resources minister, Arthur Jameson. Despite his deep involvement in the corruption, Jameson survived the ordeal with an odd mark of public admiration. Contempt for Goyette was so great, even in death, that Jameson’s crimes were overlooked by his act of turning evidence and blowing open the entire case.
Resigning his minister’s post, Jameson was offered a provost position at a respected private college in Ontario, where he was called upon to teach a popular course in ethics. His stature grew as his past misdeeds were eventually forgotten, and Jameson soon embraced the scholarly life and a modestly downsized life-style. Only his four children were starkly reminded of his past activities, when, upon reaching the age of thirty-five, they each inherited a Cayman Islands trust account worth ten million dollars.
As for Goyette himself, he gained little sympathy in death. His bribery, vice, and greed, as well as his total disregard for the environmental impact of his pursuits, created a universal spite. The attitude pervaded even the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who assigned only a cursory investigation into his death. Officials knew his murderer would be lionized and downplayed the circumstances of his death as potentially accidental. Public interest in the crime quickly waned, while internally the police cited few clues and an endless enemies list that precluded a solution to the crime. With little fanfare, the death of Mitchell Goyette quickly became a cold case that nobody cared to solve.
93
An elite Royal Navy color guard unit carried the dark-wood casket down the steps of the neoclassic Anglican chapel and carefully placed it onto an ornate nineteenth-century gun carriage. The eulogy had been long, as was the norm for a royal ceremonial funeral, with obligatory remarks recited by the Prime Minister and the Prince of Wales, among other notables. The sentiments were blustery and patriotic but not very personal, for no one still living had even known the deceased.
The funeral of Sir John Alexander Franklin was a grand and noble affair and, at the same time, an uplifting event. The discovery of Franklin’s body aboard the
The public fascination had placed great pressure on the team of archaeologists and forensic specialists tasked with examining the ship and retrieving his body. Working round the clock, they solved two key mysteries, even before Franklin’s body arrived in London and was placed on view in Westminster Abbey.
Though a variety of ails contributed to his death at age sixty-one, the scientists determined that a case of tuberculosis, easily contracted within the tight confines of a winter-bound ship, most likely finished him off. More intriguing was the revelation as to why a large portion of the
The tragic myriad events just added to the allure of the story, and the public flocked to pay their respects to Franklin. The gates of Kensal Green, an ancient, sprawling cemetery west of London akin to Forest Lawn, had to be closed on the day of his funeral after thirty thousand people congregated on its storied grounds.
It was a hot and humid summer day, far removed from the Arctic conditions in which he had died. The horse-drawn caisson pulled slowly away from the chapel, rattling over a cobble-stone path, as the steel-shod hooves of the black shire mares clacked loudly with each dropped step. With a long procession following behind on foot, the caisson rolled slowly toward a secluded section of the cemetery crowned by towering chestnut trees. The driver pulled to a stop next to a family plot fronted by an open gate. A freshly dug grave lay empty alongside a tomb marked LADY JANE FRANKLIN, 1792–1875.
Franklin’s beloved wife, more than anyone, had resolved the fate of the lost expedition. Through tireless appeal and expense, she had personally outfitted no fewer than five relief expeditions on her own. Scouring the Arctic in search of her husband and his ships, the early expeditions had failed, along with those sent by the British government. It was another Arctic explorer, Francis McClintock, who had ultimately discovered Franklin’s fate. Sailing the steam yacht
It had taken one hundred and sixty-eight years since kissing her good-bye on the shores of the Thames, but John Franklin was reunited with his wife once more.
His soul would have been happy for another reason, as he was laid to rest beside Jane. When a Royal Navy frigate had retrieved his coffin from the
In death, if not in life, Sir Franklin had finally sailed the Northwest Passage.
94
Pitt stared out his office window at the Potomac River far below, his mind drifting aimlessly like the river’s current.
Since returning from the Arctic, he had been out of sorts, carrying a mild angst mixed with disappointment. Part of it was his injuries, he knew. His leg and arm wounds were healing well, and the doctors said he would make a full recovery. Though the pain was mostly absent, he still hated the loss of mobility. He had long since abandoned the crutch but still required the use of a cane at times. Giordino had lightened the need by providing a walking stick that contained a hidden vial of tequila inside. Loren had stepped up as well, performing her best Florence Nightingale routine by nursing him at every opportunity. But something still held him back.
It was the failure, he knew. He just wasn’t used to it. The quest for the ruthenium had momentous importance, yet he had come up dry. He felt like he had let down not only Lisa Lane but also every person on the planet. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He’d followed the clues as he found them, and would have done nothing differently. Crack geologists throughout the government were already on the hunt for new sources of ruthenium, but the near-term prospects were grim. The mineral just didn’t exist in quantity, and there was nothing he could do about it.
His instincts had been wrong for a change and it gave him doubts. Maybe he’d been at the game too long. Maybe it was time for a younger generation to take the reins. Perhaps he should go back to Hawaii with Loren and spend his days spearfishing.
He tried to conceal his melancholy when a knock came to the door and he called for the visitor to enter.
The door blew open and Giordino, Gunn, and Dahlgren came marching into his office like they owned it. Each man had a suppressed grin on his face, and Pitt noticed they were all hiding something behind their backs.
“Well, if it isn’t the three wise men. Or wise guys, in this case,” Pitt said.
“Do you have a minute?” Gunn asked. “There’s something we’d like to share with you.”
“My time is yours,” Pitt said, hobbling over to his desk and taking a seat. Eyeing the men suspiciously, he asked, “What is it that you are all trying to conceal?”
Dahlgren waved a short stack of plastic cups that he was carrying.
“Just thought we’d have a little drink,” he explained.
Giordino pulled out a bottle of champagne that he was hiding behind his stubby arms.
“I’m a bit thirsty myself,” he added.
“Hasn’t anyone told you about the rules regarding alcohol in a federal building?” Pitt admonished.
“I seem to have misplaced those,” Giordino replied. “Jack, do you know anything about that?”
Dahlgren attempted to look dumb and shook his head.
