Read the book: «Lost Heritage»

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

LOST HERITAGE

Prologue

Thessalonica, 1912

‘We’ve been waiting for more than half an hour in this suffocating heat,’ the Oxford professor growled as he looked at his pocket watch. ‘When is that ferryman going to turn up?’

He kept looking into the distance, but the dawn mist was so thick that no one could see hardly anything in front of their faces. Only the sound of some bird diving into the water in search of fish broke the profound silence.

‘I don't think he’ll be long,’ I replied as I took a look at the old parchment map once more.

‘Do you think we’ll find the exact place in this mist,’ added the professor.

Kalisteas, our Greek guide, seemed to be biting at his lip. He was growing weary of the old man's complaints.

‘As soon as the first rays of the sun come out, the mist will begin to evaporate and the lake will be visible.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve been here lots of times,’ he replied smugly.

The professor looked him up and down. He couldn't stand arrogance.

‘I hope you're right,’ I said looking him in the eyes. ‘We must have a bright clear day to be able to interpret this map.’

‘As long as it’s not some crude copy of the original made centuries later,’ added the professor with a half-smile.

‘Then our journey to Thessalonica will have been in vain,’ I replied wryly. ‘I’ve never undertaken an expedition without having evidence first. This parchment is from the 4th century AD.’

‘I know. That’s why I decided to leave my library behind. Even so, allow an old man to still harbour doubts,’ he sighed softly.

Suddenly, the ghostly shape of a ferryboat appeared from out of the mist. The ferryman greeted Kalisteas and waved for us to get on board.

‘They were thinking you weren't going to come,’ Kalisteas told him. ‘My companions were starting to get nervous.’

The ferryman stared at him. He didn’t like either being given orders or being held to a particular time.

‘It’s difficult to navigate in this mist, even for me’ replied the ferryman.

Kalisteas looked at him in surprise.

‘Let's go,’ he added bluntly. ‘It will take us twice as long to get there in these conditions.’

On one knee, the ferryman began to brandish his long oar from top to bottom, while the rest of us sat in front of him, trying to distinguish anything through the dense mist on that hot morning in which the water looked like a mill pond. Only the sound of birdsong broke the golden silence of the dawn.

The first rays of sunlight finally began to appear, penetrating through the clouds and punching holes in the mist, allowing us to glimpse the splendid morning in that extensive wetland.

The grotto to which we were heading looked like a simple gap in the rocks from a distance, but as we approached it became larger.

‘The water level hasn’t dropped down far enough!’ Kalisteas shouted while pointing. ‘Half the cave must still be flooded!’

Only the top part was dry. The water still reached up to three quarters of the height of the cave wall.

‘The parchment clearly states that this is the only month of the year in which the water level will drop far enough down to make the cave accessible,’ I replied.

‘Last month it rained a great deal. The water level is much higher than usual.’

‘So now what do we do?’ groaned the professor.

‘We swim, my friend,’ Kalisteas announced with a wry smile. He seemed amused by the situation.

The ferryman took us right up to the very entrance of the cave, so that we only had to jump into the water and swim a short distance to reach a rocky ledge running along the inside.

‘Have you paid the ferryman?’ the Greek asked after we had reached the ledge.

‘We didn’t have time. We had to jump into the water straight away.’

Kalisteas shook his head again and again.

‘I’ll pay him when we get back,’ I replied.

‘He was expecting to be paid then and there. How can you be sure that we’ll make it back?’ he added angrily and started walking towards a shaft off to his left.

‘Why is he so angry?’ asked the professor whispering in my ear when the Greek had gotten a few yards ahead of us.

‘Not paying the ferryman brings bad luck,’ I replied. ‘Greeks are very superstitious.’

We lit the way with the kerosene lamps we had carefully wrapped up in our backpacks and Kalisteas led us down a narrow passageway that meandered left and right, as well as up and down. As we began to descend, the heat became even more stifling, until we came to a fork in the passageways with two separate shafts leading off in different directions.

‘This is as far as I know,’ Kalisteas said quietly. ‘Now it's your turn.’

We carefully looked over the walls of this crossroads, until the professor recognized some inscriptions engraved at the bottom of one of the shaft walls. Turning towards us with a triumphant smile on his face, he announced:

‘This is the way. I have no doubt about it.’

While we continued down the narrow shaft we could hear the fluttering of bats behind us, until the passage came to an abrupt end.

After using the lamps to look all around us, we could see a narrow opening on our left through which only one person at a time could just about squeeze through.

‘The secret entrance,’ the professor announced.

Kalisteas stooped and entered the narrow opening while we followed.

We had to squat down and even at times crawl our way along the tunnel, our legs beginning to go numb as we advanced, until finally, we reached the foot of a rough spiral stone staircase, which went down further still.

On reaching the bottom of the staircase, the professor was panting.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course I am. Don’t worry about me. I may be an old bookworm who’s not used to exercise, but there’s no way I’m giving up now.’

Kalisteas smiled on seeing this spirit of adventure in the professor while he was hunched over trying to catch his breath.

