Chapter 8

The fact that Edmund was becoming her friend did not lessen Lizzie’s anxiety about Richard. As long as he remained in the house, she could not entirely relax or feel comfortable. She wanted to talk to Martin, but he was in New York and she had been unable to catch him.

Both of the Hatton brothers left in the course of the next morning and Lizzie found herself relieved to be rid of Richard but regretting Edmund’s departure. She could finally return to her work with some concentration, however, and that she did as soon as the door closed behind them.

She went directly to the library and found the mask they had been discussing the day before still lying on the table. She picked it up again. It was always exciting for her to hold such a work of art in her hand, and this was one was particularly powerful. The eyelids were carefully carved, with only the pupils cut out for the wearer to see through. The eyebrows and lips were in the squarish style of Haida or Tlingit art, but the nose was so realistic it led her to believe that it might be a portrait of an actual person. Lizzie carefully returned it to the shelf and turned her attention to the Hawaiian artifacts.

There was a Polynesian adze made from the shell of a giant clam. Lizzie had seen these tools before, when she worked at the Boston Museum of Natural History, and she checked carefully to make sure that the blade was still securely attached to the handle before she picked it up to move it to the table to be photographed. A piece of vellum was sitting underneath the heavy shell blade to protect the varnish of the shelf. Lizzie measured and photographed the adze, scanned the attached label and returned it to the shelf.

As she moved the vellum into place beneath it, she saw that the underside had a message of some sort written on it. She went back to her computer and got a sheet of printer paper, which she folded into a square about the same size as the vellum. She replaced the original protective sheet with her improvised one and took the vellum out to see if it had more information about the adze.

She had seen old manuscripts written on tanned animal skins in the rare documents collections of several libraries, but this was the first time she had ever held one in her hand. It had grown stiff with age, its corners rolling inward. The ink was very black, the letters difficult to distinguish and the language archaic. With some effort Lizzie managed to make a best guess of what it said.

 

For love and for honour they did dye

Purer passion betwixt woman and man was ne’er else upon the earth

But where is that heart wich he did pledge upon the tower wall?

Not sham stone that stood for it in colour only

But that wich beat within his chest

Or, barred by death

Unbeating, within gold casket she could hold against her breast

—E.dH. Anno 1382

 

It would have been entirely meaningless had she not seen similar references to a heartless man two days earlier. Instead of returning it to its original location, Lizzie opened the carved box and put it under the journal with the other documents that seemed to be on the same theme.

She continued to document Francis Hatton’s cabinet, taking each object from its shelf, photographing and measuring it, and typing a description into her computer. It really was a wonderful collection. From the Northwest Coast and the Polynesian Islands alone, there were more than fifty items. She turned to a Hawaiian feathered helmet, a real treasure in both artistic and monetary terms. It had lost a number of feathers over the last two centuries—the cost of keeping it in the English climate. Lizzie was pleased to see that most of the lost feathers had been collected and folded into a piece of paper that sat on the shelf. As she unfolded the paper she caught her breath. Beneath the tiny red and yellow feathers she could see writing. It was another poem. She carefully poured the feathers onto a clean sheet of paper and read.

 

It was for love that she died

And he for honour

Could one know a greater love?

But where is his heart?

Where is his heart?

Can she rest without it?

Knowing, can I?

 

It was so similar to the other poems that Lizzie could not resist pulling them out again. She laid the piece of vellum and the now unfolded piece of paper side by side. The subject was clearly the same, but there was no way that they could have been written by the same person or even at the same time. In fact, they were probably written several hundred years apart, if Lizzie could trust her judgment about the paper and the penmanship. It was very puzzling. And what about that scrap of paper with the question on it? She put that next to them as well. “Where is his heart?” it asked. It was the same question asked in each of the poems but again in a different hand and from a different era.

