by Mary Malloy
“For now,” Lizzie said, “I just want to see if you can help me locate a Tlingit bentwood burial box and a Chilkat blanket.”
“Part of Lieutenant Hatton’s collection?” he asked. “I don’t remember ever seeing those in any inventory.”
“That’s just it,” Lizzie continued, “Francis Hatton himself hid all references to them because he was mortified to find himself a grave robber. It was clearly his intention to return them, but I can’t find any record that he ever went back to the Northwest Coast.”
“You don’t think those things are here do you?”
“I don’t know. I just thought it would be worth checking among the other Cook collections here and elsewhere, and I figured you were the man who’d know.”
He turned to his computer screen and brought up the information on the Museum’s collection. “Any details on the iconography?” he asked.
“Both pieces have a bear crest, and if Hatton’s eye is any good they are rendered very similarly.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“The burial box still contained a human corpse, not fully cremated, when Hatton had it in the eighteenth century,” Lizzie said grimly.
Tom Clark didn’t even flinch. In his years as an anthropologist at the British Museum he had handled many old body parts. After several minutes he turned back to Lizzie.
“This is a pretty complete catalogue of the Cook material,” he said, “and I don’t see anything like what you describe, but let me keep an eye out for it.”
“There’s another interesting thing down at Hengemont that you should know about,” she added. “Or did you already know that Joseph Banks gave Francis Hatton a boomerang from Cook’s first voyage?”
“No,” Tom said slowly, scanning his computer terminal again, “and I don’t see any reference to it here. Thanks, that’s great to know.”
“It gets better,” Lizzie said. “There is a Dance portrait of Francis Hatton all suited up and ready to go on the voyage, and he’s standing next to a table that has the boomerang on it!”
“Brilliant!” Tom said in a very British declaration of excitement. “You know, Lizzie,” he continued, “I am planning a major exhibition of Cook material a year or so down the road. Should we try to incorporate the Hatton material into it? Or do you feel that collection warrants a separate exhibition.”
“Frankly, it all fits into a cabinet no bigger than your wall there,” Lizzie said. “It’s terrific stuff, but even with the painting it makes a better part of an exhibit than a stand-alone, and your Cook exhibition would be the stronger for including it.”
“There’s some politics in all this, as I’m sure you will not be surprised to hear.”
“Having come to know George Hatton a bit, I would put my money on his son Richard being the political one.”
“Exactly,” Tom confided. “He is keen to become a trustee of the museum.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that he and I did not hit it off.”
“Well the scuttlebutt here in the city is that he is burning bridges pretty fast, so you aren’t the only one.” He paused, as if wondering if he should tell her more. “Just for your information, Lizzie, I’ll tell you that I have heard that Richard Hatton has lost a fortune in some bad investments, and may be facing some social embarrassment from it all as well. He convinced a number of his friends to join him on big deals that never materialized as promised. I think he sees the Museum relationship as one that can solidify an increasingly shaky reputation here in London, especially among the new wealth that love aristocratic connections and old families.”
“When you say ‘lost a fortune,’ how much do you mean?”
“Several million pounds.”
Lizzie sat slowly back in her seat. “My God,” she gasped. “I wonder if his father knows?”
Tom leaned forward. “I hope you won’t mention any of this to him.”
“Of course not,” she assured him. “I like him, though, and I hate the thought of seeing him embarrassed.”
“Did you know him before this project came up?”
She shook her head. “And I have been wondering how you came to recommend me for it.”
He seemed more comfortable with the subject changed. She knew that he feared he had told her too much, but she was very glad to have the information about Richard. It explained, but did not excuse, his outrageous behavior.
Tom told her that Richard Hatton brought his father by the museum one day, encouraging him to support the idea of a publication and exhibition on Francis Hatton.
“I was showing them different publications, as models of ways these early collections could be presented,” Tom said, “and Sir George was positively bowled over by your book. Said instantly ‘She’s the one! How do I contact her?’”
“Had he actually read it?”
“No. And not that you wouldn’t have risen to the top of the list anyway, Lizzie, but Sir George almost seemed to make the decision based simply on your name.”
Lizzie started. George did know of her connection to the Hattons. There was no other explanation. She wanted a chance to think about this, and she didn’t want to do it sitting in Tom Clark’s office. She made a show of looking at her watch and stood up.
“This has been a most interesting conversation, Tom. How should we proceed from here?”
“Well, if you are inclined to think that I should approach Richard Hatton with the Cook exhibition project, then I will do that. He’s eager to find some way to get his name up on the wall.”
“I’ll mention it to George,” Lizzie said. “I think he would be inclined to take my advice on this.”
“Great,” Tom said. “I’m glad you stopped by today. This has been very productive for me.”
“And for me,” Lizzie responded. “It takes the pressure off me to package this material in some specific way.”
“And what about a publication?”
“Hatton’s journal is really a treasure, very open minded, sensitive to cultural issues, and filled with great descriptions. It’s not long, and I think a publication of it would make an important contribution, especially if it included photographs of the artifacts he collected on the voyage.”