‘I think we’ve reached the end,’ the Greek announced as he pointed ahead.

There in front of us was a dark underground lagoon. As we approached the edge of it, we could distinguish a very small altar at the opposite end of this grotto.

‘We’ve only got two options,’ I exclaimed, turning to my companions. ‘We either cross the lagoon or we turn around and try one of the other tunnels.’

‘There’s something I don't like about this cave,’ declared the professor.

We began to look around the lagoon’s edge. There was only a tiny area of solid ground flanked by a huge rock wall about 30-foot high that extended all around the lagoon.

‘The altar on the other side doesn’t seem that far away,’ said Kalisteas. ‘I’m a good swimmer. I think I could get across without much of a problem.’

‘There’s no trace of any human presence. It’s as if no one has ever been here’ added the professor.

We both stared at him as if he had read our minds. The Greek began to remove his clothing and prepared to enter the water.

‘Are you sure you can swim over to there?’ I asked him.

He smiled with a nod.

Kalisteas got into the cold water and began to stroke away. He had been swimming for just a short time when we heard a splash in the water and a small wave forming some distance away from him.

‘Look over there,’ said the professor pointing.

‘Swim back as fast as you can!’ I yelled to him instantly. ‘There’s something in the water!’

Kalisteas looked over to his left and saw the ripple in the water approaching him.

‘Shine the light over there, professor!’ I said as I took out my revolver from its waterproof wrapping and started shooting in that direction.

The shots seemed to make the creature hesitate and change direction, giving Kalisteas the time to get back to us safe and sound.

‘We now know why no one seems to have crossed this lagoon,’ the Greek said as he was drying himself off.

‘And now what?’ asked the professor.

‘I have no idea’ I replied, looking around that sinister cavern once more.

We spent some time scrutinizing the place trying to find a solution. At first we thought that the best idea was to turn around and come back another day with the right equipment, but we were far from the nearest town and the entrance to the cave would be submerged again in a couple of days. That would have meant waiting a whole year to try again.

Having run out of ideas, we sat on the outcrop of rocks at the water's edge. Despite the darkness, the torches were reflected in the water of the lagoon, drawing a starry sky over the grotto’s vaulted ceiling.

That vision reminded me of a time a few years earlier when I had gotten up before the break of dawn to undertake the tough climb of one of the Alpine mountains during my holidays in Switzerland.

‘That wall,’ and I pointed to the left, ‘runs right along the grotto. It starts here on our side and ends right at the little altar over there. If I can manage to climb along it, I wouldn't have to get wet.’

‘You've gone mad?’ the professor declared as if he were teaching back in his Oxford classroom.

‘I can cross that wall from one end to the other. Look!’ I said pointing at it. ‘There are cracks and fissures all along the rock face. Anyone could climb along it without too much trouble.’

‘It’s too risky,’ added Kalisteas. It was the first time I had seen fear in his eyes.

‘I haven’t come this far just to turn back. We’re on the point of the greatest archaeological discovery in history,’ I replied angrily.

They both lowered their heads and kept their mouths shut.

I took one last look all along the rock wall face, trying to envisage my route. There were certainly enough cracks and fissures that could provide hand and foot holds for someone who was as experienced at climbing as I was. After a last look, I began the ascent.

The first section was relatively easy. I climbed to a not too excessive height, around 20 feet above the level of the lagoon, high enough to ensure that nothing could attack me from the water. I inched my way along searching for a crack that could provide first a handhold and then a foothold, taking one step after another with great care. The humidity in the underground cavern had made its mark on the walls over the years, creating a large number of cracks and fissures.

Upon reaching halfway, I was beginning to feel tired but on looking down, I saw the water gently stir in the centre of the lagoon; something that gave me more than enough motivation to carry on.

As I neared the altar, its close proximity renewed my strength. However, the biggest obstacle came a moment later as the number of cracks into which I could put my hand or my foot had become much fewer and further between. There were only a few feet left to go and I could already clearly see that relic.

‘What is it?’ Kalisteas yelled when he saw me stop.

‘There aren’t enough cracks in the wall for me to hold on to!’ I replied.

‘You should have paid the ferryman,’ he growled angrily.

I pretended not to hear him. I climbed down the wall as stealthily as I could as there was no other way to get over to the other side than to enter the water. I silently and very gently slipped my body into the cold liquid until it came up to my neck. There was no turning back, and I started to swim towards the altar with all my strength.

Although the distance was very short, as I stepped onto the ground on the other side I heard a snapping sound behind me. Without thinking twice, I took out my revolver and emptied the magazine without seeing exactly what I was firing at. I could only see ripples in the water that drifted back in the opposite direction.

Having regained my calm, I was at last able to reach the small altar. It sat on a tombstone in the middle of a small square cut into the rock. On the tombstone itself had been engraved the depiction of a procession of mourners, and beneath them was what looked like a tomb displaying letters that were barely readable, having been worn away by the humidity and the passing of the years. I ran my hand over both the engravings and the inscription and immediately felt a sensation that even today I cannot describe using mere words alone.

