Lost Heritage

‘We could add a police story,’ said one reporter who had recently come over from a rival newspaper.

‘Too hackneyed,’ said the Scotsman. ‘That’s already been tried at other newspapers and it has been a failure. All the writers think they’re the next Arthur Conan-Doyle.’

A young correspondent who had started work the week before took out his pipe, filled it with tobacco and lit a match. The Scotsman went over to him and took the pipe out of his mouth.

‘Weren’t you listening before?’

The boy turned pale and we all held back our chuckles. He didn't know who he was messing with.

‘Any other ideas?’ he growled.

‘Maybe a gardening section,’ Sarah added.

‘Everyone in this country is a gardener,’ he replied with a dismissive gesture. ‘If you’ve got nothing worth saying, keep your mouth shut,’ he added with a threatening look. ‘We need something innovative.’

They all fell silent for a few minutes without knowing what to say. I went to the teapot and poured myself a cup of tea. I had had an idea the night before, but I was uncertain about saying it out loud. Finally, I plucked up the courage.

‘I may have something interesting,’ I announced as I put the teacup down on the table.

‘Let’s hear it!’

‘Carter's discovery in Egypt could turn out to be a gold mine. It has made people forget about the horrors of the war.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘People have an insatiable appetite for reading about the stories of our great explorers.’

‘Chronicles of those expeditions can be found in any public library.’

‘That’s true, but we could surprise them with some little-known accounts. There must be thousands of interesting stories just waiting to be published.’

‘Hmmm. I’m not sure,’ he replied as a look of doubt crossed his face. ‘And where do you plan to unearth these little gems?’

‘We could start with the British Museum Library,’ I suggested.

He was silent for a few moments, pondering the idea, after which he added:

‘Well, if nobody has a better idea, see what you can come up with over the next few days.’

The meeting was adjourned and we left the office to get on with our normal daily work.

The next morning when I awoke, the window was covered in a white blanket of snow. It was the first snow of winter and the streets were full of children throwing snowballs at each other. As I made my way to the British Museum, I saw a couple of passers-by slip on the treacherous surface; the ice had made several streets impassable and workmen had already begun to scatter rock salt on the ground.

Despite this, the museum's library was crowded as usual. An endless stream of people were coming and going through its doors: students, readers, tourists and researchers, all of whom would spend hours within its walls.

I climbed the front steps carefully so as not to slip, then crossed the main hall and arrived at the atrium: a large circular reading room with space for more than a thousand people. Some of the oldest volumes in the country could be found there.

I had to wait in the queue at the reception desk until a pretty librarian with medium-length blonde hair and wearing a navy blue suit pointed out where I could start my search.

‘We have three types of inventory,’ she explained, peering above her tiny pebble glasses with her pretty eyes, ‘topographical, chronological, and business.’

‘I’m searching for any journals detailing archaeological expeditions from the last fifty years.’

The librarian sighed and said:

‘You can start your search by looking under “SUBJECT”. Then, you could proceed by looking up “CARTOGRAPHICAL STUDIES”. From there, you could refine your search chronologically. In other words, to the period of time that you wish to investigate.’

‘Does that mean I have to search through more than one whole classification or section?’

She nodded with a half-smile.

This was going to take more time than I had bargained for.

I went up to the second floor and after walking down several aisles full of bookshelves, I found a section replete with manuscripts.

I asked the person in charge of that section for the documentation I was looking for, and he proceeded to deposit a mountain of files on the table that exceeded my height.

‘Will that be all for today?’ he asked without a flicker of emotion.

‘I hope so,’ I replied, the tone of resignation quite obvious in my voice.

‘If you don't manage to get through it all, we have some shelves in reception where researchers can store any materials they are working on for the following day.’

‘Thank you very much. That’s most kind of you to suggest it.’

I turned on the small green lamp that was present on each table and opened the first dossier; a process I repeated many times over the following days.

After a few days into the research, I was beginning to regret my proposal. This wasn’t going to be as easy as I had imagined. The information seemed endless, and it would take years to study it properly.

I found out about all manner of explorers, from those who had discovered the most remote places in Africa, to archaeologists who had unearthed the historical legacies of the Middle East.

Around mid-morning, while turning a few pages, I looked up and noticed a man watching me from a few tables further up. I wasn’t sure if I knew him, or if he was looking at me for some other reason. A moment later, I looked up again, but he was gone.