Maybe it was the poetic references to heartlessness, but as she worked through the day Lizzie couldn’t get the phrase from Francis Hatton’s letter to his sister out of her head: “Look for my heart in this box, as our ancestress looked for the heart of her Crusader.” She read the letter again and then looked hard at the box which had contained the logbook, as it sat on the table in front of her. It was covered with Chinese carvings, made of some aromatic wood—probably camphor or sandalwood. The top showed two lovers in an ornate and flowery garden, though maybe it was meant to show siblings, Francis Hatton and his sister Eliza. She sat down at the table and pulled the box toward her so that she could examine it more closely.

“Look for my heart in this box,” she murmured.

The front edge of the box was carved with leaves and flowers surrounding the Hatton family crest—the heart pierced by the sword, and bounded by the motto “Numquam Dediscum.” There was something strange here, she thought. She and Jackie had talked about the motto on the Hatton family crest and this wasn’t it. She opened her briefcase and pulled out her original letter from George; there was the crest embossed on his stationery, identical except for the motto, “Semper Memoriam.”

Lizzie had spent the requisite years studying Latin at her Catholic school, and if she remembered correctly, “Numquam Dediscum” would be something like “Never Forget,” while “Semper Memoriam” was, as Jackie had pointed out several times, “Always Remember.” They meant almost the same thing really, so why would Francis Hatton have changed it? She looked again to the top of the museum cabinet where the crest was carved again. There was the motto, “Semper Memoriam,” but “Numquam Dediscum” was also worked into the carving on the front of the cabinet, in a frieze border of vines and flowers that ran along the boundary between the upper glass cases and the lower bank of drawers.

Lizzie examined the box again, running her thumb along the crest. There was something peculiar about the carving, almost a movement there. Certainly Eliza Hatton would have recognized something strange as well. Suddenly the front of the box sprang open and Lizzie jumped back, startled, into her seat. She looked around sheepishly, hoping that no one had heard her unintentional oath, and preparing to explain how reading shipboard journals always made her swear like a sailor. She was also preparing to describe how she had broken the box when she realized that it was not broken. The front was hinged and she had pressed on a spring latch that was set behind the heart of the crest. “Look for my heart in this box,” she thought. “Very clever.”

In a compartment hidden beneath the floor of the box and behind the hinged front was a sheaf of papers. Lizzie pulled out the missing pages of the logbook, a few loose letters, and a small disk wrapped in silk. She set them all on the table and stared at them for several minutes before reaching forward to push at the silk, now brittle with age, but still a bright sky blue. It would have fallen away had Lizzie pushed at it hard enough with the eraser of her outstretched pencil, but she finally recovered her composure enough to realize that it would require more care to unwrap the contents if she wanted to preserve the silk that covered it. Inside was the small oval portrait of a young woman, probably just a teenager. Lizzie thought she might be Francis Hatton’s sister, whose portrait was on the landing of the big staircase.

She turned to the papers, a quick glance telling her that the log entries picked up exactly after the last one in the bound book. There were also two letters and a poem. The poem being the shortest text, she read it quickly first.

 

A maiden and a knight upon a tower

A pledge of love between them spoken

His heart with her would lie by passion’s power

The promise then he sealed with a token

A ruby stone, a rock-hard heart would memory be

Of him and of his love while she

Alone and waiting through the year

Would learn the news that death had claimed her dear

And what of his heart? Of which this stone by agonizing memory

Made her depend, and not upon his heart—nor he

Eliza H. 1780

 

Why was this secreted away? Lizzie wondered. It wasn’t all that different from ones she had found in the drawers. She laid it aside and picked up the first letter.

 

May the 3rd, 1778

My Dearest Eliza,

 

An incident occurred today in which you played a part. You will readily recognize that this letter is written on your birthday. I dressed with special care this morning, thinking of you, half a world away at Hengemont, now a woman of eighteen years. In your honour I wore about my neck the miniature portrait that you gave me upon my departure. It captures not only your features, but also your spirit, and I look at it often when I think of you and home.

Today it caught the attention of a young native chief of my acquaintance. This man, Eltatsy by name, has become something of a friend after several weeks of contact and negotiation. He wears a woven blanket or robe that is quite the most impressive work of craftsmanship that I have seen since leaving England. You know me well enough to believe that I pressed him pretty hard to part with it for my collection, but he never wavered, no matter what I offered him and, in truth, I have gone pretty high.

