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            As I approached the room, I smelt death. Two years in France with the Suffolk Regiment had made that smell as instantly recognisable as that of new-mown grass; newly mown soldier. I walked slowly toward Saunders’ hotel room door hoping I was wrong, but what else could have a combination of the bright, metallic taste of blood and the rich, foetid smell of opened guts?

            The door was locked. I’m afraid I was rather rude to the manager as I roughly dragged him from the reception desk to Saunders’ door with the master keys. He kept dropping the keys whilst he gabbled about ‘How nice Mr Saunders was, so generous with Baksheesh’. Of course he was dead. His face was spared, and somehow that made it worse. If his face had been as mutilated as his body, I could be looking at just another piece of meat. But this was clearly my friend. His torso was ripped apart, ribs visible, intestines tailing across the floor. In a second I was back in France again, and I fell to the floor. I could feel the distal rumble of shells exploding; hear the screams of the dying over the shouts of the officers. I fell to the floor and wept. 

            I’m not sure how long the police questioned me for. They treated me well; I don’t think I was ever really a suspect. They took me back out to the room the next day. The body had been taken to the morgue. They pointed out that the door and window shutters had been locked, the latter from the inside, and could I explain how the murderer had entered and left? I pointed out the existence of the owner’s master key, and he soon replaced me at the police station, but again he was an unlikely suspect. They also wanted to know if anything had been stolen. I looked around blankly for several minutes, before it dawned on me that the artifacts from the tomb were missing.

            Back in my hotel room I thought about the tomb. Saunders had invited me out to Egypt to help him dig up the desert. Tutankhamen and his treasures were touring the world, and there were plenty of people willing to invest in an expedition to the Valley of the Kings. Saunders knew I was hopelessly adrift back in England, and wanted to take me away from the veterans and other memories of the war. He had served also, so I new he wouldn’t criticise my drinking. As long as a turned up each day to bully the labourers, the rest of my time was my own.

            It was a bit of a shock when we actually found something, but I was relieved when I saw the seal on the tomb door was broken. It would be just another empty cave, looted centuries ago by tomb robbers. There would be some paintings on the wall to keep Saunders happy, but nothing for me to worry about. We opened the door and edged down a long narrow corridor. After 20 or 30 yards there was a deep pit. It was a trap for tomb robbers. I shuddered at the thought of falling into that dark hole deep underground, perhaps breaking a leg, and waiting for death to come. We peered down with torches, but the bare stone floor was empty. After an hour or so we had a wooden bridge over it and edged across the planks, reaching the other side with relief. The corridor now turned sharply to the right. Saunders told me this was a common feature, reflecting the labyrinth of the underworld the dead king was headed for.

            At the end of this was the treasure room. It was intact. The small room was piled high with gilded wooden furniture, painted limestone statues and of course, gold. Mountains of gold. A low, narrow tunnel led to the sarcophagus room. The sarcophagus was made of stone, and it would take time to erect a wooden frame and pulleys to lift the cyclopean lid. The walls were rich with painting. There were the usual intricate pictures depicting the life of the interred king, hieroglyphic spells ensuring his safe passage to the afterlife and the false door through which the king’s soul might leave the tomb. There were also images of him being judged by Horus, Anubis and Thoth. However, in the treasure room one picture stood out. It was a life-sized painting of the Crocodile headed god, Sobek. The paint was as vivid as if it had left the brush yesterday, and the writing around it almost glowed in our lantern-light. Sobek’s huge jaws and white teeth were a transfixing sight. It dominated the room, facing the entrance, and none of the grave goods were placed against it. Sobek was a strange choice for a tomb, Saunders explained. Normally he was only depicted in his temples, which were few. Nonetheless, this added only further to this unique tomb, equal at least to Tutankhamen.

We were elated. We left guards on the tomb, and Saunders insisted we return to the hotel to get drunk. I wanted to point out I was already drunk; my hip flask had been emptied shortly before crossing the pit, but thought better of it. Saunders spent the evening regaling the guests at the Winter Palace with tales of the wonders we had uncovered. I wished he had been more discrete, at least until we had a locked gate over the entrance to the tomb. The next day was spent on the telephone, first to our sponsor, then the press, and finally to other Egyptology experts. Late in the day we ventured back to the tomb. We couldn’t resist taking a few small items. Saunders brought several Canoptic jars back; I contented myself with a small golden statue of Anubis. As I lay in my bed after the police released me, I stared at his narrow Jackal’s muzzle as I fell asleep.