The Tutankhamen Friendship

By Sharon Janet Hague

When he learned Tutankhamen was real …

.. he started to trust the archaeologist.

But was Lord Carnarvon prepared for an ancient curse?

 

Carnarvon has three problems, a weak heart, the angry excavator Howard Carter, and dwindling funds.

There are occult forces at work.

He and Carter must learn to fight their powers.

What they didn't expect was the media. With the curse of an ancient pharaoh still lying in his tomb, the pair must find a team to remove the gold before it's too late.

The clock ticks.

 

You'll love this YA historical fiction because it has the perfect mix of adventure and mystery to keep you turning the pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharon Janet Hague
• Release date: Jan 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9780995132214

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The Tutankhamen Friendship, copyright © Sharon Janet Hague

2019. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, who are not the historical characters on which they are based, either living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Cathy Helms, Avalon Graphics.

www.avalongraphics.org.

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

Published by Kenton House, 2019.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, or re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: 978-0-9951322-1-4

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In memory of

Una Powell

Delicate voice

Angel of blue, divine

It sits pressed between walls of varied hue

Wistful and brave

Murmuring forget me not

Forget ME not

CONTENTS

1              INTRODUCTION

2              PART I

3              PART II

4              PART III

5              PART IV

6              PART V

7              EPILOGUE

MAIN CHARACTERS

Carnarvon Family

George Edward Stanhope Molyneux Herbert - 5th Earl of Carnarvon

Henry Howard Molyneux Herbert Carnarvon - his father

Lady Evelyn Stanhope Carnarvon - his mother

Almina Victoria Maria Alexandra Wombwell - his wife

Lady Evelyn Leonora Almina Herbert - his daughter

Charles Smith - his manservant

Carter Family

Howard Carter - discoverer of Tutankhamen

Samuel Carter - his father

Martha Carter - his mother

William Carter - his brother

Verney Carter - his brother

Carter’s friends and colleagues

Mohammed Saad - his friend and foreman

Percy Newberry - Egyptologist, team leader

Sir William Flinders Petrie - Egyptologist, tutor

Henri Édouard Naville - Egyptologist, team leader

Tutankhamen Team

Arthur Callender - engineer and excavator

Arthur Mace - Egyptologist and cousin of Petrie

Alfred Lucas - chemist and conservator

Harry Burton - photographer

Others

Oscar Rousseau - a Frenchman

William Tyssen-Amherst - 1st Baron Amherst of Hackney

Sir Gaston Camille Charles Maspero - Director General for Antiquities for the Egyptian government

Pierre Lacau - his successor

Introduction

RUN!

Slithering over mounds of tafla, a hundred vexed cobras raised their hoods. Dropping his spade, Carter fled.

Snakes! he gasped.

Leaping their excavation trench, the fifth earl of Carnarvon tripped over a pottery sherd protruding from a hollow, and promptly fell headfirst into a gravel heap. Scrambling to his feet with amazing speed, he caught up with the archaeologist, now perched in a dangerously swaying palm.

Up here! Quick!

Hopping out of an angry reptile’s way, Carnarvon grasped a coarse, feathery palm trunk, and nimbly shinned up to his friend.

"Yela!"

A man in a blue galabia, wearing a white turban, streaked past. Thirty men in pantaloons and waistcoats, wielding mattocks, followed. Suddenly, the blue-robed foreman was shaking the palm with its protesting tenants.

Get out! They’re coming.

The earl shot Carter a quizzical look.

What? More than before?

We better do what Mohammed says. Breathlessly, the two slid to the ground. To the left. The snakes will follow the farmers’ vibrations.

"Don’t we have vibrations?"

There are only two of us.

The pair leapt in the air as four mindless cobras flashed past their knees. Without stopping to wonder why the creatures barely paused to acknowledge their existence, Carter and Carnarvon tumbled through a cabbage field, slid down a muddy bank and ran into the middle of a paved road.

I think it’s safe to conclude Tutankhamen is not in the Delta.

Bent double, his lordship clutched both knees.

Please God, I hope not!

***

Arching thick, bushy brows, Herbert Winlock listened. Removing a pipe from between neat moustaches, he fixed his guest with a piercing look.

Are you sure that’s what happened, Oscar?

"Cross my heart and hope to die, monsieur."

