Chapter Thirty-One
LUXOR, EGYPT
I return to the Winter Palace with far more than I bargained for. My trip to Hatshepsut’s temple had indeed yielded the tour I’d sought. But I also came away with a sense of unease and confusion, which is far less welcome.
What on earth had Mr. Hauser meant by the family business of antiquities dealing? This question haunted me during the barge trip across the Nile, and it continues to haunt me now over dinner with my parents and Howard.
I know that Papa has acquired a wealth of ancient Egyptian artifacts over the years.
In fact, I’ve heard it described as the best private collection in the world.
Elegant necklaces and bracelets from Queen Tiye’s tomb.
A striking electrum statue. A faience chalice and accompanying pieces.
A four-thousand-year-old bronze mirror. Alabaster vases and stone animals. A gold statue of the god Amun.
Growing up, I’d always assumed that the bulk of his objects originated from his own excavations.
Certainly the items from Queen Tiye’s tomb had, as had the alabaster vases with the ibex handles from last year’s dig.
But as I’d helped my father catalogue his artifacts this past year—with a greater understanding of the breadth and nature of his past excavations—I realized not every object came from one of his digs and I began to wonder.
Had Howard procured those other artifacts for him?
Where had he gotten them? Was he allowed to do so?
Even if Howard had legitimately arranged for some of Papa’s prizes, why would he be sourcing antiquities for anyone other than his patron?
And why would the Metropolitan Museum archaeologists think my father was engaged in such activities?
Is it because they assume Howard wouldn’t act without Papa’s say-so?
I think back to Mr. Carter’s comments over the years about the market for ancient Egyptian objects, and my head spins.
My thoughts are in a muddle, and I realize how little I know.
“Cat got your tongue, Eve?” Papa asks with a gleam in his eye.
He’s been in high spirits ever since his meeting with the soldiers today, and I wonder what’s happened to change his mood.
Since we arrived in Egypt, he’s been irascible, and even the thrill of the chase for a Valley of the Kings tomb hasn’t alleviated that mood. Until now.
“Oh, Porchey, you know how I hate when you use slang,” Mama says, sipping her drink.
“No, Papa, just thinking about the site,” I answer, ignoring Mama. This is true. The site is part and parcel of my musings. I’ve been thoughtful since returning from the temple, smoothing my scarab on my lap. As if it could grant me insights.
“I promise we’ll get to digging tomorrow, Lady Evelyn,” Howard adds, using my formal name in the presence of my parents.
“I would like that. There was a ridge that looks promising,” I say.
Howard’s usually impassive expression grows a bit more animated. “I noticed it as well. Could be a step or a threshold.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I blurt out, delighted that my intuition was the same as his.
Nodding, he answers me, but I cannot hear what he’s saying. The band is playing a tune, and a swell of violins and horns fills the soaring two-story space. The singer belts out lyrics from “Avalon”:
And as the night is falling
I find that I’m recalling
That blissful all-enthralling day …
The singer is no Al Jolson—no one could croon “Avalon” as well—but he sings with feeling. Without thinking, I begin to tap my foot out of habit. Not because the music moves me, but because my mind still churns with the words of Mr. Hauser. My mother perceives it otherwise.
“Howard, why don’t you and Eve take a turn around the dance floor?” Mama orders rather than asks.
“Oh. I couldn’t, ma’am.” Howard begs off.
Mama retorts. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
Howard can hardly refuse now, and neither can I.
Awkward in a dress suit, he stands, adjusts his jacket, and finally offers his hand to me.
We step out onto the ballroom floor, sparsely populated with couples doing the one-step, which naturally makes me think of Lieutenant Beauchamp.
Will I ever get the chance to one-step with him?
“So will we start digging at that ridge tomorrow?” I ask.
“Seems the right spot. Good instinct there, Eve,” he answers, but I can tell his focus is on the dance steps. I wonder when was the last time he ventured onto a dance floor. As far as I know, he’s never been cajoled onto Highclere’s.