After lunch, I went through the library shelves. It felt like a real privilege to run my fingertips over those volumes that held so many centuries of history: Stanley's personal diary of his odyssey through Africa until he found the sources of the Nile and his subsequent encounter with Livingstone; the hardships of Arctic explorers led by Shackleton when his ship was trapped in the ice for months and they had nearly frozen to death; the race for the conquest of the South Pole between Amundsen and Scott in which he tragically ended up losing his life; as well as various archaeological discoveries made by our most acclaimed explorers.

This investigation was getting me nowhere and I needed to come at it from another angle.

‘Excuse me, miss,’ I said to the librarian with whom I had spoken on the first day I arrived.

‘You said that in addition to written documentation, there were also certain maps which I could take a look at.’

‘Not only do we have maps, we also have newspapers and photographs that you can examine.’

For the cartography section, I had to go down to the basement in order to study different maps and newspapers from the 19th century. Although some of the material was interesting, most of the information was already known to the general public. My job was to discover something new and in those few days that I had been there, I had only found a couple of stories worth reviewing.

I was absorbed in newspapers that still gave off a strong smell of ink. I closed my eyes and the odour emanating from the ink gave way to a pleasant perfume I instantly recognised.

‘Adriana!’ I exclaimed with my eyes still closed.

‘Have you turned into some sort of a psychic?’ she asked smiling.

Adriana was Sicilian with intense green eyes, an easy smile and the best dancer I had ever seen. She had migrated to the UK with her parents while still a child.

‘What brings you here?’ she asked, sitting down opposite me.

‘You know what it’s like. When you’re a newspaper correspondent, you can be in Parliament one day and in a library the next.’

‘I’m quite jealous. I spend all day at the hairdressers.’

I nodded with a smile.

‘They told me at your newspaper office that you would be here. I come to find out if you’re coming to dance class this Saturday. I need a partner,’ she asked.

‘Of course!’

She laughed with delight. Those at the next table shot us a disapproving look.

‘I’d better leave you to your research. I'm going to see the latest Gloria Swanson movie tonight. Are you coming?’

‘Not a chance. I’ve got a lot of work to get through. I'll see you on Saturday.’

She gave me a peck on the cheek and then walked off smiling.

After quite a while searching among the shelves, I spied that same man who had been watching me for the last three days. So, I decided to go over to him and ask him what he was playing at, but on reaching the table where he had been sitting, I found no one there. I scoured some of the adjacent aisles but could not find him. It was as if the earth had suddenly swallowed him up. I was starting to get a bad feeling about him.

On Friday, rumours had reached me that my boss was not satisfied with how my investigation was progressing. I had repeatedly told him that I needed a research assistant, but he would not take my recommendations seriously.

The responsibility for the whole research had fallen on my shoulders. The most frustrating thing was that if the article turned out to be a success, all the credit would go to the newspaper and its editor. For me there would only be a small credit at the end of the article bearing my name. However, if it was a failure, I would have to take the entire blame.

After a week of investigation, Mr. Dillan sent for me. By the time I had reached his door, I noticed that the glass panes around his office had been changed and his name now appeared in much bigger letters.

‘So, what do you have for me today?’ He asked sceptically. He already knew from my colleagues that I had not discovered anything new. ‘Have you dug up anything that we can publish?’

I took off my raincoat and hat and hung them up next to the umbrella stand. Then, I sat down on a worn oak chair.

‘I have a couple of stories about explorers who have discovered rivers on Africa’s west coast.’

The Scotsman shook his head over and over. He went to the radio and turned off a rather boring government speech.

‘By adding a little adventure and embellishing the article, we could publish it,’ I added.

‘And is this all that you’ve come up with after a week?’ He replied staring at me. ‘You could’ve been at the pub with that brunette, for all I know.’

I shook my head.

‘I spend all day working in the museum,’ I replied. ‘Adriana is just a good friend who teaches me how to dance the Charleston.’

‘That brazen American dance?’

‘It's fun,’ I said, smiling. ‘You should try it.’

Mr. Dillan fixed his eyes on me with a stern look on his face, forcing me to look down.

‘We’ve been allowed into the Royal British Geographical Society to go through the accounts of expeditions at their facilities,’ he announced, handing me a document. ‘From tomorrow, you’ll be carrying out your research there.’

‘That’s excellent, sir!’

‘You’d better bring me some good news next time. Now get out of here. I’ve a lot of work to do.’