Regarding the lean Frenchman in his trilby and tailored pants, the balding Harvard man wondered. It was outrageous of course.

Carnarvon has a weak heart.

Your friends have abandoned their mission due to snakes in the Delta. Casually the visitor lit a filter and unapologetically blew smoke rings. "It’s a good story, non?"

Winlock sighed.

We have a brilliant archaeologist, a wealthy patron and nowhere to dig. What am I to tell the Met?

The Metropolitan Museum should be backing its own.

Theodore Davis’ methods leave much to be desired. We need someone else.

"And what to do about the license, mon cherie?"

It was Oscar’s turn to gaze at Winlock. The American realised an uncomfortable sensation choking off his air.

I can’t very well murder Davis in his sleep.

Relaxing short legs, encased in khaki jodhpurs, the academic thoughtfully rapped his knuckles against the armrests of his chair.

I wonder how it all started, Oscar smiled. What they were like as children.

I find it hard to imagine Carter and Carnarvon as anything other than adults in their matching Savile Row suits.

I remember Carnarvon.

***

PART I

1.

A child in uniform, grey cap slipping over his red eyes, stood miserably by the balustrade of Highclere Castle.

How was your first day, sire?

The boy remained mute. Holding out two fingers, the butler allowed the little one to clutch tight while he led him to a wall. Disregarding the rule, stating aristocrats were not to be touched, Charles swung the waif-like poppet onto the stone ledge, and hoisted himself up afterwards. In his regulation blazer, hat, shorts, and wrinkled socks, George appeared tinier than usual. Removing an outsize school cap, Charles patted the curly, blond head. Taking out a barley twist from his pocket, he handed it over with a flourish.

Am I allowed?

It’s mandatory, sire. Celebration of your first day.

Is this what it’s g-going to be like? Doing th-things I don’t want to do? F-f-fulfilling my d-duty.

Stop stammering. You’re going to be the next earl, Porchy. We all have duties.

Is that why you gave me this twist? Because it’s your duty?

Mine is to wait upon the lord and lady of Highclere, polish cutlery, and attend to ever-increasing piles of luggage in his lordship’s peripatetic existence. Sitting on a wall, eating barley twists with his son is not in my job description.

Numbly, George sucked his orange candy.

They’re going to bully me.

The boys at school?

Uh huh.

Then you must resist.

From beneath his coat the butler flexed broad shoulders. Sighing, George took the sweet out of his mouth and slumped forward, kicking his legs against the wall.

I got two out of ten for arithmetic, and failed spelling. I couldn’t read the letters on the blackboard.

What do you like doing?

Running.

There must be races at school. Enter them. Swinging the anxious child up in his arms, Charles whirled him onto the white gravel. Taking him confidently by the hand, he led him upstairs to his room. Nobody’s going to bully you, Porchy. You run every race you can, and don’t hesitate to use your fists.

Mother says I should turn the other cheek.

Her ladyship is speaking metaphorically. If someone hits you in the playground you are to hit back twice as hard so he never does it again. Is that understood? Round eyes regarded the butler with awe. There is no need to vouchsafe this to Lady Carnarvon. Women have delicate temperaments and must be guarded from the world of us men. And don’t forget, Nan is taking you to London this weekend.

George picked up his afternoon clothes which were laid out on his bed. Deep in thought, he made his way to the bathtub filled with soapsuds and warm water.

***

It was springtime in London. Budding oaks and lime trees waved their branches merrily in chilly gusts of wind. The main thing, Samuel Carter reminded himself, as he strode up the stairs of a wealthy Victorian establishment, was the sun was shining and he did not carry an umbrella. This meant his first impression would increase the commission by fifteen per cent. Ringing the doorbell, he gave thanks for the clement day. His wife, Martha was expecting their eleventh child. It would probably be a boy. The couple had only one daughter.

The footman answered and ushered the painter into a drawing room. Samuel noted the high ceilings and heavy brocade drapes. He would use the room as a background for his latest work, which included a cat in an elegant setting. Descended from generations of gamekeepers, Samuel Carter made his living from pet portraiture. Highly thought of, he was able to turn paintings and pounds over with aplomb, which left many aspiring artists starving in garrets while he lived comfortably in South Kensington. All his sons were artists in training. William, he reflected, was mastering human portraiture.