I’m curious what Howard thinks about Hatshepsut’s rise, which we’ve discussed in general over the years. Does he share any part of Mr. Winlock’s view? I’ve been musing on it since I left the temple complex—among other questions.
“How do you think Hatshepsut came to power?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot. Especially in those years when I worked at her temple, and I saw all that destruction of her name.
” He slows his dance steps as he speaks.
Howard is even more rusty in the art of conducting conversation while traversing the dance floor.
“I think she was a brilliant woman who used the opportunities presented to her—not unlike you—to try and do some good for her people.”
Had Howard just compared me to Hatshepsut? Knowing him as I do, this is a tremendous compliment. “Thank you, Howard.”
“Welcome,” he grumbles, uncomfortable at being thanked for his kindness. “In any event, I’m hoping we’ll find answers in Hatshepsut’s tomb.”
This moment seems opportune for the other question rattling around my mind. Do I dare ask it? I’m not entirely positive I want to know the answer.
I push past my reluctance. “What happens if we find something?” I ask.
“If that ridge is the entryway to an undisturbed tomb, you mean?”
That wasn’t my exact question, but the answer will bring me to the same place, I think. “Yes. What if we find treasures beyond our imagining? Who does all the bounty belong to?”
He pulls back a little to study my face—as if my inquiry is a strange one. “To us, primarily. Your father, I mean. He has paid for the dig, after all. It wouldn’t have happened without him.”
“The Egyptian government won’t try to claim anything? Don’t they have the rights to something? I’ve heard you all speak about partage.”
“Well, artifacts can be removed from Egypt if the Antiquities Department had issued a commission to dig. You know that. And usually partage takes place before those artifacts leave the country—so the government will select some items.”
“So we are permitted to divvy up the spoils? Between us and Egypt?”
He chuckles. “Do you suppose your father would invest so much money and time in these digs—year after year—if he didn’t have the right to take some of the Egyptian artifacts home?”
I chuckle as well, although I don’t feel particularly merry. “I suppose not,” I say, then allow the smile to fade. My voice grows serious. “Does the license allow one to sell artifacts one hasn’t excavated oneself?”
Our bodies move in time with the song, but his face has grown still. “Why do you ask that?”
Have I gone too far? I don’t want to accuse Howard of anything, and I remind myself how patient and kind he’s been all these long years he’s instructed me. I will my voice to stay even and light.
“Just curious. Always a lot of objects around in the markets. I guess I wonder where they all come from.”
“Ah, putting aside the many fakes that have flooded the market, you mean? Because there is an abundance of those out there.”
I nod.
“Well, an archaeologist can sell artifacts obtained through the partage process, if he doesn’t want to keep them.
Anything else you see for sale in the markets is usually dug up by locals without a license, and so is illegally sold.
But the practice is so widespread the authorities generally turn a blind eye to it. ”
I smile at Howard, as if his explanation satisfied my curiosity.
But, in reality, I am more concerned than ever.
Where on earth would he have gotten the early Eighteenth Dynasty toiletry set he tried to sell to the Metropolitan Museum of Art archaeologists?
He certainly hadn’t dug that up on our site; it was no partage.
Had he procured it from a local grave robber?
If so, was he reselling wrongfully procured artifacts, like the souk shops that offer illicit goods or fence antiquities?
Perhaps another archaeologist of Mr. Carter’s acquaintance asked him to sell his properly obtained items on his behalf?
Keeping the innocent smile fixed to my lips, I ask, “Or illegally resold on the local’s behalf?”
“That’s right. It’s really not considered illegal, though.
It’s very commonplace,” he says with a brisk nod, oblivious to my misgivings.
He then leads me around the floor one last time before the song ends.
With an unexpected, wide grin, he adds, “Now, let’s hope tomorrow gets us one step closer to finding that treasure you’re so worried about keeping. ”
“Hatshepsut’s treasure?”
“Hatshepsut’s treasure.”