I was paralyzed, rooted to the spot as I kept staring at them, until a loud buzzing noise shook me out of my trance-like state. I looked out over the lagoon, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

‘You have to come back quickly!’ Kalisteas began to scream at the top of his lungs.

‘Not now! Not now that I've finally found it!’ I replied.

‘Forget it if you don't want it to be the last thing you’ll ever see in your life! A storm is coming and in a short time the cave will be completely under water!’

Those words stabbed me in the heart.

‘Alright!’ I replied with resignation.

I knew I would have to set off back along the wall using the gaps in the rock face that were much nearer the surface of the water, even allowing my foot to go below the surface of the water once or twice. So, I shouted across to Kalisteas.

‘Do me a favour, Kalisteas. Start distracting the creature!’

‘How?’

‘Throw rocks into the water to attract our friend's attention! As soon as you see him approach you, tell me!’

‘Got it!’

A few moments later on seeing the creature approach, Kalisteas shouted. From the ripples in the water at the other side of the lagoon, it was clear that he had attracted the creature’s attention. At that moment, I got into the water and started to swim the short distance to the point where there were an abundance of gaps in the wall close to the water’s surface.

I did not look back as I emerged from the water and immediately started ascending the rock face. Just as I had cleared my feet from the water’s surface, I could hear a swishing sound in the lagoon close behind me; a sound that grew more ominous as I started to put a few more inches between myself and the lagoon surface below.

With my heart pounding and with a greater familiarity of the handholds and footholds I had already used to get to that point, I climbed back along the wall at more than twice the speed I had come. All my previous caution had been thrown to the wind as I now started grabbing hold of any crack, or putting my foot in any gap I could, as pure adrenaline was pumping through my veins.

The thunderous noise outside continued to increase as I reached the other side, my hands torn and bleeding through the effort I had made and the chances I had taken.

The Greek hurried us back through the shafts, passageways and tunnels until we reached the cave. The water had risen so high that as we entered the water to swim out, our heads barely protruded above the surface as there was only just enough room between the water and the cave ceiling.

We were already in sight of the exit when the cave became completely submerged. Just before the exit, we all took a final deep breath and had to dive below the surface in order to cover the final stretch. Finally, we emerged into the sunlit lake overcome with relief as we saw the ferryman waiting for us.

The trip back had a bittersweet taste. We had made the greatest archaeological discovery in human history but had brought back no evidence to support this. And worst of all, we would have to wait for a whole year in order to try again.

Chapter 1

London, 1922

I was on my way to an exhibition being held in the main function room of the British Museum. Unfortunately, I was running late and had had to catch a taxi on the corner of White Hart Lane. All the writers and reporters for the most prominent newspapers were going to be there to cover the news of the year. For the first time, the most acclaimed archaeological discovery of recent years could be seen in London. No reporter worth his salt would miss this event.

By the time we had reached Piccadilly Circus we had run into a horrendous traffic jam, and for ten minutes we barely advanced twenty yards.

If I was late, I could consider myself fired.

‘How much?’ I asked the taxi driver.

‘Two shillings and tuppence’ he replied turning to me.

I paid him and got out.

After walking across Trafalgar Square in the drizzle, I hurried down several side streets until I came to Great Russell Street.

The atmosphere of expectation was even greater than I would have imagined. Hundreds of photographers, policemen and multitudes of onlookers were crowding around the entrance to the British Museum. Despite its enormous dimensions, even the museum appeared to be too small for the occasion.

Luxury Rolls-Royces kept pulling up out the front. I could not recall such a stir since Valentino had made an appearance at the Albert Hall a couple of years earlier.

Two large spotlights made the impressive Doric columns of the building’s façade shine as the statue of the goddess Athena at the front seemed to come to life. The building sparkled that night as if it were the most beautiful neoclassical jewel.

I went to the front gate, presented my press accreditation and, after an exhaustive search through the lists of invited newspapers, the museum’s officials finally let me in. Apparently, imposters had been constantly trying to sneak in using all manner of false press passes. I then climbed the wide staircase and stood at the designated spot on the corridor overlooking the main entrance.

‘Hey Paul! You’re wet through!’ exclaimed Tom, the Northern Star correspondent.

‘It was impossible to get anywhere near this place by taxi and I left my umbrella at home,’ I answered glumly. ‘Has the man of the moment arrived yet?’

‘No. Just the mayor, but that’s nothing to shout about!’ he replied smiling.

In the background a great murmur was heard as even more people began to crowd at the main entrance.

‘I think that may be our man now,’ Tom announced as he reloaded his camera.

We did not have to wait too long. A few moments later, we saw an Aston Martin convertible come to a stop outside the front steps carrying the star of the day.

A shower of flashes immortalized the moment as people shouted the name of the most sought-after man on the planet as he was getting out of the car. Howard Carter, accompanied by his beautiful and elegant lady friend, stepped onto the red carpet rolled out for the occasion, and proceeded to greet cheering fans and well-wishers on either side as if they were two movie stars in the age of the silent film.