The next morning, I got up and made myself a strong cup of tea feeling more refreshed than ever. It was my first day at the library of the Royal British Geographical Society, the most important department in the organisation’s headquarters when it came to accounts of expeditions. Normally, only high-ranking academics and influential figures from Oxford and Cambridge Universities were allowed into the place to study their records. Luckily however, Mr. Dillan was the nephew of one of the institution's most notable patrons, and he had managed to obtain permission for me to investigate there for two weeks.

The Society's library was smaller than that of the British Museum, but it held some real treasures. The first few days of my inquiries continued along similar lines to those at the British Museum. The accounts were all written by the most famous explorers in the history of the British Empire.

But then I found something that could be of use in an article. I was going through some expeditions to the Middle East when I came across the same surname both in the discoveries made in the Mesopotamian area, and those made in Egypt. The surname was Henson.

What was notable about this was that the name of Henson only appeared in documents attached to the original written accounts, but it never appeared in the official journals of the expeditions; something which caught my attention.

I continued on for two days without finding the name in any further official journal of any other expeditions. I had no idea if the reason for the name being omitted from the official account was due to either his death, or his disappearance. Or perhaps due to some other factor. This unusual case had piqued my interest and I decided to focus my attention on it.

I performed a detailed search, first alphabetically via the Browser Index, and later chronologically by date, but still nothing turned up.

So, I decided to try a new approach and asked the person in charge of the files’ section if he knew of this man Henson. Unfortunately, he had only been in the job for a couple of years and had never heard of him.

After lunch, I went back to the newsroom and asked among some of my long-serving colleagues if the name sounded familiar, but none of them had heard of him.

That afternoon I returned to the library of the Geographical Society and continued my search. Once more, I went to the Explorer Index, then to the personal diaries of some explorers and, finally, I searched through the Topographical Index.

It was in this last index where I managed to find the name, but this time it was associated with an expedition to South America. This seemed even more implausible since few British explorers had ever embarked on expeditions to those remote lands.

The unusual thing is that although I had found his name in an attached document, it did not appear in the expedition's official journal, just like the other two expeditions.

I now had three references: two in the Middle East and one in South America, but the information was still insufficient. It was as if Henson had vanished into thin air.

I was beginning to feel demoralised. The readers of our newspaper might have to settle for some small discovery on the African continent, after a certain amount of embellishment by yours truly, of course.

That evening I left the building dejected. It was pouring down outside as I opened up my umbrella. Numerous puddles had formed and the lamppost in front of the building kept blinking.

Sam, the concierge with whom I had struck up a friendship approached me.

‘How's the investigation going?’ He asked as the raindrops splashed onto my umbrella.

‘Not great. I can't find anything about this Henson fellow.’

‘Funny you should mention him. I ran into the old caretaker from here yesterday, and I asked him about the fellow you’ve been looking for. He says that he remembers a Henson from years ago.’

‘Of course! How had I not thought of it before? I should have asked among former employees,’ I said to him amazed at my own absentmindedness.

Sam walked over to the lamppost, gave it a couple of kicks at the base, and the problem seemed to be solved as the light stopped blinking. On rainy days blackouts were frequent.

‘How long ‘til closing time?’ I asked Sam.

‘About half an hour. On Fridays we close earlier than normal.’

I hurried back up the stairs and searched through volumes prior to the date I had previously investigated. The most fruitful and productive activity of the Geographical Society was from 1870 onwards, the date from which I had begun my research. But it was founded in 1850, meaning that there were twenty years which I had overlooked.

The volumes pertaining to that period had nothing to do with those that I had already studied previously. I was also right about something else: the exploratory activity of the society’s first twenty years had been much less than its activity after 1870.

I decided to start by looking at the foundation of the Geographical Society. Right there in the first few pages was his name: Philip Henson. He had been one of the co-founders of the Geographical Society, originally from the north of England, more specifically from an area just outside of Newcastle.

After a while, Samuel came to tell me that it was closing time. I greatly appreciated his information, because without it I could not have carried on. Now I had something solid to go on that would buy me more time to investigate further.

I spent the next few days in the library studying the history and background of this Henson, whose wealthy family had made their fortune in the mining industry. He had served in the army at Jaipur in India, where he had met his wife Maureen while she and the rest of her family had also been stationed there. After returning to England, he continued in the family mining business and dedicated the little spare time he had to his great passion: geography.

