at the age of eighteen, before he had had time to prepare his tomb, so it had been necessary to take over a tomb previously constructed for a non-royal person.
‘Murder,’ said Feisal in a sepulchral voice, as we gathered around him. ‘Was that how the young king died? The fracture of his skull might have been the result of a fatal accident, but he had many enemies and no heirs.’
The great stone box of the sarcophagus stood in the middle of the room. Tut’s mummy still lay there, decently hidden; it had been in ruinous condition. His golden coffins were now in the Cairo Museum. Involuntarily I looked at John, who was contemplating the sarcophagus with a look of pensive interest. Surely not even he would try . . . One of the damned coffins was of solid 22-carat gold, weighing almost three hundred pounds. You’d need a block and tackle just to lift the thing. But there were hundreds of other objects, all easily portable, that would be worth his time and trouble. The four small rooms of the tomb had been stuffed with objects of artistic and historic value.
They were empty now, except for the sarcophagus and the poor, battered bones of the boy himself. Eighteen years old, childless, possibly murdered . . . Schmidt pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He’s disgustingly sentimental.
We retraced our steps – twenty-five paces, I’d counted them – along the passage and up the stairs – sixteen of them, I’d counted them too. But it hadn’t bothered me. Not with lights all along the way and Schmidt snuffling sentimentally beside me. After we had emerged into daylight the custodian swung the doors shut and locked them, to the audible annoyance of several loose tourists hanging around in the hope of getting in. The tomb must be officially closed. In this, as in other ways, our group had been favoured.
Schmidt started fussing at me again when we reached the next of the tombs on our list, that of Amenhotep II. It was one of the ones the guidebook had described as ‘deep,’ and Schmidt kept insisting I ought not attempt it. He was talking loudly, as usual, and if there was anyone in the group who hadn’t known about my phobia, they knew now.
‘Don’t be silly, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Down, down, down we went, and if you think I wasn’t counting you are dead wrong. The stairs led down, all the corridors sloped down, and just when I thought we had reached the bottom there was another flight of stairs – leading down, in case you are wondering – and another downward-sloping passage. The square pillars in the last room were painted and inscribed. That’s about all I remember. I was too busy keeping an expession of insouciant calm on my face.
Other sources of discomfort aside, it was hot and close and very dusty down in the depths. By the time we started back up, Schmidt’s face was bright red and I didn’t like the way he was panting. Slowing my steps to match his, stopping frequently to rest, I forgot my own qualms in concern for him. I knew he’d never admit weakness and I could have kicked Feisal when he said solicitously, ‘Perhaps, Herr Doktor, you had better go to the rest house and have a cool drink instead of attempting the next tomb. That of Horemheb is the deepest in the Valley; the air is not good and the heat – ’
Schmidt almost choked in his attempt to stop wheezing. Before he could protest I said, ‘I don’t care what you do, Schmidt, but I’m copping out. Where’s the rest house?’
Everybody voted for the rest house, so we returned to the entrance and got onto one of the cars of the tram. The sun was now high enough to bleach all the colour from the cliffs, turning them a pale tan. Not that there was much colour to begin with – only the clear blue sky overhead and the garish garb of some of the tourists.
Schmidt was on his second lemonade – he wanted beer, but I wouldn’t let him have it – when Larry, with
