Lost

by John Wilson

  Chapter Twelve

  I duck and shelter my eyes from the minor sandstorm thrown up by the helicopter rotors. When things calm down, I peer between my fingers and see a door open. Humphrey Battleford steps out. He looks out of place in his three-piece suit. Rob and Terry jump out after him. In a crouching run, they move clear of the rotors and stand up.

  “We do meet in the strangest places, Sam,” Battleford says, holding out his hand.

  I ignore the hand and say, “You didn’t bring Percy with you?”

  Battleford smiles and pulls his hand back. “He doesn’t like helicopters. Can’t say I’m very fond of them myself. Terribly noisy, uncomfortable things. Are you enjoying your cruise?”

  “It’s very nice,” I say.

  “The Arctic Spray’s one of my favorite yachts. A shame the cruise has to come to an end.”

  “Where’s the Arctic Spray gone?” I ask. “I saw her sail north.”

  “You probably have many questions, Sam,” Battleford says, “and I will be happy to answer them. But first I think we should go see what’s keeping Annabel. It’s rude not to come and welcome your guests.”

  “Why did you bring us on this cruise?” I ask, but Battleford’s already walking up the ridge. I watch him go until I feel Terry’s hand push firmly on my back.

  “We should go up there too,” he says.

  Annabel has moved over beside the grave. I resist the temptation to glance at where we found the package. “Hello, Annabel,” Battleford says, flashing his most charming smile. “I’m so glad that our paths have crossed once more.” He glances down at the skull lying beside the grave. “I see you have found something of interest.”

  To my horror, he lifts the skull from its mossy bed. Annabel gasps and steps toward Battleford, but Rob steps between them.

  “You can’t do that,” I say as Battleford examines the skull. “You’re destroying valuable archaeological evidence.”

  “Not in very good condition,” Battleford muses, ignoring me. “Still, it will make an interesting curio.”

  “That’s sick,” Annabel says.

  “Sick?” Battleford looks from the skull to Annabel. “Because it’s a human skull? Every major museum in the world has a huge collection of human remains. The human remains they show the public are often the biggest crowd pullers. Have you never felt the thrill of peering at a skeleton in a Stone Age grave or a mummy in an open coffin in a museum? Is that sick?”

  “That’s different,” Annabel says, without explaining how.

  Battleford smiles and turns to Terry. “Let’s dig our friend up and see if he was buried with anything interesting.”

  Annabel and I protest, but all we can do is watch as Rob and Terry pull away the stones to reveal the bones we had seen poking out. As they work, Battleford talks. “I wish you two could see my collection. I think you would like it very much.”

  “Your stolen collection, you mean,” Annabel says.

  “Very few items in my collection are stolen,” Battleford says calmly. “At least, not by me. Oh, the source of many of my pieces is highly questionable. But it is not my responsibility to halt the worldwide trade in stolen antiques. In fact, you would be surprised at how many well-known and important people encourage the trade. There are villages in some parts of the world whose economies rely on selling stolen artifacts to tourists. At least I am wealthy enough to preserve my collection in the best-possible conditions.”

  “Why did you go to all the effort of sending us on this cruise?” I ask. “You couldn’t know that we would find this grave.”

  “Two reasons,” Battleford says. “I wanted something from the Erebus. But the location of the wreck was secret. So I needed to find where the archaeologists were diving this summer. I also needed to somehow get the divers away from the site.

  “My original plan was to take you on the cruise and arrange to have you left on one of these islands. The Arctic Spray would then sail to the dive site and say that some passengers had gone missing and request help for a search. As soon as the dive ship came south to join the search, I would be free to dive on the Erebus. They may not be the most convincing scientists, but Rob and Terry are highly qualified divers.”

  “You said that was your original plan,” Annabel says. “What went wrong?”

  “Poor research on my part, I’m afraid. I assumed that there would be only one ship. In fact, there’s a whole flotilla of ships. Not all the boats would leave to help search, so we wouldn’t get a chance to dive.”

