Paths of Glory

1916
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

July 9th, 1916

My darling Ruth,

It was one of the unhappiest days of my life when we parted on that cold, desolate railway station in Godalming. Only being allowed a weekend together after I’d completed my basic training was cruel indeed, but I promise, I will write to you every day.

It was kind of you to leave me with the assurance that you believe I’m doing the right thing, even though your eyes revealed your true feelings.

I joined my regiment at Dover, and bumped into a few old friends. Do you remember Siegfried Herford? What a difficult decision he had to make, having a German father and an English mother.

The following day we set off for in a boat that leaked like a colander and bobbed up and down like a rubber duck. One of the lads suggested it must have been a personal gift from the Kaiser. We spent most of the crossing using our billycans to return gallons of water to the ocean. You will recall from our last trip across the Channel that I’ve never been much of a sailor, but I somehow managed not to be sick in front of the men.

We docked at at first light, without much sign of the French taking any part in this war. I joined a couple of brother officers in a café for a hot croissant and some coffee. We met up with some other officers returning from the front, who advised us to enjoy our last meal on a tablecloth (let alone the luxury of a china plate) for several months, and reminded us that we would be sitting in a different sort of dining room in 24 hours’ time.

As usual I can be relied on to forget something, and this time it was your photograph. I’m desperate to see your face again, even if it’s only in black and white, so please send me the snap I took of you on Derden Heights the day before we were arrested. I want to carry it with me all the time.

God knows I miss you, and I don’t begin to understand how one can be surrounded by so many people, so much furious activity and so much deafening noise, and still feel so very lonely. I’m just trying to find another way of saying that I love you, although I know you’d tease me if I were to suggest that you are the only woman in my life. But I already look upon Chomolungma as just an old flame.

Your loving husband,

George

Once George had handed the letter to his regiment’s postal clerk, he hung around waiting for the convoy of trucks to begin its one-way journey to the front line.

In the space of a few miles, the beautiful French countryside of Millet and Monet, with its dappled greens and bright yellows, and sheep and cows grazing in the fields, had been replaced by a far uglier canvas of burned and withered trees, slaughtered horses, roofless houses, and desolate civilians who had become pawns on the chessboard of war.

The convoy rolled relentlessly on, but before George was given the chance to be deafened by the noise, he watched as angry gray and black clouds of sulfurous fumes gathered until they completely masked the sun. They finally came to a halt at a camp three miles behind the front line, which didn’t have a signpost and where the days had been turned into perpetual night. Here, George met a group of men in uniform who wondered if they would be alive in twenty-four hours.

After a billycan of bully beef with a plate of stuck-together beans and maggot-riddled potatoes, George was billeted in a tent with three fellow officers, all younger than himself. They had experienced varying lengths of service-one month, nine weeks, and seven months: the last, a Lieutenant Evans, considered himself something of a veteran.

The following morning, after George had devoured breakfast served on a tin plate, he was driven forward to an artillery post some four hundred yards behind the front line, where he was to relieve Evans, who was long overdue a fortnight’s furlough.

“It’s not all bad, old fellow,” Evans assured him. “It’s a damn sight less dangerous than the front line. Think of those poor bastards just a quarter of a mile in front of you, waiting for the sound of the lone bugle that will send them over the top, having spent months being stalked by death. Our job’s simple in comparison. You have a detail of thirty-seven soldiers under your command, and twelve howitzers which are hardly ever out of action, unless they break down. The senior NCO is Sergeant Davies. He’s been out here for over a year, and before that he served fifteen years with the colors. He began army life as a private in the Boer War, so don’t even think about making any sort of move until you’ve consulted him. Then there’s Corporal Perkins. The damn man never stops complaining, but at least his sick sense of humor keeps the lads’ minds off the Hun. You’ll get to know the rest of the squad soon enough. They’re a good bunch of fellows and won’t let you down when it comes to the crunch.” George nodded, but didn’t interrupt. “The hardest decision you’ll have to make,” Evans continued, “comes every Sunday afternoon, when you have to send three lads to our forward look-out post for the next seven days. I’ve never known all three of them to return alive. It’s their job to keep us informed of what the enemy’s up to, so we can range our guns on them rather than our own troops.”

“Good luck, Mallory,” the young lieutenant had said as he shook hands with George later that morning. “I’ll say good-bye, in case we never meet again.”

September 5th, 1916

My dearest Ruth,

I am stationed a long way behind the front line, so there’s no need to feel at all anxious about me. I’ve inherited 37 men who seem to be good chaps, in fact one of them you may even remember-Private Rodgers. He used to be our postman before he joined up. Perhaps you could let his family know that he’s alive and well, and actually doing rather well out here. He says he’ll stay on in the army once this war is over. The rest of the lads have made me feel very welcome, which is good of them, as they’re only too aware I joined up so recently. I understood for the first time this morning what my training officer back at meant when he said a week in the field will serve you better than a three-month training course.

I never stop thinking about you and Clare, my darling, and the world we are bringing our children into. Let’s hope the politicians are right when they call this the war to end all wars, because I wouldn’t want my children ever to experience this madness.

No man is expected to serve at the front for more than three months at a time, so it’s possible I’ll be home in time for the birth of Clare’s little brother or sister.

George stopped writing, and thought about his words. He knew all too well that the King’s regulations were regularly ignored when it came to granting leave, but he needed Ruth to stay optimistic. As for the reality of life on the Somme, he’d rather she didn’t discover the truth about that until he was able to tell her face to face. He knew the anxiety she must have been suffering, when every day could bring the telegram that began, It is with deep regret that the Secretary for War has to inform you…

My darling, our two years together have been the happiest time of my life, and I know that I always close my letters by telling you just how much I miss you, perhaps because never a minute goes by when you are not in my thoughts. I’ve received several letters from you in the past month, and thank you for all the news about Clare and what’s happening at The Holt-but there’s still no photograph. Perhaps it will turn up in the next post. Even more than your image, I look forward to the day when I will see you in person and hold you in my arms, because then you’ll truly realize just how much I’ve missed you.

Your loving husband,

George

“’Ave you got some sort of problem, Perkins?”

“Don’t think so, Sarge.”

“Then why is your unit taking ninety seconds to reload when the rest of the battery’s taking less than a minute?”

“We’re doing our best, Sarge.”

“Your best isn’t good enough, Perkins, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“Don’t ‘Yes, Sarge’ me, Perkins, just do something about it.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“And, Matthews.”

“Yes, sarge.”

“I’ll be inspecting your gun at twelve hundred hours, and if it doesn’t shine like the sun coming out of my arse, I’ll personally ram you down the barrel and fire you at the Hun. Do I make myself abundantly clear, lad?”

“Abundantly clear, Sarge.”

The buzzer sounded on the field telephone. George grabbed the receiver.

“There’s a heavy barrage coming from about a mile away, sir, eleven o’clock,” said one of the men manning the forward look-out post. “Could mean the Germans are planning an attack.” The line went dead.

“Sergeant Davies!” hollered George, struggling to make himself heard above the sound of gunfire.

“Sir!”

“One mile, eleven o’clock, Germans advancing.”

“Sir! Look lively, lads, we want to be sure to give the Hun a warm welcome. Let’s see who can be the first to land one right on top of Jerry’s tin helmet.”

George smiled as he walked up and down the line, checking on each gun, grateful that Sergeant Davies had been born in Swansea, and not on the other side of the Siegfried Line.

“Well done, Rodgers,” said Davies. “First into action again. Keep this up and you’ll be a lance corporal in no time.”

Even George couldn’t miss the less than subtle hint as to who he should be considering for the next promotion.

“Well done, Perkins, that’s more like it,” said Davies a few moments later. “Needn’t start unpicking your stripes just yet.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

“And don’t ever thank me, Corporal. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m going soft.”

“No, Sarge!”

“Matthews, don’t tell me you’re going to be last again.”

“My loading spring’s busted, Sarge.”

“Oh I am so sorry to hear that, Matthews. Well then, why don’t you run along to the ammunition store and see if you can get yourself a nice shiny new one-sharpish, you bleedin’ halfwit.”

“But the depot’s three miles behind the line, Sarge. Can’t I wait for the supply truck in the morning?”

“No you can’t, Matthews, because if you don’t get moving, by the time you get back the fuckin’ Germans-excuse my French-will have joined us for breakfast. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“On the double, then.”

“Yes, Sarge!”

October 14th, 1916

My darling Ruth,

It’s been another one of those endless days, with both sides pounding away at each other, while we have no way of knowing who’s getting the better of this war. A field officer occasionally turns up to assure us that we’re doing a first-class job and the Germans are on the retreat-which raises the question, then why aren’t we advancing? No doubt some German field officer is telling his men exactly the same thing. Only one thing is certain, they can’t both be right.

By the way, tell your father that if he wants to make a second fortune, he should open a factory that makes ear trumpets, because once this war is over they’re certain to be in great demand.

I’m sorry, my darling, if these letters are becoming a little repetitive, but only two things remain constant, my love for you and my desire to hold you in my arms.

Your loving husband,

George

George looked up to see that one of his corporals was also scribbling away.

“A letter to your wife, Perkins?”

“No, sir, it’s my will.”

“Isn’t that a little pessimistic?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Perkins replied. “Back on civvy street I’m a bookie, so I’m used to havin’ to weigh up the odds. Men on the front line survive an average of sixteen days, and I’ve already been out here for over three months, so I can’t expect to buck the odds for much longer.”

“But you’re in far less danger back here than those poor devils on the front line, Perkins,” George tried to reassure him.

“You’re the third officer to tell me that, sir, and the other two went home in wooden boxes.”

George was still horrified by such casual references to death, and wondered how long it would be before he became just as hardened.

“The way I see it, sir,” continued Perkins, “is war’s like the Grand National. There’s lots of runners and riders at the start, but there’s no way of knowing which of them will finish the course. And in the end there’s only one winner. To be honest, sir, it’s not a racing certainty that the winner’s going to be an English nag.”