Today he came aboard the ship and saw your miniature around my neck. He showed great interest and through gestures and what little bits we have each learned of the other’s language, I attempted to explain to him the importance to me of this small painting, that more than being just an object, it represented for me something priceless, my dear sister. I untied the ribbon on which it hung and let him hold it in his hand as a gesture of friendship. He then took off his robe and let me look at it quite closely. He offered, in jest, to exchange it for your portrait, knowing that I would not accept such a trade. At that moment, for the first time, I understood how important that article was to him. Until then, I had always believed that there had to be a price at which he would finally part with it.

Now I must tell you something that your brother did which you will not find very gallant. You know that I had another miniature with me, that of your friend Margaret Gurney. Don’t think too ill of me Eliza, but I sent down to my cabin for it and offered Miss Gurney’s portrait to Eltatsy for the blanket. She is not as pretty as you, but the picture is really very nice. Eltatsy laughed in a friendly sort of way as he put his robe around his shoulders and handed me back your picture.

He was wearing a really splendid hat, a wooden helmet covered with the face of a bear. This was also something I had offered him a good price for on several occasions. Now he offered me the hat in exchange for Miss Gurney’s miniature. We each had refused to part with the most precious article in our possession, but were willing to sacrifice a lesser gift—though still very meaningful and valuable—as a token of the friendship we have developed. This wonderful artefact will take prize of place in my cabinet when I return.

Again, I must beg that you will not think less of me, dear sister, for parting with Miss Gurney’s portrait. I know that you and father have high hopes for a marriage between us, and it still may come off when I return home. It will depend on how much she likes my collection!

This was altogether a wonderful day. Though this letter may not come into your hands until you are even another year older, I hope it will bring to you the joy I felt in celebrating your birthday so far from home.

 

Your loving brother,

Francis

 

Lizzie reached for the miniature portrait lying on the table in front of her and picked it up. This was the very object that Francis Hatton and the Native Chief Eltatsy had handled and admired that day, more than two hundred years ago. The face that looked up at her was not only very pretty, but had a sweetness that made the subject seem good humored and likeable. No wonder Francis Hatton had loved her so dearly. And what a good brother he must have been. Had Eliza received this letter? Lizzie remembered the portrait of her on the stairs. The expression there was so different that she would hardly have taken them for the same person.

Why had this letter been hidden away? Lizzie turned to the next letter, which had no date and seemed almost to have been written in a different hand. The writing was much larger and, Lizzie thought, shakier. Blots of ink were everywhere on the page. Lizzie felt powerfully that it contained bad news.

“Dearest Sister,” she read, “Disaster! Disaster!”

The letter had obviously been written in a state of extreme emotion. It described the death of Captain Cook at the hands of the Hawaiians, and the loss to disease of his successor, Captain Clerk. Francis Hatton seemed to feel that he had to bear some of the responsibility for these tragedies, for having committed some terrible sin. Lizzie raced through the letter trying to grasp what had happened. The details, he said, would be found in these pages from his journal. She hurriedly turned to them.

The first one was dated April 16, 1778, two days after the last entry in the bound journal. The ship was still at Nootka Sound. Francis Hatton was still happily writing about his work with his effervescent teenaged assistant Tatooshtikus, and was actively negotiating with the other officers and the local chief, Maquinna, to bring him along on the northbound cruise when they departed Nootka Sound.

There were several entries in which Hatton commented on the level of artistry exhibited on the Northwest Coast, which exceeded anything he had ever seen on his voyage “or even among the finest cabinets in Europe visited in my earlier travels.”

While the relationship with Tatooshtikus was jovial and paternalistic, Hatton’s feelings for the visiting Eltatsy were completely different. Lizzie could sense his real respect and regard.

