Tutankhamun Uncovered by Michael J Marfleet

ARCHIVE’.
    Francis Griffith, just twenty-eight years old, was a curator of the museum and a senior officer of the Egypt Exploration Fund, not unimportant in his field and well known to Howard Carter even though hitherto they had not met.
    The curator was just inside the door and apparently in the act of leaving. Lady Amherst, being in the act of entering, came upon him face to face. Startled by their close encounter they each retreated a short distance. Her ladyship announced herself, quickly related her contact with Newberry, and introduced the stunned young man who was still hugging the unfinished illustration closely to his chest.
    “That so, Lady Amherst? That so?” Griffith’s first words were said in a rather disinterested tone and reflected a preoccupation with other matters. However, the presence of aristocracy well respected for her support of the Fund and, for the time, aristocracy in possession of the most important private collection of Egyptian antiquities outside of the museum itself caused the curator smartly to compose himself.
    “I am greatly indebted to you, ma’am, to have come all this way and to bring this young man to my attention. What you got there, sir? Something relevant to the future task at hand? May I see it?”
    Howard was surprised to see such a young man in so important a position. But the way the gentleman carried himself reflected a maturity beyond his years. This, along with the seniority of the position held Carter in awe.
    “May I?” Griffith reached for Carter’s sketchbook.
    He had not meant to hold on to the book quite so firmly but his arms were folded tight about it in an almost terrified embrace and the curator had to let go for fear of tearing the pages.
    “Show Mr Griffith, Howard, what you have just this minute been painting.”
    Carter turned the pad around and faced the unfinished painting towards the curator. Griffith took it from him gently and held it more directly under the globe of a hanging paraffin lamp. With his forefinger he pushed his wire rimmed spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. “One can tell this is freehand... but most accurate in its detail. You are very good, sir.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Could you work here with me for a few weeks doing a bit more of this stuff, but on things that need copying, so I can get a better look at your abilities? If you turn out the way it looks you might, I’d like to send you to Egypt to work under Mr Newberry. What do you say to that?”
    His answer was a silent nod, a smiling glance of gratitude to the lady who had brought him this good fortune, a feeling of trepidation and an almost uncontainable rush of excitement. Howard felt himself tremble.
    Howard Carter began work at the museum the following week and took to his assignment with absolute commitment. He greatly appreciated the faith the Amhersts had placed in him and would do his utmost to build on that trust.
    The aunts, and above all his parents, were very happy to see him get this work. For himself, although he would barely be able to make ends meet, so long as he could afford to eat and have a place to lay his head he would have no complaints. He would be working alongside published scientists. The work was truly creditable; honourable even. This kind of experience had no price.
    Griffith was quick to bless the lad’s abilities. The curator, from their first meeting, had not doubted he would. Within three months of Howard Carter’s tenure at the British Museum, the young man had been summarily despatched to Egypt. He took the ferry across the English Channel to France and, after a lengthy rail trip, found himself aboard a sailing steamer bound from Marseilles to Alexandria. For the first time in his short life he was beyond familiar territory and on the initial leg of a journey that, unpredictable to the boy at this time, was before too long to become one of the lengthiest annual commutes in history.
    As the ship eased out of port, the fresh