The Curse of the Cravat

The blizzard drove into them, unrelenting and unsympathetic; a thousand snowballs flung from on high by an unassailable opponent. Any snowballs the explorers chose to throw back would be a vain attempt at defiance, doomed to failure. They would never have tried anyway, because they were gentlemen; one doesn’t just throw things at clouds in this day and age.
                Caked in the frozen ordinance of the storm clouds, the three gentleman explorers, fluffy as the day is long, leaned into the harsh arctic winds that tore against their hoods and thick fur coats. They looked like a group of strangely garbed teddy bears abandoned to a winter frost, though cuddly toys rarely undertake daring expeditions into unfavourable territories. Usually they content themselves with exploring the mysterious realms behind or underneath the bed, carrying back prized collections of lint and other artifacts of poor cleaning. These three gentlemen were after a prize much more valuable, if anything more valuable than dust can be envisaged that is.
                “By my calculations we shall be upon her at any moment!” the leading man announced. He was Dr Simon Hackles, medical practitioner by trade, but explorer and gentleman by passion and standing. When he heard of treasures lying in wait in the arctic tundra his mind was set and his purpose made singular. He announced to the room of the Hardale Gentlemen’s club that he would travel at once to the arctic and bring back a prize worthy of Columbus himself. Without delay he set about gathering supplies together for the greatest mission he had ever led.
                “Let not this blizzard slow you!” Bellowed the second man in the convoy against the roaring wind and ice, Reverend Bentley Argyll. A tall, imposing man of the cloth, the ancient past, and otherwise the flesh; even the clergy are organic. When he heard of plans to retrieve artifacts of limitless import from their resting place in the arctic he knew immediately that he had been chosen for a reason. It wasn’t simply his stout constitution, respected reputation as a historian, and modest personal fortune to help supply the expedition; it was his obvious affinity for leadership. Surely with his imposing, commanding power over people, his congregation and high society alike, he was a natural choice, a natural selection if he might be so bold, to take charge. He would rise to the challenge in his companions’ hour of need.
                “Keep pushing onwards!” Cried the man at the rear. He was a stalwart rock of a man, possessed of great physical strength in his earlier years which was now tip-toeing down the incline of turning to fat. Colonel Victor Sandringham was a man of breeding and schooling, an expert on the maritime domain, and an obvious asset to any gentlemanly endeavour. It was no surprise to him when such an expedition was being put together that he, with proven years of commanding men, should have been asked to join it. They had a medic, they had an antiquarian, and they had supplies between them; all they needed now was a leader.
                Held together by three emphatic leaders of men, the expedition trudged on. Their footfalls made rhythmic crunches in the deep snow, perfectly in time at the Colonel’s insistence, and with feet clad in broad snow-shows to spread their weight; an ingenious idea that the Doctor had heard of in the Club. Heads bowed against the blizzard, they pressed forwards. Grim resolve, bitter determination and the promise of a glorious reception back home sustained them. Historic papers would laud their adventurous recovery of icons thought to be lost forever. The press would tell tales of their heroism, and fortunes awaited those who accomplished such great feats and told the story.
                The frozen gale assailed them in gusts, sending sudden, powerful winds and hails of ice at them. Even the direction of the winds would change, taking them unawares and throwing them off balance. If they had been more superstitious men, they would have believed their expressions to be frozen place by the changing winds. As it was they knew such fears were preposterous; clearly the ice would take care of such endeavours long before the wind knew what it was doing.
                Then, without warning or preamble, a dark shape loomed through the blinding whiteness of the snowstorm; a grey monolith breaking up the monochrome horizon. Each step brought the gargantuan mass into clearer focus, like the most inconveniently operated camera conceived by mankind. The grey became deeper and darker, and a band of red faded into view at what appeared to be the apex. All three of the men recognised the shape immediately, knowing that they had reached their destination. The expedition had found the HMS Homecoming – thought to be lost forever to the cruel seas.
                “There she is gentlemen! The HMS Homecoming at last.” Dr Hackles declared, his booming voice carrying over the wind and ice.
                “Move around to her Southern side and she’ll shelter us from this gale.” Colonel Sandringham instructed. He was accustomed to using local environs, even hostile ones, to his advantage, keeping his battalion safe. The men serving under him in this expedition would be treated no differently – they were under his protection.
                Reverend Argyll was willing to allow the Colonel to show that kind of initiative, suggesting a course of action for the team without consulting him first. As with any congregation, each man should be allowed to feel like he has a purpose, a role to play, and a contribution to make. The Reverend showed that he valued the men in his team by silently accepting the advice. He and the good Doctor changed bearing slightly and pressed towards the Southern side of the ship.
                Colonel Sandringham was still irked by his men failing to acknowledge his orders with an “Aye, Sir”, but let it slide. They were not disciplined military men like himself, and he supposed that they had some issues with personal pride causing them to hold their tongues.
                Under the shelter of the shipwreck they were indeed spared from the worst of the blizzard’s teeth. Not only did the winds no longer pierce through their coats, but they were able to see the ship in all of her regal glory.
                The HMS Homecoming was enormous, a hulking warehouse of steel jutting at an angle from the ice sheet which had doomed her. She was like a structure from Atlantis, prevented from sinking into the ocean only by it freezing around her. The deep dark grey of her hull was painted with frost and snow, iced over when it ran aground wet and staying so ever since.
                “Jolly good idea of yours, hunkering under the ship.” Dr Hackles congratulated the Colonel. He would be having a polite and discreet word with Sandringham about consultation on plans and giving orders, but wasn’t one to argue with a positive result.
                The Reverend was glad to see his men getting along. Good spirits and harmony were of great importance, but he himself maintained an air of slight aloofness, and held his characteristic stony countenance, an unmoving cliff-face as blank and unreadable as the hull of the ship.
                The Colonel would have to hammer some formality into these chaps eventually, but for now he accepted the praise with a silent nod. It was important that his men could approach him, and the Doctor was just in high spirits at having arrived.
                They all surveyed the grounded vessel, drinking in the titanic scale and foreboding sense of un-belonging. The ship was out of place here, its great steam chimneys should never be banked up with snow, the lettering on the prow should never be obscured by ice and traditionally speaking the hull performed best when submerged in water. She had trusted in her captain, but had been let down in her hour of need, so now she sat humiliated and disrespected in this frozen wasteland.
                The HMS Homecoming had been returning to His Majesty’s docks with a complement of treasures from distant lands when she ran aground. She had visited many of the colonies, the deserts of Africa, the jungles of the Orient, the palaces and temples of India, and in each one claimed prizes worthy of the King himself. Alas, she was to return via the Northern Wastelands, bringing treasures from Greenland, Iceland and Scandinavia, but a storm blew her off course. The date of her eagerly anticipated return arrived, and without event or ceremony or pageantry it passed. Then the next day followed suit, and the next. Whole weeks jumped onto the bandwagon until suddenly it was sufficiently mainstream for months to get in on the action; even years. The HMS Homecoming was thought by all to be lost, until rumours began to whisper themselves secretly around the languid regulars lounging in the darkened corners of opium dens. Hushed voiced murmured darkly that the ship was not consigned to the frozen depths, and guarded mutterings claimed that Neptune was yet to claim these treasures. As with all the chattering of tattooed sailors of loose tongues and looser superstitions, the stories spread quickly until they reached, by means that no good and upstanding gentleman would ever admit to, the clubs of the wealthy, landed and learned.
                Against all established trends and every piece of conventional wisdom, the rumours were true; the arctic expedition had found the lost ship, full of His Majesty’s precious artifacts. The ship had rolled to one side, presenting the explorers with the keel and a steep, slick slope up the hull. The Northern side of the ship had acted as a net for snow in the many blizzards since the wreck, creating a hard wall of white which piled against the ship and denied any access to that side.
                “There will be no opening or entrance this far down the hull, and I see no wound in her on this side.” The Colonel told the others matter-of-factly as he surveyed the ship. “These steel sheets are riveted shut. We’d need something superlatively heavy to break in or punch through.”
                “I’ll hear any suggestion on how to proceed.” Reverend Argyll announced. He was grateful for the Colonel’s succinct appraisal, but he needed a path forwards for his flock to follow. He tried to be an affable leader, eager to hear his team’s suggestions.
                Doctor Hackles took the clergyman’s comment as a statement of willingness, that he was prepared to do anything asked of him; a commendable trait in an expeditionary companion.
                Colonel Sandringham felt that this should be a given and that the Reverend was stating the obvious; an undesirable trait from a subordinate.
                “Of course.” The Colonel said as a reprimand. The Doctor was pleased that both of his men were ready to take action, and the Reverend was rankled by the Colonel’s tone, but gave only a stony glare with the practised weight of eternal damnation behind it.
                “Well then chaps, if we can’t reach the door from here we can either climb up to one or make a new door. The ice and cold will surely have made the hull brittle. We’ve ice picks and digging tools as our siege equipment, why not shatter our way in?”