 

April the 16th, 1778: Today I saw the most beautiful blanket or robe. Words can hardly describe the fine quality of the weaving and the intricate pattern of this remarkable thing—I must call it a work of art, for it is certainly the finest example of Indian handicraft I have yet seen. This blanket adorned the person of Eltatsy, a young chief of the visitors from the northern tribe. He is a man of great height and would be thought handsome, I think, even in England. His manners are friendly yet have a kind of elegance that make his noble birth apparent, even among Savages. Through Tatooshtikus, but even more through gestures of the hand and expressions of the eyes and face, I communicated with him at some length. Eventually, of course, I offered to buy the blanket, but no amount of buttons, blades, or blankets of ours would purchase it. He also wears an extraordinary hat or helmet with an actual specimen of a bear’s face mounted onto a carved wooden helmet; no inducement would make him part with that either. His wife was with him, as ugly as he was handsome, disfigured by a wooden disk inserted in her underlip, and she was quite shrewish in demanding that I stop asking for the blanket in her presence. According to Tatooshtikus the blanket is a symbol of Eltatsy’s high rank, and the figure woven into it is a bear—his family crest. I think the blanket and helmet may be a uniform of sort, by which other people on the Coast may recognize his lineage and position.

 

Lizzie was not surprised to read Hatton’s disgust at seeing the wooden labret that extended the lower lip of Eltatsy’s wife, a high-ranking Tlingit Indian woman. As the lip ornament was not worn by the women of Nootka Sound, this was the first time it was observed by the Englishmen, and Hatton’s comments were consistent with those Lizzie had seen dozens of times in other shipboard sources. The woven robe worn by Eltatsy was, Lizzie recognized instantly, a ceremonial dancing blanket, originating among the people from the Tlingit village of Chilkat on the coast of Alaska. These blankets were such extraordinary examples of the artistic skill of the women of that region that Lizzie was not surprised Hatton was so taken with it.

Over the next several days Hatton pressed Eltatsy for the item. On the seventeenth he wrote that he had again tried to “convince him to sell me his blanket. I am determined to have it at any price, though he has already refused tobacco, mirrors, rum. I will soon run the risk of offering more than the Captain has allowed for private trade. (In truth, I already have.)”

On the twenty-sixth the ships left Nootka Sound to proceed north with Tatooshtikus aboard. He informed Hatton that they would meet up with Eltatsy again when they got near his village and that Hatton could then continue the bartering process which the young native boy, and most of Hatton’s shipmates, found a very comical game.

On the third of May they entered a large channel, which Cook named “Cross Sound” to honor the feast day of the Holy Cross. Hatton was full of expectations as a number of canoes came toward them. Standing in the prow of one was Eltatsy, wearing his ceremonial regalia, singing a welcoming song, and powdering the surface of the water with handfuls of downy white feathers. The ships each fired a canon in salute, and soon Eltatsy and a number of important individuals from the local tribe were on board the Resolution. Eltatsy introduced an older man to the Englishmen, whom Captain Cook and Frank Hatton took to be his father, and whose name was given in Hatton’s journal as “Whooner.”

At one point in the festivities, Cook turned to Hatton and said, “I am sorry Mr. Hatton, but in the interests of diplomacy I forbid you asking this good gentleman to strip and give you his clothing!” Hatton thought it a fine joke, but was pleased to see that everyone on board recognized Whooner’s outfit as a truly remarkable work of art. In addition to a robe like Eltatsy’s, though “with a somewhat different design,” Whooner wore a large head ornament made of feathers and strips of bark. Just above his face was mounted a small carving, a wooden face, perfectly formed, and set into a frame inlaid with pieces of abalone shell. Hatton described it as “the most remarkable bit of carving I have ever seen.”

Hatton and Eltatsy soon renewed their friendship, and now Hatton found that Tatooshtikus was more of a hindrance than a help. It was becoming increasingly clear that his language was not the same as that spoken by the people at Cross Sound, though Eltatsy had a good workable knowledge of the language of Nootka Sound and was infinitely patient with both Hatton and Tatooshtikus.

Many jokes and banter were exchanged about Eltatsy’s blanket, and the trade of items described in Hatton’s letter to his sister took place. When the ships departed, it was with good feelings on all sides. They left Tatooshtikus behind for Eltatsy to convey back home on his next visit there. Hatton wrote eloquently of his fondness for Eltatsy, and of his appreciation for having developed a “friend among Savages.”