  Battleford shrugs. “As you know from our previous meetings, things don’t always turn out as one hopes. Fortunately, Terry overheard your conversation about the stories you were told in Sachs Harbour. When he radioed me about this, another option opened up, and here we are.”

  “But I still don’t get why you invited us,” I say.

  “I’m sure you think me a cold-hearted thief,” Battleford says with a slight smile, “but that’s not the case. I never married, and I have no children. I suppose a psychiatrist would say that my antiquities are my children, but I’ve never held with all that head-doctor stuff.”

  For a moment Battleford’s smile becomes sad, but then he brightens. “I have very much enjoyed my previous encounters with you two.”

  “Enjoyed?” Annabel says. “But we’ve cost you a lot of money and stopped you from acquiring rare pieces for your collection.”

  “The money, I don’t care about. I have more than I could possibly spend in two lifetimes,” Battleford says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I do care about the pieces, and there were times that I was angry with you for interfering. But then I realized that I was getting a lot of pleasure from our encounters.”

  “Is that why you put the cryptic clues in the Enigma Tours brochure?” Annabel asks.

  “You spotted that,” Battleford says gleefully. “I’m glad my little game wasn’t wasted. You see, normally it is easy to acquire what catches my fancy. I see something, I pay people, and soon it’s part of my collection. You are both smart, and I feel years younger when we lock horns and try to outwit each other. I invited you along to see if you could stop me. It seems that you cannot.”

  “There’s nothing here,” Terry says. “Just old bones and a few pieces of rag.”

  “Well,” Battleford says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and looking around, “perhaps we are searching in the wrong place.”

  I tense up as he strolls over to the space between the three pillars. “There’s nothing over there,” I blurt out.

  “And how would you know that, Sam?” Battleford asks over his shoulder.

  “I mean, there are no graves over there,” I say hurriedly.

  “The best things are not always hidden in graves,” Battleford says, kicking idly in the disturbed sand where Annabel tried to cover the hole we found. “There seems to be an unusual flat rock here. Terry, would you be so kind as to remove it for me?”

  My heart sinks as Terry joins Battleford and crouches down. I look over at Annabel. She shrugs and seems less worried than I feel. She’s right—there’s nothing we can do. Either Terry or Rob could easily keep both of us under control while the other dug up the whole island. Battleford was right. He’s beat us this time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After Terry moves the rock and scoops the sand out of the hole, he moves aside for Battleford to reach into the hole. There’s a triumphant look on Battleford’s face when he stands up, holding the oilskin package.

  “No, please leave it.” I plead. “It’s so important. It could be the answer to everything. You must let the scientists look at it.”

  Battleford’s smile is firmly in place as he walks back over to us, clutching the package to his chest. “You are right, of course,” he says. “This is important.” For a second I think he’s going to hand the package to me. Instead, he says, “You overate scientists. They are just as petty as the rest of our species. I promise that if it contains the answer, I will send you an email.”

&nb
sp; I slump to the ground, close to tears. Battleford has in his greedy hands the most important find in Arctic history. What’s worse is that he has it because of Annabel and me. If we hadn’t dug around, he wouldn’t have known where to look. I feel totally miserable.

  Annabel sits beside me and places a comforting arm around my shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do,” she says. She’s trying to cheer me up, but it’s not working.

  “Well,” Battleford says, “I would love to open this and let you have a look at what you have lost.”

  I feel Annabel tense beside me—Battleford’s gloating has gotten to her. She relaxes as he continues, “But I am sure you understand how fragile the documents might be. You may not agree with what I do, but I am not irresponsible. I’m as keen as anyone to keep this safe. I shall open the package in controlled conditions. I have contacts in the scientific community who, for a generous donation, would be happy to help me preserve this. And I meant what I said. I shall send you an email telling you what I find.”

  “You won’t get away with this,” I say bitterly. “We’ll tell the police. They’ll raid your home.”