The lord of the manor greeted him, the setting was discussed, and a handsome deposit advanced in cash. Towards noon a carriage picked up the artist and delivered him to his address at Rich Terrace. Giving no hint of concern, Samuel entered the parlour. His friend, Edward Smith from the Illustrated News, genially greeted him as he had on many similar occasions. Women bustled to and fro, running between the upstairs master bedroom and kitchen. Carrying pots of hot water and rags, they prepared for the imminent arrival of the latest infant. Samuel put down his satchel.

Three of my boys have already died.

This one won’t. Besides, if he’s sickly you can always pack him off to your sisters. Fanny and Catherine don’t have any children and the country air is cleaner than here.

Samuel smiled for the first time in his hectic day. Approaching an oak cabinet, he pulled out a decanter kept for special occasions.

Port?

***

The weekend came round quicker than the boy imagined. Soon he was standing on a London pavement in front of a house with his nanny. Supposedly a museum, George did not wish to contradict his elders, but thought the building looked more like a flat. Nevertheless, it was a warm spring Saturday morning, and he was standing next to his beloved nanny in the queue. Maybe they were going to meet the owner of a collection. That must be it. Self-consciously, the boy brushed back his hair with one hand. But then, his nanny handed tickets over to a man who tore them in half. The boy stepped into the home and was met with the most extraordinary sight. Hundreds of busts, sculptures and paintings were crammed into the available space. Overflowing the balconies, they cascaded down banisters and peeped out of nooks and crannies.

It looks like a granny’s attic!

A very rich one, Porchy.

Crammed with treasures the tiny house overflowed with relics from every period in history. Or so it seemed to George. Downstairs he wandered, or rather bumped, into a chaos of artefacts. A nearby attendant indicated to the boy’s left. Then he saw it. Seti’s sarcophagus. Balanced on four Roman columns and hollowed from a single block of calcite, it stood apart from the entire collection.

There’s a lady inside! the boy exclaimed, looking at the goddess carved into the bottom of the sarcophagus.

And writing on the sides. Can you read it?

The boy inspected the marks.

It’s not writing, it’s people!

A museum attendant moved towards the pair.

"The scenes are from The Book of Gates," he explained.

The boy stood back, awestruck. In an instant he knew his life had changed. Standing in the house, crammed with artefacts from a bygone collector, Porchy felt transported into a new world. It was as if he was floating above the sarcophagus, which was now so much more than a piece of beautiful alabaster. No other treasure, either Greek or Roman in the vast array of objects, could lure him away. He stared at the stone coffin, trying to remember every line of the ancient craftsman’s chisel. Its translucent beauty captivated his heart. He learned that the stunning piece of Egyptian art had been discovered by an Italian called Giovanni Belzoni. Something filled him with a peace which passed all understanding. George finally pulled his eyes away to look up at his nanny who was smiling down at him.

***

On the 9th of May 1874, a newborn baby was delivered. Serving girls cleared the hot water away and Samuel Carter, who was waiting in the parlour, was notified. Taking a breath, he straightened his tie and, pulling down his crumpled waistcoat, ascended the stairs. At the top he noticed the maids had pulled the drapes open. His wife was sitting up in bed pale but composed. In her arms lay a tiny baby, wrapped in a soft blanket. Relieved, the new father took him gently into his arms. Although he had many children the miracle of new life never failed to move him. He knew from his wife’s drawn face this was to be their last child. Their lives as a couple had been blessed by another son. Deeply moved, Samuel brushed his newborn son’s head softly with bearded lips. Inside, his father’s heart burned with a deep sense of paternal love.

Welcome to the world, Howard.

Gently returning the child to the hovering midwife, he settled next to his wife on their bed. Martha had already fallen into the deep sleep of exhaustion. Taking her hand in his Samuel prayed his thanks for their child. Then he rose. Pulling down his waistcoat, he closed the door gently and retired to the parlour for a drink with his friend. Noticing the new father’s pallor Edward offered him a cigarette.

Mother and child doing well?

Samuel inhaled. Not given to smoking cigarettes, he glanced at the white cylinder for a moment, wondering at its intensity, so different from the pipe he occasionally puffed of an evening. Then, the nicotine, combined with the warmth of the port, hit his brain. Gratefully, he nodded. Both men sat in silence. After the initial relief Samuel took a breath and cleared his throat.

