Justin Go - The Steady Running of the Hour

The circumstances of Walsingham’s death remain unknown. The onset of a storm in the late afternoon suggests he may have died from exposure, or he may have fallen down Everest’s north face, a drop of thousands of feet.

Walsingham was commemorated in a cairn erected near the expedition’s Rongbuk Valley base camp, and a memorial was installed in 1926 in the chapel of Magdalene College.

I flip to the front of the encyclopedia and check the publication date: 1951. Then I take a pencil from the reference desk and copy the information into my notebook. Walsingham’s name gives no results in the electronic catalogue, so I call up a half-dozen books relating to the 1924 expedition. This is only the beginning; I spend all day in these sunless rooms. In the morning I read of the Everest expedition in the South Asian room, under portraits of turbaned Mughal emperors, resplendent with their swords and jewels. By noon I’m in the microfilm room, paging through newspaper indices for references to Walsingham and Soames-Andersson. There are many newspaper articles from 1924 on the expedition and Ashley’s death, but they all parrot the same information with no mention of his private life. In the afternoon I’m in the manuscript room, begging a librarian to let me see the letters of the artist Eleanor Grafton, née Soames-Andersson.

— It’s a special allocation, he says. You’d need a letter from your university and then you would have to receive approval from the library.

— But I’m not affiliated with a university.

— Then you’ve no chance.

I plead further with the librarian, explaining that I’m related to the author of these letters. The clerk listens impassively.

— Even if I wanted to, he says, I couldn’t give you the letters. There are procedures here.

I return to my seat and stare at the desk in frustration, twirling the pencil in my hand. The pencil is dark purple and engraved in white capitals: THE WORLD’S KNOWLEDGE. Piled before me are five books on the expedition, two books on the war, and a photocopy of the only relevant clipping I’d found in two hours of microfilm research. It is from The Times of London, dated October 13, 1924.

EVEREST CLIMBER’S ESTATE IN LIMBO

HEIR TO SHIPPING FORTUNE MISSING

The Times has learned that part of the estate of Mr. Ashley Walsingham, who died on Mount Everest in June, has been placed in trust after a failure to locate the principal beneficiary.

Mr. Walsingham was heir to the estate of his great-uncle George H. Risley, the famed shipping magnate who made his fortune as founder and managing director of Moor Line Ltd. The value of Mr. Walsingham’s estate is unknown, but sources in the City say that Mr. Risley’s estate must have been ‘considerable.’

The missing beneficiary’s name has not been revealed. The law firm handling the case, Messrs. Twyning & Hooper, has declined to comment on the matter.

Mr. Walsingham perished on Mount Everest in an attempt on the mountain’s summit. The King paid tribute to the explorer, saying ‘he will ever be remembered as a fine example of a mountaineer — ready to risk his life for his companions and to face dangers on behalf of science and discovery.’

The small display on my desk illuminates. A message glows in green letters: PLEASE CONTACT ISSUE DESK.

I show my reader’s card at the issue desk and a woman hands me a green cardboard box labeled Grafton, Eleanor S.A.: Personal Correspondence 1915–1931 . On the way back to my desk I pass by the reference counter, but the librarian I spoke to is gone.

The box holds seven envelopes, all addressed to Eleanor’s husband Charles, who seems to have been stationed with the army in Palestine from late 1916 onward. The letters discuss Eleanor’s art career and various financial matters, with frequent references to specific individuals, but I can make little sense of these. Many people are referred to only by a surname or first initial, and the difficulty is aggravated by the unfamiliar handwriting.

I study the letters, learning that Eleanor went to Sweden in late 1916 and my grandmother Charlotte was born there. I read on. On the second page of a letter from December 1916, something catches my attention and I read it again until I feel sure of its meaning. I copy the passage into my notebook.

It seems certain now that we shall need to send at least an additional 2,000 kronor to refit the Ejen house in haste. Apparently Mrs. Hasslo consulted several joiners & workmen, and as the house was never intended as a winter residence, and the season is bitterly cold there, it will require substantial refitting. At a minimum this includes a new WC and stove upstairs, new double-glazed windows, new doors to the outside, the addition of insulating materials to the attic, &c. The remoteness of the location also accounts for this sum, as the workmen shall have to stay on the island until the labour is complete, and this incurs a surcharge.

The winter stores & building materials have already arrived on site; with luck much will be done before we arrive. Mrs. Hasslo confirms the doctor in Leksand is highly regarded. As for the nurse, I believe even if we don’t engage one from England we shall have to bring one up from Stockholm or a similar distance to get someone worthwhile. All things considered, I think we should feel more comfortable with an English nurse — the sensible thing is to hire someone soon & have her arrive by the end of January. If we begin advertising now in London, I imagine we can secure someone both experienced and capable, and hope she is willing to travel.

It’s been agreed we shall pay nothing for the refitting, nor shall the winter’s expenses be split — Papa insists on paying it all. We may, however, find it best to pay now & be reimbursed later to ensure the work is completed on time.

I take a large atlas of Sweden from the reference shelf and flip to the overview map. Running my finger along the towns and villages I find Leksand, 150 miles northwest of Stockholm.

I turn to a detail map farther back in the atlas. A few miles from Leksand I recognize the name Ejen, printed in italics over a mass of pale blue water. Ejen is a lake. A small island is pictured in the center of the lake, but the island isn’t named. I make a photocopy of the map.

I call Prichard from a phone booth outside the library. His secretary tells me he isn’t available and I’m transferred to Khan, but when I describe the letter to Khan he tells me to hold. A few minutes later Prichard’s voice greets me cordially. I read the letter to him from my notebook.

— I’m afraid, Prichard replies, that I’m not sure what you’re getting at.

— Eleanor says ‘before we arrive,’ even though Charles wasn’t going with her to Sweden. He was in Palestine all of 1917. And she says her father was going to for pay for everything, the expenses wouldn’t be split.

— I don’t see—

— Imogen must have gone with her. That’s the only thing that would explain it all. Why go up north to winter in a remote house that’d never been used in winter?

— One moment, please.

I hear another voice speaking in the background. Prichard responds, muffling the receiver. The other voice disappears.

— My apologies, he says. As regards the letter, there could be other explanations. Someone else might have accompanied her.

— But it makes sense. Eleanor would tell everyone she was pregnant. That’d be expected, she’d been married for years. Then Eleanor would go to Sweden with Imogen, and after Imogen’s child was born, Eleanor could raise it as her own. Isn’t that what women did then, if they got pregnant before marriage? They went away and came back without the child—