Lizzie turned over the next page of the log to find the writing dark and blotted. It almost looked as if Frank Hatton had wept onto the page, and he had carefully drawn a thick black line around the first entry.

 

May the 4th, 1778, 11 p.m. It is my sad responsibility to report the death of the estimable Eltatsy. After a day spent in commerce with every appearance of good fellowship, our ships weighed anchor at about 3:00 p.m. to beat out of Cross Sound. Within a half hour, a thick fog settled upon us and we began to fire our cannons in an effort to determine where the shoreline was by using the echo from the land to indicate our distance from it. One of the gunners, by habit, loaded shot into a gun and, by a horrible accident, our friend was struck and killed, along with everyone in his canoe. As the fog lifted and we saw what had been done, our remorse was great. Everyone on board thought well of this man, but I think that I felt him a friend most of all.

 

May the 6th, 1778: Fog keeps us within this canal for another day. Today the captain sent some small boats to scout further up the inlet to see if there is a passage there out to the Northeast—I commanded one boat. As we made soundings around several rocky outcroppings, I saw that one had a number of small wooden huts built upon it, very unlike the large habitations of the local people. As I looked, the clouds began to break and a ray of sunlight hit the topmost hut perched on the pinnacle of the rock. Hanging on one wall was Eltatsy’s blanket, or one identical to it. It seemed a sign that I should get one of these remarkable weavings after all, perhaps as a tribute to him. I ordered the men to pull in close that I might explore this island a bit. I think they knew my real purpose—my collection is the source of some amusement onboard. The climb to the top of the rock was not easy, but it was eminently worthwhile. The huts were clearly not living places, but seemed rather areas for storage or for the careful discard of important objects. A number of them had blankets like Eltatsy’s, now decayed by time and the elements.

On one of them I found the bear blanket hanging in all its glory. It may be that since Eltatsy is dead, his wife is superstitious about retaining this garment. If that be so, I thought to myself, then may not the blanket be more carefully kept in my cabinet at home, than out here exposed to the wind, rain, and salt air?

Thinking that I might provide a more fitting memorial for the man we had inadvertently killed, I removed and folded the blanket. Before leaving with it, I was determined to see what other treasures might be contained within the hut and, as there was no door, I pried off two of the planks to look inside. There I saw a most remarkable box, carved and painted with a design similar to that woven on the blanket—I thought I could make out some of the elements of the bear motif that Tatooshtikus had pointed out to me. The lid was tied on with a very intricate series of knots in a cedar bark cord. As they appeared to be something of pair, I determined I must take the box as well as the blanket. Had it been any larger I could not have carried it by myself, but it was, fortunately, of a size that I could remove. I placed the folded blanket on the top and made my way back to the boat, where again the men made some jokes about my collecting, but I was now so pleased with my acquisitions that I let them have some sport at my expense. We sounded somewhat further up the canal, but reached water too shallow for the ships and returned to our vessel to inform the Captain.

 

There were a number of entries for the passage along the Aleutian Islands and attempts to get north through the Bering Straits and thence to the coast of Russian Asia. Cold weather and ice dominated several entries, and though Hatton talked about his collection, and speculated about what was in the box, he waited to open it until warmer weather would give him more privacy by allowing him to send the lieutenants who shared his cabin up on deck when they were not on watch.

It wasn’t until the ship once more turned south for Hawaii that he spoke about the box again. Lizzie scanned the entries quickly; she had a sense of foreboding about what was to come. Though Francis Hatton had not realized what he had taken when he removed that box from the island, Lizzie was fully aware. Even if she had not suspected it from his second letter to his sister, she had read enough Northwest Coast Indian anthropology to know that he had robbed a grave of its occupant. In the entry dated New Year’s Day, 1779, Francis Hatton made the same discovery.