George noticed that Private Matthews was nodding his agreement, while Private Rodgers kept his head down as he cleaned the barrel of his rifle with an oily rag.

“Well, at least you’ll be getting some leave soon, Matthews,” said George, trying to steer the conversation away from a subject that was never far from their minds.

“Can’t wait for the day, sir,” Matthews said as he began to roll a cigarette.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home?” asked George.

“Bang the missus,” said Matthews.

Perkins and Rodgers burst out laughing. “All right, Matthews,” said George. “And the second thing?”

“Take my boots off, sir.”

December 7th, 1916

My dearest Ruth,

Your photograph has just arrived in this morning’s post, and as I write this letter from a trench just outside, it’s balanced on my knee. “Quite a looker,” I heard one of the lads say, and I agree with him. It won’t be long before our second child is born, and I’ve been promised compassionate leave some time in the next three months. If I can’t make it home for the birth don’t imagine, even for a moment, that you are ever out of my thoughts.

I’ve been at the Front now for four months, and the new second lieutenants arriving from Blighty look younger by the day. Some of them treat me as if I’m an old soldier. Once this war is over, I’ll spend the rest of my days with you at The Holt.

By the way, if it’s a boy, let’s call him John…

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Sergeant Davies, “but we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

George immediately leaped to his feet, because he’d never heard Davies utter that particular word. “What kind of problem?”

“We’ve lost communication with the lads at the forward look-out post.”

George knew that lost communication was Davies’s way of saying that all three of the men had been killed. “What do you recommend, Sergeant?” he asked, recalling Evans’s advice.

“Someone’s got to get up there, sir, and sharpish, so we can restore contact before the bloody Hun trample all over us. If I may suggest, sir…”

“Please do, Sergeant.”

“I could take Matthews and Perkins, and see what can be done, then we’ll report back to you.”

“No, Sergeant,” said George. “Not Matthews. He’s due to go on leave tomorrow.” He looked across at Perkins, who had turned ice white and was trembling. George had no need to consult him about the odds of any of them reporting back. “I think I’ll join you for this one, Sergeant.”

When George had been at Winchester, on sports day he’d covered a quarter of a mile in under a minute, and at the end of the race he wasn’t even out of breath. He never knew how long it took him, Davies, and Perkins to reach the front line, but when he threw himself into the trench he was exhausted and terrified, and all too aware what the men at the Front were being asked to endure every minute of the day and night.

“Keep your head down, sir,” said Davies as he studied the battlefield through a pair of field binoculars. “The look-out post is about a hundred yards away, sir, one o’clock.” He passed the binoculars across to George.

George refocused the lenses, and once he’d located the post he could see exactly why communications had broken down. “Right, let’s get on with it,” he said before he had time to think what it was that he was meant to be getting on with. He leaped out of the trench and ran as he had never run before, zigzagging through waterlogged potholes and treacle black mud as he charged toward the forward look-out post. He never looked back, because he was sure that Davies and Perkins would only be a stride behind. He was wrong. Perkins had been brought down by a bullet after only a dozen paces and lay dying in the mud, while Davies had managed almost sixty yards before he was killed.

The look-out post was only twenty yards ahead of George. He had covered fifteen of those yards when the mortar shell exploded at his feet. It was the first and last time in his life that he said fuck. He fell on his knees, thought of Ruth, and then collapsed facedown in the mud. Just another statistic.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE REGULAR FLOW of letters suddenly dried up; always the first sign, all too often followed by an unwelcome telegram.

Ruth had taken to sitting in the alcove by the drawing room window every morning, hands clasped over her ever-growing belly; thirty minutes before old Mr. Rodgers cycled up the drive. When he came into view she would try to fathom the expression on his face. Was it a letter face, or a telegram face? She reckoned she would know the truth long before he reached the door.

Just as she spotted Mr. Rodgers coming through the gates, Clare began to cry. Did she still have a father? Or had George died before his second child was born?

Ruth was standing by the door when Mr. Rodgers stopped pedaling, put on his brakes, and came to a halt by the bottom step. Always the same routine: dismount, rummage around in his post bag, extract the relevant letters, and finally walk up the steps and hand them to Mrs. Mallory. It was no different today. Or was it? As Mr. Rodgers mounted the steps he looked up at her and smiled. This wasn’t a telegram day.

“Two letters today, Mrs. Mallory, and if I’m not mistaken, one of them’s from your husband,” he added, passing over an envelope that bore George’s familiar handwriting.

“Thank you,” said Ruth, almost unable to hide her relief. Then she remembered that she wasn’t the only person having to suffer like this every day. “Any news of your son, Mr. Rodgers?” she asked.

“’Fraid not,” replied the postman. “Mind you, our Donald never was much of a letter writer, so we live in hope.” He climbed back on his bicycle and pedaled away.

Ruth had opened George’s letter long before she’d reached the drawing room. She returned to her seat by the window, sank back, and began to read, first quickly and then very slowly.

January 12th, 1917

My dearest one,

I’m alive, even if I’m not kicking. Don’t fret. All I’ve ended up with is a broken ankle. It could have been much worse. The doc tells me that in time I’ll be right as rain, and even able to climb again, but in the meantime they’re sending me home to recuperate.

Ruth stared out of the window at the Surrey hills in the distance, not sure whether to laugh or cry. It was some time before she returned to George’s letter.

Sadly, Sergeant Davies and Corporal Perkins were struck down in the same action. Two fine men, like so many of their comrades. I hope you’ll forgive me, my darling, but I felt I had to drop a line to their wives before I got down to writing to you.

It all began when Sgt. Davies told me that we had a problem…

“I’m going to recommend that you are discharged in the next few days, Mallory, and sent back to Blighty until you’re fully recovered.”

“Thanks, doc,” said George cheerfully.

“Don’t thank me, old fellow, frankly I need the bed. By the time you’re ready to come back, with a bit of luck this damn war will be over.”

“Let’s hope so,” said George, looking around the field tent, full of brave men whose lives would never be the same again.

“By the way,” the doctor added, “a Private Rodgers dropped by this morning. Thought this might be yours.”

“It certainly is,” said George, taking the photograph of Ruth he’d thought he’d never see again.

“She’s quite a looker,” mused the doctor.

“Not you as well,” said George with a grin.

“Oh, and you’ve got a visitor. Do you feel up to it?”

“Yes, I’d be delighted to see Rodgers,” said George.

“No, it’s not Rodgers, it’s a Captain Geoffrey Young.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m up to that,” said George, a huge smile appearing on his face.

A nurse plumped up George’s pillow and placed it behind his back as he waited for his climbing leader. He could never think of Geoffrey Young as anything else. But the welcoming smile on his lips turned to a frown as Young limped into the tent.

“My dear George,” Young said, “I came the moment I heard. One of the advantages of being in the Ambulance Auxiliary Service is that you get to know where everyone is and what they’re up to.” Young pulled up a small wooden chair that must have previously been used in a French classroom and sat down beside George’s bed. “So much news, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Why not start with Ruth. Did you get the chance to visit her when you were last on leave?”

“Yes. I dropped in to The Holt on my way back to Dover.”

“And how is she?” asked George, trying not to sound impatient.

“As beautiful as ever, and seems to have fully recovered.”

“Fully recovered?” said George anxiously.

“Following the birth of your second child,” said Young.

“My second child?” said George.

“You mean to say that nobody’s told you that you’re the proud father of…” He paused. “I think it was a girl.”

George offered up a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in. “And how is she?” he demanded.

“Seemed fine to me,” said Young. “But then, to be honest, I can never tell one baby from another.”

“What color are her eyes?”

“I’ve no idea, old chap.”

“And is her hair fair or dark?”

“Sort of in between, I think, although I could be wrong.”

“You’re hopeless. Has Ruth decided on a name?”

“I had a ghastly feeling you might ask me that.”

“Could it be Elizabeth?”

“I don’t think so. More unusual than that. It will come to me in a moment.”

George burst out laughing. “Spoken like a true bachelor.”

“Well, you’ll find out for yourself soon enough,” said Young, “because the doc tells me he’s sending you home. Just make sure you don’t come back. You’ve done more than enough to salve your conscience, and there’s certainly no need to shorten the odds against you.”

George thought about a dead corporal who would have agreed with Young.

“What other news?” asked George.

“Some good, some bad-mostly bad I’m afraid.” George remained silent while Young tried to compose himself. “Rupert Brooke died at Lemnos while on his way to Gallipoli-even before he reached some foreign field.”

George pursed his lips. He’d kept a book of Brooke’s poetry in his knapsack, and had assumed that once the war was over he must surely produce some memorable verse. George didn’t interrupt as he waited for other names to be added to the inevitable list of dead. One he dreaded most.

“Siegfried Herford bought it at Ypres, poor devil; it took him three days to die.” Young sighed. “If a man like that has to die before his time, it shouldn’t be on some muddy field in no man’s land, but on the summit of a great mountain he’s just conquered.”

“And Somervell?” George dared to ask.

“He’s had to witness some of the worst atrocities this war could throw at a man, poor fellow. Being a front-line surgeon can’t be much fun, but he never complains.”

“Odell?”

“Wounded three times. The War Office finally got the message and sent him back to Cambridge, but only after his old college had offered him a fellowship. Someone up there has at last worked out that we’re going to need our finest minds once this mess has been sorted out.”

“And Finch? I’ll bet he found himself some cushy number taking care of nurses.”

“Far from it,” said Young. “He volunteered to head up a bomb disposal unit, so his chances of survival are even less than the boys at the Front. He’s had several offers of a safe job in Whitehall, but he always turns them down-it’s almost as if he wants to die.”

“No,” said George, “he doesn’t want to die. Finch is one of those rare individuals who doesn’t believe anyone or anything can kill him. Remember him singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ on Mont Blanc?”

Young chuckled. “And to cap it all, they’re going to give him an MBE.”

“Good heavens,” laughed George, “nothing will stop him now.”