                “No.” The Colonel said, emotionless but commanding. “It will not be brittle enough for us to break in without serious strength and commitment, as I said. Plus, our tools are just as cold and brittle as the hull.”
                “They’ve not been as cold for as long, nor have they been as exposed to the elements.” Countered the Reverend, eager to put the Colonel back in his place. “But even if we do break in, we might send steel or picks directly onto the treasures we seek to claim. They are delicate enough already, but now fragile from cold on top, and we don’t know where they lie in the ship. We are better served by climbing, as if ascending to the Lord himself.”
                “I see.” Said Dr Hackles, slightly irked now by being corrected by both his men. It made their spirited discussion bittersweet.
                “We have supplies to climb up ice cliffs – this hull should be no different. I will sling a rope and claw-hook upwards to the lower portholes and climb upwards myself. Once assured of its integrity I shall secure the line and signal for both of you to follow behind me.” The Colonel dictated. He kept his temper despite the Reverend’s disrespectful tone of voice and the Doctor’s sulkiness, but the anger was building. Once inside they would be on thin ice unless they both learned how to address an officer of rank in an official discussion.
                The Colonel set his pack down against the hull of the ship and opened one of the many sub-compartments. Out of it, he pulled a length of rope with a heavy iron grappling hook tied to the end, three dark grey barbs curving round like a metal-scorpion display team. He swung the hook around on the end of the rope in tight vertical circle, building up momentum before throwing it high up the side of the vessel. The hook soared gracefully through the air, almost in slow motion, and shattered the glass of one of the portholes with a satisfying crashing sound; an act of vandalism signifying their arrival. Carefully, Colonel Sandringham pulled on the rope to catch the hooks on the edge of the window, then gave it a few short, sharp tugs to confirm that it was holding.
                “Cracking throw.” Dr Hackles congratulated him.
                “Your throw was a true as the word of the Lord.” Agreed Reverend Argyll, as the Colonel pulled his pack onto his back again.
                With the confidence that comes only from practice, the Colonel grabbed the rope with both hands, planted his feet onto the hull of the ship and deftly climbed up the rope. Small showers of ice and snow sprayed out as his feet slipped against the frozen steel whilst he ascended. The others watched him silently, assured in his ability but slightly nervous all the same. Both the Reverend and the Doctor briefly considered the eulogies they would give if he were to fall and perish, and what they would do with his share of the profits.
                The Colonel disappeared through the narrow window at the top of his rope, and for a short while there was nothing but stillness and silence in the shadow of the HMS Homecoming. The Doctor and the Reverend stared up at the porthole, waiting for any sign of their companion’s return, any sound to indicate that he was coming back. Then, suddenly, the rope began to zip upwards, unravelling from its coil in the thick snow below and disappearing into the ship. Panic shot through the two gentlemen on the ground, fearing suddenly that they had been betrayed and left out in the frozen wastes by the insidious Colonel. The Doctor was moments away from lunging for the rope when it stopped again, dangling slack from the porthole with its end lying dormant on the ground.
                “Right you are men, you’re free to climb up now.” The Colonel shouted from above, his head dangling out of the porthole. “Mind yourself on entry – there’s broken glass everywhere.” He added, as if he wasn’t the vandal responsible.
                “After you, Reverend.” Said Dr Hackles, holding an open hand towards the rope, treating it as a far grander gesture than allowing another man to ascend an icy sheet of steel a minute or so earlier than he otherwise might.
                “Thank you, Doctor.” Reverend Argyll replied. He was glad that his congregation was so devoted to him, one ascending first to secure a path and the other ensuring that he was safely conducted into the ship.
                With significantly less grace than the Colonel, but keeping his impassive, stonewall countenance in place regardless, the Reverend shimmied up the edge of the HMS Homecoming and clambered into the porthole with a helping hand.
                “Clear!” The Colonel shouted down, signalling to the Doctor that he may begin his ascent.
                The Doctor would have preferred to be the first man to breach the vessel and set foot in their destination, but failing that opportunity he was pleased to be the last – it meant that he had shepherded his team into position before assuming a noble rear-guard action. If the rope were to break, then at least the men under his care would be safely inside.
                Clutching onto the rope, the Doctor started to make his way up the ship. He placed his feet on the slip-marks and boot-prints of those who had climbed before him, two trails of slickened steel which made the going far harder than it had previously been and his progress commensurately slower. Noticing the medic struggling, Colonel Sandringham beckoned Reverend Argyll to the rope and they began to haul their comrade upwards like a sack of grain with an extensive knowledge of human physiology. The sudden acceleration of the rope took Doctor Hackles by surprise and unbalanced him. Thanks to his vice-like, iron grip however, and so he held firm and continued his ascent. Together, the Colonel and the Reverend heaved the Doctor into the ship with them when he reached the window.
                The Doctor brushed himself off and took stock of the room, attempting to hide his embarrassment and annoyance at being patronised by his men. They meant to imply that he was not up to the task as they were, he knew it. Quietly, the ghost of a suspicion that they had been trying to dislodge him when they initially tugged the rope flitted across his mind.
                The Reverend would have preferred to hear a thank you for the help that he and the colonel had offered, but gave no voice to his grievance. Perhaps, he thought, the Doctor simply felt that they would all be helping each other so much that thanks was not necessary. It was an optimistic thought.
                The three of them had broken their way into some kind of cabin or bunk. A metal bedframe, sticking out of the wall like a shelf and supported by two chains, took up much of the space in the small room. There was a frosted dresser at one side, its top scattered with a few personal effects, and a significant quantity of broken glass underfoot. The rope and grappling hook led to the doorway, where the barbs had been securely hooked into recesses in the steel doorframe. Where the ship had rolled as it crashed, the room sloped down towards the doorway and the centre of the ship.
                The Colonel set about coiling up the rope and unhooking the grappling hook, so the Reverend and the Doctor began to examine the effects on top of the dresser. The small cabinet had three drawers and wide table top. The majority of the surface was taken up by small, hard-edged fragments of something which had once been a bright red colour. Reverend Argyll picked up one of the many pieces and tapped it on the dresser with a satisfying clicking sound. He examined the end and noticed that it had bent over, revealing a familiar material pattern.
                “It’s cloth.” He said simply, informing the others of his first important artefact analysis. “Cloth which has been frosted stiff in the extreme cold.”
                Doctor Hackles picked up a piece himself and repeated the tapping. He felt that the good clergyman must have been asking for his verification. The object made a clinking sound which was wholly uncharacteristic of any cloth that the Doctor had worn in his time, but he agreed with the Reverend none-the-less. “You’re quite right, sir.” Doctor Hackles said amiably, faintly regretting the use of ‘sir’. He had been trying to introduce an air of politeness and respect after the rope-dragging humiliation, but ended up sounding like he was subordinate to the Reverend. Reverend Argyll nodded silently, and the Doctor cursed his mistake.
                “It also appears to have been cut by an immensely sharp blade, the edges are so clean. Why would someone cut a cloth into uneven strips like this?”
                “Kindling, perhaps?” Doctor Hackles suggested. “Thin cloth strips would be a fair fire starter.”
                “I see no evidence of a fire here. Nor would the kindling have been left on this table top if the fire were elsewhere.” The Colonel said matter-of-factly, shutting the Doctor down neatly.
                “Then why do you propose this happened, hm?” Dr Hackles shot back, his anger rising. No-one had the right to question a man’s opinion on strips of cloth so brazenly. Not on his own expedition.
                “I’m yet to examine the case properly, but it’s not critical to our objective. Mysteries can be solved once we’ve located the treasure. We’re moving on.” He turned on his hells and began to march out of the cabin, when the Reverend shouted after him.
                “Wait, Victor. There’s a note here.” He said hurriedly, clutching at a neatly folded piece of parchment.
                “Where did you find that?” Doctor Hackles asked excitedly and suspiciously. His gaze had been away from the Reverend for only a few moments and he had missed an important discovery.
                “It was in the drawer.” The Reverend said simply. Replying complicatedly would have been needless.
                “Well what does it say? Colonel Sandringham demanded. The Reverend didn’t appreciate his tone, but turned the other cheek.
                “It says: 'Six days have passed since we ran aground. The ice is beginning to creep inwards, engulfing everything.’ Then the pen changes, I suppose a break between days.” The other men nodded to show that they were listening.
                “It continues ‘Oh the great fool I am! The calamitous cold-addled buffoon! I left a cravat out in the open, in one of the cabins we haven’t warmed with fire. It was frozen solid by the time I saw it. I tried to rescue it, I tried to bring it back so carefully, but I dropped it onto the ground. Curse my cold stiff hands, I dropped it and it shattered! The captain will have my head for this. I’ll keep the pieces here in my cabin until I can find a quiet moment to thaw them out and stitch them back together.’ Then there’s another gap. 'Three days since the cravat. My world is dark. I see the broken pieces in front of me and I cannot mend them still. My hands are losing feeling; my stitches will be poor and my secret will be out.’ There’s nothing else.”
                “Well there’s the answer to our mystery. It’s a dropped cravat. And it means that the crew of the ship were alive and well even after it ran aground here.” The Doctor said summarily.
                “Come along.” The Colonel said impatiently. “If there were survivors here then we’ll find more compelling evidence than the lament of the shattered cravat.”