  “I admire the passion of youth,” Battleford says, “but I fear you overestimate the police and underestimate my intelligence. I have many homes, some of which I do not advertise openly. And what would you say? That I stole a package from an empty hole in the ground? There is no proof that I was even here. My helicopter will take me to another of my yachts far from here, and the Arctic Spray will continue on her perfectly legal cruise. Oh, the police may make a few comforting noises and open a few files, but they will find nothing.”

  “So you’re going to abandon us here?” I ask.

  “Abandon? No, nothing so crude. I would hate to think that you two charming kids might end up like our friend over there.” Battleford inclines his head toward the scattered bones around the grave. “I do hope you don’t get into too much trouble for digging up that grave.”

  I feel a surge of anger, but I can’t think of anything to say before Battleford goes on. “The archaeologists diving on the wreck will get a radio message from a passing ship, saying that two figures were spotted on this island. It shouldn’t be too long before you’re picked up. But now I really must be going. As always, it has been a pleasure. I look forward to renewing our relationship in the future.”

  Battleford heads to the helicopter, closely followed by Rob and Terry. We sit in silence as the machine lifts off. It banks and heads west, and I catch a glimpse of a hand waving in one of the windows.

  “He won this one,” I say glumly. “And—again—there’s nothing we can do to get him arrested.”

  “A lot of money buys you a lot of safety,” Annabel says. “But don’t be so sure that he won.”

  It takes a moment for me to realize what she has said. “What do you mean?” I ask, looking up at her.

  Very slowly, Annabel removes her daypack. She places it on the ground between us, opens it and gently lifts out a thick book that is almost black with age. Without opening it, Annabel holds it up so I can see the cover. I can just make out ghostly handwriting.

  This is the journal of the years 1845 to 1850, written by James Fitzjames, Captain HMS Erebus and last commander of Sir John Franklin’s Great Arctic Expedition. Myself, Surgeon Goodsir, Ice Master Reid and the Boy George Chambers, all that are left, will leave tomorrow and head east in search of rescue. Even after such terrible tragedy, I have high hopes of seeing home once more. If I am wrong, please ensure that this document reaches the hands of the British Admiralty.

  God have mercy on us all.

  I read it three times. This is it. This is it. This is the final message from the last pitiful survivors before they set off in search of a rescue that never came. I reach out and gently touch the corner of the book. In that moment, I almost understand Humphrey Battleford’s passion to possess pieces of the past.

  “How did you get this?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes from the book.

  “I knew I couldn’t hide signs of digging. Battleford would see where this was hidden. So I unwrapped the oilcloth and put this in my daypack, the last place he would think of looking.” Annabel carefully places Fitzjames’s journal back in her pack.

  “What did you replace it with?”

  Annabel’s face breaks into a broad grin. “When Battleford opens the oilcloth in his ‘controlled conditions,’ he will find my book on the Inuit testimony. I hope he learns something from it.”

  Annabel laughs first, but soon we are both roaring uncontrollably. Tears of joy and relief stream down our cheeks. We’ve won, and soon, thanks to the words of the long-dead Captain James Fitzjames, the world will finally know the answer to the Franklin mystery.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Do you think Battleford will keep his word and let someone know where we are?” I ask. It’s been three hours since the helicopter left. There has been no more snow, and the sun is shining, but I don’t want to spend the night in this desolate spot.

  “I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” Annabel says. “He seems quite fond of us.”

  “I doubt he will be when he opens the package.”

  “Yeah,” Annabel says with a grin. “I would love to be a fly on the wall when that happens. Do you know what I missed in this encounter with Battleford? Percy.”

  “Me too. He doesn’t know his master’s a crook. Although I don’t think the archaeologists would like Percy running around with Franklin’s thigh bone in his mouth.”

  “The teeth marks would give them a new theory about what happened—the dog ate them all.”

  We both laugh. “I still can’t believe the answer to the Franklin mystery is in your backpack,” I say.

