Sorqaq could add little to Meqro’s account. Last spring, he married a girl called Megipsu, and went with her to her village. Jakob worked on the glacier nearby. He continued to go up there after Sorqaq left. He knew it well, knew what to avoid . . . Glaciers are always dangerous, no matter how much care is taken.
But Sorqaq told her something else. Just after Jakob’s disappearance, Armitage came back. He came to the hut and told Welbourne that he wanted to apologise to Jakob. He had failed once more to reach the North Pole. Welbourne said Armitage seemed shocked to hear of Jakob’s death. But, Sorqaq added, it was possible he had come back earlier than he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps he came back here before Jakob died.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I was there when they fought. I saw him. Armitay looked at Jakob like he wanted to kill him.’
.
And, some months later, after Welbourne’s death, Armitage and some men came back, saying they must take the dead men’s belongings away, because their things should go to their families in America. If Sorqaq had been there, he said, not meeting Flora’s eye, he would have stopped him taking Jakob’s things.
‘I put them in a box – his papers and pictures, his clothes, his camera. I knew you would come back. I’m sorry, Fellora. Of course, some things were with him. Tools, another camera . . . He kept your letters, here.’ He touched his breast.
Chapter 58
Unexplored Region, location unknown
July 1900
The last time Flora crossed the strait between Ellesmere and Greenland was two years ago, in August, after she and Jakob left the valley. They met up with Sorqaq, Aniguin and Welbourne, and stared at the daunting sight of a strait made up of grey, sullen water. Winds from the north had blown out the ice. They had to use the collapsible boat, dug up from the cache and mended, although the warped timbers meant it leaked terribly. Dense fog rolled in, so they had little idea where they were. Heavy swells pushed them north and east. Without Welbourne’s skill with the makeshift sails, and the untiring vigilance of Aniguin and Sorqaq, God knows whether they would have made it back to Greenland at all.
Flora, who had never been truly afraid in the Vega, even in the worst storms, struggled to stay calm. At one point in the sixty-hour crossing, they found themselves menaced by old, battered floes and near-invisible slabs of black ice – every piece larger than their fragile boat. They bailed continuously, or used oars to punt off the encroaching bergs.
Once, the wind tore a rent in the fog and, away in the north-east, there was a black scribble against the greyness: a bare-masted, thick-funnelled ship. Flora squinted; the others looked at her in expectation. After peering hard through binoculars, she shook her head.
‘It’s not the Clansman. I don’t think it’s British. It looks wrong.’
Whalers wouldn’t venture this far north. And her ship, coming to pick her up and take her home, would have stopped at Siorapaluk. Scotty Welbourne took the glasses from her and studied the stranger, ploughing northward.
‘I think it’s an American,’ he said.
He and Jakob exchanged glances. The swirling fog wrapped itself around them, blotting out the stranger, reducing their visible world to a few yards of grey, heaving water. No one said what they were thinking.
.
When at last they made it back to Neqi, the villagers came out to greet them. They were all smiles, laughing with relief, joking – until they saw Flora. They stared at her in consternation, even fear.
‘Are you flesh or are you spirit?’ they asked.
‘I am flesh, Pualana!’
She smiled. No one smiled back at her. Aniguin and Sorqaq remonstrated with them, and it transpired that they had heard from Tateraq, who had told them that Ashbee had killed Flora and then turned the gun on himself.
‘No, there’s been a misunderstanding.’
Jakob laughed, his hand on her arm. She had stepped carefully aside (this memory lacerated her), worried that they would know.
‘You can see that Fellora isn’t dead! She is flesh, like us.’
They explained that Ashbee had died in an accident, that Tateraq had gone in search of Haddo and Dixon . . . A misunderstanding . . . The questions raised by this version of events floated away in the mist.
Now, as they steam north, the weather is glorious. The water is a deep blue, with small, skittish waves that slap playfully at the Vega’s hull. The sun sparkles off the glittering surface. A qaqulluk hovers in the air above the deck, a white ghost, delicate spider legs dangling. When it abruptly veers away, having given up on whatever purpose it was engaged in, the sun turns its flashing wings to silver. Flora stands in the bows, watching the line of white come nearer.
Flora broods on that exchange. She was presumed dead, but had returned. She cannot help wondering, even as she knows it to be impossible, What if . . . ? What if . . . ?
False hope, retreating in front of her like the ghostly mountains that have deceived explorers for centuries. Atmospheric delusions; desires made manifest. She must not let herself be dangled, like poor Iris. But what else is there?
.
When the ship can sail no further, they leave the Vega moored in the lee of a grounded berg and continue over the sea-ice by dogsled. Captain Mackie lets it be known that he thinks her deranged. But his knees are too bad to accompany them (and she would not let him go), so he sighs and paces the deck, grumbling about the unpredictability of the season up here, the dangers of the ice to the Vega’s old timbers – the old girl is insufficiently reinforced for the situation in which she finds herself . . .
After two days, Kudloq sees something in the distance: on the grey western shore, a huddle of bleached timber – two or three huts. A skein of smoke leans to southward, but there is no other movement, no sound. The American camp.