I heard the boy’s lungs rattle.

On the mantelpiece a clock ticked loudly.

***

Over the next few weeks George discovered the story of Seti’s sarcophagus. Like Christians, ancient Egyptians had a view of another side filled with obstacles and demons. But in Egyptian art everything was detailed in clean and beautiful lines. Whereas Bosch made George shudder with his depictions of lost souls roasting in hell, the Egyptian afterlife was detailed and orderly. And there was always hope. Egyptians believed they could live forever in a beautiful heaven. Their art was colourful, too, very much like children’s illustrations. If only there was a children’s book on Egypt, the boy thought wistfully as he grappled with turgid texts and diagrams. One day he decided there was nothing for it.

Do you think I could be an archaeologist when I grow up?

Lord Henry Carnarvon was in the middle of attacking a pheasant with his silver knife and fork. Charles, who was ladling gravy, paused before quickly resuming his duties.

George, don’t speak at the dinner table, his mother chided.

I don’t see why not. His father wiped his lips with a crisp white cloth napkin. Perhaps the park?

I wish you wouldn’t encourage the boy. Our son is going to be dreadfully ill-mannered one day.

If we didn’t speak up there would be no Parliament.

There’s more to life than politics, Henry.

Indeed there is, Evelyn. Like wives minding their place.

George thought he detected a glint in his father’s eye, but thought it too far-fetched to imagine his father had actually winked at him. Keeping his head down, so as not to confront his mother’s annoyance, the boy focused on his peas. He hated vegetables of any kind, but inside his heart was racing. It was going to happen. Despite the predictably dull future of Eton and Cambridge, he was going to do something he enjoyed. Digging into his greens with gusto George surprised his mother by cleaning his plate.

***

As Samuel feared, his youngest son had a delicate constitution. Little Howard was sent to his maiden aunts in Swaffham. While other children went to school, he played games in the house by himself, and went for walks in the surrounding fields. It was there he spotted and fell in love with the natural wildlife, including birds, which he loved best of all. Preferring his own company, Howard would spend hours watching them flying, building their nests and eating the bread he left on the ground.

At nightfall he dined with his doting aunts and listened to them read the Bible. Although the boy did not take to the notion of turning the other cheek, he admired the strength of the Saviour. While his aunts referred to Jesus as gentle, Howard detected a completely different man rising up from the pages of their King James Bible. The man he saw rebuked priests and lawyers with vitriol, healed the sick and even raised the dead with power and authority. In Howard’s mind, as he lay down to sleep, the picture of a muscular man of action strode through the New Testament. Not that the child was particularly religious. He was more interested in the world around him, but he never told his aunts. Howard was a respectful Victorian child, who minded his manners and did not speak unless he was spoken to by adults.

As he grew, the boy’s health improved and eventually, he attended school which allowed him to mix with other children. At weekends he sometimes spent time with his family. His father and siblings were always painting and sketching. Samuel, in particular, with his impressive beard, could draw perfectly from memory. Soon, Howard was picking up the paintbrush and discovered it was something he could do while bird watching on the moors.

After one home visit Howard created a daily routine. In the mornings he gobbled his breakfast, to the consternation of his aunts who cared about his digestion, and hurried out to the surrounding countryside to sketch. With his drawing and painting came another burden for Fanny and Catherine, who now had the added task of ensuring Howard was warmly dressed. More than once the stubborn boy eluded their care and came down with chills and fever. For the most part, however, he was healthy and both Howard’s aunts and parents were pleased with his progress.

***

2.

Excitement fluttered in George’s stomach. The archaeologists staked out an oblong of grass. Sheep with black faces and feet, munched doggedly, ignoring the humans around them. The park had always been big, but today George realised just how much terrain his family owned. The leader licked his pencil and made some notes. Giving directions he divided the group of twenty into groups and assigned them to their tasks.

Here’s a trowel, your lordship. You’re with Thomas.

A tall man stuck a long spade into the earth, pushed down on it with one gumboot and began digging. Gradually, a neat earthen square, with ancient foundations arose from where there had once only been grass. The sheep took no notice and continued to chew.

Over the weeks George became accustomed to the sight of bones emerging from the ground as they discovered early man.

What have you got there? an Etonian type asked one morning.

Arrowhead. Bronze Age.

