Review
"A bright, transporting pleasure" --The Lady September 2010
"a sweeping literary romp set in Egypt at the time of the discovery of Tutankhamen's tomb." --Marie Claire, What I'm Reading Now October 2010
"a bright, transporting pleasure." --The Lady September 2010
"a sweeping literary romp set in Egypt at the time of the Tutankhamen discovery." --Marie Claire, What I'm Reading Now, October 2010
"a sweeping literary romp set in Egypt at the time of the discovery of Tutankhamen's tomb." --Marie Claire, What I'm Reading Now October 2010
"a bright, transporting pleasure." --The Lady September 2010
"a sweeping literary romp set in Egypt at the time of the Tutankhamen discovery." --Marie Claire, What I'm Reading Now, October 2010
Product Description
An enthralling love story that spans the world of the 1920s from London's high society to events in Egypt around the discovery of Tutankhamen's tomb
From the Publisher
An enthralling love story that spans the world of the 1920s, from London's high society and its artistic life, to Howard Carter's famous excavation in the Valley Of the Kings, The Weighing Of The Heart is a tale of passion, buried betrayals and devastating truths.
About the Author
Jane Thynne is a journalist who has worked at the BBC and many national newspapers. She is married to the writer Philip Kerr and they live in London with their three children.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
It was a foggy evening in March 1924 when Samuel Dux began his life again. He came up out of the gloomy vault of Victoria station, hailed a cab and took a letter from his inside pocket. He glanced again at the address on the envelope, though he knew it by heart, and drew his coat more closely around him, hoping his ancient suit wouldn't appear too creased by the journey.
Leaning back against the cab's cracked leather, he felt a slight griping in his guts. That was hardly a surprise - a lingering stomach ache was one souvenir of Egypt that everyone brought home - but it could equally have been a quiver of excitement. Because this was a fresh step for him, and apart from twenty pounds in his wallet, a change of clothes and some books in his case, he came possessed of nothing but his past.
He only had a mile to travel, but the journey was exaggeratedly slow. He'd almost forgotten fog could be like this, hanging dense and clammy on the skin, blanketing the senses and muffling the car horns and early evening bustle. Through the murk office workers hurried home with their briefcases under their arms and shop girls marched along to the tube, their lean coats with collars ruffled up against the evening air, the taste of acrid smog at the back of their throats. The newspaper stands advertised the latest move in a celebrated murder case. There was something about an actress he didn't recognise whose play was a triumph in New York. It was two years since he'd left, but behind the fog London was still stoically the same, staid and long suffering, enduring winter like a bad cold it might never shake off.
Elmer Barrington's house, on the corner of one of the smarter London squares, was even grander than he'd pictured it. Tall and majestic, it loomed like the prow of a huge ship, pale stucco gleaming in the dusk. When he went up the steps the light of a lamp above the black door reflected his face back at him in the paint's shine. It was a narrow, high-cheekboned, clever looking face, with a thin-lipped mouth. His skin was burnt to a coppery brown, and the ginger hair under the hat was bleached blond by the sun.
Practically as soon as he had rung the bell the door opened and a butler stood looking at him impassively.
"Good evening. I'm Mr Dux...I think Mr Barrington.."
"Of course Sir. You are expected..."
The man swept the door open and motioned Samuel into a hall with a floor of chequered black and white marble. There was a side table, with cut flowers and a silver card tray. A smell of vacancy and furniture polish hung in the air. A series of oak panelled doors led off the hall and directly opposite the front door, facing the incoming visitor, was a portrait of a young man with a weak chin, widely spaced eyes and an unworldly expression. He wore an officer's uniform and had pale hair beneath his cap.
Once the butler had taken his coat Samuel stood still. In the distance he heard a dog's high pitched bark.
It seemed that no-one would be coming to greet him.
Leaning back against the cab's cracked leather, he felt a slight griping in his guts. That was hardly a surprise - a lingering stomach ache was one souvenir of Egypt that everyone brought home - but it could equally have been a quiver of excitement. Because this was a fresh step for him, and apart from twenty pounds in his wallet, a change of clothes and some books in his case, he came possessed of nothing but his past.
He only had a mile to travel, but the journey was exaggeratedly slow. He'd almost forgotten fog could be like this, hanging dense and clammy on the skin, blanketing the senses and muffling the car horns and early evening bustle. Through the murk office workers hurried home with their briefcases under their arms and shop girls marched along to the tube, their lean coats with collars ruffled up against the evening air, the taste of acrid smog at the back of their throats. The newspaper stands advertised the latest move in a celebrated murder case. There was something about an actress he didn't recognise whose play was a triumph in New York. It was two years since he'd left, but behind the fog London was still stoically the same, staid and long suffering, enduring winter like a bad cold it might never shake off.
Elmer Barrington's house, on the corner of one of the smarter London squares, was even grander than he'd pictured it. Tall and majestic, it loomed like the prow of a huge ship, pale stucco gleaming in the dusk. When he went up the steps the light of a lamp above the black door reflected his face back at him in the paint's shine. It was a narrow, high-cheekboned, clever looking face, with a thin-lipped mouth. His skin was burnt to a coppery brown, and the ginger hair under the hat was bleached blond by the sun.
Practically as soon as he had rung the bell the door opened and a butler stood looking at him impassively.
"Good evening. I'm Mr Dux...I think Mr Barrington.."
"Of course Sir. You are expected..."
The man swept the door open and motioned Samuel into a hall with a floor of chequered black and white marble. There was a side table, with cut flowers and a silver card tray. A smell of vacancy and furniture polish hung in the air. A series of oak panelled doors led off the hall and directly opposite the front door, facing the incoming visitor, was a portrait of a young man with a weak chin, widely spaced eyes and an unworldly expression. He wore an officer's uniform and had pale hair beneath his cap.
Once the butler had taken his coat Samuel stood still. In the distance he heard a dog's high pitched bark.
It seemed that no-one would be coming to greet him.