“Unless you do,” said Young quietly, “once that ankle of yours is healed. My bet is that you two will still be the first to stand on the top of the world.”

“With you, as usual, a pace ahead of us.”

“I’m afraid that will no longer be possible, old boy.”

“Why not? You’re still a young man.”

“True,” said Young. “But it might not prove quite that easy, with one of these.” He pulled up his left trouser leg to reveal an artificial limb.

“I’m so sorry,” said George, shocked. “I had no idea.”

“Don’t worry about it, old fellow,” said Young. “I’m just thankful to be alive. However, once this war is over there are no prizes for guessing who I’ll be recommending to the Everest Committee as climbing leader.”

Ruth was sitting by the window in the drawing room when a khaki-colored car drove through the front gates. She couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel, apart from the fact that he or she was in uniform.

Ruth was already outside by the time the young woman driver stepped out of the car and opened the back door. The first thing to emerge was a pair of crutches, followed by a pair of legs, followed by her husband. Ruth dashed down the steps and threw her arms around him. She kissed him as if it were the first time, which brought back memories of a sleeping compartment in the train home from Venice. The driver stood to attention, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Thank you, Corporal,” said George with a grin. She saluted, climbed back into the car, and drove off.

Ruth eventually let go of George, but only because he refused to allow her to help him up the steps and into the house. As she walked beside him into the drawing room, George demanded, “Where’s my little girl?”

“She’s in the nursery with Clare and nanny. I’ll go and fetch them.”

“What’s her name?” George called after her, but Ruth was already halfway up the stairs.

George propelled himself into the drawing room and fell into a chair by the window. He didn’t remember a chair being there before, and wondered why it was facing outward. He looked at the English countryside that he loved so much, reminded once again of just how lucky he was to be alive. Brooke, Herford, Wainwright, Carter minor, Davies, Perkins…

His thoughts were interrupted by cries that he heard long before he set eyes on his second daughter. George heaved himself up as Ruth and Nanny Mallory entered the room with his two daughters. He hugged Clare for some time before taking the little bundle in his arms.

“Fair hair and blue eyes,” he said.

“I thought you already knew that,” said Ruth. “Didn’t you get my letters?”

“Sadly not. Only your messenger, Geoffrey Young, who just about remembered that it was a girl, and certainly couldn’t recall her name.”

“That’s funny,” said Ruth, “because I asked him if he’d be godfather, and he agreed.”

“So you don’t know her name, Daddy?” said Clare, jumping up and down.

“No, I don’t,” said George. “Is it Elizabeth?”

“No, Daddy, don’t be silly. It’s Beridge,” said Clare, laughing.

More unusual than that, said George to himself, recalling Geoffrey Young’s words.

After only a few moments in George’s arms, Beridge began howling, and nanny quickly took charge of her. The child obviously didn’t appreciate being held by a strange man.

“Let’s have half a dozen more,” said George, taking Ruth in his arms once nanny had taken Clare and Beridge back to the nursery.

“Behave yourself, George,” teased Ruth. “Try to remember that you’re no longer on the front line with your troops.”

“Some of the finest men I’ve ever known,” said George sadly.

Ruth smiled. “Will you miss them?”

“Not half as much as I’ve missed you.”

“So now you’re back, my darling, what’s the first thing you’d like to do?”

George thought about Private Matthews’s response when he’d been asked the same question. He smiled to himself, realizing that there wasn’t a great deal of difference between an officer and a private soldier.

He bent down and began to untie his shoelace.

BOOK FOUR. Selecting the Team
1921
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

WHEN GEORGE CAME down to breakfast that morning, nobody spoke.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he took his place at the head of the table between his two daughters.

“I know,” said Clare, “but Mummy told me not to tell you.”

“What about Beridge?” said George.

“Don’t be silly, Daddy, you know Beridge can’t read.”

“Read?” said George, looking at Clare more closely. “Sherlock Holmes would have told us that read was the first clue.”

“Who’s Sherlock Holmes?” demanded Clare.

“A great detective,” said George. “He would have looked around the room to see what there was to read. Now, could this secret possibly be in the newspaper?”

“Yes,” said Clare, clapping her hands. “And Mummy says it’s something you’ve wanted all your life.”

“Another clue,” said George, picking up that morning’s Times, which was open at page eleven. He smiled the moment he saw the headline. “Your mother is quite right.”

“Read the story, Daddy, read the story.”

“MP Nancy Astor has made a speech in the House of Commons on women’s rights.” George looked up at Ruth and said, “I only wish I was having breakfast with your father this morning.”

“Perhaps,” said Ruth, “but Sherlock Holmes would tell you that you’re wasting your time. Mrs. Astor’s speech is nothing more than a red herring.”

George began to turn the page. Ruth smiled when she saw his hand begin to tremble. She hadn’t seen that look on his face since…

“Read the story, Daddy.”

George dutifully obeyed. “‘Sir Francis Younghusband,’” he began, “‘announced last night that the Royal Geographical Society will be joining forces with the Alpine Club to form an Everest Committee, of which he will be the chairman, with Mr. Geoffrey Young as his deputy.’” He looked up to see Ruth smiling at him.

“Keep on reading, Daddy, keep on reading.”

“‘The committee’s first task will be to select a party of climbers who will make the first assault on Mount Everest.’”

George looked up again. Ruth was still smiling. He quickly returned to the article before Clare could admonish him again. “‘Our correspondent understands that among the names being canvassed for climbing leader are Mr. George Mallory, a schoolmaster at Charterhouse, and Mr. George Finch, an Australian scientist, currently lecturing at Imperial College, London.’”

“But no one’s been in touch with me,” said George.

Ruth was still smiling as she handed him an envelope that had arrived in the morning post, bearing the Royal Geographical Society’s crest on the back. “Elementary, my dear Watson,” she said.

“Who’s Watson?” demanded Clare.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

NONE OF THE five men seated around the table particularly liked each other, but that was not their purpose. They had all been chosen as members of the Everest Committee for different reasons.

The chairman, Sir Francis Younghusband, had been closer to Everest than any of them, forty miles, when he had been entrusted to negotiate terms with the Dalai Lama for the expedition’s safe crossing of the border into Tibet; the exact words had been spelled out in a treaty signed earlier that year by Lord Curzon, the Foreign Secretary. Sir Francis sat bolt upright at the head of the table, his feet not quite touching the floor, as he stood barely five foot one. His thick, wavy gray hair and lined forehead give him an air of authority that was rarely questioned.

On his left sat Arthur Hinks, the secretary of the committee, whose primary purpose was to protect the reputation of the RGS, which he represented and which paid his annual stipend. His forehead was not yet lined, and the few tufts of hair left on his otherwise bald head were not yet gray. On the table in front of him were several files, and a newly acquired minute book. Some wags claimed that he wrote up the minutes of a meeting the day before it took place, so he could be certain that everything went as planned. No one would have suggested as much to his face.

On Hinks’s left sat Mr. Raeburn, who had once been considered a fine alpinist. But the cigar he held permanently in one hand, and the paunch pressed against the edge of the table, meant that only those with good memories could recall his climbing days.

Opposite him sat Commander Ashcroft, a retired naval officer who always had a snifter with Hinks just before a meeting opened, so that he could be instructed how to cast his vote. He’d reached the rank of commander by never disobeying orders. His weatherbeaten face and white beard would have left even a casual observer in no doubt where he’d spent the majority of his days. On his left, and the chairman’s right, sat a man who had hoped to be the first person to stand on top of the world, until the Germans had put a stop to that.

The grandfather clock at one end of the room chimed six and it pleased Sir Francis that he didn’t have to call for order. After all, the men seated around the table were used to giving and taking orders. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it is an honor for me to open this inaugural meeting of the Everest Committee. Following the success of the expedition that surveyed the outlying regions of the Himalaya last year, our purpose is now to identify a group of climbers who are capable of planting the Union Jack at the summit of the highest mountain on earth. I was recently granted an audience with His Majesty-” Sir Francis glanced up at the portrait of their patron hanging on the wall-“and I assured him that one of his subjects would be the first man to stand on the summit of Everest.”

“Hear, hear,” mumbled Raeburn and Ashcroft in unison.

Sir Francis paused, and looked down at the notes prepared for him by Hinks. “Our first task this evening will be to appoint a leader to take the team we select as far as the foothills of the Himalaya, where he will set up a base camp, probably at around 17,000 feet. Our second duty will be to choose a climbing leader. For some years, gentlemen, I had anticipated that that man would be Mr. Geoffrey Winthrop Young, but due to an injury he sustained in the war, that will sadly not be possible. However, we are still able to call upon his vast experience of and expertise in climbing matters, and warmly welcome him to this committee as deputy chairman.” Young gave a slight bow. “I will now call upon Mr. Hinks to guide us through the agenda for this meeting.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Hinks, touching his mustache. “As you have reminded us, our first duty is to select a leader for the expedition. This must be a man of resolute character and proven leadership ability, preferably with some experience of the Himalaya. He must also be skilled in diplomacy, in case there should be any trouble with the natives.”

“Hear, hear,” said a member of the committee, sounding to Young as if he was coming in on cue.

“Gentlemen,” continued Hinks, “I am in no doubt that we have identified the one man who embodies all these characteristics, namely General Charles Granville Bruce, late of the Fifth Royal Gurkha Rifles. The committee may be interested to know that the General is the youngest son of Lord Aberdare, and was educated at Harrow and Sandhurst.”

Raeburn and Ashcroft immediately responded again with “Hear, hear.”

“I have no hesitation, therefore, in recommending to the committee that we appoint General Bruce as campaign leader, and invite him to join us as a member.”

“That all sounds very satisfactory,” said Younghusband. “Can I assume that the committee is in agreement, and that Bruce is the obvious man for the job?” He glanced around the table, to find that all but one of the committee members were nodding.

“Mr. Chairman,” said Young, “this decision as to who should lead the expedition has been taken by the RGS, and rightly so. However, as I was not privy to the selection process, I am curious to know if any other candidate was considered for the post.”