When they are still some hundred yards off, Flora asks Sorqaq and Kudloq to wait. Sorqaq frowns, asks if she doesn’t want him to come.
‘I will see if he’s there,’ she says, beyond which, she has not thought. She thinks that, when she looks into his eyes, she will know if he is guilty of murder. This belief is based on nothing at all.
.
Knock at the door, then push it open. A large room bisected by a table. A tall stove like an altar. It is quietly dark and she is aware of the smells of tobacco, green wood, unwashed men. Little light makes it in through the small, dirty windows.
‘Mr Armitage?’ Her voice comes out strongly.
At first, she thinks there is no one here. Then there is a noise behind a partition, and movement through the open door. A figure stands up from a desk in the dimness and faces her.
‘Who’s that?’
.
She hasn’t seen him for eight years, not since the day when Jakob and she wished each other well on the beach at Neqi – the day when they both knew. Armitage’s reddish hair is faded, but unstreaked with grey. An overgrown beard obscures mouth and chin, but she can see that the cheeks are haggard, the pale eyes oddly prominent. Where he was spare, he is now gaunt; whittled down to the bone.
‘Well, well . . . Mrs Athlone . . . I didn’t know you were in the north.’
‘Yes.’ She takes some steps towards him, and sits down, uninvited, at the table. The wood is cold and greasy to the touch.
‘What a pleasant surprise.’
‘Where are your men? Are you alone?’
He makes a dismissive gesture. ‘They’ve gone on a trip to the mountains. We must lay in meat for next winter.’
‘You’re not with them?’
‘I have too much work to do here, alas. Plans for next year. I must stay here until the work is done. So much to do, as ever. To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘You know why I’m here.’
He shrugs. ‘No, I’m afraid I do n
ot.’
She pauses, wondering if Sorqaq is outside now. She thought she might be afraid, but she does not fear him. She wonders if he fears her.
‘Why did you go to Neqi, last June?’
‘In June?’ He blinks. ‘Let me think . . . June . . . It is usual to visit colleagues if they are in the same area. I knew Mr de Beyn of old, as you know.’
‘You had had a disagreement with him. A severe disagreement.’
‘Ah . . . I see. That was when I was unwell in the winter. It’s true, and I wanted to make amends for it. That was the reason for my visit then.’
‘What did you find when you got there?’
‘I found, very sadly, that Mr de Beyn had passed away before I arrived. Had I been only one or two days earlier, I would have seen him. Sad. He was a fine scientist, a fine man.’
She tries to stare into his depthless eyes, to read his face. To know. He nods slowly, sorrowfully.
‘What was the argument about?’
‘I hardly remember. Nothing serious. As I said, I wasn’t well. It was unfortunate. I’m sure he would have understood.’
‘Wasn’t it about the fact that he had proved Dupree Land does not exist, which would damage your character when it became known?’
Armitage looks at her with a hint of impatience. Shakes his head.
‘He could prove that you lied.’
‘Mrs Athlone, I understand that you and he were – ah – close. His passing must have been a great shock.’
‘The proof is in his notes. You took those notes. And Mr Welbourne’s. Why did you do that?’
‘I took all their belongings to return them to their families. As is right.’
‘So then you still have the proofs about Dupree Land?’
He spreads his hands, palms upwards.
‘I suppose so – if they in fact exist.’
‘Where are his things? I want to see them.’
‘I am not sure if I can allow that. They are in my care . . .’
‘He was my husband!’
He gapes, wrong-footed. For all he knows . . . She stands and goes to the open door. Sorqaq comes towards her, his rifle slung over his shoulder. She looks at him, shakes her head minutely.
‘Mrs . . . ah, I acted appropriately. The belongings were not safe left at Neqi.’
‘You’re not going back this year. Give them to me. I’ll take them to New York myself.’
His pale eyes stare at her, register Sorqaq in the doorway. The eyelids are red and watery, and he blinks frequently.
‘Well . . . a handsome offer. However, you would have to give me time to look them out. They’re in the stores, somewhere. Things have become rather confused—’
‘They should be conveyed to the families as soon as possible. And something may happen to you before you go back. As happened to both Mr de Beyn and Mr Welbourne.’
Armitage looks at her curiously, and smiles.
.
In uneasy silence, they watch as Armitage searches the store hut and unearths two tin trunks, painted with the initials of the dead men. He looks at them patiently, warily, as if he is at the mercy of lunatics who must be humoured.
‘There you are. You’re welcome to look through them. I trust you will put everything back in order. If you’ll excuse me, I have work I must get on with.’
Kudloq goes to hover by the hut, to keep an eye on Armitage. Crouched on the floor of the stores, Flora and Sorqaq open Jakob’s trunk. Inside are clothes and books, piles of folders, his field notes, his written-up notebooks, rolls of film, a camera wrapped in a jumper. There is the chemise she left behind, carefully folded. Avoiding the stacks of photographs, she skims through the notebooks. Because they are so clearly labelled, it does not take long to sort through them, putting them in order. Her heart is pounding, making her dizzy. At last she looks up at Sorqaq.