 

January the 1st, 1779—A smooth crossing thus far back to the Sandwich Islands and the men are very much looking forward to the women they met there before and to the fresh provisions such a stop will afford us. I am in hopes of getting one of the feathered capes I saw there but could not procure on our last visit. Today when my shipmates are on watch I will open the box from the “Blanket Island.” There is too little room in the cabin when the three of us are here, and they complain enough as it is about the amount of space my collection consumes. I hope it might contain a few good masks and maybe some weaponry. It is my intention to return it to its original state after I have opened it, so this sketch is intended to document the tying of the cord around it.”

 

In the middle of the page was a good sketch of a Northwest Coast Indian bentwood box. Lizzie could see where Hatton had drawn the claws and teeth that marked a bear in the bold iconographic style of the Tlingit Indians. His sketch noted with a sailor’s precision the location and formation of the knots on the cord that bound the box. In the next entry his handwriting was dramatically poorer. Lizzie knew what he had discovered.

 

2:00 p.m.—As I have so carefully described what I have found and collected up to this point, honour requires that I do so now as well, though I wish my discovery of today could be forgotten and the box returned swiftly to its resting place on the island in Cross Sound. In short, I found inside it the partially cremated remains of a man—there was no mistaking the long bones of the leg and the portions of the skull and jaw that were immediately apparent upon opening the box. I am, in fact, convinced it is the mortal remains of the very Eltatsy who refused to sell me the blanket now stowed beneath my bunk, because his honour was somehow bound up in it. To have so capriciously robbed a grave is unforgivable in any case, but how much more so in mine, whose family has for centuries been cursed by thoughts of a corpse that could not be buried in the family tomb. What will Eltatsy’s widow think when she finds his grave empty? Oh horrible day.

 

January the 5th, 1779—I considered for a time today throwing the blanket and the box overboard, and giving Eltatsy a sea burial, as I would myself wish were I to die now. But as that was not his wish, nor the wish of his family, I cannot do so. The box must be returned, of that there is no doubt in my mind, and I am determined that it must be done. “Semper Memoriam” has been my family motto since my Crusader ancestor failed to return from the Holy Land as promised. “Numquam Dediscum” will now be my motto until this task is completed. According to my best calculations the burial island is located some forty-five miles up Cross Sound from the cape denominated “Cape Bingham” by Capt. Cook, and determined by Mr. Bligh to lie at 57° 57' north and 123° 21' west of Greenwich. It is a small rocky outcropping, the highest of several such rocks or islets which lie in a group behind a pleasant island near to the north side of the inlet. Eltatsy’s village lies beyond it another few miles. It would be impossible to convince Captain Cook to alter our course at this point in our cruise, so my plan now is to return to this ocean on the very next expedition that leaves England after our return.

 

Shorter and shorter entries followed and Hatton’s handwriting deteriorated until Lizzie had a hard time deciphering what was on the page. The man was clearly in agony over his actions and Lizzie felt terrible for him.

 

January the 26th, 1779. No one in the crew must ever know of the corpse beneath my bunk. The luck of the voyage has turned, and I fear that I may have brought the Jonah on board, yet I feel a sacred duty to return it to the place from which it was taken.

 

Feb 14—Disaster! There could be no worse news to report. The excellent Captain James Cook is dead, killed by the very Sandwich Islanders who were so civilized and hospitable on our last voyage. Captain Clerk takes his place in command.

 

April—Clerk now is also dead. What a sorry turn of events has come to this ship. I cannot but wonder if some of the responsibility does not lie with me. My shipmates are worried for my health and my sanity—I cannot confess my guilt to any man on board and the weight is awesome. God willing Captain King will bring us safe back to England.

 

That was the last entry. Lizzie knew how the voyage ended. Captain King returned safely in 1780, and the publication of the official narrative of the voyage four years later first introduced the world to the value of sea otter pelts from the Northwest Coast in the marketplace at Canton. A number of ships followed in the wake of Cook’s voyage, pioneering a transpacific trade from England and America. Had Francis Hatton returned with the blanket and the box on one of those voyages? The death of his brother and his altered circumstances upon his return would seem to argue against it. Lizzie had no doubt now as to the identity of the two artifacts crossed off Hatton’s list; the only question remaining was whether they had been returned to their original resting place.