“Perhaps you would care to answer that query, Mr. Hinks,” said Younghusband.

“Of course, Mr. Chairman,” responded Hinks, placing a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose. “Several names were put forward for our consideration, but frankly, Young, it quickly became clear that General Bruce was head and shoulders above the rest.”

“I hope that answers your question, Young,” said Sir Francis.

“I hope so too, Mr. Chairman,” said Young.

“Then perhaps the time has come to invite the General to join us,” said Sir Francis.

Hinks coughed.

“Yes, Mr. Hinks?” said Sir Francis. “Have I forgotten something?”

“No, Mr. Chairman,” said Hinks, peering over the top of his spectacles. “But perhaps we should put the matter to a vote before General Bruce is elected as a member of the committee?”

“Yes, of course,” said Sir Francis. “I propose that General Bruce be appointed as leader of the expedition, and be co-opted onto this committee. Will someone please second that motion?” Hinks immediately raised his hand.

“Those in favor?” said Sir Francis.

Four hands shot up.

“Those against?”

No hands were raised.

“Are there any abstentions?”

Young raised his hand.

“Before you make a note in the minutes, Mr. Hinks,” said Younghusband, “don’t you think, Young, that it would be helpful if we were to give General Bruce our unanimous support?”

“In normal circumstances I would agree with you, Mr. Chairman,” said Young. Sir Francis smiled. “However, I feel it would be irresponsible of me to vote for a man I’ve never met, however well qualified he appears to be.”

“So be it,” said Sir Francis. “I declare the motion carried by four votes to none, with one abstention.”

“Shall I ask General Bruce to join us?” said Hinks.

“Yes, please do,” replied Sir Francis.

Hinks rose from his place and a porter immediately jumped up, opened the door at the far end of the room, and stood aside to allow him to enter an ante-room where three men were seated, waiting to be called before the committee.

“General Bruce, if you would be kind enough to join us?” said Hinks, without giving the other two men so much as a glance.

“Thank you, Hinks,” said the General, heaving himself up from his chair and following the secretary slowly back into the committee room.

“Welcome, General Bruce,” said Sir Francis. “Do come and join us,” he added, ushering Bruce toward an empty chair.

“I am delighted to tell you,” said Sir Francis after Bruce had taken his seat, “that the committee has voted to invite you to oversee this great adventure, and also to join us as a member of the executive board.”

“My thanks, Mr. Chairman, to you and the committee for its confidence,” said the General, toying with his monocle before pouring himself a large whiskey. “Be assured I will do my damnedest to prove worthy of it.”

“I believe you’re acquainted with everyone on the committee, General, except our deputy chairman, Mr. Young.”

Young took a closer look at the General, and doubted if he was a day under sixty. If he was to make the arduous journey to the foothills of the Himalaya, a very sturdy beast would be needed to transport him.

“Our next duty, gentlemen,” said Sir Francis, “is to select a climbing leader, who will take over from General Bruce once he has led the expedition across the border into Tibet where he will set up base camp. The person we choose will have the responsibility of identifying the route by which the final party, possibly including himself, will make the first assault on the summit of Everest.” Sir Francis paused. “Let us pray that whomever we select will succeed in this noble enterprise.”

Young bowed his head, and wondered if any of the men seated around the table had the slightest idea what they were asking these brave young men to do in God’s name.

Sir Francis paused again before adding, “The Alpine Club has put forward two names for our consideration. Perhaps this would be the appropriate moment to ask our deputy chairman if he would like to say a few words by way of introduction.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Young. “I can tell the committee that in the opinion of the Alpine Club, these two candidates are unquestionably the finest climbers in the British Isles. The only other man in their class was Siegfried Herford, who was sadly cut down at Ypres.”

“Thank you,” said the chairman. “I should point out once again that had Captain Young not been wounded on the Western Front, there would be no need for this interview to take place.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, Mr. Chairman, but I can assure the committee that both of these young men are capable of carrying out the task.”

“And which of the two gentlemen should we see first?” asked Sir Francis.

“Mr. Leigh Mallory,” said Hinks, before anyone else could offer an opinion.

“It’s George Mallory, actually,” said Young.

“Very well, perhaps we should invite Mr. Mallory to join us,” suggested the chairman.

Once again Hinks rose from his place, and the porter opened the door that led into the ante-room. Hinks peered at the two men who were seated below a portrait of Queen Mary, and without having the slightest idea which was which, said, “Mr. Mallory, please follow me.” George stood up.

“Good luck, Mallory,” said Finch. “Don’t forget that you’ve only got one friend in there.”

Hinks stopped in his tracks, and for a moment looked as if he was going to respond, but evidently thought better of it and walked back into the committee room without another word.

“Mr. Mallory,” said Sir Francis as George entered the room. “It’s good of you to spare us your time.” He rose from his chair and shook hands with the candidate. “I do apologize for keeping you waiting.” George smiled. “I know that Mr. Young has informed you why you’re here this evening, so perhaps you’d be kind enough to take a seat at the top of the table. The committee have one or two questions for you.”

“Of course, Sir Francis,” said George a little nervously.

“May I begin,” said Sir Francis once George was seated, “by asking if you are in any doubt that we can succeed in this massive endeavor, and by that I mean conquering Everest.”

“No one can possibly answer that question with any authority, Sir Francis,” said George, “as only a handful of mountaineers have ever climbed higher than 20,000 feet. My brother Trafford, a pilot with the RAF, tells me that even an airplane hasn’t yet reached 29,000 feet, which is the height of Everest.”

“But you’d still be willing to give it a go, wouldn’t you?” asked Raeburn who was puffing away on a cigar, and looked as if his idea of a challenging climb would be the steps to his club.

“Of course I would,” said George enthusiastically. “But as no one has ever attempted to scale Everest, we have no way of knowing what difficulties it might present. For example-”

“Are you a married man, Mr. Mallory?” asked Commander Ashcroft, reading from the piece of paper in front of him.

“Yes, I am, sir.”

“Any family?”

“Two daughters,” George replied, slightly puzzled by the question. He couldn’t see how Clare and Beridge could possibly help him to climb a 29,000-foot mountain.

“Are there any more questions for Mr. Mallory?” asked Sir Francis as he checked his half-hunter pocket watch.

Was that it? thought George in disbelief. Was this bunch of old buffers going to decide between Finch and himself on the basis of such irrelevant questions? It looked as if Finch had been right about Hinks and his cronies.

“I have a question for Mr. Mallory,” said Hinks.

George smiled. Perhaps he’d misjudged the man.

“Can I confirm,” said Hinks, “that you were educated at Winchester?”

“Yes, I was,” said George, wondering once again what possible relevance the question might have.

“And from there you went up to Magdalene College, Cambridge, to read history?”

“Yes,” repeated George. He was tempted to add, “But I had to climb the college wall to make sure they offered me a place,” but somehow he managed to hold his tongue.

“And you graduated with an honors degree before taking up a teaching post at Charterhouse?”

“That is correct,” said George, still unsure where this could possibly be leading.

“And although as a schoolmaster you were exempt from serving in the armed forces, you nevertheless volunteered and were commissioned as an officer in the Royal Artillery, seeing action on the Western Front?”

“Yes,” said George. He glanced at Young in the hope of guidance, only to find that he looked equally bemused.

“And after the war you returned to Charterhouse to become the senior history master.”

George nodded, but said nothing.

“That’s all I needed to know. Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”

George once again glanced at Young, but he just shrugged his shoulders.

“Are there any more questions for Mr. Mallory?” asked Sir Francis. “Or can we let him go?”

The man with the cigar raised his hand. “Yes, Mr. Raeburn?” said Younghusband.

“If you were selected as climbing leader for this expedition, Mallory, would you be willing to purchase your own equipment?”

“I’m sure I could manage that,” said George after a moment’s hesitation.

“And would you also be able to pay for your passage to India?” inquired Ashcroft.

George hesitated, because he couldn’t be sure to what extent his father-in-law would be willing to assist him. He eventually said, “I would hope so.”

“Good show, Mallory,” said Sir Francis. “Now, all that’s left for me to do is thank you on behalf of the…” Hinks furiously scribbled a note, which he thrust under Younghusband’s nose. “Ah, yes,” Sir Francis said. “If you were to be selected, would you be prepared to undergo a medical examination?”

“Of course, Sir Francis,” said George.

“Capital,” said the chairman. “The committee will be in touch with you in the near future, to let you know our decision.”

George rose from his place, still slightly bemused, and left the room without another word. When the porter had closed the door behind him, George said, “It was even worse than you predicted.”

“I did warn you,” said Finch.

“Just be sure you don’t say anything you’ll regret, George.”

Finch always knew Mallory was serious when he addressed him by his Christian name.

“What can you possibly mean, old chap?” he asked.

“Humor them, don’t lose your temper. Try to remember that it’s going to be you and me standing at 27,000 feet preparing for the final climb, while that lot will be back in their clubs, sitting in front of a log fire, and enjoying a glass of brandy.”

“What a splendid fellow,” Hinks said.

“I agree,” said Raeburn. “Exactly the sort of chap we’re looking for. Wouldn’t you agree, General?”

“I certainly liked the cut of his jib,” said Bruce. “But I think we need to see the other chap before we come to a decision.”

Geoffrey Young smiled for the first time.

“The other fellow doesn’t look in the same class on paper,” said Ashcroft.

“You won’t find many mountains on paper Commander,” said Young, trying not to sound exasperated.

“That may well be the case,” said Hinks, “but I feel I should point out to the committee that Mr. Finch is an Australian.”

“I was given to understand,” said Raeburn, “that we were only considering chaps from the British Isles.”

“I think you’ll find, Mr. Chairman,” said Young, “that Australia is still part of His Majesty’s far-flung Empire.”

“Quite so,” said Sir Francis. “Perhaps we should see the fellow before we jump to conclusions.”

