The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [127]
I headed back to Carter’s site, as I was now prepared to execute a rather brilliant plan to settle my expedition’s financial crisis. There in the sand I found the Earl of Carnarvon and two natives standing over Lady Evelyn, who was having a go with a brush and a small, ladylike shovel. With a titter of surprise, she stood up holding a shard of pottery. Honestly, you just have to bend over and kick at the dirt around there to find something.
I left them to their fun. Carter’s command tent was an interesting, if gaudy, sight, a nice effect, I suppose, if you have confused yourself with Caesar. The handsome Lett’s #46 diary seems to be his calendar/log of choice, and tomorrow seems to be the official opening of Tut’s tomb. Quite a guest list, including me, of course.
Back outside, I fell into conversation with one of the many journalists lingering about the site, confused. I stood with him at the balustrade directly above the pit (such vanities! Tourist-restraining balustrades!), and I was helping him understand what he was seeing, the procedures, and helping him place Carter’s discovery in historical context for his newspaper article—those excavations that outshone it in the past, those that were still expected, Tut’s relative obscurity and unimportance in Egyptian history. His affected manner of journalistic integrity was to treat everything he was told as if it were a lie. Helping the illiterate with his spelling, I overheard directly below me a conversation between Carter, Carnarvon, and some other Englishman. Carter was saying: “In light of the discovery and its magnitude, and in light of His Lordship’s selfless commitment and that of his family over the years, I believe the Government should consider recompensing His Lordship for—”
“Tut’s a minor king? Why all the gold and treasure then?” demands the infantile journalist, snatching at my attention.
But the gist was clear: repaid for his six years’ wager on Carter’s slow work, His Lordship will be looking to reinvest in a new expedition. I had confirmation of my plan’s premises. I shall haul my expedition’s finances out of their dreary state, and at the same time—not wishing to burn any bridges with my father-in-law-to-be—push CCF to see the value of the work he is endangering with his jackal-hearted miserdom.
On the necessity of human emotion in scientific research: This is a simple story, and if I choose to include it in the finished book, it will be with Lord Carnarvon’s kind, condescending approval and CCF’s sheepish, after-the-fact amusement, no question. Everyone will look good, except perhaps Carter, who is becoming insufferable since his little stroke of luck.
When Carnarvon was left with a cup of tea trying to look involved or educated, vacantly examining the lintel at the bottom of the stairs, I made my excuses to the ink-stained pressboy and called His Lordship’s name. He climbed up to the viewers’ gallery in his halting fashion. “I really shouldn’t grant interviews, this is Mr. Carter’s accomplishment, pure and simple,” he began amiably, mugging like a circus clown.
I reminded His Daffiness that we had met yesterday. He is really a marvellous example of the English peerage.
“Of course, of course, the fellow with the dirty king. Well, I do like the hat, sir,” he says. “Rather more casual in my day, when I did a spot of this. All you digging chaps do dress to the nines nowadays.”
“Yes, the old homburg. Sets an example of composure for the natives.”
“Are you the banker, sir?” interrupts the journalist I had left behind, jabbing his pen at Carnarvon.
“Well that’s a new one, I must say,” laughs the jolly lord, and after he repeats his little caveat that it is all Carter’s show, he nevertheless gives a lengthy interview