“Would you like me to look into having it published by the museum?”
“That would be great!” Lizzie said, delighted. Something would come out of this whole experience that would be to her benefit after all.
“Maybe we could get it to coincide with the larger exhibition project, or maybe it could even be a long chapter in the catalogue,” Tom Clark continued.
“Let me talk to George about it and see how he wants to proceed.”
“All right then. If I find anything on that box or blanket, should I contact you at Hengemont?” he asked.
“No, I’m doing some work in London,” she said. “I’m at the Grosvenor.”
He walked her to the door of the Museum, clearing her access through the security systems as the guards locked the building for the night.
The two exchanged what Lizzie liked to think of as “professional kisses,” where their lips almost, but not quite, touched the other’s cheek, then Lizzie hailed a cab to take her back to the hotel.
Martin was fast asleep when she got back to the room. Lizzie wondered if she should wake him, since she knew that he would never get over his jet lag this way. But he looked so peaceful and comfortable that all she could do was slip in beside him and before long she was asleep herself. When she awoke, the room was dark.
“Martin,” she called softly, “Martin, wake up. We’ve slept too long.”
She rolled over and slipped her arm over his shoulder, kissing him on the back of the neck and breathing in the warm smell of him.
“What time is it?” he moaned.
“Eight o’clock,” she said, looking at the clock on the
bedside table.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, “you’ve been asleep too, haven’t you?”
He rolled over and slipped his arms through hers. She nodded.
“Any dreams?” he asked.
“Not a one,” she smiled.
“Let’s go have dinner and I’ll show you what I found,” he said.
• • • • •
“I wonder what else George Hatton knows that he hasn’t told you?” Martin said bluntly after they had ordered their dinners in the hotel restaurant.
Lizzie swirled the plastic stirrer around in her drink. “I’m mostly wondering if he has other documents that I haven’t seen yet.”
“You don’t think you saw them all?” Martin asked.
“I think I saw all of the papers related to Francis Hatton and his voyage,” she answered. “In fact, I found more than even George Hatton knew existed.” She paused a moment and continued, thinking aloud. “I know that he didn’t know anything about the grave robbing that Frank did on the Northwest Coast, and I don’t think he knew that Bette had left the poems and her diary in the cabinet.” She looked up to meet her husband’s dark eyes. “Oh Martin,” she laughed, “You are way too suspicious. He is not as cunning as you are thinking.”
Even with what she had learned from Tom Clark, Lizzie was not inclined to doubt George’s fundamental nature. She had become rather fond of him. She did, however, tell Martin that she now suspected that George had known about their relationship when he offered her the job.
“A ha!” he said. “And what are the other papers that you think he may be holding back?”
“I’m just wondering if there are any more thirteenth-century documents, like the one Father Folan got from Rome. They would have nothing to do with Francis Hatton’s voyage, and George would have no reason to think that they would be important to me.”
The two of them determined that Lizzie should call George Hatton to ask, and she decided to do it quickly, before their dinners came. She rose from the table, gave Martin a quick kiss, and went into the lobby to phone Hengemont.
George Hatton answered the phone himself.
“Lizzie,” he replied, clearly surprised to hear from her. “How are things going in London? Mrs. Jeffries says you’re at the Grosvenor. I hope you’re comfortable there.”
“It’s just fine,” she said.
“Have you arranged for your return to Boston?”
“I’m still leaving next week, as planned,” Lizzie said. “Before then, George, I’m thinking I might make one more trip down to see you and go through the family papers again.”
“I thought you had already entered everything you need into that computer of yours,” came the answer. Lizzie could tell that George was trying to sound lighthearted, but wasn’t particularly eager to see her again at Hengemont.
“I’ve seen all of Francis Hatton’s papers,” she said. “Now I want to see all of the letters and contracts that were in the possession of Elizabeth d’Hautain.”
“How do you know there are any?” George said.
“I don’t,” she replied, honestly, “but if there are, I need to see them so that I can find the heart.”
There was silence at the other end for a long time.
“I’ll bring them to you,” he answered finally. “I’m coming into town the day after tomorrow. Can I meet you at your hotel around seven in the evening?”
Lizzie agreed and hung up the phone. The waiter arrived with their dinner just after she returned to her seat at the table.
“Perfect timing as usual,” Martin said. “How’d it go?”
“He’s coming here the day after tomorrow at seven.”
“Good,” Martin nodded. “I want to meet this guy.”
Lizzie was hungry, and this looked like a very good meal—salmon with small roasted potatoes and several sprigs of greenery that she thought must be watercress. “So,” she said, digging in, “what did you find at Westminster Abbey?”
Martin had ordered roast beef and now as he cut off a piece he said, “It’s only because I know that you aren’t squeamish that I can tell you this while eating, but that whole place is filled with the heartless nobility, and I’m not joking.” He put his fork to his mouth and chewed.
Lizzie smiled, “Success, I take it?”