Hinks made no effort to rise from his seat. He simply folded his arms and nodded at the porter, who bowed deferentially, opened the door, and announced, “Mr. Finch.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

“MR. FINCH,” THE porter repeated, a little more firmly.

“Got to leave you, old chap,” said Finch, and added with a grin, “which is exactly what I’ll be saying when we’re a couple of hundred feet from the summit.”

Finch strolled into the committee room and sat down in the chair at the end of the table before Sir Francis had an opportunity to welcome him. Young could only smile when he saw how Finch had dressed for the interview. It was almost as if he’d set out to provoke the committee: a casual corduroy jacket, a pair of baggy cream flannels, an open-necked shirt, and no tie.

When Young had briefed Mallory and Finch, it hadn’t crossed his mind to mention a dress code. But to this committee the candidates’ appearance would be every bit as important as their climbing record. They were now all staring at Finch in disbelief. Ashcroft even had his mouth open. Young leaned back and waited for the fireworks to be ignited.

“Well, Mr. Finch,” said Sir Francis once he’d recovered, “let me welcome you on behalf of the committee, and ask if you are prepared to answer a few questions.”

“Of course I am,” said Finch. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Capital,” said Sir Francis. “Then I’ll get the ball rolling by asking if you’re in any doubt that this great enterprise can be achieved. By that I mean, do you believe you are capable of leading a team to the summit of Everest?”

“Yes, I can do that,” said Finch. “But nobody has any idea how the human body will react to such altitude. One scientist has even suggested we might explode, and although I think that’s a fatuous notion, it does indicate that we haven’t a clue what we’ll be up against.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, old chap,” said Raeburn.

“Then allow me to elucidate, Mr. Raeburn.” The elderly gentleman looked surprised that Finch knew his name. “What we do know is that the higher you climb, the thinner the air becomes, meaning that every movement a mountaineer makes at altitude will be more difficult than the last. That may result in some falling by the wayside.”

“Yourself included, perhaps?” said Hinks, not looking directly at him.

“Yes indeed, Mr. Hinks,” Finch said, looking back at the secretary.

“But despite all that,” said Raeburn, “you would still be willing to give it a go.”

“Yes, I would,” Finch replied firmly. “But I should warn the committee that the success or failure of this project may depend on the use of oxygen during the last 2,000 feet.”

“I’m not altogether sure I follow your drift,” said Sir Francis.

“I reckon that above 24,000 feet,” replied Finch, “we will find it almost impossible to breathe. I’ve carried out some experiments at 15,000 feet which showed that with the assistance of bottled oxygen, it’s possible to continue climbing at almost the same rate as at a much lower altitude.”

“But wouldn’t that be cheating, old chap?” asked Ashcroft. “It’s always been our aim to test man’s ability against the elements without resorting to mechanical aids.”

“The last time I heard a similar opinion expressed publicly was at a lecture given by the late Captain Scott in this very building. I’m sure, gentlemen, that you don’t need reminding how that sad adventure ended.”

Everyone on the committee was now staring at Finch as if he was the subject of a Bateman cartoon, but he continued unabashed.

“Scott not only failed to be first to reach the South Pole,” Finch reminded them, “but as you all know only too well, he and the rest of his party perished. Amundsen not only reached the Pole ahead of Scott, but is continuing to lead expeditions to the uncharted places around the globe. Yes, I would like to be the first person to stand on the top of the world, but I would also like to return to London to deliver a lecture on the subject to the Royal Geographical Society.”

It was some time before the next question was asked.

“Allow me to ask you, Mr. Finch,” said Hinks, choosing his words carefully, “does Mr. Mallory agree with you on the use of oxygen?”

“No, he doesn’t,” admitted Finch. “He thinks he can climb Everest without it. But then, he’s a historian, Mr. Hinks, not a scientist.”

“Are there any more questions for this candidate?” asked Sir Francis, looking as if he had already made up his mind on who the committee should select as climbing leader for the expedition.

“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” said Hinks. “There are just one or two matters I’d like to clear up, simply for the record, you understand.” Sir Francis nodded. “Mr. Finch, could you tell the committee where you were born and where you were educated?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” replied Finch. “I have no idea where Mr. Alcock or Mr. Brown was educated, but I do know that they were the first men to fly across the Atlantic, and that they were only able to achieve that, Mr. Hinks, with the help of a mechanical aid known as an airplane.”

Young tried not to smile, although he was no longer in any doubt who the committee would select as climbing leader.

“Be that as it may,” said Hinks, “we at the RGS-”

“Forgive me for interrupting you, Mr. Hinks, but I was under the impression that I was being interviewed by the Everest Committee,” said Finch. “As the Society’s secretary, you signed a minute to that effect.”

“Be that as it may,” repeated Hinks, trying to compose himself, “perhaps you would be kind enough to answer my question.”

Young considered intervening, but remained silent, confident that Finch could handle himself just as well in a committee room as he did on a mountain.

“I was born in Australia, but I was educated in Zurich,” said Finch, “and attended the University of Geneva.”

Ashcroft leaned across the table and whispered to Raeburn, “I had no idea that Geneva had a university. I thought it was just full of banks.”

“And cuckoo clocks,” said Raeburn.

“And what is your profession?” asked Hinks.

“I’m a chemist,” replied Finch. “Which is how I know about the significance of oxygen at high altitude.”

“I always thought chemistry was a hobby,” said Ashcroft, this time loud enough to be heard, “not a profession.”

“Only for children, Commander Ashcroft,” said Finch, looking him straight in the eye.

“And are you a married man, Finch?” asked Raeburn, flicking some ash off the end of his cigar.

“I am a widower,” said Finch, a reply which took Young by surprise.

Hinks scribbled a question mark against marital status.

“And do you have any children?” asked Ashcroft.

“Yes, one son, Peter.”

“Tell me, Finch,” said Raeburn, clipping the end off another cigar, “if you were selected for this important role, would you be willing to pay for your own equipment?”

“Only if I had to,” said Finch. “I am aware that the committee has launched an appeal to raise funds for this expedition, and I assumed that some of that money would be used to equip the climbers.”

“And what about your travel expenses?” pressed Ashcroft.

“Out of the question,” replied Finch. “If I were to take part in the expedition I would be out of work for at least six months, and although I don’t expect any financial recompense for loss of earnings, I see no reason why I should also have to cover my own expenses.”

“So you wouldn’t describe yourself as an amateur, old chap?” said Ashcroft.

“No, sir, I would not. I’m a professional in everything I do.”

“Are you indeed?” said Ashcroft.

“I don’t think we need detain Mr. Finch any longer, gentlemen?” suggested Sir Francis, looking around the table.

“I have some further questions for Mr. Finch,” said Young, unable to maintain his silence any longer.

“But surely you know everything you need to know about Mr. Finch.” said Hinks. “You’ve known this candidate for years.”

“I have indeed, but the rest of the committee has not, and I suspect they might find Mr. Finch’s answers to my questions illuminating. Mr. Finch,” said Young, turning to face the candidate, “have you ever climbed Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in Europe?”

“On seven occasions,” replied Finch.

“And the Matterhorn?”

“Three times.”

“And any of the other major peaks in the Alps?”

“All of them. I climb in the Alps every year.”

“And what about the highest mountains in the British Isles?”

“I gave them up before I was out of short trousers.”

“This is all on the record, Mr. Chairman,” said Hinks.

“For those who’ve taken the trouble to read it,” retorted Young, un-perturbed. “Can I confirm, Mr. Finch, that after completing your education in Geneva, you took up a place as an undergraduate at Imperial College, London?”

“That is correct,” confirmed Finch.

“And what subject did you read?”

“Chemistry,” replied Finch, having decided to play along with Young’s little ruse.

“What class of degree did that august establishment award you?”

“A first-class honors degree,” said Finch, smiling for the first time.

“And did you remain at London University after you had graduated?” asked Young.

“Yes, I did,” said Finch. “I joined the staff as a lecturer in chemistry.”

“And did you remain in that position after the war broke out, Mr. Finch, or did you, like Mr. Mallory, enlist in the armed forces?”

“I enlisted in the army in August 1914, a few days after war was declared.”

“And in which branch of the army did you serve?” asked Young.

“As a chemist,” replied Finch, looking directly at Ashcroft, “I felt my expertise could be put to good use by volunteering for the bomb disposal squad.”

“Bomb disposal squad,” said Young, emphasizing all three words. “Can you elaborate?”

“Certainly, Mr. Young. The War Office was looking for men to defuse unexploded bombs. Quite fun really.”

“So you never saw action on the front line?” said Hinks.

“No, Mr. Hinks, I did not. I found that German bombs had a tendency to fall on our side of the line, not theirs.”

“And were you ever decorated?” asked Hinks, leafing through his notes.

Young smiled. The first mistake Hinks had made.

“I was awarded the MBE,” said Finch matter-of-factly.

“Good show,” said Bruce. “That’s not something they give out with the rations.”

“I see no mention of this decoration in your records,” blustered Hinks, trying to recover.

“Perhaps that’s because I didn’t feel one’s place of birth, educational qualifications, and marital status had much to do with attempting to climb the highest mountain on earth.”

Hinks was silenced for the first time.

“Well, if there are no more questions,” said Sir Francis, “allow me to thank Mr. Finch for attending this meeting.” He hesitated before adding, “Someone will be in touch with you in the near future.”

Finch rose from his place, nodded to Young, and was just about to leave when Hinks said, “Just one more question. Can I confirm that, like Mr. Mallory, you would be willing to undergo a medical examination?”

“Of course I would,” said Finch, and left the room without another word.

“Rum sort of fellow, don’t you think?” said Raeburn once the porter had closed the door.

“But surely there can be no doubting his ability as an alpine climber,” said Young.

Hinks smiled. “No doubt you’re right, Young, but we at the RGS have always been wary of social climbers.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little rough, Hinks?” said Sir Francis. “Considering the chap’s war record.” Turning to Bruce, he asked, “You’ve led men into battle, General. What did you make of the fellow?”

