Tutankhamun Uncovered by Michael J Marfleet Page A

sea breeze caught him full in the face and he turned to look back at the slowly receding coast. He reflected on his father who had accompanied him to Victoria Station. He had taken leave of Samuel Carter with a light and expectant heart. The moment of goodbye had been poignant parental confirmation of the graduate. Howard loved his father dearly and acknowledged that, like his brothers, he owed his talents to this man and this man alone.
    Howard leaned out of the carriage door window. His father spoke loudly to make himself heard above the noise of hissing steam. “Take the greatest care of yourself, my boy. You are precious to us all.” As if in a sublime ceremony of coming of age, he pressed a small tin of tobacco and some packets of cigarette papers into his son’s hand. His father told Howard he was now permitted to smoke.
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Take care, my boy. Watch y’self over there. Gordon is dead these six years. The Sudan is lost. Yet the papers say the Mahdi is vanquished. Be careful. The infidel was well on his way to extinguishing the foreigner in Egypt. He is not beaten yet. You watch them fuzzywuzzies! A treacherous breed of untrustworthy ragamuffins. Make your mark and stay close with the occupying forces. Like ’em or not you know you understand ’em not so the darkies. Cut your throat soon as look at you. Mark my words.”
    “Father.” Howard acknowledged with a condescending nod. The ‘fuzzywuzzie’, be he corrupt or compassionate, could await his personal assessment when he finally arrived. He knew full well that his father’s cautions were based on nothing more than unsubstantiated reports in the British press and recycled, embellished pub banter. The boy held no fears, just anticipation.
    The train shuddered and slowly began to move out of the platform. Their hands parted. It was only a moment or two before the smoke and steam from the engine descended in thickening white billows over the carriages. The image of his father, arm raised in farewell, became at last extinguished in the pungent, tumbling fog. He would never see him again.
    So now he was embarked on the broad, blue Mediterranean. Howard was not physically accustomed to sailing. Worse for him, the ship’s galley lay adjacent to his cabin and the thick, oily scent of cooking issued liberally through the louvres of his cabin door. This was quick to cause a revolting discomfort within his belly that, as it turned out, could only be relieved by an unfamiliar potion administered by a cloaked, priestly Irish gentleman answering to the name of Seamus. They had befriended each other at embarkation. Hitherto unused to more than the odd small glass of beer the continuous draughts of champagne Howard consumed rendered him blessedly insensible for the duration of the trip.
    On his arrival at Alexandria, Newberry was there to greet him. In the milling crowd of waving arms, dusty suits and swaying smocks, a sorely hungover Carter had been barely able to focus sufficiently to pick out his new guardian. Even if the teenager had been feeling one hundred per cent, he would have had difficulty recognising the man.
    Like Carter himself, Newberry was not of the build to stand out in a crowd. He was thin and had a small face with a prolific, bushy moustache, from the centre of which protruded a bent cigarette. He wore spectacles and a pith helmet, the brim of which sat uncomfortably upon his ears.
    With the help of a contemporary photograph sent to him earlier by Lady Amherst, Newberry picked Carter out from the line of disembarking passengers relatively easily. Carter had, after all, only one suit. He advanced and shook the young man’s hand warmly and a little too vigorously for Carter’s fragile state of mind. As Newberry spoke his few words of welcome, the cigarette end remained adhered to his lower lip. The teenager hardly noticed. He smiled back as best he could and submissively followed the lead of his new master to a waiting carriage and