The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt. Michael Pearce
‘Captain Owen looks after the political side,’ he explained.
‘The post was originally Head of the Khedive’s Secret Police,’ said Owen.
‘Ah!’
‘But, of course, things are very different now.’
They certainly were. For this was 1908 and although the Khedive was still the nominal ruler of Egypt and Egypt was still nominally an autonomous province of the Ottoman Empire, the Ottomans were no longer in power.
Nor were the Egyptians, for that matter. The new rulers of Egypt were the British, who had come into the country thirty years before to help the Khedive sort out his chaotic finances: come and stayed.
‘The British seem everywhere,’ said Miss Skinner.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. We’re advisers only, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And you yourself,’ said Miss Skinner pointedly, ‘you are an adviser, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whom do you advise?’
‘Oh, lots of people. The Khedive—’
Formally, that was.
‘The Chief of Police—’
Who happened to be British.
‘Mr Trevelyan’s boss?’ asked Miss Skinner.
The Consul-General. The British Consul-General, that was. The man who really ran Egypt.
‘You could say that,’ said Owen, smiling.
‘I get the picture,’ said Miss Skinner.
‘Miss Skinner’s interests are archæological,’ said Paul firmly, deciding that it was time to re-route her.
‘And statistical,’ corrected Miss Skinner. ‘There are a number of things I wish to look into while I am here.’
Behind her back Paul raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘I am sure our Finance Department will be glad to help you,’ said Owen, who had a grudge against the Finance Department.
Miss Skinner pursed her lips.
‘It is the flesh and blood behind the statistics that interests me. I am not sure that Finance Departments are so good at that.’
‘I am taking Miss Skinner to see some of the excavations,’ said Paul doggedly.
‘Fascinating!’ said Owen.
The vendors of antiquities, recovered, had regrouped in front of the terrace and were now beginning to slide their wares beseechingly through the railings. Miss Skinner looked down.
‘Fake!’ she pronounced.
‘But nice, don’t you think?’ said Owen, who rather liked the blue scarab beetles and admired the workmanship that went into the barques.
‘I am only,’ said Miss Skinner, ‘interested in the truth.’
There was something of a pause.
‘And where,’ asked Owen chattily, seeing signs of desperation in Paul, ‘were you planning to go?’
‘Der el Bahari, primarily.’
‘Oh, there are lots of things to see there. You’ll find it very interesting,’ Owen assured Miss Skinner.
‘There’s an American team up there at the moment,’ said Paul. ‘I gather they’re making some promising finds.’
‘I know Parker,’ said Miss Skinner. ‘I’m afraid I don’t like his methodology.’
‘Ah well,’ said Owen, ‘you’ll be able to help him put it right, then.’
He felt something touching his foot and glanced down. A particularly resourceful vendor had laid out some ushapti images on a piece of coffin and was poking it under the table for them to see.
Miss Skinner picked up one of the images and turned it over between her hands. She seemed puzzled.
‘It looks genuine,’ she said, ‘but—’
‘It probably is genuine.’
‘But how can that be?’
Owen shrugged.
‘It might even come from Der el Bahari. That’s where a lot of these men came from.’
Miss Skinner’s eyes widened.
‘You mean—these things are stolen.’
‘Accumulated, say. Perhaps even over the centuries. The ancestors of these men, Miss Skinner, built the temples and tombs in the Valley of Kings. And ever since they have been, well, revenging themselves on their masters.’
‘Then they are grave-robbers,’ cried Miss Skinner, ‘and must be stopped!’
As Paul piloted Miss Skinner down the steps, the vendors closed in again. The man with the mummified arm pushed his way through the crowd and waved it once more in her face.
‘For you, Madame, for you!’
‘No,’ said Miss Skinner, ‘no.’
‘For you especially,’ the man insisted.
‘Grave-robbers!’ said Monsieur Peripoulin hotly. ‘That’s what they are!’
‘Oh, come—’
‘That’s what they are!’ the Frenchman insisted. The sweat was running down his face, which wasn’t surprising since he was wearing a dark suit and a stiff, high, white collar, which was, apparently, what he always wore at the Museum.
‘Just tourists,’ said Owen.
‘Not the ones I’m talking about,’ Monsieur Peripoulin declared. ‘Tourists go to the bazaars and buy a few souvenirs. These men usually go straight to the excavations and buy there.’
‘They can’t, surely,’ said Paul. ‘Excavations are closely controlled these days and all finds have to be listed and reported to the Director of Antiquities.’
‘Closely controlled!’ said Monsieur Peripoulin scathingly. ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything!’
Paul sighed. The meeting had been going on for two and a half hours now and it was past midday. He had been relying on the French habit of dropping everything at noon and going for lunch, but the elderly Frenchman seemed as determined as ever.
‘What exactly, Monsieur Peripoulin, are you proposing?’ he asked wearily.
‘A licence system,’ said the Frenchman immediately. ‘That is what we need. Anyone wishing to export an antiquity should have to obtain a licence first.’
‘Don’t we have that already?’ asked Carmichael, from Customs. ‘Or the next best thing to it. If anyone wishes to export antiquities they have to send them first to the Museum.’
‘Yes, but that’s only to determine export duty,’ said Monsieur Peripoulin. ‘We put a value on it—and that’s not always easy, let me tell you: what value would you put on the Sphinx?—seal the case and notify the Mudir of Customs.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked the man from Customs.
‘It just goes ahead automatically. No one makes a conscious decision.’
‘We make a decision,’ said Carmichael. ‘We decide what level of duty applies.’
‘Yes, but you don’t ask yourselves whether in principle the thing should be exported at all. It’s that kind of decision I’m talking about.’
‘Just