“I’d prefer to have him on my side rather than the enemy’s, that’s for sure,” said Bruce. “Given a fair wind, I think I could knock him into shape.”

“What do we do next?” asked Sir Francis, turning back to Hinks for guidance.

“The members should now proceed to vote on their choice for climbing leader, Mr. Chairman. For the convenience of the committee I’ve had ballot papers prepared, on which members may place a cross beside the name of their preferred candidate.” Hinks handed a slip of paper to each member of the committee. “Once you’ve made your choice, please return your ballot papers to me.”

The process took only a few moments, and as Hinks counted the votes, a thin smile appeared on his face that grew wider every time he opened another ballot paper. He finally passed the result across to the chairman, so that he could officially announce the outcome.

“Five votes for Mallory. And there’s one abstention,” said Younghusband, unable to hide his surprise.

“It was me again,” announced Young.

“But you know both the candidates well,” said Sir Francis. “After all, it was you who placed their names in front of the committee.”

“Perhaps I know them too well,” replied Young. “They are both fine young men in their different ways, but after all these years I still can’t make up my mind which one of them is more likely to accomplish the feat of being the first man to stand on top of the world.”

“I am in no doubt which man I’d prefer to see representing this country,” said Hinks.

There were mutterings of “Hear, hear,” but not from all quarters.

“Any other business?” asked Younghusband.

“We should simply confirm for the official record,” said Hinks, “that now that we have appointed a climbing leader, we willingly accept nem. con. Mr. Young’s recommendations for the remaining eight places in the climbing team.”

“Yes, of course,” said Sir Francis. “After all, that is no more than I agreed with the Alpine Club prior to this committee being set up.”

“I hope,” remarked Ashcroft, “that not too many of them are cut from the same cloth as that fellow Finch.”

“No fear of that,” said Hinks, looking down at the list. “Apart from Finch, they’re all Oxford or Cambridge men.”

“Well, that must just about wrap it up,” said Sir Francis.

A smile returned to Hinks’s lips. “Mr. Chairman, there’s still the small matter of the medical examinations that all the prospective members of the climbing team have agreed to undergo. Presumably you’d like that to be out of the way before the committee reconvenes next month.”

“That makes sense to me,” said Sir Francis. “No doubt you will handle all the details, Mr. Hinks.”

“Of course, Mr. Chairman.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

HINKS SAT ALONE in his club, nursing a glass of brandy while he waited for his guest. He knew that Lampton wouldn’t be late, but he needed a little time to compose his thoughts before the good doctor arrived.

Lampton had carried out several delicate commissions for the RGS in the past, but his next undertaking would have to be handled most carefully if no one was to suspect Hinks of being personally involved. Hinks smiled as he recalled Machiavelli’s words, Once you know a man’s ambition, if you can assist it, he becomes beholden to you. He was well aware of one of Lampton’s ambitions.

Hinks rose from his seat as a porter led Dr. Lampton into the library. Once they’d settled in a secluded corner of the room and dispensed with the usual small talk, Hinks made his well-prepared opening.

“I see your name is up for membership of the club, Lampton,” he said as a waiter placed two glasses of brandy on the table between them.

“It is indeed, Mr. Hinks,” Lampton replied, nervously picking up and toying with his glass. “But then, who wouldn’t want to be a member of Boodle’s?”

“And you shall be a member, dear boy,” said Hinks. “In fact I can tell you that I’ve added my name to your list of supporters.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hinks.”

“I think we can dispense with the Mr. After all, you’ll soon be a member of this club. Do call me Hinks.”

“Thank you, Hinks.”

Hinks glanced around the room, to check that he could not be overheard. “As you know, old boy, one of the club rules is that you can’t discuss business matters over dinner.”

“Damned fine rule,” said Lampton. “I only wish it applied at St. Thomas’s. I often feel like telling my colleagues that the last thing I want to talk about over lunch is what’s going on in the hospital.”

“Quite so,” said Hinks. “Mind you, the rule doesn’t apply here in the library, so let me tell you, in the strictest confidence, that the Society wishes to instruct you to carry out a most important piece of scientific research on its behalf. I must emphasize, this is in the strictest confidence.”

“You can rely on me, Hinks.”

“Excellent, but first a little background. You may have read in The Times that the Society is planning to send a select team of climbers to Tibet for the purpose of making an attempt on the summit of Mount Everest.”

“Good heavens.”

“Rather appropriate,” said Hinks, and both men laughed. “With that in mind, we would like to appoint you to conduct a series of tests on the twelve men who are under consideration for the nine places in that team. Clearly, the most important matter will be your professional opinion as to how well equipped they are to survive at an altitude of 29,000 feet.”

“Is that the height of Everest?”

“Twenty-nine thousand and two feet, to be exact,” said Hinks. “Now, of course it goes without saying that the RGS cannot risk sending a chap all that way if he’s going to break down the moment he reaches a certain altitude. That would be a waste of the Society’s time and money.”

“Quite so,” agreed Lampton. “How much time do I have to conduct these tests?”

“I have to report back to the committee in three weeks’ time,” said Hinks, removing a piece of paper from an inside pocket. “Here are the twelve names that have been put forward by the Alpine Club. Only nine of them will travel as part of the climbing team, so feel free to eliminate any three who fall short of the mark.” He passed the slip of paper to his guest so that he could study the names more carefully.

Lampton glanced at the list. “I see no reason why my report shouldn’t be on your desk within a fortnight. That’s assuming all the climbers will be available.”

“They’ll be available,” said Hinks. He paused and once again looked around the room. “I wonder, Lampton, if I may speak to you on a confidential matter?”

“Feel free to do so, old fellow.”

“You should know that the committee would not be displeased if you were to find that one particular applicant did not possess the physical attributes necessary for such a demanding expedition.”

“I fully understand,” said Lampton.

Hinks leaned across and placed a finger next to the second name on the list.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“…ONE HUNDRED AND twelve…one hundred and thirteen…one hundred and fourteen.” Finch finally collapsed on the ground. George kept going, but he only managed another seven press-ups before he also gave up: 121, a personal record. He lay flat on the floor, raised his head and grinned at Finch, who always managed to bring out the best in him. Or was it the worst?

Dr. Lampton made an entry on his clipboard of the totals achieved by each of the twelve men, and noted that Mallory and Finch had been in the top five for every test, with very little to choose between them. He was already beginning to wonder what possible reason he could come up with to disqualify Finch, who clearly only had one rival as the fittest member of the group.

Lampton stood in the center of the gymnasium and asked the twelve men to gather around him. “I congratulate all of you,” he said, “on having come through the first part of the test unscathed, which means that you’re qualified to enter my torture chamber.” They all laughed. Lampton wondered how many of them would be laughing in an hour’s time. “Please follow me, gentlemen,” he said, and led them down a long brick corridor until he came to an unmarked door. He unlocked it and stepped into a large, square room, the like of which George had never seen.

“Gentlemen,” said Lampton, “you are now standing in a decompression chamber that was commissioned by the Admiralty during the war to test submariners’ ability to endure long periods of time below the surface of the ocean. The chamber has been modified to reproduce the conditions we believe you are likely to encounter when climbing Everest.

“Let me tell you about some of the equipment you see before you. The moving staircase in the center of the room is not unlike those you will be familiar with from traveling on the London Underground.” One or two of those present were loath to admit they had never traveled on the Underground, and remained silent. “There is, however, one significant difference,” continued Lampton. “Our moving staircase is not intended to assist you; on the contrary, it is there to resist you. While it is moving downward, you will be climbing upward, a motion that will take you a few moments to become accustomed to. It is important to remember that this is not a race, but an endurance test. The staircase will move at approximately five miles an hour, and you will attempt to remain on it for sixty minutes.

“I can see from the expressions on one or two of your faces that you are beginning to wonder what all the fuss is about,” continued Lampton. “After all, it would not be uncommon for men of your experience and ability to climb for many hours without a break. However, there are one or two other things you will have to contend with during the next sixty minutes. The chamber is currently at room temperature, and its atmosphere is set to closely approximate that found at sea level. By the end of the hour, any of you who are still able to move at that pace will be experiencing the conditions they might expect to encounter at 29,000 feet, as the temperature in the room will have fallen to minus forty degrees. That is the reason I asked you to dress exactly as you would for a climb.

“I shall also be introducing another little challenge. If you look at the far wall, you will see two large industrial fans: my wind machines. And let me assure you, gentlemen, it will not be a following wind.” One or two of the twelve laughed nervously. “Once I set them in motion they will do everything in their power to blow you off the escalator.

“Finally, you will notice several rubber mats, blankets, and buckets placed around the room. Once you have been forced off the moving staircase, you will be able to rest and warm yourself. I’m sure I don’t have to explain why the buckets are placed by the bottom of the escalator.” This time no one laughed. “On the wall to your left are a clock, a gauge showing the temperature in the chamber, and an altimeter to indicate the atmospheric pressure. I will now give you a few moments to familiarize yourself with how the moving staircase works. I suggest that you position yourselves two steps apart. Should you find yourself having difficulty in maintaining your pace, move to the right and allow the man behind to overtake you. Are there any questions?”

“What’s on the other side of that window?” asked Norton, the only candidate George hadn’t come across before; a soldier who had been recommended by General Bruce.

“That’s where the control room is located. It’s from there that my staff will observe your progress. We can see you, but you can’t see us. When the hour is up, the escalator will come to a halt, the wind machines will be turned off, and the temperature will return to normal. At that point, you will be joined by several doctors and nurses who will carry out tests to assess your rate of recovery. Now, gentlemen, would you be so kind as to take your places on the escalator.”

Finch immediately ran up to the top step, while George took his place two steps below him, with Somervell a further two steps behind.

“The staircase will start to move the moment the buzzer sounds,” said Lampton. “It will sound again ten minutes later, by which time the atmosphere in the chamber will be equivalent to that found at an altitude of 5,000 feet and the temperature will have fallen to zero. The buzzer will continue to sound at ten-minute intervals throughout the test. The wind machines will be turned on after forty minutes. If anyone is still on their feet at the end of one hour, they will, I repeat, be experiencing a temperature of minus forty degrees and the atmosphere found at 29,000 feet. Good luck, gentlemen.” Lampton left the room and closed the door behind him. They all heard a key turning in the lock.

