“I told Odell he could have his little hundred-mile diversion during our trip back if he took our transport officer, E. O. Shebbeare, with him,” says Norton. “There are bandits in that Tibetan hill country. At least Shebbeare spoke some Tibetan.”
Odell looks at the colonel. “And Shebbeare admitted to me a week later that you warned him, Edward, that after our little trip was over, he would never want to set eyes on me again. I believe that was the precise quotation he gave me of your words—‘My dear Shebbeare, you may never want to set eyes on Odell again.’”
Colonel Norton looks down at his glass, and the two pink circles high on his cheekbones seem to glow a darker red.
“But Shebbeare and I enjoyed every day of the geology survey together,” continues Odell. “We became even faster friends than before. And thanks to the ten days of recuperation the main party had taken at Rongshar Valley in the shadow of Gaurishankar, we caught up to the main party just as it arrived in Darjeeling, and just before Hazard got back with Hari Sing Thapa and the porters they’d taken to the West Rongbuk on the mapping expedition.”
The Deacon takes his watch out of his waistcoat pocket, glances at it, and says, “We have only a few minutes before you all have to go to the dinner, my friends. And I confess that I’ve completely lost track of Lord Percival, much less the Germans—Meyer and Sigl. The report of Lord Percival’s death on the mountain—of him and this Meyer person—was in
“We apologize, Richard,” says Colonel Norton. “It is a rather tangled narrative, but it was a tangled narrative that brought us news of Bromley’s death. Let me explain. Just as John Hazard and Hari Sing Thapa were approaching the West Rongbuk region to do their survey, religious pilgrims met them and told them, translated through Hari Sing Thapa, that two English sahibs in Tingri—one named Bromley, the other a ‘non-English-speaking English sahib’ named Meyer—had rented six yaks to take with them as they headed south and then east along the river to Chobuk, then south to the Rongbuk Glacier and Chomolungma.”
“The Tibetans definitely said that Bromley and this Meyer were traveling together toward Mount Everest?” The Deacon has finished his whiskey, and now he carefully sets the empty glass on a wicker table next to his chair.
“They did,” says Colonel Norton. “Two more pilgrims—all headed toward the Rongbuk Monastery—told Hazard and Hari Sing Thapa the same news as our two men were headed back to the northeast, toward Pang La Pass and Shekar Dzong on their way home. But they added that there were seven other ‘non-English-speaking English sahibs’ who’d arrived in Tingri the day after Bromley and Meyer left, but who’d immediately left the village again, to the southeast, as if following Bromley.”
“How odd,” says the Deacon.
“But more than that,” continues Norton, “Hazard and Hari actually
“Where’s John Hazard now?” asks Jean-Claude.
John Noel makes a vague gesture with his left hand. “Oh, back to doing government map work somewhere in India, I believe.”
“And Hari Sing Thapa?” asks the Deacon.
“Also doing map work in India,” says Colonel Norton. “But not with John.”
“Could you tell us what Hazard saw?” says the Deacon.
Dr. Hingston is the first to speak. I can feel a tension in my neck and back grow worse as our few minutes with these men are ticking away before we get any solid information.
“Hazard and Hari were headed northeast and had just begun to climb the old trade route trail toward the Pang La when Hari—who has the sharper vision of the two—said he saw two sets of riders headed south. Many miles away, but the day was perfectly clear—Hazard said that they could see Mount Everest smoking worse than ever, the spindrift spread thirty miles or more above the summits to the east of our mountain. Hazard and Hari actually diverted to a nearby hillside so that John could use military field glasses to confirm what they were seeing. Furthest south were two men—John said that he could definitely identify Bromley’s pony and the mule he’d brought from Darjeeling, but now Bromley and his new partner also had six yaks in train—and many miles behind them, perhaps five to seven hours’ ride, were seven men on larger ponies. Either real horses or—as Hari identified them—those big, shaggy Mongolian ponies.”
“Did it seem like a pursuit?” asks the Deacon.
“It seemed merely damned strange to Hazard,” says Norton. “He told us when they caught up to us in Darjeeling that he thought later that he and Hari Sing Thapa should have headed back south to Rongbuk to see what the devil was going on—if Bromley and these other men following might be poaching on our mountain, as it were. But Hazard was already several days behind us due to the mapping. He wanted to catch up before we got to Calcutta, and in the end he and Hari turned north over the Pang La.”
“What was the date of this sighting?” asks the Deacon.
“Nineteen June,” replies Norton. “Just three days after we’d divided the party while leaving the Rongbuk Glacier valley.”
“This is all fascinating,” says the Deacon. “But it hardly supports announcing that Lord Percival died in an avalanche on Mount Everest. I presume you received more information through some other reliable source?”
“We did,” Odell confirms. “As Shebbeare and I were finishing up our rather enjoyable geology excursion and heading north to the main route east, we ran into three of the Sherpas who’d accompanied us to Mount Everest and who’d been very important in the high-altitude carries. Perhaps you remember the one Tiger from ’twenty- two, the one who spoke the best English…Pemba Chiring, but everyone called him ‘Kami’ for some reason.”
“I remember Kami well,” says the Deacon. “He carried heavy loads to Camp Five…without supplementary oxygen.”
“Exactly,” says Odell. “And he was just as reliable during this year’s sad expedition. But Shebbeare and I were surprised to see Kami and his two non-English-speaking cousins, Dasno and Nema, as we were turning northeast again. They were literally whipping their little Tibetan ponies in their haste…and you know that the Sherpas rarely do that. They’d returned to the Rongbuk Glacier and were now fleeing as if for their lives.”
“What date was this?” asks the Deacon.
“Twenty-two June,” says Odell.
Colonel Norton clears his throat. “Kami and his cousins had started back with us but requested permission to detach from the main body. I granted it, thinking they would be heading home on their own. Evidently they had it in mind to return to our Base Camp…perhaps even to the higher camps.”
“For looting purposes?” asks Jean-Claude. “Or perhaps I should say…scavenging?”
Norton frowns. “It would appear that way. Although there’s precious little of value that we left behind, unless one were to count the caches of barley and tinned food we left at various camps.”
“Kami later insisted to me that they’d left a religious talisman behind by accident,” says Odell. “He thought he’d left it at Base Camp or perhaps tucked in one of the
“What did they say they’d seen?” asks the Deacon.
I surreptitiously glance at my own watch. We have only three minutes or less before these esteemed climbers are expected at yet another Royal Geographical Society formal banquet here in the RGS’s Lowther Lodge. A glance over my shoulder shows me that the electric lamps along Exhibition Road where it runs into Kensington Road are burning. The October night has fallen.
“Kami said that he and his cousins reached our old Base Camp on twenty June,” says Odell. “They searched, but the talisman wasn’t there. What they did find there shocked them…seven hobbled Mongolian ponies down below the memorial cairn, down where there’s a bit of that tough grass a few hundred yards below the melt pond.”
“No one tending the ponies?” asks the Deacon.
“Not a soul,” says Odell. “And a bit further up the valley, before one gets too deep into the