‘Mr. Carter! Mr. Carter!’ all the correspondents shouted in unison.

‘A few words!’ I shouted to him as he climbed the staircase and approached my position.

As Howard Carter came over, I put down my camera and took out my notebook from my coat pocket.

‘Tell me, Mr. Carter, what was the most difficult part of the whole expedition?’

‘The hardest part was finding the tomb,’ he joked.

Everyone laughed out loud.

‘Seriously though,’ he added, ‘the hardest thing was to maintain the intense search over a number of years.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Carter.’

Carter and his companion then approached the Prime Minister, the Director of the British Museum, and other dignitaries who were waiting to shake his hand.

During the visit, he explained to all those present how the discovery of the chamber that housed Tutankhamun's tomb had come about. They were able to admire photographs and some of the smaller pieces from the burial chamber, while most of the larger pieces remained in Egypt.

Afterwards, Carter and the rest of the dignitaries went off to a cocktail party they were throwing at one of the city's most fashionable restaurants. Meanwhile, we were able to examine the photographs taken inside the burial chamber of the incredible discovery that Carter had made. Judging by the photographs, the objects within the chamber appeared to be in perfect condition. It was a true miracle that grave robbers had not desecrated such an incredible treasure throughout the centuries.

That night I went back to the newsroom to prepare the article that would appear on the front page, trying to give it a personal touch so as to differentiate it from those of my fellow professionals.

The next morning, I returned early to the newspaper offices housed in a modernist five-story building constructed at the turn of the century. I went up its wide staircase to the second floor and found, as ever, an incessant movement of people who were all coming and going. I crossed the hall filled with the deafening noise of typewriters, the sound of telephones ringing nonstop, the continuous shouts of correspondents and a strong smell of tobacco that had made the atmosphere almost unbreathable.

I opened the door and entered the chief editor's office, a sixty-year-old Scotsman with an aquiline nose, thick sideburns and a lean face. On that morning he had assembled several reporters.

‘Come in and close the door,’ he said sulkily. ‘Since I’ve stopped smoking, I can't bear the smell of tobacco.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Sarah, the feature writer.

She had overdone it with her French perfume that day.

‘We’ve got a lot of work on this morning. Sales of the newspaper’s Sunday Edition have dropped alarmingly in the past two months,’ he said banging his fist on the table. ‘If we continue like this, the Sunday Edition will collapse. We need something new to boost sales.’

‘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.

Chapter 2

Oxford, 1923

That afternoon Professor Spencer received me at her home. While she was serving tea in elegant china cups accompanied by butter pastries and Belgian chocolates given to her by a student, I was admiring her magnificent drawing room furniture. She must have spent years looking for each piece so that they all fitted together perfectly, as if it were the mechanism of a Swiss watch.

The walls were filled with numerous paintings, most of which were of grand hunting scenes. In the centre, a beautiful white marble fireplace presided over the room, and in front of it was a magnificent leather sofa flanked by two patterned armchairs in pastel colours. To the left of the fireplace there was a huge globe of the earth next to a walnut shelf containing some of the great classics of Russian literature. At the other end of the room, under the main window, a large grand piano completed the decor.

‘Why don’t you take a seat, and I'll tell you everything I know,’ she said after sitting down in her armchair.

London, 1902

‘I was just returning from a shopping trip when I had to raise the lapels of my coat collar and button it up. The sky had clouded over and the autumn leaves had begun to fall under my feet as I crossed Hyde Park. Luckily, my house was only two streets away, so I quickened my pace.

On arriving home, I found the postman ringing my doorbell.

‘Hello Mr. Hargreaves. Do you have any post for me?’

‘A telegram, Miss Spencer,’ he said while turning his head. ‘Please sign here.’

‘I opened the door and entered the house impatient to read the telegram. It was a message from the British Geographical Society summoning me to a meeting at the Director's office.

The next morning, I got up early. I had hardly slept a wink due to being so nervous. The telegram did not explain why the Geographical Society had summoned me or indeed why they needed my services so urgently. I ate a couple of rounds of toast with tea for breakfast and set out in a horse-drawn cab for the Society’s building in Kensington, a very salubrious part of London.

On the way, I could see through the window of the cab how the electric streetlights were still lit, having replaced the gas lamps just a few years earlier. At that moment it hit me just how quickly time goes by.

I had finished my university studies two years earlier and was preparing to become a teacher. Most of my colleagues were specializing in Egyptology, the field of study most in demand at the time, while I had opted for studies in pre-Columbian civilizations.

After a business trip to South America, my father had given me several books when I was a child that told of the customs of their peoples. It was from that moment on that my fascination with these civilisations began and I ended up being one of the first graduates in that particular field only established a few years earlier at Oxford.

I heard the horse whinny as the driver pulled on the reins and the sound of its hooves on the ground came to a stop. The driver got out of the carriage, opened the door, and I descended the steps in front of the main entrance.

The Geographical Society was a three-storey red-brick building with a black slate roof and large windows. In my opinion, it had always seemed a little on the small side to represent such a remarkable institution.