                The ship was an icy tomb of dark, narrow corridors. The party made slow progress behind the Colonel, slipping and shuffling along the tilted hallway with one foot on the floor and one on the inner wall. If there had been skirting boards in place, they would have been ruined; it was a fortuitously forward-sighted omission by the ship’s architect.
                They moved on in silence, each man occupying himself with his own thoughts. The Doctor was ruminating over the scene in the cabin. Slowly picking their way along the ship, he felt that he had perhaps been behaving irrationally in assuming that the others were criticising him by assisting his ascent up the hull. This was his expedition and they had just found their long-sought destination, it should be a time of triumph and mirth. He swallowed down the bitter taste of paranoia and resolved to be the positive symbol of leadership his men needed.
                Occasionally the expedition would pass a cabin with an open door, spilling a square of light into the corridor. One such cabin had also suffered a broken window, and snow had been blown in by the relentlessly persistent gale. A dead man's frostbitten face poked out from a growing drift of snow in the corner of the room, covering his whole body in a pyramidal heap.

                "It's like he's hiding from us, lurking and waiting as a frozen death does for all who sailed here." The Colonel judgementally said of the silent corpse.

                "He cannot hide from the eyes of the Lord, and he has been witnessed. He shall know peace." Reverend Argyll intoned solemnly, his sermons able to thicken even the greatest air of tension.

                "You know what they say, frost-bitten, ice shy." Joked the Doctor, having experienced enough death to shake it off easily. The others refused to make eye contact with him for a good ten minutes, and the Doctor began to resent them again quickly.

                “The bridge must be close. We should find the captain’s ledger there with an index of the bounty in the cargo hold.” Said the Colonel humourlessly, still bristling at Doctor Hackles’ ice-shy remark. ‘Clearly the medic wishes to make light of the frostbite I suffered during my Himalayan campaign, and is calling me a coward for entering the ship first. He means to strip the Reverend of any respect for me too. This is mutiny in the making.’ Colonel Sandringham seethed to himself.
                The double doors to the bridge emerged at the end of the hallway, frosted open and inviting the expedition inside. The Colonel entered first, slipping a little on the icy floor, closely followed by the stoic Reverend, who seemed to maintain his air of imposing judgement even when clad in fur and sliding around a ship. The Doctor came last again, and angrily lamented bringing up the rear of his own exploration.
                “By the King’s grace…” the Colonel exclaimed. The bridge was a scene of disarray – loose, torn papers were scattered around the floor, levers were snapped off, electrical panels were broken open, and an alarming number of neckties were draped over much of the furniture and control panel.
                “It appears that there were some ructions in here.” Dr Hackles assessed, leaping on the opportunity to cast a judgement before the other men.
                “The bridge is no place for confrontation. It is a place for respect and for showing obeisance to superior officers.”
                “Then it can only be a sign of mutiny.” Reverend Argyll finished the Colonel’s thought to assert his command, speaking the words as if they were the threats of eternal damnation he held over his congregation. The clergyman had often found that if he spoke aloud of sinful behaviour, before the vulnerable had a chance to think of it themselves, he could steer them away from such heresy. “It is a cowardly and unholy thing to rise against those who seek only to lead you to glory, as well we all know.”
                The Doctor and the Colonel were both pleased that the Reverend had chosen to reinforce his commitment to each of them as great leaders. The Doctor liked the recognition that he was selflessly seeking to lead these two gentlemen to greater glory than they could have aspired to without him. The Colonel smiled smugly that Doctor’s thinly veiled attempt at rebellion had been spotted and rebuked by the Reverend.
                “Thank you, Bentley.” Dr Hackles said sincerely. Reverend Argyll assumed that the Doctor was thanking him for steering him away from a dark path, and the Colonel was sure that Dr Hackles was thanking the Reverend for speaking on both of their behalves.

                “The real question would seem to be whether this happened before or after she ran aground.” Bentley posed.
                “You mean to ask whether she was run aground deliberately by treasonous mutineers?” Victor said with an edge of anger at the thought.
                “Men have been known to do themselves irreparable harm as a result of their pride and the pursuit of power. When he steps out of the light and into the shadow, anything can take over his mind.”
                “A worrying thought.” Said Dr Hackles, struggling to keep himself relevant in the conversation.
                “Worrying indeed. We have a duty to the King to investigate and seek justice for the captain.” The Colonel declared in a wave of patriotism. It’s unlikely that the King would really have cared.
                A search of the bridge in the cold white light streaming through the window yielded few clues as to the circumstances during the confrontation, nor did it reveal to them the captain’s ledger. There was no obvious clue, either, as to the source of the many ties.

                “The ledger’s not here.” Said the Doctor finally. “Where else could it be?”
                “Hmm. I suppose the captain may have returned it to his cabin with the ledger. We should search there next.” Colonel Sandringham proposed.
                “Agreed. We’ll move on to the captain’s cabin.”

