Lost Heritage

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.

The next morning before the sun had come up, I was at King’s Cross Station and had bought a train ticket to Newcastle. It was my last option and I wasn't going to waste it.

Although it was a long trip, it felt much shorter thanks to the fantastic views I was afforded of the verdant English countryside during early springtime along the way.

I arrived at Newcastle train station just after noon. Newcastle-upon-Tyne is a grey industrial city with row after row of terraced houses, and not somewhere one would choose for a holiday. Fortunately, I was not on vacation and would spend a day or two there at the most.

As soon as I got off the train, I headed for the nearby bus station. A multitude of buses seemed to be coming and going, and I felt a little bewildered by the unfamiliar place names. So, I approached a man in uniform who I presumed was in some sort of official capacity there and showed him the name of my destination. In his north-east accent, he told me where to go and what bus to catch.

As we weaved our way through the drab streets and eventually left the city behind, the landscapes were just like those portrayed in novels: misty moors with little vegetation, small hills eroded by strong winds and a coldness that could chill a man to the bone. All this was accompanied by an incessant rain which seemed even more intense than anywhere else I had ever visited in the country.

I spent the night at a guest house in the town closest to the Henson estate. The dinner was exquisite, and afterwards, the owner showed me how to get to the Henson place.

The Hensons lived on a large estate just a short distance from where I had spent the night. The house was a formidable double-storey mansion built in the 18th century from dark granite over which long thick vines of ivy stood out like veins, winding their way around its large windows. On the right-hand side of the house, a small lake surrounded by birches could be seen where several white swans swam majestically.

The butler bid me wait at the front door for a long time before then motioning me to follow him through to a garden at the back of the house. There, an elderly lady was tending to some splendid rose bushes.

It was Philip Henson’s sister Emma, an elderly spinster with silver hair and a wide smile who wore an elegant white dress.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she said as she took off one of her gardening gloves and shook my hand.

‘Likewise.’

'I’ve been told that you have come all the way from London and have been inquiring about my brother.’

‘That’s correct. I’m a news correspondent. We wish to put together a series of articles on all things to do with the expeditions of the Geographical Society.’

Emma Henson gestured to the butler and within a few minutes we were served tea and cake.

‘We know that your brother was one of the co-founders of the Geographical Society and that he later left for Spain.’

‘That’s where he founded a subsidiary of the London branch of the Geography Society. It was common in those days for many in this field to station themselves in other countries and establish new associations similar to the original.’

At the other end of the garden there was the sound of a gardener trimming a beautiful hedge.

‘Could you tell me what expeditions were carried out by the Spanish branch of the Society?’

She shook her head.

‘What about expeditions to South America and the Middle East? Do these ring any bells?’ I asked.

‘I am unaware of any such expeditions. This is the first I have heard of such.’

Insects began to flutter around our table, no doubt attracted by the smell of the cakes, but Emma Henson quickly shooed them away.

‘Would it be possible for me to speak to your sister-in-law? Maybe she has more information.’

‘Philip's wife passed away some time ago. She had been ill for most of her life, barely able to spend time with her husband.’

I put a piece of cake to my mouth while the aroma of jasmine tea wafted to my nostrils. I decided to take my time and enjoy our conversation as the information I was receiving was leading me nowhere.

It was at that moment that I saw Emma smiling.

‘Do you think you may have misread or misunderstood the information held at the Geographical Society?’

‘I don’t understand what you’re driving at.’

‘Are you sure you're looking for the right Henson?’ she asked me.

I pondered the question for a moment before asking:

‘Is there another Henson that I’m unaware of?’

‘Yes. Perhaps you are looking for James Henson.’

‘Who is James Henson?’

‘James Henson is Philip's son. From an early age he had a passion for history and geography. He lived for a time in Spain when he was a teenager and later returned to England to study archaeology at Oxford University, but that was such a long time ago. He had an indomitable adventurous spirit,’ she declared.

This time, a huge grin now appeared on my face. Now I understood. The information I had found was from the expeditions in the first decade of the 20th century. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but Phillip Henson would have been very old to have taken part in such expeditions, whereas his son would be of a more appropriate age.

‘The dates I found would concur with someone who would be of his son’s possible age. Could you tell me where I can find him?’

‘I haven't heard from the boy since he went off to university. We lost track of him some years ago. The last news we had was that he was wounded during the Great War.’