She had been to Alaska several times in the course of researching her dissertation and she knew Cross Sound was the passage north of Chichagof Island, lying along Alaska’s “inside passage.” She and Martin had been there on the Alaska ferry on a trip to see nearby Glacier Bay. During the course of her research Lizzie had scanned several nautical charts into a special software program so that she could edit them on her computer and add information from shipboard logbooks. Now she opened the file and brought Cross Sound up onto the screen.

With her finger she traced a passage into the sound, reading Hatton’s description aloud. Cape Bingham was clearly marked. Forty-five miles east brought her past the entrance to Glacier Bay and into a channel called Icy Strait. Just off the north bank was an island called “Pleasant Island,” which had rocky outcroppings to the south and east. The “Porpoise Islands” on the east looked especially promising to Lizzie as a location for Hatton’s “Blanket Island.” There had once been a Tlingit village on the adjacent coast, which was marked on Lizzie’s chart as “Old Hoonah (abandoned).” Across Icy Strait to the south was the newer village of Hoonah, which had replaced it.

“Hoonah,” she whispered. Hatton’s “Whooner” must have been the chief of Hoonah. She tried to remember what the village had looked like when she stopped there briefly on the ferry. She thought there was a cannery and a lot of fishing boats, with the usual stuff that accompanied them—a gas station, motel, cafe, etc. She also thought there was a longhouse and some totem poles there.

“What a different world from this,” she thought to herself as she closed her computer, laid the papers on the table in front of her and sat back in her chair. She looked around the comfortable and elegant room in which she sat. The leather bindings of the books were rich and soft, slightly faded over the years into mellow reds and golds and greens. The oak table had been rubbed for three centuries by soft cloth in rough hands.

What led young Francis Hatton to leave behind this solid and comfortable existence for the discomfort of the ship and the unknown world of the Pacific Ocean? Lizzie shivered as she thought of what it must have been like to encounter the “Icy Straits” of the Alaska coast in April and May. She could almost hear the sound of ice crunching against the wooden planks of the unheated ship.

And then to have had such a horrible experience. She really sympathized with him. His passion for collecting had caused him to steal something that clearly did not belong to him, but his response seemed out of proportion to the crime. It was, after all, obviously an accident that he had stolen a corpse rather than a box of masks or weapons as he thought. Lizzie even doubted that the corpse was that of Eltatsy, as the two days between Eltatsy’s death and Hatton’s discovery hardly seemed enough time for the burial rituals and cremation to have taken place. The crest on the blanket and the box were certainly consistent with the corpse being someone in Eltatsy’s lineage, however. Would Hatton have been as horrified had he thought the corpse was that of a stranger rather than of his new friend? In any case, his response was entirely out of character for an English Navy man of the eighteenth century. That he showed any consideration at all for the feelings and beliefs of a Native American was not consistent with the behavior of most of his fellow countrymen.

Lizzie wondered even more why Francis Hatton would expect his sister to understand, even share in his shame and remorse. “To have so capriciously robbed a grave is unforgivable in any case,” he had written, “but how much more so in mine, whose family has for centuries been cursed by thoughts of a corpse that could not be buried in the family tomb.”

The several papers with the insistent question “Where is his heart?” lay strewn across the table. She picked them up one after another. They had the same kind of urgency, almost horror, as Francis Hatton’s letter.

Helen Jeffries made a sound near the door of the library and Lizzie jumped with surprise, her heart beating rapidly.

She looked up at the housekeeper.

“Helen,” she said, pushing her chair back from the table, “you startled me.”

“Sorry, Miss, I came to tell you that lunch would be ready in about fifteen minutes.

“I thought you were going to call me Lizzie when we were alone.”

Helen smiled at her, crossed the room and came to stand near Lizzie’s chair. The scraps of poetry caught her eye and she reached out to pick one up, then set it down and quickly picked up another.

“What are these?” she asked.

Lizzie sensed an urgency in Helen’s voice and answered that she didn’t know. “I found them when I was going through the papers in the cabinet,” she said, watching curiously as Helen picked up one after another of the papers. “Do you know what they are?”