  “Pretty cool, huh.”

  “I’d love to read it.”

  “If we’re abandoned and doomed to starve like Franklin’s men, I promise I’ll let you read Fitzjames’s journal before I cook you for supper.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “That’ll make being turned into stew much better. But I don’t think we’re going to get the chance.”

  Annabel follows my pointing hand. There’s an aluminum boat heading straight for us. “We’re saved!” I shout melodramatically.

  “Let’s go down to the shore and meet them,” Annabel says, standing up.

  I stay sitting, staring at the boat. “We were never in any danger. We’ve only had to wait a few hours, but I’m happy to see the boat arrive. Imagine what the last survivors of Franklin’s expedition must have felt, waiting for years for help that never came.”

  Annabel just nods. We walk in silence to meet our rescuers.

  “Typical,” Jim says as the boat grounds and a ramp drops from the square prow onto the beach. “A couple of hopeless Kabloonas get themselves in trouble and expect the Inuit to come to their rescue.”

  “Jim! What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Nice welcome,” Jim says, strolling down the ramp. “I could always leave if you’re not happy to see me.”

  “We’re delighted to see you,” Annabel says. “And have we got a story to tell you.”

  “Better tell it to this guy as well,” Jim says, waving an arm at the tall fair-haired man stepping out of the boat’s cabin and coming forward. “He’s the expert.”

  “Dave Whyte,” the man says, shaking our hands. “I’m with Parks Canada, Underwater Archaeology.”

  “You’re from the dive on the Erebus,” I say excitedly.

  Dave smiles. “Yeah, but don’t ask me what we’ve found this year. I’m not allowed to say anything. We got a message that some passing tourists had spotted two people on an island and thought they might need help.”

  “We need a ride home,” I say.

  “I think we can arrange that,” Jim says. “Eh, Dave?”

  Before Dave can respond, Annabel says, “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “First time I’ve heard of people being rescued wanting to make a deal,” Jim says, but Dave looks at Annabel with interest.

/>   “If you tell me what you found, I’ll show you what we found,” Annabel says with a mischievous smile.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Dave says. “I don’t want to lose my job. But I’d like to see what you’ve found.”

  Annabel takes Fitzjames’s journal out of her pack and carefully passes it over. As Dave reads the cover, his eyes widen. He tries to say something, but his jaw simply hangs open.

  Jim, peering over the archaeologist’s shoulder, breaks the silence. “Well, Dave, it looks like these two Kabloonas have a story to tell, and I, for one, would love to hear it.”

  With considerable effort, Dave manages to speak. “You shouldn’t have touched this.”

  “I know,” Annabel agrees. “That’s part of the story.”

  Dave takes a deep breath. “Okay. First off, show me where you found this, and then we’ll head back to the dive ship. I suspect you’ll have a good audience for your story. As for the deal you offered, we’ve found things on the Erebus, but nothing to compare to this. If you’re not in a tearing rush to get home—have either of you ever done any diving?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I still can’t believe they took us down on a dive to the Erebus,” Annabel says. It’s the end of September. We’re home, enjoying the best French fries in our favorite café. Outside, the sun is shining, and there’s zero chance of snow.

  “It was incredible,” I reply. “Of course, the A-plus we got on our project didn’t hurt.”

  “We should thank Battleford.”

  “I guess so. Do you think he’ll ever be caught?”

  Annabel looks thoughtful as she washes down the last French fry with the dregs of her Coke. “Tough to see how,” she says. “He’s rich and smart, and he always makes sure that nothing can be traced to him.”

  Annabel’s right. We told our story and filled out endless police reports, but nothing has been done. Our case isn’t helped by Enigma Tours being a perfectly genuine company that has never employed anyone called Moira Rawdon and is owned by a very conservative group of German businessmen. All mention of the Crype Foundation on Wikipedia has mysteriously disappeared, and the Arctic Spray, even though it was noticed by several people at Sachs Harbour, is not listed on any shipping register.