Valley of the Kings by Cecelia Holland Page B

we appeared before they did any digging, and so when Carnarvon and I approached, the site was invisible. This part of the valley looked no different than any other, its honey-colored stone walls capped by the brassy blue archway of the sky. To the left was Tomb Number 55, with a little cairn of blue mineral-water bottles beside it. Directly before us as we approached, the gaping door to the tomb of Rameses VI opened in the cliff.
    The American photographer was there, burdened with cameras. I introduced him to Lord Carnarvon and Lady Evelyn. The American was subdued. In the moment’s polite conversation that ensued, he tried to say “my lord,” but stumbled. Carnarvon was sweeping the area with his gaze.
    â€œWell, Carter?” he said.
    I had taken precise measurements, and while Carnarvon and Evelyn and the crew watched, I paced off the distances from the sides of the valley to the place where we would start digging.
    Then we picked up the shovels.
    It had taken us only a few days to dig it up before, including the long trenching across the floor of the valley. Now, knowing precisely where to dig, removing dirt and stones already loosened, we reached the first step within a matter of a few hours.
    We dug furiously, madly through the day. I stopped a few times, trying to make talk with Carnarvon and his daughter, but the words always dribbled away: after a few moments of awkward socializing we all fell into staring at the hole in the ground, silent again. I kept a watch on the trail down the valley, where my enemies in the department would first appear.
    Just before sunset we cleared the last step. Carnarvon and I went down to the bottom of the staircase to look over the door. I switched on my electric torch; I had never seen the bottom half before, only the top.
    At once I saw that the plaster that had covered the top was different than the plaster on the bottom.
    â€œDamn,” I said. “It’s been opened. Someone’s got into it.”
    Carnarvon crouched down, squinting at the door. Evelyn was behind him; she said, “What? How can you tell?”
    â€œSee, the top half of the door was plastered over again, after the bottom half. And the seals are different.” With my torch I picked out the necropolis seal for her. “This is the regular seal of the necropolis. This—” I stooped to show her the seals at the bottom of the door.
    The light glinted on the plaster. The oblong imprint of the seal was set across the doorframe. At first I thought I was misreading the pictographs in the bad light; they were so familiar that I did not trust my eyes.
    â€œThese are Tutankhamun’s seals,” I said.
    I stood up in the cramped space. Then it was. It really was. All this time, after all this hunting, it was here before me. Carnarvon was smiling wide at me.
    â€œThat’s the fellow we were looking for, wasn’t it?”
    â€œSomeone’s got into it ahead of us,” I said. I raised my head. The patch of sky at the top of the staircase was still blue. A dark head appeared against it, leaning over the head of the trench, its shape distorted in a headcloth.
    Evelyn was saying, “But the ruins on top of it—they were so old—”
    â€œThe robbers got into it just after it was sealed,” I said. “And the priests found out and sealed it again.” I raised my voice. “Ahmed, what?”
    â€œThat man is coming,” Ahmed said. “That man in his motorcar.”
    Conway was here. I swallowed with difficulty. Carnarvon was watching me, smiling.
    â€œWell: congratulations,” he said.
    â€œThere may be nothing left in it. Besides, there’s this fellow.” I started up the staircase.
    â€œWhat fellow?” Carnarvon was coming after me.
    We reached the top of the staircase in time to see the department motorcar chugging to a stop a hundred feet away. The assistant curator burst out of the passenger seat door. His great