                The party left the bridge much as they had found it and headed towards the captain’s cabin. The Colonel said that he knew where to find it, so they allowed him to take the lead once more. This time they were on the lower side of the vessel, walking with one foot on the floor and the other on the external wall, avoiding portholes lest they send a foot through the glass and unleash an icy breeze upon themselves. Their breath misted in the air as they slowly progressed through the ship, keeping an eye out for any signs of mutiny or conflict. As they passed by more cabins, they caught glimpses of more neckties and cravats dangled over the backs of chairs, dropped onto the ground, or lying on top of beds. Whatever had gone on aboard the HMS Homecoming, it had involved everyone being staggeringly well-dressed.
                “Here we are, men.” The Colonel announced, stopping next to a large wood-panelled door at the stern of the ship. The Doctor snapped to attention and dashed forwards to meet Colonel Sandringham, as best the frozen, slickened footholds would allow. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be last to enter the next key location on their journey.
                “Allow me!” He cried desperately, attempting to sound natural and commanding but failing on both counts. He skidded to a halt at the door, adjusted his coat and then grabbed the handle before the others could protest.
                “Aha! The captain's cabin. Largest lodgings aboard, the finest bedding and hopefully some answers for us. We'll camp here for the night, and make use of the good captain's hospitality.” Dr Hackles boomed hurriedly in a single breath as he entered the decadent accommodation. It was a rehearsed pronouncement to reassert his position as the man in charge of the endeavour, but could scarcely be considered inaccurate. Where the other cabins had been bare and minimal, this was luxurious and ostentatious. A four poster bed dominated the room with a duvet crumpled and skewed to one side with use. The duvet cover had once been a deep burgundy, but the frost had since claimed it and washed-out the colour under a thin sheet of ice. The ice wasn’t likely to do much good for the insulative properties either.
                An armoire stood against the back wall, doors closed in stern judgement of those who entered. The explorers all felt its gaze upon them and got the impression that it had immediately locked its own doors upon seeing their drab garb. None who dressed so poorly would be permitted easy access. It was this pretension which identified the furniture as an armoire, rather than a common wardrobe or cupboard.
                Far less pretentiously, but more strangely, there was a single steel shipping crate on the floor, a foot or so away from the foot of the bed. Sitting in the centre of the floorspace, with its lid slightly twisted to one side, the crate could only have been put there deliberately. Accidental crate placement was as real a danger on a ship as it was on dry land, of course, but this case showed none of the tell-tale signs. Respectfully, the crate hadn’t slid along the tilted, frozen floor into the lower corner; it must have remained still out of deference to the captain, or potentially due to friction against the deep rug.
                Soft padding and straw protruded from underneath the lid where the crate had been opened previously; the captain had looked upon this bounty himself before the final tragedy had struck, whatever that may have been.
                The Colonel and Reverend stepped in slowly behind the Doctor, more than a little perturbed by his lack of respect for the deceased captain, and his strange language in entering the cabin. The Colonel knew a power-play when he saw it; subordinates who didn’t know how to stay in their place often acted irrationally, in his experience. Reverend Argyll presumed that the cold and the exhaustion must have been getting to the Doctor.
                “Certainly, this is a fine cabin. However I don’t think that we should be rejoicing in another man’s misfortune, Doctor.” Bentley said, his voice like an avalanche of righteousness. It cut off the Colonel before he could reprimand the upstart medic, redoubling his determination to bring his men back into line.
                “Enough chatter.” Colonel Sandringham barked. “The crate is clearly out place in here; it may be a clue as to what kind of cargo we’re dealing with. Open it.” He ordered the Doctor.
                Doctor Hackles was incensed. This was his expedition, his triumph, his treasure! Yet still this washed up tin soldier insisted on attempting to usurp command.
                “You might observe that the crate has already been opened, Victor.” He used the Colonel’s forename as if it was an insult. Unfortunately, when one’s name is synonymous with triumph that becomes a little more difficult. Dr Hackles slid the lid off the crate and peered inside, braced to see exotic treasures from the far-corners of the Kingdom. What he in fact laid eyes on was a packing crate stuffed full of fine-looking cravats.
                “It’s full of neckwear!” Simon shouted in confusion, distracted from his conflict with the Colonel by the shock of suddenly unveiling accessories to formal attire.
                “A tremendous discovery indeed, and a fitting prize for your extravagance in rushing in here.” Mocked Victor, using hard words to cover his own disappointment at being beaten to the crate.
                “Anything we bring back for the King would mark my expedition as a success. Have you forgotten that fine silks are spun in the colonies? That they are not shiny baubles or trinkets does not render these items without value, Colonel, and my treasures may take on many forms.” Dr Hackles retorted, challenging Victor to say another word against the fabulous accessories in the crate.
                The Colonel looked back at the Doctor darkly, fixing upon him the stare that his battalion had feared enough to charge into battle. Reverend Argyll, seeing that conflict was best avoided, attempted to calm matters down again.
                “It is true that cloth and paper can be more valuable than gold or silver; let us not forget the word of the Lord. But it is also true that these are not the precious artifacts we sought from this frozen wreck.” He said, attempting to appease both parties. He couldn’t let his expedition fly out of control when they were so close to their prize. “Rushing past the Colonel was a move made in poor taste and born from pride. Mocking the Doctor was similarly the act of a man giving into wrath. None are immune to judgement or sin, my flock.”
                Both other men turned their gazes almost disbelievingly on the clergyman. That he had the gall to preach to the man in command of him was something that both the Colonel and the Doctor could scarcely comprehend.
                “Now, I believe we came here for the captain’s ledger. If the cravats are indeed a part of the precious cargo then they shall have an entry. Let us find it.”