I entered via the main door and crossed over a magnificent hallway flanked on the left by the offices of the Society’s members and on the right by one of the most splendid libraries in England. On the second floor was a large room where Council meetings were held to discuss projects that arrived every day at its headquarters. Opposite this was the Director's office.

The secretary ushered me into an office decorated with mahogany furniture featuring a magnificent Gothic-style sideboard with antique volumes and a French desk dominated by a 16th-century world map alongside a miniature bust of Charles Darwin. Various objects brought from countless expeditions could be seen on its walls.

It was there that I was received by the Director of the Geographical Society: a heavy-set gentleman with grey hair and pronounced dark circles under his eyes who was dressed in a three-piece black suit. Also in the room and to his left were two other gentlemen, one of whom I recognised.

‘Welcome, Miss Spencer. Let me introduce Professor Cooper, a specialist in South American history, and Mr. Henson, an accomplished archaeologist who has just returned from an expedition to Egypt.’

‘It is pleasure to meet you all,’ I said to the aforementioned gentlemen.

‘Likewise, Miss Spencer,’ said James.

‘Have a seat, please.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, and settled into a chair.

The Director sat across from me in an imposing black leather chair giving off a strong smell of cologne. He opened a folder on the table with my name on it, gave it a quick glance, and then closed it.

‘Has my secretary told you the reason for your presence here?’

I shook my head.

‘I have a meeting in five minutes, so I’ll be brief. After looking over your academic record and your specialities, we believe that you are the best person to join our next expedition to South America.’

I was speechless; it was something I had always dreamed of since I was a child.

‘The expedition will be led by Mr. Henson,’ he explained on turning to him. ‘In addition to his experience as an archaeologist, he speaks fluent Spanish. Professor Cooper is a great scholar in South American history. I believe you already know each other. He was a professor of yours at Oxford if I’m not mistaken?’

I affirmed with a slight nod of my head.

‘And so to the matter at hand. Would you like to be part of our project?”

‘I’m lost for words. I thought you had called on me to help you with some transcription work, as on previous occasions.’

The director smiled weakly as I continued.

‘I feel both privileged and honoured and would be delighted to be part of the expedition.’

‘I'm glad you have decided so quickly. Mr. Henson will explain what the project will consist of.’

‘Thank you very much for this opportunity,’ I replied shaking his hand. ‘I hope I won’t let you down.’

‘I have every faith in you, Miss Spencer.’

He said his goodbyes and James led us to the meeting room next door.

Upon entering, the first thing that stood out was a gigantic world atlas on which the great discoveries of the Geographical Society had been marked.

On either side of the atlas hung portraits of the great explorers who since the first half of the 19th century had been prestigious in the annals of the Geographical Society, giving it the reputation it has today. As I passed them, I imagined my portrait hanging next to those greats. Two large chandeliers completed the decoration of this imposing room.

The professor and I sat at the table reserved for Council meetings, while James began to explain the project with the aid of a huge map.

My first impression of him was that he was a man both excited by and committed to his work. He was of medium height with deep blue eyes. I thought that the thick beard he wore didn’t suit him much and detracted from his beautiful smile. His exquisite manners denoted what I thought might be an aristocratic family background.

‘Tribespeople have discovered an abandoned city in the highland mountains,’ he explained as he approached the map and pointed to the area to which he was referring.

‘Do you know anything more about the city?’ I asked with great interest.

‘We have hardly any information. For years explorers have made references to this place, albeit very few. It was thought to be one of the myths and legends that circulate in that area.’

I nodded while making notes on a small notepad.

‘I have been able to study several Spanish books but none of them mention it,’ he continued with a shrug. ‘Something which is even more intriguing.’

‘What precisely is our mission?’ Asked the professor.

‘My mission will be the supervision and organization of an expedition to this place. Yours, Miss Spencer, will be the transcription of all the documentation we find,’ he added, standing in front of me. ‘You, Professor, will keep us informed on pre-Columbian culture prior to the Spanish conquest as well as any insights you may have when we reach there. Any questions?’

We both shook our heads.

‘Here is the latest mapping of the area.’

He opened a folder on the table and handed us various documents.

‘I will have a preliminary study done before we leave for our destination. The ship sets sail in four days.”

The professor and I looked at each other puzzled. We had started to protest, but James Henson was already leaving the room.

A day before our departure, James called us to a meeting at the Abbey Road Tea Rooms to finish off some research before boarding ship. I arrived a few minutes ahead of schedule and was going to wait outside, but a heavy downpour forced me to go indoors.

This place had become one of the most fashionable haunts in the city where they served some of the best cakes in central London.

The walls were decorated in a soft indigo colour on which paintings of the Kent countryside hung. The colours on the walls contrasted with the dark mahogany coffee tables and beautiful chairs upholstered in cobalt green.

I passed a display case full of a wide variety of sweets. Their intense colours certainly whetted the appetite. The irresistible smells coming from the kitchen intoxicated me: marbled cheese with raspberries, banana with chocolate shavings, lemon with coconut, chocolate with vanilla icing, macadamia nuts and caramel sauce. Temptation surrounded me.