Good chap. You’re getting to be a dab hand at this, Lord Porchester.

The boy beamed and carefully placed it on a piece of canvas with the rest of the relics. Stretching upright, his eyes scanned the fields. A Roman settlement had existed here atop of a much earlier one. While many children dug holes in gardens and made mud pies, George was unearthing Britain’s past. Maybe one day he would even find the Holy Grail. At four o’clock he made his way back indoors. Henry removed the pipe from his moustaches and waved from the living room.

Made any discoveries?

Oh yes, Papa!

Jolly good. Tea’s waiting. See you in a bit.

Upstairs George washed up. Raking a comb through wet hair he threw on clean shirt and slacks and trotted downstairs. Despite his father’s fiercesome moustaches, the boy could not wait to see him. In a time when children were to be seen and not heard, Henry had a relationship with his heir. After tea and scones, the pater ushered George into his study where they discussed classics. Having taken a first at Oxford in the literae humaniores, Henry was a font of knowledge and his son listened eagerly, absorbing all he could. This afternoon was no different.

What do you make of this? the elder Carnarvon asked, pointing to a vase.

Greek - fourth century B.C.

Etruscan. But it looks Graeco-Roman. And this?

Roman. A bust of Julius Caesar.

Excellent. You’ll be wanting to go to Eton, so a good grounding in the classics is necessary.

The child listened attentively. As much as he adored his father, he knew that it was not just the book learning that fascinated him, but the adventure. Back in his room he tugged open the thick drapes and climbed into bed. Watching the clouds scudding across the moon, George dreamed of sailing away. The sea, he reflected, must look very much like the darkened pastures below his room. One day he might take a trip across the ocean to see the world. Thinking on his adventures yet to come, he fell asleep.

***

Ducks rotated lazily on a pond at Didlington Hall. Brick masonry encompassed the water in its tight hug. Samuel Carter held Howard by the hand. He had been talking all morning with the nice gentleman in a long frock coat, clean shaven face and limpid blue eyes.

William Amherst bent forward, windswept dark hair framing his kind expression.

Scone, Howard?

The five-year-old, clad in a Victorian pant suit with full starched lace collar, looked up at his father.

You may have one. Say thank you.

Swallowing hard and trying not to drop crumbs, the child attended to his manners, but could not take his eyes off the man in front of him. So polite and informal, he didn’t give a toss whether his guest showed gratitude, ate one scone, or ten!

Later, small leather shoes with bright, oversize buckles clacked merrily through rooms filled with paintings, priceless Persian carpets, lampstands and warm oak furniture.

Is that a Gainsborough?

Silence fell over the group. Howard put down his finger remembering Aunt Kate thought it rude to point. Judging by his father’s expression her brother shared the same view.

He recognised the artist, Samuel. Amherst’s hair flopped over his excited face. Do you like his broken brushstroke?

Nodding eagerly, the child only knew he was keen to do anything to please this man, who was so much younger and more modern than his own father.

I do believe your son understands his method.

He paints a bit.

My Mary paints, their host blushed.

She’s bound to have talent.

Is Mary your daughter?

Howard never spoke. Now he was doing it twice.

She is - a little older than you.

She must be very pretty.

That’s enough, Howard.

It’s quite alright. William patted the boy’s shoulder. You must be bored to death with us jabbering all afternoon. He consulted his pocket watch. Three hours. My girls couldn’t keep quiet for three minutes! You’ll have to meet them on your next tour. Without waiting for an answer, he led the party into the living room to discuss Samuel Carter’s commission.

***

He’s taken a shine to you, my boy, Samuel said as the pair approached their Kensington home. We’re invited next Sunday after church.

I’m sorry I spoke.

Aunt Kate isn’t always right. Ruffling his son’s hair, the artist smiled. Run along to the parlour. Tea’s ready.

A young arrogant face, atop a lean frame, stood on the stairwell.

Here comes the pampered little lord.

Since you’re made of sterner stuff Verney, you may say grace. Now, get into the parlour before tea gets cold.

The Carters crammed into the tiny space with a kindly looking lady Howard knew as his mother. Unlike his home with Fanny and Catherine, the child was now overwhelmed by a mass of humanity at every mealtime. On his best behaviour, he blended in and tried not to cause waves. Generally, his brothers were kind, although