                The sun snuck itself away to setting with alarming haste while the party silently searched the cabin. It was an ambush of darkness that overtook them all, creeping into the ship and conspiring to keep the captain’s secrets safe. The frosty colours within the ship faded into indistinct greys, edges blurred, and details melted into the gloomy background. With the dusk came the even fiercer cold of the night, biting harder into their cheeks as they struggled to make their scant final observations around the room.
                “We need to set our camp up and start a fire before it gets any colder.” Colonel Sandringham said, calling an end to the day’s mission. He dropped his backpack to the ground and rummaged through for a lamp to light their room.
                “I agree.” Said the Reverend, consenting to the Colonel’s suggestion as a fair leader should. “The shelter afforded by our surroundings shall aid us greatly in keeping the heat in.”
                “How will we light a fire on this tilted ground?” asked the Doctor irritably, although he would be grateful for a true solution to the problem. The cold was penetrating his furs and stiffening his joints. The unkempt beard poking from underneath his hood was frosting over with the condensation from his steamy breath.
                “Hmm. A puzzle indeed but not insurmountable.” The Reverend pondered, hoping to still the Doctor’s temper. “We shall light the fire in the lower corner of the room, against the wall. Then the ashes and embers shall remain contained and the heat shall rise, as heat does, and fill the rest of the room.” The Reverend said confidently.
                “I for one have no intention of sliding into a fire during the night, Reverend. We shall light a fire in the crate – the cravats will make fine kindling and help us to save our fuel rations.” Colonel Sandringham announced. The Doctor gasped audibly at the suggestion. It was clear to him that the Colonel was jealous of the exciting cravat discovery, and was thus determined to destroy all evidence of the first great treasure out of spite. It was a new low for the treacherous soldier.
                “The cravats are a valuable commodity and the rightful property of the King, may I remind you, sir. I shan’t commit treasonous arson on royal garb for reasons so feeble. We can find other fuel.”
                “Your objection is noted and disregarded, Doctor. In case it has escaped your notice we are not currently in a deciduous forest – firewood is not in bountiful supply.”
                “She’ll have a belly full of coal, being a ship driven by steam. I would have thought that might not slip your notice, but your eagle-eyes must have been preoccupied with determining that the ship isn’t woodland!” The Doctor spat back. “As for disregarding my objections, I didn’t expect to have to remind a military man of the chain of command in the field.”
                “Enough!” Boomed Reverend Argyll, his voice like heavy cathedral doors slamming shut. “By the grace of The Lord we need unity! You’ll be seeing fires for all eternity if you continue on this sinful path of pride and avarice. I examined the crate and it is clearly marked with a modern merchant’s mark, Doctor. Couple that with it being open in the captain’s cabin and it can be surmised that they are no more the King’s property than your own coat is.” He told Simon with a chastising tone. “Never-the-less, it is not your place to be giving orders, Victor.” He added, with a sharp glance to the Colonel. “Now let us set about the honest work of making a camp, and leave this heathen bickering behind us. You shall turn the other cheek to one another or face fires which blaze on a fuel far greater than neckwear for all eternity.” There was a biblical finality to his tone which invited no further discussion. Bentley was quickly growing suspicious of his men’s lack of virtue; their bickering and prideful attempts at asserting dominance over one another. Good men were humble, and evil men harboured boundless ambitions. What was to say that neither one of these heathens would attempt to betray the others and make off with the bounty? The clergyman retreated into his thoughts and mulled the question over as he and the huffy Doctor pitched their canvas tent, suspending lines from any anchor point they could find in the decadent cabin.
                The Colonel quickly established a roaring blaze in the shipping crate, illuminating the cabin with an ostentatious and extremely well-tailored campfire. The three men cooked up a modest meal and exchanged terse conversation regarding the plan for the next day. When the Doctor reluctantly suggested that they should complete their search of the cabin in the daylight before moving onto the lower decks, with or without the ledger as necessary, the others raised no challenges. It was important to the Reverend that his men knew he still respected them, and it didn’t bother the Colonel if his subordinates suggested reasonable courses of action. When all was settled and the neckties had been reduced to fibrous ashes, the expeditionary gentlemen settled in for the night.

                The Doctor lay awake long after the other men were asleep, seething over the tone they had been taking with him. He'd approached them back in England in good faith, giving them a chance to share in his expedition and the prestige which would come with it, but now the pair of snakes were seeking to take the glory for themselves. All of this hard work to get here, countless resources and unwavering dedication to the cause, and they were planning to rob him of his prize at the last moment. They were cuckoos kicking his own eggs out of the nest and feeding their own interests with his honest work instead. They had fallen far from the brave team of noble explorers he’d envisaged at the start of their expedition; now they were simply Hackles and his jackals. Well, if that was the game they wanted to play then he wasn't going to back down without a fight. If only one man was to leave with riches, it wouldn’t be either of them.
                Not long after the Doctor managed to descend into a fitful sleep of vengeful dreams, he was awoken suddenly by a cacophonous clanging sound, like metal being struck unawares by a double-crossing honourless cur. The Doctor's own preoccupation may have influenced his assumptions about the scenario.
                “What the devil was that?!” he cried, snapping himself into a seated position. The Reverend was also sitting up, and the Colonel was already half way out of the tent.
                “Who goes there?!” he shouted into the darkness. “Show yourself, coward!” Only the sounds of the blizzard outside responded to him, and they had very little of interest to say.
                Reverend Argyll appeared beside him from the canvas, holding a kerosene lamp. He lit a taper from the embers of the cravats and shone the beam of light around the cabin – there was no sign of any disturbance or foul play.
                “I see nothing.” Colonel Sandringham said softly.
                “Nor me.” Concurred the Reverend.
                “Then there’s nothing here.” Piped up the Doctor. “The arctic is a barren wasteland, and we’ve disturbed a frozen ship after years of sitting static. We must have caused something to shift, nothing sinister.” He hoped that his words would convince the others more than they had convinced himself. No counterpoints were raised, even by the traitorous Colonel, and so the party returned to their respective sleeping bags, keeping their ears pricked all the same.

                "Heat's made the metal warp." Colonel Sandringham assessed curtly. "She's been cold for years and all around she's frozen through. Make a hot spot like this and she can't take it; buckles under the strain. From now on, no fires in risky areas, anything with fastenings or weak points that warping could damage. Last thing we need is to shear a bolt on a staircase or warp a doorframe to lock us in." His voice carried clearly through the thin canvas of the tent and stirred Doctor Hackles. In the white light of morning, he began to appreciate why level ground was so sought after for camping. He was lying in a jumbled pile of equipment, bags, and oil lanterns which had rolled into him over the night. This untidy heaping wouldn’t have been so bad, except that his face had become a load bearing support structure, pressed against the canvas and giving his nose a corner for which it had neither desire nor use. Suffice it to say that the night had not been not a comfortable one.
                Looking up and seeing the empty sleeping bags next to him, the Doctor cursed himself for oversleeping. A great leader must be up first to inspire his men, not lie snoring in a pile of hiking equipment. He emerged from the tent amid a great clattering and spilled himself into the cabin. The campfire was once again burning, fabric blazing and fibre embers drifting through the air lazily. The Colonel and the Reverend were looking intently at the floor nearby to the doorframe, which seemed to have kinked upwards in a manner quite unbefitting a walking surface.
                “Warped from the heat you say?” Dr Hackles asked, attempting to slip himself into the conversation and gloss over his cacophonous entrance.
                “Good morning, Doctor.” Bentley greeted him courteously.
                “Yes, the fire heated the floor and caused it to warp. It was the cause of the commotion during the night. I want to see the utmost caution in fire placement henceforth.”
                “Agreed. The cold and frost will have weakened much of the ship already; we will require caution in everything. Now, has there been any progress on finding the ledger?” The Doctor said, issuing commands before he could be questioned by the insipid Colonel.
                “No sign of it. I had time to check the cabin over whilst waiting for you and the Reverend to wake.” The Colonel replied. “I did, however, find the remnants of what I presume to be the captain’s journal.” He was holding a black leather-bound book in one hand, many of its pages torn out.
                “A journal?” The Doctor asked excitedly. “Good work, Colonel. Please hand it to me and I shall see what can be learned from the remaining pages.”
                “That won’t be necessary, I am quite capable of reading, Doctor. The remaining fragments, few as they are, detail standard fare for shipboard life for the most part – stops at various colonies, mentions of the locals and the humours of the crew. Towards the end there is mention of ice, frost and unrest among the crew. It seems that the captain was still keeping his journal after they ran aground here, but I have found nothing useful in his words regarding the treasure.”
                “What does he say, exactly?”
                “As I have said, nothing useful.”
                “Nothing useful to you, perhaps. But another might be able to find meaning where it is hidden.” The Doctor pressed.
                “Then read it yourself.” He tossed the book roughly to the Doctor and turned away to continue examining the warped floor. Rage once again welled in the Doctor at the Colonel’s tone, but he swallowed his words down for the moment. Instead, he opened the journal and flicked through the ragged remnants of the pages until he reached the last written words. ‘The worst part of all this is the frost on my cravat…’ read the top of the torn page, divulging the captain’s unique sense of priority after the crash. In the scattered words on the remains of the previous entries, there were mentions of a curse, of mutinous mutterings among the crew, and of how good the captain thought he looked in his eveningwear. The Colonel was right about the journal not serving to help them find the treasure, but it certainly gave Dr Hackles an insight into why the ship had been run aground.