The twelve men stood nervously on the staircase, waiting for the buzzer to sound. George took a deep breath through his nose, filling his lungs with air. He avoided looking at Finch, two steps above him, or at Somervell two steps below.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said the voice of Dr. Lampton over a loudspeaker. The buzzer sounded, and the staircase began to move at what seemed to George a fairly gentle pace. For ten minutes the twelve climbers all maintained their positions, and George didn’t sense much of a change when the buzzer sounded a second time. The staircase continued to move at the same speed, although the indicators on the wall showed that the temperature had fallen to zero and the atmospheric conditions were those of 5,000 feet.

Everyone was still in place after twenty minutes, when the buzzer sounded a third time. By thirty minutes they had reached 15,000 feet, and the temperature was ten degrees below zero. Still no one had fallen by the wayside. Kenwright was the first to take a step to the right, and slowly drift down past his colleagues before finally ending up at the foot of the staircase. He struggled gamely to reach the nearest mat, where he collapsed in a heap. It was some minutes before he had the strength even to pull a blanket over his body. Lampton drew a line through his name. He would not be part of the team traveling to Tibet.

Finch and Mallory were maintaining the pace at the top of the escalator, with Somervell, Bullock, and Odell on their heels. George had almost forgotten about the wind machines, until the buzzer sounded for the fifth time and a blast of cold air hit him in the face. He wanted to rub his eyes, but knew that if he removed his goggles on a real mountain at 29,000 feet, he risked snow blindness. He thought he saw Finch stumble in front of him, but he quickly recovered.

George didn’t see the poor fellow a few steps below him who had removed his goggles and reeled backward as he took the full blast of cold wind in his face. Moments later he was on his hands and knees on the floor at the base of the staircase, covering his eyes and vomiting. Lampton drew a line through the name of another man who wouldn’t be making the passage to India.

When the buzzer sounded at fifty minutes, they had reached 24,000 feet, with temperatures of minus twenty-five degrees. Only Mallory, Finch, Odell, Somervell, Bullock, and Norton were still on their feet. By the time they had reached 25,000 feet, Bullock and Odell had joined the others on the mats, so exhausted they didn’t have the strength to follow the progress of the four survivors. Dr. Lampton checked the clock and put a tick beside Odell’s and Bullock’s names.

Somervell managed just over fifty-three minutes before he fell off the staircase and collapsed to his hands and knees. He tried valiantly to step back on, but was immediately thrown off again. Norton was kneeling by his side a moment later. Lampton wrote 53 minutes and 54 minutes next to their names. He then turned his attention to the two men who appeared to be immovable.

Lampton lowered the temperature to minus forty degrees and raised the atmospheric pressure to that at 29,000 feet, but the two survivors still refused to be budged. He turned the wind machine up to forty miles an hour. Finch stumbled, regretting that he had bagged the top step, as he was now shielding George from the full force of the wind. But just as it looked as if he was beaten, he somehow managed to recover and find enough strength to keep pace with the relentlessly moving escalator.

The clock showed both climbers that they only had three more minutes to go. That was when George decided he would have to give up. His legs felt like lumps of jelly, he was frozen and gasping for breath, and he was beginning to fall back. He accepted that the victory would be Finch’s. Then, without warning, Finch fell back a step, and then another, followed by a third, which only made George more determined to hold on for the last ninety seconds until the final buzzer sounded. When the staircase at last came to a halt, he and Finch fell into each other’s arms like a pair of legless drunks.

Odell hauled himself up from his mat and staggered across to congratulate them. Somervell and Norton joined them a moment later. If Bullock could have crawled across, he would have done so, but he remained spread-eagled on the mat, still gasping for breath.

Once the wind machine had been turned off, the altitude returned to sea level and the temperature raised to normal, the door of the chamber was unlocked, and a dozen doctors and nurses rushed into the room and began to carry out tests on the participants to gauge their rates of recovery. In less than five minutes, George’s heartbeat was back down to forty-eight, by which time Finch was strolling around the room chatting to those colleagues who were still standing.

Dr. Lampton remained in the control room. He knew he was going to have to tell Hinks that Mallory and Finch were by far the most impressive candidates, and frankly there was nothing to choose between them. He was convinced that if anyone was likely to reach 29,000 feet and stand on top of the world, it was going to be one of those two.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

WHEN RUTH PICKED up the phone, she immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

“Good morning, headmaster,” she said. “-Yes, he left a few moments ago-no, he never drives to school, headmaster, he always walks-it’s just under five miles, and it usually takes him around fifty minutes. Good-bye, headmaster.”

George raised his ancient umbrella when he felt a few drops of rain land on his forehead. He tried to think about his morning lesson with the lower fifth-not that he had anything new to tell them about the Elizabethans. He wondered how Francis Drake would have handled the problem that had been nagging away at him for the past decade.

He had not yet heard from the Everest Committee following last week’s medical tests. Still, there could be a letter waiting for him when he returned home that evening. There might even be a mention of the team selection in The Times-if so, Andrew O’Sullivan would be certain to bring it to his attention during the mid-morning break. However, after Finch’s stalwart effort at the medical, George would have no complaint if he turned out to be the committee’s choice as climbing leader. He’d laughed out loud when Young had reported verbatim the exchange between Finch and Hinks that had taken place at the committee meeting. He only wished he had been able to witness the encounter himself.

Although he didn’t agree with Finch about the use of oxygen at high altitude, he did accept that if they were to have any chance of making a good fist of it, they would have to approach the whole exercise in a more professional manner than in the past, and to learn from the mistakes made during the South Pole debacle.

His thoughts turned to Ruth, and how supportive she had been. The past year had been idyllic. They were blessed with two lovely daughters and a lifestyle that would have been the envy of most men. Did he really want to travel to the other side of the earth, and have to watch his children growing up by letter and photograph? But it was Ruth who had cruelly summed up his innermost dilemma when she had casually asked him how he would feel if Andrew pointed out a photograph in The Times of George Finch standing on top of the world, while he had just come from teaching the lower fifth?

George checked his watch as he passed a signpost that told him he still had three miles to walk, and smiled. He was a couple of minutes ahead of schedule for a change. He disliked being late for morning assembly, and Ruth always did everything in her power to make sure he left home each morning well in time. The headmaster always entered Great Hall as the clock chimed nine, and if George was so much as thirty seconds late, he had to slip in at the back during prayers, while heads were bowed. The problem was that the headmaster’s head was never bowed-nor were the lower fifth’s for that matter.

As he walked into School Lane, George was surprised to notice how few boys and masters were about. Even more puzzling, when he reached the school gates there was nobody in sight. Was it half term? A Sunday, perhaps? No, Ruth would have remembered and reminded him to put on his best suit.

He walked across the empty quad toward the main hall, but not a sound was coming from inside. No headmaster, no music, not even a cough. Perhaps their heads were bowed in prayer? He turned the large wrought-iron handle slowly, and, not wishing to make a sound, pushed open the door and peered inside. The hall was packed, with every pupil in his place. On the stage stood the headmaster, with the rest of the staff seated behind him. George was more mystified than ever-after all, nine o’clock hadn’t yet chimed.

And then one of the boys shouted, “There he is!” and everyone in the hall rose as one and began clapping and cheering.

“Well done, sir.”

“What a triumph.”

“You’ll be first to reach the top!” someone shouted at him as he made his way down the center aisle toward the stage.

The headmaster shook George warmly by the hand and said, “We are all so very proud of you, Mallory,” then waited for the boys to resume their seats before announcing, “I will now call upon David Elkington to address assembly.”

The head boy rose from his place in the front row and walked up onto the stage. He unrolled a scroll and began to read.

“Nos, scholae Carthusianae et pueri et magistri, te Georgium Leigh Mallory salutamus. Dilectus ad ducendum agmen Britannicum super Everest, tantos honores ad omnes Carthusianos iam tribuisti. Sine dubio, O virum optime, et maiorem gloriam et honorem in scholam tuam, in universitatem tuam et ad patriam.” We, the boys and masters of Charterhouse, salute George Leigh Mallory. You have honored all Carthusians by being chosen to lead the British assault on Everest. We are in no doubt, Sir, that you will bring further glory and honor to your school, your university, and your country.

The head boy bowed before presenting the scroll to George. Once again, the whole school rose to their feet and let the senior history master know exactly how they felt.

George bowed his head. He preferred the lower fifth not to see him in tears.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“ALLOW ME TO welcome you as a member of the committee, Mallory,” said Sir Francis warmly. “And may I add that we are delighted you felt able to accept the role of climbing leader.”

“Hear, hear! Hear, hear!”

“Thank you, Sir Francis,” said George. “It’s a great honor to be invited to lead such a fine bunch of chaps,” he added as he took his place between Geoffrey Young and General Bruce.

“You will have read General Bruce’s report,” said Younghusband, “describing how the party will travel from Liverpool to the foothills of Everest. Perhaps you could advise the committee how you see matters proceeding once you’ve set up a base camp.”

“I’ve read General Bruce’s report with great interest, Mr. Chairman,” said George, “and I agree with his assessment that it will be thorough and detailed preparation that will determine the success or failure of this whole expedition. We must not forget that no Englishman has ever been within forty miles of Everest, let alone set up a base camp on its lower slopes.”

“Fair point,” admitted Bruce, his monocle falling from his eye, “but I am able to inform the committee that since writing my report I have had a meeting with Lord Curzon at the Foreign Office and he has assured me that he will do everything in his power to ensure a safe and swift passage across the border and into Tibet.”

“Jolly good show,” said Raeburn, flicking some ash off the end of his cigar.

“But even if we are able to cross the border without incident,” said George, “the committee must understand that no human being has ever climbed above 25,000 feet. We don’t even know if it’s possible to survive at such heights.”