In the centre of the establishment stood a huge revolving glass cabinet reaching up towards the ceiling with all manner of different pastries.

I sat down in front of a large glass window listening to the noise made by the drops of rain falling on the road.

As I looked at the cuckoo clock presiding over the room striking four, James seemed to appear instantly dressed in a pearl grey suit, cream waistcoat and a chic light blue scarf tied around his neck. He left his umbrella in the stand next to the door and handed his hat to a slender red-haired waitress who proffered him a wide smile. As he looked around, I waved to him from my table; the establishment was crowded and it was difficult to pick anyone out.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Spencer,’ he said as he kissed my hand and sat down. ‘Have you been waiting long?"

‘Just ten minutes. I arrived a little early and took the opportunity to pay a visit to the bookstore at the end of the street before coming here.’

‘May I?’ James asked as he picked up the book on the table and started leafing through it. ‘Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Good choice.’

‘I bought it for the trip,’ I replied. ‘The professor appears to be running late.’

‘I’m afraid he’s indisposed. I’ll go to his house later and hand him his passport and other necessary documentation. Here’s yours.’

He took some papers out of his inside jacket pocket and handed them to me. The Geographical Society was in charge of all the bureaucratic procedures for our expedition and the speed with which they obtained passports and other types of documentation was incredible.

‘I do hope it’s nothing serious,’ I commented concerned by the professor’s absence.

‘One of his gout attacks I’m afraid. He should be well recuperated after a couple of weeks on board ship.’

I was relieved. I had known the professor for years and later found out that he had been incredibly supportive in petitioning for me to be on the expedition. In addition, I was not keen on travelling alone with Henson at the time.

James ordered tea, and the same rosy-cheeked waitress who had greeted him brought over the sweet trolley; the cakes looked delicious. We chose two cakes each taking advantage of the occasion. Who knew what the future would bring?

‘I understand you are one of Oxford’s first female graduates,’ he said, putting down the cup of tea. He had not let it sit long enough and it was still very hot.

‘Excuse me,’ I replied as I savoured a piece of raspberry pie. ‘For years women have graduated despite opposition from more conservative sectors. Some still think that a university education should be exclusively for men.’

‘I meant no offence. I’m only referring to a comment made by the Director of the Geographical Society.’

‘The Director is a friend of my father and I’m very grateful for this opportunity,’ I explained. ‘But you will agree that the Geographical Society has never encouraged female participation.’

James nodded politely.

‘I’m here today because of the little interest shown in this country about pre-Columbian cultures. I also know that there wouldn’t have been many options open to you when it came to enlisting an expert in this field,’ I clarified.

‘We're going to be spending a lot of time working together,’ he interrupted me. ‘How about I call you by your first name?’

‘Of course,’ I added.

‘To answer your question, Margaret, it’s true that there are few experts in pre-Columbian culture in this country. Most students have never concerned themselves with South America, especially the pre-Columbian cultures there.’

‘The distance and the fact that the colonisers were Spanish have not helped,’ I added.

‘If the Director has chosen you for the expedition, it's because he thinks you’re ready.’

‘Thank you, James. I appreciate that.’

We continued chatting a while longer before leaving, as there was a lot to prepare that afternoon. On leaving the establishment, we noticed that it had stopped raining and the street was overflowing with people once more.

‘A carriage will come to pick you up early tomorrow morning. We’ll meet at the Geographical Society.’

‘Agreed. I’ll say my goodbyes to friends, family and my association, then I’ll finish packing.’

‘Association? You mean your book club, or something similar?’

I shook my head.

‘I’m a member of the West End Suffragette Movement.’

James did not answer and walked off down the street.

We embarked from the port of Southampton heading for northern Spain. From there, a steamer would take us from Europe to the Caribbean and then on to our final destination of Cartagena de Indias, a port on the northern coast of Colombia.

The three of us had adjoining cabins on the third floor of the ship, each with a bed and armchairs, but no bathroom facilities. They were all decorated with marine motifs and each had a porthole.

The voyage would last forty days, more than enough time to complete the preparations for our expedition and to get to know each other better.

The first few days of the voyage were spent exploring that splendid ship. It was a transatlantic steamer of impressive dimensions with gigantic chimneys that left a large black cloud in its wake. The ship stopped at various islands before reaching its destination on the South American continent.

Social classes were well defined within the ship's infrastructure. We were accommodated in first class, where passengers had all kinds of amenities. There was little contact with the migrants and adventurers located in cabins on the lower decks who made up the rest of the passenger log. However, it was noticeable that the number of passengers far exceeded the capacity of the ship.

This Transatlantic Company ship harboured the dreams of men and women who had left their countries of origin in search of prosperity and new horizons. Every day they related stories of their families and friends who were now living like kings on the other side of the Atlantic. The population of Europe had tripled in a short span of time and the absence of employment opportunities together with poor living conditions had made the South American continent an attractive proposition for finding a better future.