‘The notebooks from the northern trip aren’t here.’
‘You mean when we went to the north coast? What about these? I know he kept notes in these. Every night he wrote in them.’
Sorqaq indicates Jakob’s field notes – small, thin notebooks tied in bundles. Each is labelled, each in order, but still, she looks through every one, to be sure. Nothing.
They open Welbourne’s trunk; fewer notebooks are among his things – he seems to have kept a diary, nothing more. The evidence against Armitage is nowhere to be found. There is no written trace of the northern journey. There are no traces at all.
Flora sits back on her heels, frightened.
Sorqaq says, ‘Well, Fellora?’
‘It’s all gone. He has destroyed everything.’
She nods.
Chapter 59
Gander, Newfoundland, 48˚57’N, 54˚36’W
1948
Snow continues to fall throughout the day, turning the windows white. It is soft and silent; it renders the air base picturesque and useless. Randall thinks of the dark lake he saw earlier, and wonders about the snowflakes, millions of them, falling and disappearing in the grey water, or settling on the old ice, making it white and perfect, masking its imperfections, making it look safe.
Restless, he thinks of tramping out once more to watch, but the dirge-like greyness of the air and poor visibility – and the cold – dissuade him. He should use the time productively, he tells himself, but can’t settle to anything. He catches himself staring at the window. Instead of poring over his notes or the clippings or the photographs, his eyes fasten on the pattern of flakes that drift into the corners of the frame. He feels their coldness from inside. If he looks very hard, squinting through his eyelashes, he thinks he can see individual crystals: tiny, exquisite hexagons, each conforming to order, yet each, supposedly, as unique as a face. They are, according to his girlfriend, Barbara, proof of God’s existence. She is as pretty and untouched as a snowflake, and he finds it hard to argue with her.
He can’t help thinking about ‘hopeless lunatic’ Arent de Beyn. What does that prove? That his mother is a liar? His grandparents? Or Flora Athlone-Cochrane, or whatever the hell her name is?
Doesn’t the truth matter?
He should concentrate on Jakob and Armitage, while he has the chance to ask her. But, somehow, his questing after truth, which felt so fine and noble, a pure torch he carried for his family, seems to have turned grubby. The more he reads and hears about them all, the more he suspects that those golden-age explorers were an unpleasant lot – selfish, elusive, ruthless. They left people in their wake while they ran to the ends of the earth, to beat their chests and show everyone what great men they were. Or women. He doesn’t believe her claims of escape; she was as much after glory as Armitage, he can tell. No, not much fun to be around. Or if they were fun, perhaps, then (like his great-uncle) they weren’t around. But imagine having a dead father who is suddenly resurrected as an incurable – a hopeless – lunatic. A taunt and a portent. A threat and a shadow.
He didn’t tell her that his grandfather, Hendrik, was assumed to have taken his own life.
Randall presses his hand against the cold glass, making the snow melt, dissolving the fragile bonds between individual crystals. Clots turn back into stars, before they disappear.
Snowflakes: more beautiful when they are alone. People do not harp on that analogy, for some reason.
.
In the bar, some scientists and air officers are playing pool. Randall watches for a while, takes a couple of games and is roundly beaten by the Cambridge physicist. He plays badly, but still blames his final defeat on the fact that Flora Cochrane has come into the bar and sits by the window. She does not seem to be watching, but even her not watching bothers him.
In that frame of mind, he relinquishes the cue to one of the navigators and goes up to her.
‘I was hoping to find you here,’ she says, before he can say anything. ‘I’m sorry about ear
lier. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
He shrugs. ‘I asked to be told.’
‘Have you spoken to your family?’
He shakes his head. ‘I can’t discuss something like that over the telephone. If I could even get through.’ He glances towards the whitened window.
‘Mr Crane, there’s something else I want to say to you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Could we go somewhere more private? To my room – if you don’t find the prospect too alarming.’
.
She closes her door behind them and starts talking immediately.
‘Mr Crane, for a very long time, I could not speak about Jakob, or acknowledge what had happened. I was bereaved, but that cannot excuse my behaviour. There were things I should have done that I did not, and one of them was, certainly, to send his things to your family. For that, I apologise.’
‘His things? You had his things – from Greenland?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. And I’ll be sure to send them to your mother, when I get home.’
‘You still have them now?’
She nods. Randall is astonished.
‘My goodness . . . That’s incredible. It would be wonderful to have them.’
‘I’ll write to your mother and apologise to her. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.’
Randall shakes his head wonderingly.
‘What sort of things are they? Records, do you mean? Or personal items?’
‘Some of his records. Some personal things. His camera. Clothes. Photographs.’
Randall finds that he is grinning. He shakes his head. ‘This is amazing. But I don’t understand how you could have them? Did he give them to you?’
‘No. In the summer of 1900, I went back, to look for him. You didn’t know that . . . Well, why would you? I had to find out what happened. Eskimo friends told me that he’d gone missing on the glacier where he was working. A crevasse – that was the most likely explanation.’
‘Oh.’