“No,” Helen answered, “but I don’t like them.”

“Don’t like them?” Lizzie responded with astonishment. “Why not?”

“They are all by Hatton girls aren’t they?”

“I suppose so,” Lizzie said.

“They weren’t sane,” Helen said bluntly. “They all suffered from some sort of curse.” She seemed really upset and turned to look directly at Lizzie. “I thought you said your research didn’t include them.”

Lizzie stood up and put a reassuring hand on Helen’s shoulder.

“These are all things I found by accident,” she explained. “I thought they were interesting, but they aren’t the subject of my research.” She couldn’t understand why Helen was acting so strangely. She took the paper which Helen still held, gathered the rest of the poems into a stack, placed them back in the carved box and closed the lid.

There was no chance at that moment for Lizzie to ask Helen what, in particular, bothered her about the poems or about the “Hatton girls” having written them, because George arrived looking to escort Lizzie to lunch.

In her enthusiasm to show George her discovery of the morning, Lizzie pushed Helen’s concerns, and her curiosity about the poems, into the background.

“I found the missing pages from the journal!” she said excitedly.

She sat down again and when George sat beside her she passed them to him and he began to read.

“What about lunch?” Helen asked. “Will you be wanting it later?”

George’s first inclination was to abandon lunch altogether, but then he asked her to bring whatever was portable to them in the library.

For the next three hours Lizzie and George talked through each of the new pages. She was able to point out to him on her computer chart exactly where the ship was for each entry, and he moved as quickly as he could from one page to the next without losing sight of the important details.

His excitement turned to something like regret when he read the last pages that Francis Hatton had written, and his letters to his sister. It was clear to Lizzie that the missing journal pages took him completely by surprise and he was visibly disturbed by the thought of Eltatsy’s stolen corpse. George didn’t elaborate, but Lizzie thought he might be unnerved by the thought that it was somewhere in the house. She was still surprised, though, when he asked her the very question she was about to ask him.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s certainly not in the cabinet.”

“I had no idea,” he said shaking his head. “I have never heard even a hint of this before.”

Lizzie described to him what she thought the box and blanket looked like, and even showed him some pictures of similar objects from the pile of catalogues of Northwest Coast Indian artifacts that she had brought with her as a working library.

“Have you ever seen anything like either of these anywhere in the house?”

He was certain that he hadn’t.

Helen had been in and out of the room with lunch and Lizzie had an idea that she had followed at least some of the conversation. She asked George if she might show the pictures to the housekeeper in case she had seen them.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “Mrs. Jeffries is more familiar than I am with some of the odd nooks and crannies of the house.”

Helen looked closely at the pictures and listened to Lizzie’s description of the two items and, like George, was emphatic in her answer that she had never encountered either of them, but promised to keep them in mind as she went through the house.

As Helen left the room, Lizzie turned back to George. “Did Francis Hatton ever make another voyage?” she asked.

George was thoughtful. “I certainly don’t remember ever hearing about another voyage.”

“You have a very complete collection of voyage narratives,” Lizzie said, gesturing up to one of the bookshelves behind him. She had discovered this collection on her second day at Hengemont and had been meaning to look at them more carefully. “There weren’t all that many British voyages to the North Pacific in the next decade,” she continued. “And it’s unlikely Francis could have returned to the Northwest Coast except on one of the voyages you have documented here. I’ll take a little time today and see if I can find any indication that he ever returned the corpse.”

George took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. “You’ve been working so hard,” he said, “I’m sorry that it is too cold for walking outside. You are welcome any time you need a break to have Jeffries drive you into the village or down to the harbor.”

Lizzie thanked him. “Edmund told me he’d give me a personalized tour around the house and grounds when he comes back, and I’ve been waiting for that.”

George stood to go. “Well, he should be back tomorrow, and then you really should get out of the house.”

He looked tired, and less poised than Lizzie had ever seen him. She couldn’t help reaching out and giving him an affectionate pat on the arm. “Thanks,” she said again, “but I’m doing just fine.”