In the mornings we would meet in the forward cabin in order to continue preparations for our project, while the afternoons were spent in the main hall having tea and playing cards in the company of several British businessmen who had commercial dealings throughout Latin America.

I have to admit that James was a good bridge partner, but the couple with whom we often played were so adept that there was no way to beat them.

The professor was still suffering with an attack of gout and remained resting in his cabin while swotting up on Mesoamerican cultures.

One evening, Mrs. McLeyton, a plump, rosy-cheeked elderly lady, and her husband, Fraser, a tall British Army colonel, excused themselves earlier than usual due to severe dizziness, leaving myself and James at the bridge table with our Ceylon tea.

On weekends there were musical performances in the hall, and one particular day, an elderly soprano took to the stage wearing an old-fashioned mauve dress. She stood next to a grand piano and began to sing Carmen by Bizet.

‘My God!’ I exclaimed, covering my face while she was singing.

James started laughing. It was the worst performance of an aria I had ever heard.

As a consequence of our behaviour, we were constantly stared at from the next table, forcing us to get up and take a walk on deck.

Some passengers enjoyed the splendid days by lounging in comfortable deckchairs or even in hammocks with a book in their hands. The children would scamper along in front of us in order to get to a game of shuffleboard or, as the Spanish on the boat used to call it, Tejo. A newly married couple had fun by throwing quoits and trying to achieve the highest score possible.

‘Would you like to play a game?’

‘Maybe another time,’ I replied. I could be quite clumsy when it came to games.

We continued with our walks and on reaching the stern of the ship, we would lean on the railings while looking at the foam left behind in the ship’s wake.

One afternoon a bank of clouds tried to take centre stage and block out the radiant sun. The whole scene seemed to have been taken from a dark, yet beautiful impressionist painting.

‘Could I ask you a personal question?’ James said as his thick curls swirled in the strong wind.

I nodded smiling.

‘Do you often attend meetings of the suffrage movement?’

‘Of course,’ I replied indignantly. I did not expect that question. ‘We women cannot and must not remain subject to the dictates of this patriarchal society any longer.’

He looked at me somewhat perplexed, I suppose due to the vehemence of my comments.

‘We are on the cusp of the 20th century and not in the Dark Ages,’ I continued. ‘The movement started with a handful of brave women and has spread across the country. It won't take us long to get the right to vote, and then everything will change.’

‘I agree,’ he replied in a soft voice. ‘But I know the views of various MPs. I think you’re still a long way from achieving your goal.’

‘Do you have anything against our movement?’

‘No, quite the contrary. I met several ladies in Egypt who had privately financed their archaeological expeditions. They did an excellent job.’

‘It’s a pity that, except on rare occasions like mine, women have had to organise expeditions by paying for them out of their own pocket.’

‘In that case, we have an enormous responsibility,’ he replied, looking me straight in the eye. ‘If we are successful, many more women may have the opportunity to be part of future expeditions.’

I fell silent for a few moments, pondering his words.

‘I hadn't thought of it that way. You mean the responsibility is mine?’

‘No just yours, Margaret. We are a team, remember?’

I nodded, smiling at this acknowledgement.

We went to the dining room where they had already started serving dinner.

One afternoon a fierce storm sent a shudder through the ship, rocking it from side to side. From our porthole we saw how the huge waves surpassed the upper deck of the ship. Although it would be difficult to sink that huge liner, I still felt an intense chill each and every time there was a heavy jolt. In order to take our minds off this, we decided to spend the evening together in one cabin going over various details of our project.

‘Before arriving at our destination, I would like to explain the excavation method that we will undertake,’ said James.

The professor and I listened while sitting comfortably.

‘I intend to divide the city into two parts. We will focus the excavations in and around the main buildings of the city. After this, we will examine the rest. These latter remains will no doubt be of less archaeological interest.’

‘I would like to carry out a more thorough study before proceeding in this fashion,’ I replied. ‘We could divide up the city into smaller areas and then carry out more detailed individual studies of each area. This would enable us to obtain a more in-depth knowledge. Several recent expeditions have applied this method with more successful results than those obtained previously.’

‘I believe you're right, Margaret,’ added the professor. ‘I understand that this is a more modern technique for surveying a wider area. However, each archaeologist has his, or her own way of working, and there is no certainty that one method is better than another.’

‘You heard the professor,’ James abruptly interjected. ‘This is my expedition and I make the decisions. The day you run one, you can do it your way,’ James added, the anger prevalent in his tone of voice.

‘In that case, why do we bother holding these meetings if you've already made up your mind about everything?’ I exclaimed, raising my voice. Looking back, cabin fever may have started to get the better of us all.

‘I say what our mission will be and how we will conduct it. This is no company meeting where we reach a consensus before taking action.’ He was silent for a moment as he gathered up his maps, plans and documents before adding, ‘You still have a lot to learn,’ he added looking straight at me.

‘I'd rather remain in my cabin than waste my time here,’ I replied indignantly as I got up and headed for the door. As I was about to leave, I turned and said:

‘When we reach our destination, you can explain my duties to me then. Until that time comes, I want nothing to do with you!’

