‘I'm looking for information about someone who held a prominent position in your company; a Mr. Philip Henson.’
‘I'm afraid I never had the pleasure of meeting him. Mr. Henson passed away several years ago.’
On the table was a gleaming miner's helmet and a huge piece of coal inside a glass jar. I made a movement towards it in order to touch it but stopped when I saw Mr Harris frowning at me.
‘Could you tell me something about Henson?’
‘I only know that his family came from a place just outside of Newcastle.’
Suddenly, the door was opened and his secretary informed Harris that a number of people were waiting for him.
‘Does his wife still live there?’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you,’ he said as he was getting up from his chair.
‘Thank you very much, Mr. Harris. It was most kind of you to receive me.’
I said goodbye with a handshake and left.
At the end of the street was the tram stop on my route home. While I looked from a distance at the passengers boarding, I spotted the same man who had been watching me at the British Museum.
Without thinking twice, I ran towards the stop; a couple of passers-by rebuked me after I had pushed them out of the way. The distance seemed short, but the more I ran, the more out of breath I became, and I suddenly realised how unfit I had become.
I managed to grab hold of the rail at the rear door of the tram just as it was pulling away. I reached the interior of the tram exhausted. A small crowd gathered around me as I was bent double coughing, wheezing and gasping for breath in the middle of the aisle.
On lifting my head, I saw the man notice me and then he left by the other door at the next stop. Alas, I had no strength left to follow him any further.
The next morning before the sun had come up, I was at King’s Cross Station and had bought a train ticket to Newcastle. It was my last option and I wasn't going to waste it.
Although it was a long trip, it felt much shorter thanks to the fantastic views I was afforded of the verdant English countryside during early springtime along the way.
I arrived at Newcastle train station just after noon. Newcastle-upon-Tyne is a grey industrial city with row after row of terraced houses, and not somewhere one would choose for a holiday. Fortunately, I was not on vacation and would spend a day or two there at the most.
As soon as I got off the train, I headed for the nearby bus station. A multitude of buses seemed to be coming and going, and I felt a little bewildered by the unfamiliar place names. So, I approached a man in uniform who I presumed was in some sort of official capacity there and showed him the name of my destination. In his north-east accent, he told me where to go and what bus to catch.
As we weaved our way through the drab streets and eventually left the city behind, the landscapes were just like those portrayed in novels: misty moors with little vegetation, small hills eroded by strong winds and a coldness that could chill a man to the bone. All this was accompanied by an incessant rain which seemed even more intense than anywhere else I had ever visited in the country.
I spent the night at a guest house in the town closest to the Henson estate. The dinner was exquisite, and afterwards, the owner showed me how to get to the Henson place.
The Hensons lived on a large estate just a short distance from where I had spent the night. The house was a formidable double-storey mansion built in the 18th century from dark granite over which long thick vines of ivy stood out like veins, winding their way around its large windows. On the right-hand side of the house, a small lake surrounded by birches could be seen where several white swans swam majestically.
The butler bid me wait at the front door for a long time before then motioning me to follow him through to a garden at the back of the house. There, an elderly lady was tending to some splendid rose bushes.
It was Philip Henson’s sister Emma, an elderly spinster with silver hair and a wide smile who wore an elegant white dress.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she said as she took off one of her gardening gloves and shook my hand.
‘Likewise.’
'I’ve been told that you have come all the way from London and have been inquiring about my brother.’
‘That’s correct. I’m a news correspondent. We wish to put together a series of articles on all things to do with the expeditions of the Geographical Society.’
Emma Henson gestured to the butler and within a few minutes we were served tea and cake.
‘We know that your brother was one of the co-founders of the Geographical Society and that he later left for Spain.’
‘That’s where he founded a subsidiary of the London branch of the Geography Society. It was common in those days for many in this field to station themselves in other countries and establish new associations similar to the original.’
At the other end of the garden there was the sound of a gardener trimming a beautiful hedge.
‘Could you tell me what expeditions were carried out by the Spanish branch of the Society?’
She shook her head.
‘What about expeditions to South America and the Middle East? Do these ring any bells?’ I asked.
‘I am unaware of any such expeditions. This is the first I have heard of such.’
Insects began to flutter around our table, no doubt attracted by the smell of the cakes, but Emma Henson quickly shooed them away.
‘Would it be possible for me to speak to your sister-in-law? Maybe she has more information.’
‘Philip's wife passed away some time ago. She had been ill for most of her life, barely able to spend time with her husband.’
I put a piece of cake to my mouth while the aroma of jasmine tea wafted to my nostrils. I decided to take my time and enjoy our conversation as the information I was receiving was leading me nowhere.
It was at that moment that I saw Emma smiling.
‘Do you think you may have misread or misunderstood the information held at the Geographical Society?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re driving at.’
‘Are you sure you're looking for the right Henson?’ she asked me.
I pondered the question for a moment before asking:
‘Is there another Henson that I’m unaware of?’
‘Yes. Perhaps you are looking for James Henson.’
‘Who is James Henson?’
‘James Henson is Philip's son. From an early age he had a passion for history and geography. He lived for a time in Spain when he was a teenager and later returned to England to study archaeology at Oxford University, but that was such a long time ago. He had an indomitable adventurous spirit,’ she declared.
This time, a huge grin now appeared on my face. Now I understood. The information I had found was from the expeditions in the first decade of the 20th century. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but Phillip Henson would have been very old to have taken part in such expeditions, whereas his son would be of a more appropriate age.
‘The dates I found would concur with someone who would be of his son’s possible age. Could you tell me where I can