Martin nodded, picking up his wine glass. “There is hardly a Medieval monarch there that didn’t have his or her heart sent off to France or Jerusalem or somewhere. And it wasn’t only hearts.” He took another bite. “Some of this could actually spoil your dinner,” he said, “so let me just insert at this point that you could not have had a better ambassador on your mission today.”
“No?”
“No,” he said with a grin. “Believe it or not, I got to talking to one of the clergymen there, and he actually knew some of my work.”
Lizzie gave him a nod of encouragement. “I knew that having a famous artist for a husband would come in handy some day.”
“This guy is retired now,” Martin said, finishing off his meal, “but he used to be a pastor in a neighborhood of what they call ‘Council Housing’—what we would call ‘projects.’” He leaned back, picked up his wine glass and pushed his plate away. “Hence his knowledge of public art works done in similar neighborhoods in the U.S. A nice guy, liberal and open minded. I guess he’s not exactly what I expected to find at Westminster Abbey.”
The waiter arrived as Lizzie finished her dinner, and took their plates away and brought coffee. Martin pulled several sheets of folded paper out of his jacket pocket.
“Anyway,” he continued, “he was very helpful. Showed me around and even took me up to their library.”
Lizzie leaned forward with interest as Martin began a litany of heart burials.
“Well, to start with the Crusaders,” Martin said, “Richard the Lion Hearted’s remains are scattered across France. Most of him was buried at Fontrevault Abbey, but his heart went to Rouen, and his bowels were buried at Chaluz, apparently as an insult, because he was killed there.” He looked up from his notes. “And you’ll love this,” he added. “His heart was buried under a little king effigy, and in 1838 they dug it up and put it in the local museum.”
Lizzie felt that Martin wanted her to make a witty remark, but she couldn’t help wondering if something similar could have happened to John d’Hautain’s heart. He continued, describing the hearts of Kings John and Henry III, both sent to Fontrevault, while their bodies remained in England. “Then there was a Prince Henry,” Martin read from his notes, “who was murdered in some place called Viterbo in 1271, and whose heart was brought home in a golden cup and placed in Westminster Abbey.”
He turned to the next page. “You know the Charing Cross Railroad Station?” he asked.
Lizzie nodded.
“Well that’s named after a cross that was placed there to mark a spot where the body of Queen Eleanor lay on its way from Lincoln to London in 1291,” Martin said. “They left her entrails back in Lincoln, and then deposited her heart at the Blackfriar’s monastery in London before burying her in Westminster. She had several children who died young, and they are buried in the Abbey too, but the heart of one of them, her son Alfonso, is with her heart at Blackfriars.”
“Charming,” Lizzie said.
Martin looked up and smiled. “It’s really weird, isn’t it?”
Lizzie nodded.
“There’s more,” he said. “Now we’re getting to the really sick guy, Edward I. He instructed his son to boil the flesh off his skeleton so that his bones could be carried around with the army until the Scots were crushed, and, as he had been on an unsuccessful crusade in his youth, he wanted his heart sent to the Holy Land.”
“Even more charming,” Lizzie snorted.
“And his son, Edward II, was such a rotten king that his queen, Isabella, and her lover had him
imprisoned and eventually murdered.” He gestured to keep Lizzie from interrupting with a comment. “But that’s not the good part for our purposes,” he continued. “Isabella repented somewhat after her son, Edward III, had her lover executed, and when she was dying she asked that the heart be removed from the long-dead corpse of her husband-victim, to be delicately placed in a silver casket and laid on the breast of her own corpse when she was buried.”
Martin looked up in triumph. “What a country!” he said smugly, laying down his pile of papers and lifting his glass to his wife.
“So, it wasn’t so strange after all that Elizabeth d’Hautain wanted her husband’s heart sent back.”
Martin shook his head. “And, I’ve saved my favorite for last.” He handed Lizzie a Xerox of a grainy black and white photograph taken from a book in the Westminster Library collection. “There’s a place in Scotland called Sweetheart Abbey, which is named for the founder, Lady Devorguilla, who carried her husband’s heart around with her at all times.” He tapped his finger on the photograph. “Here’s a picture of a carving of her at the abbey.”
Lizzie looked at the picture of the headless statue in disbelief as Martin went on.
“That thing in her hands is the silver and ivory casket she had made to hold his embalmed heart, and she wore it around her neck for at least sixteen years.”
“Ick.”
“Oh, come on. I think it’s romantic.”
“Don’t get any ideas Mart.” Lizzie took a sip of her coffee. “When was this, anyway?”
“Middle of the thirteenth century, just like your missing heart. And there are more. There’s a well-known heart burial in Somerset at a place called Sampford Arundel, and another at Salisbury Cathedral.”
As they left the table Lizzie took the papers that Martin held out to her. They walked toward the elevator in the lobby and he slipped his arm around her. “You really didn’t think that Scottish thing was sexy? That Sweetheart Abbey story?” he teased.
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“Want me to lay my heart on your breast?”
“Only if it is still beating and remains within your hairy chest.”