‘Could you describe him?’

He was a dark-haired boy with a dark complexion and blue eyes as intense as his father's. Tall and good-looking, with angular features,’ she paused for a moment, excited at recalling the memory of her nephew. ‘He was always an astute and intelligent boy.’

‘Would you happen to have a photograph of him?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t have any,’ she replied.

‘Well, thank you very much. You have been a great help. And now, I must catch the first train back to London.’

On the return trip I couldn’t stop thinking about my investigation, which was finally beginning to take shape. Surely my boss would now agree to sanction further research into this matter.

I entered Mr. Dillan's office and told him the whole story. The course that events had taken seemed surprising to him and he told me to take all the time I needed to solve this mystery. With no time to lose I set out for Oxford University to find out more about James Henson.

Compared with the grey city of Newcastle, Oxford was vibrantly coloured. The countryside around it seemed to stretch for endless miles criss-crossed by a multitude of rivers and lakes. It was a pleasure to wander through its streets consisting of centuries-old buildings that were true architectural gems and breathe in that university atmosphere where students from all over the world came to study.

I arrived around lunchtime and took the opportunity to have a sandwich and a pint of beer in a busy pub in the centre of Oxford before going on to the university.

The particular university college to which I was heading consisted of many Gothic-style buildings with large windows that flooded their interiors with light. As I walked through the extensive gardens, I passed several groups of students chatting under the shade of trees. There was a game of rugby being played in a wide meadow in the distance and, at the bottom of the path I was walking along, several oarsmen crossed carrying a couple of boats on their shoulders.

I had already met the caretaker from previous assignments. He was a chubby middle-aged Irishman with exquisite manners who always greeted me warmly.

‘Good afternoon, Richard. How is everything?’ I asked him.

‘I can’t complain. Tell me, what brings you here this time?’

‘I'm looking for information on a student who studied here during the last decade of the last century.’

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult. Do you know his forename and surname?’

‘Yes, James Henson.’

‘Go to the secretary and fill out the usual form.’

A few minutes after entering the building, I had completed the required paperwork and had managed to get hold of James Henson's record. He had studied archaeology between 1890 and 1895, and was an accomplished student, specializing in ancient cuneiform writing. That explained his expeditions to the Middle East, although I still did not understand what reason he would have for making an expedition to South America.

I sought out Richard the caretaker once more and asked him if he knew of anyone who could help me with this matter.

‘The Middle Eastern Antiquities faculty is the largest in this college. Most students would like to discover the mysteries of ancient Egypt.’

I nodded my head.

‘The most suitable person to consult would be Professor McKingley,’ he continued. ‘He may even have been in the same class or year group at that time as a student here and may well have known him. But this week, he’s attending the Middle East Archaeology Conference in Berlin. If you wish to ask him anything, you’ll have to wait for him to come back I’m afraid.’

At that moment, students began to file out of their classes causing a great hubbub.

‘Who could furnish me with information about expeditions to South America?’ I asked, having to raise my voice above the din.

‘You may be in luck. There aren’t many people here who specialise in that particular area. Our greatest expert in that field is Professor Margaret Spencer. Her office is on the second floor of the west wing.’

I walked through the building and, after crossing its imposing atrium, climbed the stairs up to a second-floor office where I knocked on the door.

Professor Spencer was wearing a green suit that further enhanced her piercing eyes. Her blonde hair was tied back in a chic bun that embellished her face and highlighted her prominent cheekbones.

'James Henson? Yes, of course I knew him. We went on an expedition together to South America. We were looking for vestiges of pre-Columbian civilizations.’

‘When would that have been?’ I asked with a smile.

'Around the beginning of the century.’

‘I was researching that expedition at the Geographical Society and found little information on him. I only came across his name, his last name, on the back of a piece of paper in the file.’

‘Maybe you didn't do your research thoroughly enough,’ she replied brusquely.

I listened to her words somewhat perplexed; that answer was unexpected.

‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I have a class in a few moments,’ she said, rising from her chair and picking up a couple of books. ‘If you wish to know more, you may stop by my house this afternoon.’

‘I would like that very much, Professor.’

‘You’ll find Corton House on the southern outskirts of the city. How’s four o’clock for you?’

‘Fine. I’ll be there.’

‘It's the last house on the road out of Oxford. There are tulips at the entrance to the front garden,’ she added as we emerged out into the corridor.