                The three explorers left their tent pitched in the cabin and set off in search of the cargo hold. There was an outside chance that the ledger would be there with the booty, but with or without it they could retrieve many precious artifacts. They picked their way past their footprints from yesterday and found a staircase of simple metal plates leading downwards through the decks. The steps were riveted on either side, and the whole frame creaked as the Colonel put his weight onto it.
                “Careful, Colonel.” The Reverend advised redundantly.
                “We’ll wait up here until you reach the bottom, Victor. Wouldn’t want to cause an accident by over-stressing the joints.” Dr Hackles added with insincere concern. As the Colonel disappeared down the steps, Doctor Hackles turned to Reverend Argyll and spoke in a low voice.
                “I fear for our lives, Reverend l. I believe that Sandringham has plotted against us both, using me to get here and you to appraise the goods. Once we have the loot he’ll make off it himself after silencing us in this frozen tomb. You don't think it's a coincidence that he has exaggerated all of the dangers in this ship now that we’re in it and he is within reach of the booty? She was nigh unsinkable on her construction, and now he would have us believe she's a deathtrap, all to make it more believable when he arranges for us to have an 'accident'.”
                “I’ve no idea where you’ve got this ridiculous notion!” The Reverend defended, coyly hiding his own suspicions for the moment.
                “Come now, the signs are all there! He’s been irritable ever since we boarded. In the night when we heard the noise he was already up. This morning he’d searched the cabin while we slept and claims he found nothing but the journal. Who’s to say he didn’t hide the ledger from us and tear any useful pages out of the journal, hmm? Why would the captain vandalise his own journal after crashing his ship, after all?”
                The Reverend pondered quietly over Dr Hackles’ words. “What are you suggesting, then?” he asked finally.
                “That we strike before he is able. Remain on your guard and wait for my signal – when the opportunity arises we must be ready.”
                Once the Colonel called up the stairs to say he’d reached the bottom, the Reverend began his descent, leaving the Doctor to formulate a plan of action.

                The lower the Reverend travelled down the stairs, leaning heavily to one side due to the tilt of the ship, the less light was able to penetrate. When portholes stopped appearing, he knew he was below the normal level at which the ship would have been submerged. Electric lights and oil lanterns would normally be flickering down here with an inefficient glow, not so much lighting the way as making everything seem more yellow.
                When the Reverend reached the bottom of the perilous descent, the Colonel placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke in a whisper.
                “Reverend, a word if you would.” The kerosene lamp in his hand illuminated his face from below, acting as a useful reminder of why such facial under-lighting choices are never recommended. “I don't trust the Doctor. He's a snake, out to hoard this treasure for himself and leave us to die. You must have seen how his manner has changed since we embarked the ship? He's no longer interested in us or our advice, just getting his hands on his treasure. That stunt rushing past us into the captain’s cabin, his shortening temper, that ‘ice-shy’ remark – he’s coming to end of his use for us and it’s only a matter of time until he snaps.”

                “These are tenuous allegations.” The Reverend said guardedly, overwhelmed by déjà vu from his conversation with Dr Hackles.

                “I heard him muttering to himself in his tent, and I can barely speak without him launching into a rage. I also heard him begin to mutter in conspiratorial tones to you as I tackled the staircase. Admit it, he spoke against me didn’t he?”
                The Reverend stared back emotionlessly, wearing his stone mask of a face to give nothing away.
                “Your silence speaks enough. He’s a threat to both of us. We need to protect ourselves by any means necessary, and the best protection is a solid offensive.”

                “You're suggesting we kill him?” He probed, wanting to hear it from the Colonel’s own mouth.
                “I am. There are casualties in every war, no matter how small.” Victor’s grim expression, coupled with the lamp-light, made him look like a bad oil painting.
                The Reverend maintained his blank expression of judgement. In a terrifyingly short space of time, both of his companions had turned from men of honour and integrity to a pair of paranoid lunatics, prepared to murder another man for nothing more than crossed words. It sickened the clergyman to his core – he could scarcely believe that he had heard both of his companions attempting to coerce him into the basest of sins.
                Both the Doctor and the Colonel were driven by their own pride, mad with avarice, infused with wrath, and were attempting to steer the good Reverend from the light. They spoke with the tongue of the serpent, promising him gold and weaving the fear of mortality into their web of deceit. A rush of clarity overtook the Reverend, an epiphany which illuminated his purpose on this expedition to the arctic wastes, the Lord’s frozen testing ground. Hackles and Sandringham were a test of faith and sanctity. They were demons walking the earth, and Reverend Bentley Argyll had been chosen to banish them.
                “I will do what I must.” Reverend Argyll told the demon who called himself Colonel Sandringham.

                When the Doctor reached the bottom of the creaking, slick staircase, the expedition wordlessly stepped into the narrow service corridor which ran along the edge of the hull. Faint white light spilled along the corridor, less bright than even the feeble kerosene lamp but visible none-the-less.
                “That’s daylight… but down here?” The Doctor said, not expecting to see any sign of the sun in the bottom of the hull. Traditionally speaking, gaps in the hull of a ship have a detrimental effect on its ability not to sink.
                The Reverend heard the confusion and suspicion in the demon Doctor’s tone. It could only be because he was afraid of the light of The Lord’s touch, afraid of his own cloak of darkness being dispelled.
                “Then we’ve found the wound in the hull.” The demon Colonel surmised. “We’re here for the cargo hold, not to investigate the cause of the shipwreck.”
                Reverend Argyll did not fail to notice that the Colonel wished not to approach the light either. This was a sign – a literal glimmer of light in the darkness. The Reverend knew that he had to move towards it to exorcise these demons from his earthly realm.
                “We must always move into the light. Let it reach the darkest shadows, illuminate the faces of sinners and cleanse us of our trespasses. Let it compel you!” Bentley preached.
                Dr Hackles wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to unify against the Colonel. “Yes, Reverend. You are correct. We will move to the light.” Even the most mutinous crewman couldn’t argue two against one.
                The Colonel was angered that his team was rallying against his orders. He expected it of the treacherous Doctor, but the Reverend had agreed to help only seconds before. Unless, of course, the Reverend had a plan to dispatch the Doctor using the jagged steel of the torn hull. ‘Discretion may have been the better part of valour here’ he conceded to himself.
                “Fine. I will take your advice on this occasion.” Was the best agreement he could bring himself to voice.

                The tear in the hull had left a ragged mess of mutilated steel jutting into the narrow passageway, curling away around a spur of hard ice at the aft-end. The Doctor was overcome by the similarity of the rent metal to wounds in human flesh, the Colonel lamented the destruction of such a beautiful vessel, and the Reverend looked upon it for divine inspiration. How was this to defeat the pair of wicked, avaricious villains? What did the sign truly mean? Peculiarly, there were strips of cloth snagged on the sharp edges of the ruptured steel, which on closer inspection transpired to be yet more cravats.
                “The ice cut straight through her and wedged her here. What a waste.” Colonel Sandringham was genuinely maudlin at seeing the vessel downed, taking the Reverend by surprise. But he knew that the devil’s agents were masters of misdirection, and that they’d already fooled him enough to get this far. He wouldn’t be taken in so easily again.
                The wound had not only pierced the hull itself, but torn a hole right the way through to the engine room beyond the narrow corridor. The faint light from outside the ship spilled palely across great steam turbines, shuttles of coal, and vast furnaces, all of which were now caked in frost from years in the tundra. It was apparently just their lot in life to be far too warm or far too cold for comfort. The temperate steam engine never did take off as an idea.
                The damage to the interior of the ship was so severe that the explorers were able to climb through the rift in the walls, casting dancing shadows from the daylight and the kerosene lamp as they did.
                “The heart of the ship, her powerhouse. A miracle of modern engineering rendered useless by a crew not fit to use her.” Said the Colonel sadly, shaking his head as he stepped slowly and reverently among the machinery.
                “How cruel the machinations of nature can be to the machines of mankind.” Dr Hackles added grandly, laying a hand on a vast piston, then snatching it away again as the cold seeped through to his fingers.
                “The Lord's creations can be as dangerous as they are magnificent.” The Reverend threatened, even though neither of the other men could even begin to interpret those words as a threat. He was further robbed of any menace when he tripped on a loose piece of coal and hit the floor.
                “Are you OK Reverend?” Dr Hackles asked quickly, stepping immediately over to Bentley’s side and taking his arm. “The darkness of the ship still hides many secrets.”
                “I’m fine, I’m fine. Thank you.” Reverend Argyll replied, allowing the Doctor to help him back to his feet.
                “No injuries, Reverend?” double-checked the Colonel. Bentley was once again given pause by the concern of these demons. Helping a clergyman back to his feet and checking on his wellbeing were scarcely impish modes of behaviour.
                “No, save for my pride. We must bring The Lord’s light into this black place…” The Reverend muttered, steeling himself against the false kindness of the demons. However, his words gave Dr Hackles an idea.
                “Are we able to light the furnace? If we can generate some power then we might be able to use the electric lamps again.” He said. ‘And if, my dear Colonel, you should find yourself tripping like the Reverend did, perhaps the furnace will catch you.’
                “It is a simple matter, but will take some time.” Victor replied.
                “Better to wait for the light than to charge blindly into the dark.”