He had kept in touch with his university colleagues who had subsequently convinced him to become part of the newly created Geographical Society. But after a while, he became a symbolic partner due to having to dedicate a lot of time to his business, and only attended the Society’s meetings when time permitted. He had a voice and a vote in them, but did not participate in any organised expedition. It was only when he moved to northern Spain where he founded a branch of the geographical society that he became more actively involved.

As far as I could see, Henson’s biography stating that he only attended meetings seemed at odds with the fact that I had found his name linked with three expeditions.

I left the library and went to look for Samuel, who was going over the day’s visitor log.

‘I need the address of the former caretaker. I would like to pay him a visit this evening.’

‘That won't be necessary. Mr. Mason spends all day and night in the Two Swans, a pub at the end of Kensington Road.’

I didn't give it a second thought and went straight to the pub to chat with Mason.

The Two Swans was an old-fashioned black-fronted building. Upon entering I discovered that it was quite lively inside. I also discovered that they distilled their own gin and that it was strong enough to knock out a horse. As I got closer to the bar the smell became more intense.

‘Do you know a Mr Mason?’ I asked the barman.

‘Hey! Did I hear you asking about Mason?’ Shouted a tall, thin guy with thick bushy eyebrows sitting at a table near the bar.

‘Is that you?’

‘Depends on who wants to know. It also depends on who buys me a drink.’

I turned to the barman and asked him for two pints. The barman nodded with a knowing smile.

‘I’m a newspaper correspondent for the ...’

‘I know who you are,’ he interrupted me. ‘Sam has already told me there’s been a reporter sniffing around the old place,’ he said dryly. He took a swig of his beer and then set the glass on the table. ‘I only remember one Henson. I used to see him once a year.’

‘Why didn't he come to many of the meetings?’ I asked. ‘I understand that he was one of the co-founders.’

‘It’s quite simple. He had a business up north, and then he moved to Spain because of business over there. He was into mining as I recall, and only came to the Geographical Society when he was here on holiday.’

At a nearby table there was a commotion over a card game. A little further on could be heard the incessant sound of darts thudding into a dart board.

‘Do you know anything else?’

Mason shook his head.

‘Thanks for the information,’ I said as I shook his hand and left for home.

Philip Henson's life didn’t seem interesting enough on which to base an article. After a week of research, I still had nothing decent to publish.

I asked my boss if an interview with his uncle would be possible since he was the only person who had ever met Henson. However, I was told that it was impossible as his uncle was elderly and in poor health.

I still had a week left, but I didn't know where to go next. The only clue I had was that Henson’s family came from near Newcastle and that he was part of the North Scale Foundry Mining Company.

The next morning after a cup of tea, I set about finding out the address of the mining company. It turned out that they now had their headquarters in London. So, I decided to pay them an impromptu visit.

It was an impressive building on the banks of the Thames with excellent views of Big Ben. There I was greeted in an elegant Victorian office by Mr. Harris, an experienced accountant with deep dark circles under his eyes. The room was filled with photographs of various mining enterprises, as well as a pair of porcelain vases.

‘Come in and take a seat,’ he said politely. ‘How can I help you?’

I took off my hat and scarf and sat down. It had been windy that day.

‘I'm looking for information about someone who held a prominent position in your company; a Mr. Philip Henson.’

‘I'm afraid I never had the pleasure of meeting him. Mr. Henson passed away several years ago.’

On the table was a gleaming miner's helmet and a huge piece of coal inside a glass jar. I made a movement towards it in order to touch it but stopped when I saw Mr Harris frowning at me.

‘Could you tell me something about Henson?’

‘I only know that his family came from a place just outside of Newcastle.’

Suddenly, the door was opened and his secretary informed Harris that a number of people were waiting for him.

‘Does his wife still live there?’

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you,’ he said as he was getting up from his chair.

‘Thank you very much, Mr. Harris. It was most kind of you to receive me.’

I said goodbye with a handshake and left.

At the end of the street was the tram stop on my route home. While I looked from a distance at the passengers boarding, I spotted the same man who had been watching me at the British Museum.

Without thinking twice, I ran towards the stop; a couple of passers-by rebuked me after I had pushed them out of the way. The distance seemed short, but the more I ran, the more out of breath I became, and I suddenly realised how unfit I had become.

I managed to grab hold of the rail at the rear door of the tram just as it was pulling away. I reached the interior of the tram exhausted. A small crowd gathered around me as I was bent double coughing, wheezing and gasping for breath in the middle of the aisle.

On lifting my head, I saw the man notice me and then he left by the other door at the next stop. Alas, I had no strength left to follow him any further.