In the shade of a huge camellia japonica tree, an ancient woman sat staring back at them, a tiny smile on her lips.
Ben craned his neck. “Maybe.”
They approached, and Ben started to feel more confident.
“An adventure is afoot,” she said and her smile widened. She then threw back the shawl that was over her shoulders and lap to reveal the hide-covered package.
Ben crouched before her. “Thank you, and thank you for not telling them.”
“Dare I ask what it is?” she asked.
“A notebook that belongs to my family, to my great, great grandfather, Benjamin Cartwright. It had been held and then hidden away by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It was to be retrieved by one of Benjamin’s heirs, but it got lost and forgotten.” Ben smiled up into her lively eyes. “I came to claim it; but needed to find it first.”
“And you are?” She tilted her head.
“Ben Cartwright.” He smiled back. “The new one.”
She nodded. “And now the heirloom has been found.” She ran a hand over the oilcloth surface of the package. “Rose Pennington.” She looked into his eyes. “And I’ll tell you right now, when the chance presents, I’m going to look in that secret place myself, and see if there are any other treasures.”
She reached out to grasp Ben’s hand. He felt the small bird-like bones wrapped in the papery soft skin. “Ever since I was a little girl, I loved adventures. But age makes them more difficult to pursue.” She squeezed his hand. “Give me your number. If I find anything else, I’ll call.”
Ben nodded and did so. He held out the scrap of paper and she gripped his wrist.
“And you tell me what you find; I smell adventure, mystery, and danger.” She hiked her shoulder and smiled. “If I was 50 years younger, I’d make you take me with you.”
She handed the ancient notebook to him. “Good luck, and good hunting, Benjamin the 2nd.”
CHAPTER 12
The package lay open on the table before them. For several moments, everyone just stared.
Dan looked up. “I say we go for it… now.” His eyes blazed.
“We’re not ready,” Steve said.
“And how exactly do you get ready for something like this?” Dan tilted his head. “We’re all here, all fit, I have the funds for the expedition.” He pointed at Emma, and then to each. “We have climbing skills, military skills, trade skills…” He looked at Andrea, smiled, and then skipped her to Jenny. “We even have a zoologist.”
“Dan, you don’t trek into the Amazon jungle as if you’re planning a picnic in Central Park. That’s how dumb guys like us vanish.” Ben sighed. “I’ve been there briefly, and it’s one big damn green hell.”
“Well, I’ve been there, several times actually,” Jenny said. “And we even work with the local tribes for animal procurement, habitat advice, that sort of stuff.”
“Yes.” Dan fist pumped. “All objections neutralized.” He sat back.
“Something else to think about; didn’t you say that whatever window of opportunity was going to present itself was only going to be open for a week? And that was coming up soon.” Steve shrugged. “Maybe this once in a generation wet season causes a river to flood that leads the way, or something to drain, or even a certain flower to bloom that points the way. I kinda get excited just thinking about it. And if it’s not going to happen again for another 10 years, well…” He hiked his shoulders even higher.
“Now or never,” Emma said dreamily.
Ben had also placed on the table before them the rare copy of The Lost World, now unwrapped. He clasped his hands together as his gaze went from one book to the other.
Even from where he sat, he could smell the ancient pages of both. The package they’d recovered from Windlesham Manor was now revealed — beneath the oilcloth there had been a layer of wax paper. Once he’d carefully opened it out, the century-old, leather-bound notebook was revealed — it was roughly 12 inches by eight, and a spine-bursting three inches thick. The thing was battered and worn and had been well used in its day. There were even brown streaks marking the leather that he recognized from his military days as undoubtedly being blood.
There were other odors as well; the smell coming from the notebook was of oil, paper, and perhaps the sweetness of some sort of plant resin. There were initials pressed into the cover — BBC — Benjamin Bartholomew Cartwright, his great, great grandfather.
He opened it — the inside had loose pages stuck there, some dried leaves, and even a large butterfly’s wing, still iridescent blue, and looking as fragile as the most silken gossamer.
Jenny had leaned forward, smiling and nodding. “Morpho peleides — the Blue Morpho Butterfly, and sometimes called the sapphire of the Amazon.”
“It’s beautiful,” Andrea said in a hushed tone.
“And so big,” Steve added.
Ben’s mouth curved into a smile. “Long before the days of any sort of quarantine procedures, huh?”
Jenny nodded. “And I didn’t see a thing. In reality, I’m supposed to report or destroy that specimen. I’m just going to hope any potential hitchhikers on that wing are long dead.”
Ben continued his examination. The date and notations told him it was Benjamin’s missing field notes for the ill-fated Venezuelan expedition of 1908. Ben had always been impressed with the writing style of the earlier generations, and how they managed to make their script look both precise and beautifully calligraphic at the same time. While his shabby jottings would look right at home on a doctor’s prescription.
Ben sipped his tea, winced at the bitter taste, and then went back to carefully turning the notebook’s pages. Emma dragged her chair to crowd in beside him on one side and Andrea on the other. Steve, Dan, and Jenny were also craning necks to read alongside him once again.
“These guys,” Emma began, “were all artists. So many skills.”
“Yep,” he replied, looking at an artistic drawing of a steamer boat and a detailed description of the ride he and the trip’s sponsor, Douglas Baxter, took to Caracas on the South American continent. Then they endured weeks on horseback to the small town of Zuata in the interior where they picked up a team of bearers — Pemon Indians, Benjamin had called them. He had added in a drawing of a group of a dozen fierce-looking young men with smooth faces, hair in dark bowl cuts, and daubs of paint on their cheeks.
Ben turned the page, seeing some of the ink had been blurred, perhaps by a sort of sap. “I can’t imagine what the Amazon had been like then, in 1908.” He picked up the words and read, relating the story to his friends.
“From there, they had set off into an area of unexplored jungle in search of a hidden plateau that, in Benjamin’s own words, would rewrite everything they knew about biology and evolution.”
“Hidden plateau,” Dan read over his shoulder. “Oh boy.”
Ben nodded. “In a land, hidden under a permanent cloud — hmm, the rainy season thing, perhaps.” He tilted the notebook towards Emma. “Great artwork.” He had stopped at a pencil picture of Benjamin Cartwright’s hunter friend, Baxter, crossing a river, rifle held above his head to keep it dry. Even in the quick etching, Benjamin had captured a face that was determined, eyes gun-barrel steady and a jutting mustache.
He placed the leather-bound notebook open on the table. “The later editions of Doyle’s story had fewer and fewer drawings. But the first editions contained a lot of hand-drawn ink sketches, copied from the notebook.”
He then carefully opened the 1912 edition of The Lost World and flicked through several pages until he found what he searched for. He laid it open next to the notebook.