I slammed the door causing a rumble through the cabin. After that discussion we went for several days without speaking to each other.

A week later we spotted Cartagena de Indias from the bow of the ship.

In the distance the fortress of the port could be seen to extend around the whole city, guarded by a large number of cannons that once served as a defence against attacks from enemies, including pirates.

The bay was a natural enclave with the cleanest and most transparent water I had ever seen. It was an amalgam of shades of blue, from a deep offshore blue through to a teal colour, and finally a paler blue as we approached the shore. A strong smell of saltpetre and fish emanating from several boats permeated that warm morning breeze.

On walking down the steps of the boat the first sensation we experienced was a suffocating heat augmented by the high humidity; something that made walking, talking and other normal functions exhausting.

A crowd had gathered around the ship's steps, and there was a deafening noise from relatives, merchants and labourers who came on a daily basis to earn a living each time a ship berthed.

A large number of stevedores, mostly descendants of slaves, were engaged in loading and unloading the ships that arrived at the port. In theory, slavery had been abolished a century earlier, but in practice, most of their descendants continued to perform the same jobs as their ancestors.

From the lower gangway, merchandise arriving at the dock was unloaded and carried on shoulders to the wagons waiting at the port entrance. These would then be transported to warehouses owned by the large trading companies that had established themselves in that prosperous city.

It was one of the most important ports in the Caribbean where manufactured goods arrived as a consequence of the European Industrial Revolution, especially from England, which had replaced the commercial monopoly of Spain since much of Latin America had achieved independence. Despite some vain efforts at industrialization and self-sufficiency, South America continued to depend on surplus products that were shipped from Europe and, to a lesser extent, from the United States.

Along with the merchandise, all kinds of emigrants with diverse nationalities had arrived to seek a better future, mainly consisting of Spanish, Portuguese and Italians.

‘Be careful with the luggage while crossing the port,’ James had warned us as we walked down the steps. ‘I'll go and get a carriage.’

After making our way through the crowd, we managed to carry our belongings to a carriage that would transport us to the hotel.

The professor sat next to me; his handkerchief ever-present in his hands as he kept wiping sweat from his brow. I had a fan that Mrs. Fitzwater had given me after she had assured me that it would become my most precious possession on that continent; something that had quickly become apparent.

After giving the name of the place at which we would be staying to the driver, James opened the carriage door and sat across from us. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that would remain on his head for the entire trip.

The rest of the city did not differ much from the immediate vicinity of the port. It was a vivid portrait of the chaos we had experienced as soon as we had disembarked, but ten times greater. Wagons sped over unpaved dusty roads without bothering to take heed of the presence of pedestrians, who on more than one occasion had to quickly back up several steps before crossing the street to ensure that they were not run over.

That city of narrow streets was flooded with charming arcades and tall palm trees. Double-storey buildings seemed anchored in a colonial past from which no one, not even its leaders, intended to awaken. The bourgeois travelled on horseback dressed in suits and wearing huge hats that covered a good part of their faces, while most of the humble population were dressed in white garments that were far from spotless. The earthen streets made them all wear knee-high boots.

On that journey from the port to the hotel, I could see that our expedition was going to be much more complicated than I had originally anticipated, without even suspecting the adventures and misadventures we were about to experience.

The coachman stopped the carriage in front of a quaint building that looked like it had seen better days. Still, it was clean and its staff appeared efficient. Two boys of no more than fifteen years of age carried our luggage inside and led us to the reception desk. While we were waiting for our rooms to be assigned, the manager handed James a telegram from London.

On opening the letter, I observed a certain concern cross his face: it must have communicated something he hadn’t planned for. It didn't take long to see that his suspicions were more than justified, and the longer he read the letter, the more his face grew sombre.

‘What's wrong?’ I asked when he had finished reading.

Without a word he handed us the letter.

The Geographical Society have been informed that the Paris Sorbonne have been preparing an expedition for the exact same purposes as ours.

When I looked up, I saw that he was already climbing the stairs to his room without saying a word. The professor and I followed him into the room, a rather austere little dungeon with two beds, a couple of photographs of the city and a large crucifix on the wall between them.

There we found James with his head bowed while he unpacked.

‘Are you okay?’ I said putting my hand on his shoulder.

He nodded as he placed a compass and several maps on the bed by the window.

‘They won’t have even left France yet,’ I said, trying to cheer him up. ‘We have a good start over them.’

‘That's not what worries me,’ he replied without looking in my direction. ‘I would like to know how they have obtained the information.’

‘Many merchants from other countries have spread their tentacles throughout this region,’ added the professor, as he lit his pipe and leaned out of the window. ‘Our trading companies have already had several encounters with them.’

‘They were able to receive the information before we did,’ he replied. ‘If they have the support of local institutions, they’ll have an advantage over us.’

‘That's true,’ I replied, standing in front of him and looking him straight in the eye. ‘But that is no reason to lose heart. I’ve been studying pre-Columbian culture for years and you speak fluent Spanish.’

‘I agree,’ said the professor. ‘I don't think their preparation would be any better than ours.’