                Navigating by the light of Colonel Sandringham’s kerosene lamp, the three men shovelled coal into the belly of the furnace, kindled a fire and waited for the heat to grow. The tension in the air was palpable – both the Colonel and the Doctor were attempting to contrive a reason to place the other in grave danger, and the Reverend was running exorcism rituals over in his mind. Those frames of mind didn’t lend themselves to easy and free-flowing conversation.
                The orange glow of the flames cast long shadows on the floor of the room from the dropped tools, scattered coals, and the three great leaders of the arctic expedition. It crept farther away from the furnace as the blaze grew in strength, rising up the walls like rainwater soaking up the leg of optimistically long trousers on a pessimistically short man. Unlike wet legwear, however, the creeping light illuminated a dark smudge on the wall of the engine room. It was still too dim to make out what the shape was, but the Doctor’s attention was caught none-the-less.
                After staring mesmerised at the flickering fire and glowing coals for what felt like an eternity, and listening to the slow boil of the water in the tanks above the furnace, a hissing, grinding sound heralded the return to life of the HMS Homecoming’s great steam engine. Tired, stiffened pistons which had been frozen in place for years began to grind themselves free. The scraping, scratching sounds echoed from all around as if the ghosts of the ship’s past had reawakened to haunt the defilers of their tomb. It filled the air, piercing their hearing and screaming bloody vengeance at them for disturbing its icy rest.
                As the dynamo started to spin up, power returned to the electric lamps positioned around the engine room. With a harsh buzzing added to the cacophony of mechanical noise, the lights sparked into life, briefly dazzling the men who had resurrected them. Their eyes adjusted slowly to the comparative brightness, and feasted upon the new secrets unveiled by the illumination; hanging limp from thawed machinery, tied loosely around fixtures and fittings, frozen stiff on the ground, were what must have been hundreds of variously coloured ties.
                Never had the Colonel felt so stalked by dinner-wear. He had been ambushed by the enemy, and that enemy had obvious designs on constricting his neck; an intention which leaves little room for misinterpretation. It felt like he’d walked willingly into his foe’s grasp; surrounded and outnumbered.
                Doctor Hackles let out a loud gasp, snapping the Reverend and the Colonel to attention. The dark smudge on the wall he’d seen by firelight was now fully lit and resolved as a message, written in a smear of coal dust on the wall by a human hand in foot-high letters:
                “BEWARE THE CURSE OF THE CRAVAT”
                Of all the messages that these men had read from coal, this was surely the most unnerving. Coupled with their immediate surroundings, it instilled fear deep into their hearts.
                “The curse of the cravat!?” Cried Doctor hackles. He had heard of the mummy's curse and how it wiped out the Tutankhamun archaeological dig. This was to be his downfall, the backlash of angry spirits whose mausoleum and evening wear has been violated; and it was all down to the Colonel. He'd been the one to insist that they burn the cravats, and it had brought the wrath of the curse down upon them.
                The Colonel, too, knew where the blame must lie, and it was squarely with the Doctor. He had insisted on bringing them this way along the corridor, to the tomb of a hundred ties. He had suggested that they resurrect the engines and cast light upon the cravats. Even when the alternative was to risk running out of fuel, he had tried to safeguard the cravats in the cabin. He was colluding with whatever dark spirits haunted the ship and for nought more than ‘his’ treasure. The anger overwhelmed the Colonel and spurred him into action, lunging forwards at the Doctor and grappling his arms from behind.
                “Unhand me you treacherous blaggard!” The Doctor shouted desperately.
                “You speak of me of treachery? This whole expedition was a ploy to trap us from the start, admit it! You’re working with whatever cast this curse and we were to be your victims.”
                “Spare your tongue the effort of voicing such lies. You’ve been planning to betray the Reverend and me to take the treasure for yourself, and neither of us will be taken in by your misdirection. And it was you who angered the phantoms of this ghost ship by burning their sacred artifacts!”
                “You’re an honourless cur! You are beaten and still you cling to your ruined façade.”
                “Reverend! It is as I warned you, the Colonel has shown his true colours and attacked!”
                “Don’t listen to him Reverend! I am protecting both of us! Help me!”
                Dr Hackles and Colonel Sandringham stood at the open door of the furnace, struggling against one another with the red hot coal fire burning strongly behind them. They could feel the heat on the exposed skin of their faces as they wrestled for control. Silhouetted against the flames, arguing and spouting bile at each other whilst locked in combat, they looked every part the demons that the Reverend knew them to be.
                “Witch-enablers! Pagans! You promote heresy in every act. You each incite me to kill the other for greed and you propagate the devil’s lies of curses and spectres. I have seen through your veil of bravado and false patriotism and know you both; you are demons sent by Lucifer himself, and I have been sent to thwart you in His name. I shall send you back the flames from whence you came!” He lunged towards the wrestling men, attempting to send them into the furnace, but found nothing but hot steel as the Colonel threw himself out of the way. By the time the Reverend managed to regain his bearings he found the Colonel’s service revolver levelled at him.
                “That’s enough.” Victor commanded. The men all remained still, Reverend Argyll facing down the barrel of a loaded gun, Dr Hackles just behind him eyeing up a shovel, and Colonel Sandringham aiming his weapon at an unarmed clergyman. The stillness and silence afforded by the presence of the gun gave the men time to think.
                “Just what the devil are we doing here? I mean, really? Are we all trying to kill each other?” He asked exasperatedly. There was a genuine innocence to his question which had a profound effect on the other two men, ringing clarity into their heads. They each nodded.
                “This is just preposterous. I at least had a reason to defend myself from Hackles trying to take all the treasure for himself and abandon us here, a belief which has been confirmed by the Reverend’s admission that you both conspired against me. And I’m only planning to shoot him,” he said, nodding to the Reverend “for trying to push us into the furnace.”
                “Me abandon you and take all the treasure? Poppycock! I would never abandon my men in an expedition! I felt sure that you were going to betray us. And I also am only planning to shovel the Reverend for his betrayal.” Doctor Hackles responded.
                “The men under my command are my brothers! I’d sooner perish than do wrong by them.” Colonel Sandringham declared with sincerity.
                Reverend Argyll looked from one to the other of the two demons, admitting to himself that this was peculiar behaviour for servants of the prime evil.
                “Well, Reverend, what’s this talk of demons about hm?” Dr Hackles asked.
                “I would also like to understand that.” Added the Colonel.
                “You jest? You both conspired to lure me into the ways of darkness and turn on the other. You both spoke with such pride and avarice about your treasure and your expedition. I was to be the shepherd of a noble flock; instead I found myself surrounded by baying hounds of sin. It became clear to me that you were demons attempting to lead me from the light.”
                “Demons? I have a gun to your head and I’m yet to pull the trigger. We are trying to defuse this potentially volatile situation. Do these seem like the acts of demons, Reverend?”
                “I… must admit that my faith in that particular truth is wavering.”
                “Right. Now, can we please all agree that no man here is going to kill any other man here so that I may lower my weapon?” Victor looked at the other men expectantly. Reluctantly, Dr Hackles nodded and relaxed away from the shovel. The Reverend bowed his head and clasped his hands together in prayer. “Thank you.” Said Victor, replacing his revolver into his coat.
                “Perhaps this madness is the curse of the cravat.” Dr Hackles postulated fearfully.
                “It could well be, Doctor.” Conceded the Colonel.
                “Witchcraft and curses are heresy, the tools of the devi-.”
                “Reverend, I swear I will shoot you if you continue that line of thought.” Victor interrupted.
                “And I will shovel you.”
                “Noted.” Reverend Argyll said quietly.
                “Right. Let’s get away from the site of this unpleasantness and head to the cargo hold, now that we have some lights on. It’ll be at the other end of the ship.” Sandringham said, sparing one last distrustful glance for the cravats.

