Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

Abel Chase placed a hand gently on her dark hair. “Poor child,” he murmured, “poor, poor child. I will do what I can to help you. I will do all that I can.”

Susanna Gregory (b.1958) is the author of the historical mystery novels about Matthew Bartholomew, a teacher in medicine at Michaelhouse in Cambridge, in the fourteenth century. The series began with A Plague on Both Your Houses (1996). Previously she had worked in a coroner’s office, which gave invaluable insight into criminal behaviour. By profession she is a biologist with a special interest in Antarctic research, spending every winter (or summer in the southern hemisphere) in the Antarctic. And what better place for an impossible mystery, than a scientific station with no one else for miles around. Miss Gregory provides her own background to the story.

The point on the Antarctic Continent that is farthest from the coast in all directions is called the Pole of Inaccessibility. Since 1957, a Russian base has operated from near this remote spot, where scientists have been drilling through the 3,700 metre-thick ice – partly to reach the bedrock that lies below, and partly because the gasses contained in the compacted layers of ice that are excavated provide valuable information about past climate.

In 1995, a startling discovery was made. The ice does not lie directly on top of the bedrock at Vostok; instead, surveys have detected a body of water about the size of Lake Ontario, which has been sealed between ice and rock for at least half a million years, and possibly a lot longer. The scientists were faced with a dilemma: should they stop drilling, so that this “sterile” lake remains uncontaminated, or should they continue to dig and risk damaging a unique environment – and possibly risk it harming us? In September 1999, the decision was made to continue, using the Russian base and funds from American sources.

It will be some time before we know the secrets of Lake Vostok, and until then we can only speculate about what has laid undisturbed for aeons. This story does just that, and starts on one short, bleak day in late autumn, just as a team of eight scientists are about to break into the lake with a drill that is on its last legs…

“Hurry up,” ordered Paxton, shivering in the sharp wind that gusted across the ice cap. “I’m freezing.”

“I’m trying,” replied Hall, tugging furiously at the door to the drill-house. “But something’s jamming this closed.”

Paxton sighed, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt to keep warm in the sub-zero temperatures. Even in the dim daylight of a late-autumn morning, Vostok Station was a frigid place: the coldest temperature ever recorded on Earth had been at Vostok.

In all directions, he could see nothing but ice. It was hard, flat, and featureless, except for the occasional ridge or trough where the wind had shaped it. For hundreds of miles, from the Pole of Inaccessibility to the sea, the ice lay across the Antarctic Continent like a thick blanket. Under the immense pressure of its own weight, it inched towards to the coast, where it formed floating shelves that eventually shattered into flat-topped icebergs the size of countries.

Vostok Station was a ramshackle collection of buildings; a deep layer of snow covered the roofs, so heavy that they buckled in places. The largest hut contained the cramped cubicles that comprised the scientists’ sleeping quarters; the smallest was the kitchen. There were also two labs – one for examining the ice samples that the drill produced, and the other filled with meteorological equipment. And finally, there was the drill-house.

Because the storms that regularly screamed through the base destroyed anything that stood in their way, the drill that ate through the ice towards Lake Vostok had to be protected. It stood in a hangar, twenty feet high, and was a hissing, rattling, roaring machine that provided the focus of all activity at the station. Seven of the team of eight scientists, who had been detailed to remain at Vostok until the drill reached the lake, stood outside the drill-house now, waiting for Hall to open the door and let them in.

“Tanya must’ve locked it,” said Hall, still hauling on the handle. “She was on drill duty this afternoon.”

“Why would she do that?” asked Paxton. He gestured at the empty expanse that surrounded them. “It’s not like we need to worry about burglars.”

Paxton had three Americans, three Russians, and a fellow Britisher under his command. Of them all, he found the bellicose Texan, Hall the most difficult to like.

Hall shrugged. “We’ve almost reached the lake. Maybe Tanya wants to be alone when the drill reaches it – claim the glory for herself. After all, who knows what might be down there?”

“Our readings say we won’t break through ‘til tomorrow,” said Paxton, forcing himself to ignore Hall’s unpleasant snipe at the affable Russian.

“ If we break through,” mumbled the morose Russian Pavel Senko gloomily. “The drill’s just about had it and we’re lucky to have got this far.”

“But the drill isn’t running,” said Hall truculently, although none of his colleagues needed him to point that out. The sudden and ominous silence as the drill had stopped was what had brought them from their work in the first place. “We won’t break through tomorrow unless we drill today, and Tanya’s switched the thing off.”

Senko’s compatriot, an affable bear of a man called Ivan Bannikov, dismissed Hall’s concerns. “Tomorrow we’ll break new grounds in science,” he said with a grin, taking a hip-flask from his pocket and grimacing as he swallowed some of its fiery contents. “We’ll take samples from a lake that’s been sealed from the rest of the world for hundreds of thousands of years. What’ll we find, d’you think?”

“Microscopic creatures, plants, and perhaps even fish that’ve evolved in complete isolation,” replied Senko immediately. It was not the first time the scientists had aired this debate, and all had their own ideas about what was waiting for them. “We’ll discover new species that no one’s ever seen before.”

“Right,” agreed British-born Julie Franklin, her blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “But we’ll have to be careful – they may be toxic to us. Who knows whether their environment and ours are still compatible?”

“I think we’ll just find water,” said Paxton, sceptical of their fanciful hopes for exotic discoveries. “We won’t find any life.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” said Hall fervently. “I want to take home something a bit more exciting than a bottle of water – assuming Tanya hasn’t stolen the results for herself, that is.”

Senko glared at him. “If you’re accusing us Russians-”

“No one’s accusing anyone of anything,” interrupted Paxton hastily, not wanting the Russian and the American to argue. He hammered on the door. “Tanya? Are you in there? Open the door.”

“Of course she’s in there,” snapped Hall. “She’s not in her room, the labs, or the kitchen. The only place she can be is here.”

“She may be ill,” said Julie, frowning anxiously. She liked the quiet, intelligent Tanya.

Paxton elbowed Hall out of the way and hit the door with his shoulder as hard as he could. With a sharp, splintering sound of tearing wood, it flew inwards.

“She isn’t here,” said Senko, when a quick glance around the single-roomed building revealed that it was empty. “It wasn’t her who locked the door.”

Paxton studied the door in puzzlement. “Well, someone did; it was locked from the inside. You can see where the bolt’s still in place.”