“I’m bound to say, Mr. Chairman,” said Ashcroft, “that I can’t see a great deal of difference between 25,000 and 29,000 feet, don’t you know.”

“Speaking for myself, I don’t know,” said George, “because I’ve never stood at 25,000 feet, let alone 29,000. But if I ever do, commander, I’ll let you know.”

“Now, Mallory,” said Sir Francis, “as no one knows the climbing team better than you, we’d be interested to hear who you think will accompany you on the final assault.”

“I won’t be able to answer that question, Mr. Chairman, until I know who has acclimatized best to the conditions. But if I were to make a calculated guess, I’ve pencilled in Odell and Somervell”-Hinks allowed a smile to cross his face-“as the back-up team. However, I have only ever considered one man to be the obvious choice for the final climb, and that’s Finch.”

No one around the table spoke. Raeburn lit another cigar, and Ashcroft stared at his agenda. It was left to Sir Francis to break the embarrassing silence. He turned to Hinks and said, “But I thought-”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” said Hinks. Looking across the table at George, the secretary said, “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Mallory.”

“And why not?” asked George.

“Because Finch will not be a member of the climbing party. Two of the Alpine Club’s recommendations failed the medical. One of them was Kenwright, the other was Finch.”

“But there must be some mistake,” said George. “I’ve rarely come across a fitter man in all my years of climbing.”

“I can assure you, Mallory, there is no mistake,” said Hinks, extracting a sheet of paper from his file. “I have Dr. Lampton’s report to hand, and it would appear that Finch has a perforated eardrum, which Lampton believes could cause dizziness and vomiting, and would prevent him from climbing for sustained periods at very high altitude.”

“It’s a pity that Dr. Lampton hasn’t stood by Finch’s side on the top of Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn,” said Young. “If he had, he would have been able to record that he didn’t have as much as a nosebleed.”

“That may well be,” said Hinks. “However-”

“Don’t forget, Mr. Hinks,” said George, “that Finch is the only member of the team who has extensive knowledge of the use of oxygen.”

“But-correct me if I am wrong, Mallory-when we last met you were opposed to the very idea of using oxygen,” said Hinks.

“You’re right, and I still am,” said George. “But if I were to discover, having reached 27,000 feet, that not one member of my team was able to place one foot in front of the other, I might be willing to reconsider my position.”

“Norton and Odell have also stated that they do not believe oxygen will prove necessary for the final climb.”

“Norton and Odell have never been higher than 15,000 feet,” said Young. “They might also be forced to change their minds.”

“Perhaps I should point out to you, Mallory,” said Hinks, “that Finch’s medical condition was not the only factor that influenced the Society’s decision.”

“It wasn’t the Society’s decision to make,” said Young angrily. “Sir Francis and I agreed that the Alpine Club would submit the names of the climbing party, and the committee would not question its recommendations.”

“That may well have been the case,” said Hinks. “However, we have since discovered that when we interviewed Finch for the position of climbing leader, he lied to this committee.”

Both Mallory and Young were momentarily silenced, which allowed Hinks to continue uninterrupted.

“When Mr. Raeburn asked Finch if he was a married man, he informed this committee that he was a widower.” Young bowed his head. “That turns out not to be the case, as I found to my dismay when Mrs. Finch wrote to assure me that she is alive and well.” Hinks extracted a letter from his file. “The committee may wish to place on record the final paragraph of her letter,” he added solemnly.

Mallory pursed his lips. Young, however, did not appear to be surprised.

“‘George and I were divorced some two years ago,’” read Hinks, “‘and I’m sorry to have to inform your committee that a third party was involved.’”

“The rotter,” said Ashcroft.

“Not a man to be trusted,” said Raeburn.

“Frankly,” said George, ignoring both of them, “if we do manage to reach 27,000 feet, it isn’t going to matter much if my climbing partner is a divorcee, a widower, or even a bigamist, because I can assure you, Mr. Hinks, no one will notice whether he is wearing a wedding ring.”

“Let me try to understand what you’re saying, Mallory,” said Hinks, going red in the face. “Are you telling this committee that you would climb the last 2,000 feet of Mount Everest with anyone, provided that you were able to reach the summit?”

“Anyone,” said George without hesitation.

“Even a German?” said Hinks quietly.

“Even the devil,” replied George.

“I say, old chap,” said Ashcroft, “don’t you think that was uncalled for?”

“Not as uncalled for as dying an unnecessary death five thousand miles from home because I didn’t have the right climbing partner,” said George.

“I am quite happy to record your strongly held feelings in the minutes, Mallory,” said Hinks, “but our decision on Finch is final.”

George was silent for a moment. “Then you can also record in the minutes, Mr. Hinks, my resignation as climbing leader and as a member of this committee.” Several of those around the table began to speak at once, but George ignored them, and added, “I am not willing to leave my wife and children for at least six months to take part in a mission that failed simply because it left its finest climber behind.”

Sir Francis had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the tumult that followed. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, tapping the side of his brandy glass with a pencil. “It is clear that we have reached an impasse that can be resolved only in one way.”

“What do you have in mind, Mr. Chairman?” asked Hinks suspiciously.

“We shall have to take a vote.”

“But I haven’t had time to prepare the necessary ballot papers,” blustered Hinks.

“Ballot papers won’t be necessary,” said Sir Francis. “After all, it’s a simple enough decision. Is Finch to be included in the climbing party or not?” Hinks sank back in his chair, struggling to conceal a smile.

“Very well,” said Sir Francis. “Will those members in favor of Finch being included in the climbing party please raise their hands.”

Mallory and Young immediately put up their hands, and to everyone’s surprise General Bruce joined them.

“Those against?” said the chairman.

Hinks, Raeburn, and Ashcroft raised their hands without hesitation.

“That’s three votes each,” said Hinks, recording the decision in his minute book. “Which leaves you, Mr. Chairman, with the casting vote.”

Everyone around the table turned toward Sir Francis. He considered his position for a few moments before saying, “I cast my vote in favor of Finch.”

Hinks held his pen poised above the minute book, seemingly unable to record the chairman’s vote. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “for the record, may we know what caused you to reach this decision?”

“Most certainly,” said Sir Francis. “It won’t be me being asked to risk my life when Mallory reaches 27,000 feet.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

THE LITTLE BRASS bell above the door rang.

“Good morning, Mr. Pink,” said George as he entered Ede & Ravenscroft.

“Good morning, Mr. Mallory. How may I assist you on this occasion, sir?”

George leaned across the counter. “I’ve just been selected as a member of the climbing party for the expedition to Everest,” he whispered.

“How very interesting, Mr. Mallory,” said the manager. “We haven’t had any other customers planning a holiday in that part of the world, so may I be so bold as to ask what sort of weather conditions you might be expecting?”

“Well, I’m not altogether certain,” admitted George. “But as far as I can make out, once we’ve reached 27,000 feet, we can expect gale-force winds, a temperature of forty degrees below zero and so little oxygen that it may be almost impossible to breathe.”

“Then you’ll certainly be needing a woolen scarf and some warm gloves, not to mention the appropriate headgear,” said Mr. Pink, coming out from behind the counter.

The manager’s first suggestion was a cashmere Burberry scarf, followed by a pair of fleece-lined black leather gloves. George followed Mr. Pink around the shop as he selected three pairs of thick gray woolen socks, two navy blue jumpers, a Shackleton windcheater, several silk shirts, and the latest pair of fur-lined camping boots.

“And may I inquire, sir, do you anticipate any snow during this trip?”

“Most of the time, I suspect,” said George.

“Then you’ll be needing an umbrella,” suggested Mr. Pink. “And what about headgear, sir?”

“I thought I’d take my brother’s leather flying helmet and goggles,” said George.

“I don’t think you’ll find that’s what fashionable gentlemen will be wearing climbing this year,” said Mr. Pink, handing him the latest deer-stalker.

“Which is why it won’t be a fashionable gentleman who’ll be the first to set foot on the summit of Everest.”

George smiled when he saw Finch approaching the counter, his arms laden with goods.

“We at Ede and Ravenscroft,” ventured Mr. Pink, “believe that it matters how a gentleman looks when he attains the summit of any mountain.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Finch, as he placed his purchases on the counter. “There won’t be any girls up there waiting for us.”

“Will there be anything else, Mr. Finch?” asked the manager, trying not to show his disapproval.

“Not at these prices, there won’t,” George said after checking his bill.

Mr. Pink bowed politely and began to wrap up his customer’s purchases.

“I’m glad we bumped into each other, Finch,” said George. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve seen the light,” said Finch, “and are at last considering the use of oxygen.”

“Perhaps,” said George. “But I still need to be convinced.”

“Then I need at least a couple of hours of your time, as well as the proper equipment to hand, so I can demonstrate why oxygen will make all the difference.”

“Let’s discuss it while we’re on the boat to Bombay, when you’ll have more than enough time to convince me.”

“That’s assuming I’ll be on the boat.”

“But you’ve already been selected for the team.”

“Only thanks to your intervention,” said Finch, scowling. “And I’m grateful because I suspect the nearest that Hinks has been to a mountain is a Christmas card.”

“That will be thirty-three pounds and eleven shillings, Mr. Finch,” said Mr. Pink. “May I inquire how you intend to settle your bill on this occasion?”

“Just put it on my account,” said Finch, trying to imitate Mr. Pink’s “for customers” accent.

The manager hesitated for a moment before giving Finch a slight bow.

“See you on board then,” said Finch before picking up his brown paper bag and leaving the shop.

“Your bill comes to forty-one pounds, four shillings, and six pence, Mr. Mallory,” said Mr. Pink.

George wrote out a check for the full amount.

“Thank you, sir. And may I say on behalf of all of us here at Ede and Ravenscroft that we hope you will be the first man to reach the summit of Everest, and not…”

Mr. Pink did not finish the sentence. Both men looked out of the window and watched Finch as he strode off down the road.