The three men returned to the narrow corridor, now bathed in pathetic light from the electric lamps, and marched towards the stern of the vessel. Obeying the peculiar and counter-intuitive rules of social interaction, the tension among the explorers had actually decreased as a result of their attempts at killing one another. The journey up to the cargo hold passed quickly and easily, gentlemanly conversation resumed, and no-one suspected anyone else of subversion. The Reverend still harboured concerns about his companions’ belief in the occult, but elected to let it slide in light of their willingness not to shoot him.
                A wide spur corridor led up-tilt towards the interior of the vessel and, in short order, to the huge vault-door of the cargo hold. Dangling from the wheel-handle was a bright blue necktie with a note tie-pinned to it.
                “It seems that someone has left a message here.” Dr Hackles appraised. He tore the note from the pin, despite it being perfectly simple to unfasten, and read it aloud to the other men.
                “Beware the curse of the cravat. I was sceptical at first, but I am finding it increasingly difficult to refute that occult powers are at work. The crew and I are leaving, lest we succumb to it too. Captain Dunmow has shut himself in the cargo hold with his worthless ‘treasure’; the maniac thinks we’re out to steal from him, and also labours under the delusion that any vault can be locked from the inside. We could open it at any time, but we have all agreed to let him starve in there instead. May he rot for what he has condemned us to. Beware this place and the madness it holds. You will find nothing of value here any longer. First Officer Yates.’” The Doctor paused for a second after finishing the note. “It seems that Captain Dunmow did not have the support of his crew in the end.”
                “Your words have perhaps understated the situation. ‘he has condemned us’ is clear enough, but leaving him to starve in his cargo hold is rather beyond ‘unsupportive’.” Said the Reverend.
                “But the treasure has been called worthless; surely it is just the raving of a jealous, spiteful mind?” Dr Hackles asked of the other men, with no good reason to believe they knew any more than he did.
                “Let us find out.” The Colonel proposed.
                Together, the three men took hold of the wheel on the door and heaved it at. It held fast for the first few tugs, but eventually it came loose in a glittering spray of frost and ice. As soon as the heavy steel door was unseized it swung open quickly, assisted by gravity as it opened down-tilt. The Reverend barely managed to duck out of the way in time.
                “The curse…” Dr Hackles breathed. Reverend Argyll was too shaken to rebuke him.
                The three men stared into the open cargo hold, the shining goal of their expedition. It was vast enough to house the gold of a whole empire. The terracotta army could have stood guard here with room to spare. But there was no gold to find, nor any form of fired-clay military force. Instead, the hold was lined with crates upon crates of cravats, neckties, neckerchiefs and silk scarves. They were strewn over the floor, spilled over the edges of their containers, hung from the light fittings, and dominated the room with the sheer sense of how much they weren’t treasure. There were no artifacts from civilisations long forgotten. There were no trinkets from the people of the colonies. There was only neckwear, balls of paper scattered across the floor and, in the centre of the room, a frosted human body lying face down, his waxy blue coat frozen solid around his body and his arms clutched to his stomach.
                Disbelief swept over the expedition. Close behind followed disappointment and despair, hand-in-hand.
                “There’s nothing here…”
                “Where are the artifacts?”
                “Where would anyone find this many cravats?”
                There were no answers to any of their questions.
                “That must be the captain.” Said the Reverend, looking towards the still body. He led the way to Captain Dunmow’s corpse and crouched beside him. In a perverse way, he didn’t seem to be lying close enough to the ground. It was almost as if his chest was floating a few inches above the floor level. The Reverend rolled him onto his back, and discovered that his apparent levitation was due to him wearing no fewer than thirty cravats, cascading down his chest like a lion’s mane or a pluming mountain spring of fine silk. Clutched to his stomach was the ship’s ledger.
                “The good captain must have been wearing these for warmth in the end…” Doctor Hackle’s said with melancholy.
                “He’s suffering no longer.” Reassured Reverend Argyll.
                “Let us see if we can find answers in this ledger.” The Colonel gently prized the ledger from the Captain’s frozen hands and flicked through it to the final entry. It read simply: ‘All cargo sold for its weight in cravats and equivalent. Cpt. Dunmow.’
                “He… he sold everything for neckwear…” the Colonel said, dismay pervading his tone as he dropped the ledger to the floor.
                “He was obsessed.” Said the Doctor, clutching a handful of the paper balls from the floor. “They’re the pages torn from his journal. It’s the raving of a madman obsessed with ties, all of it. We’ve come all this way, hiked through the tundra, scaled a frozen ship, been driven half way to murder, and what do we have to show for it? An over-dressed corpse and crates of worthless cloth!”
                The Reverend stood up by the side of the captain, his body resting here in the frozen aftermath of obsession. He turned to look at his despairing companions, each of them overcome with desolation. The Doctor’s noble expedition to recover artifacts thought lost to the ocean would return empty handed. The Colonel had failed to lead his men to glory. The Reverend himself had failed to shepherd his flock into the light of eternal harmony. They had all tried to lead each other, and they had all failed.
                “It must be the curse.” Reverend Argyll said quietly.
                “What?” Said the Colonel, shocked, and suspicious that the Reverend was trying to trick them into admitting heresy again.
                “All our misfortune. It must be the curse of the cravat.”
                “Just like the curse of Tutankhamun’s tomb.” Added Dr Hackles with a glint of strangely attributed hope.
                “Exactly. We may not have treasure, but we have confirmed the fate of the King’s own ship and the souls aboard her. Most importantly, we’ve discovered the curse of the cravat, felt its vile tendrils on our skin, and emerged unharmed.”
                “The prestige of such a feat would be tremendous…” said Dr Hackles.
                “The nobility of finding a lost soul is unquestionable.” Colonel Sandringham admitted.
                “Then we are men of courage and conviction. We have braved this ship of spectres to find the souls who sailed aboard her, and been touched by the madness of this place. We have felt its evil whisperings to kill, and resisted. We have purged evil with the light of the Lord. And when we sell our tale we will be furnished with riches forever.” The thought brought a smile to all their faces that they could use this expedition for some gain after all.
                In the cargo hold of the lost ship deep in the arctic, with a frozen corpse for company, surrounded by neckwear, recovering from a triple murder-attempt, and swaddled in a warm blanket of self-delusion, the three noble gentlemen stood proud once more.

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