It's a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes, who famously remarked that, once one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains -- no matter how improbable -- must be the truth. How did a full-size ship's chronometer, sent on board HMS "Erebus" in 1845, end up encased inside the squat frame of a carriage clock, its interior works still sound and showing no sign of having ever been exposed to the elements? Each of the ships had just two of these costly instruments, without which it would have been impossible to calculate their longitude. They were set on departure, and it was the duty of the second lieutenants to keep them wound; the second was a vital back-up for the first. Of all the instruments on board ship, the chronometers would be the most closely watched, and -- presumably -- the most difficult to steal. Such an event, had it happened, would never have gone unremarked, and yet in all the letters sent home via the ships' last port of call in Greenland, no mention was made of such a theft. Nevertheless, if the theft occurred after that point, it's nearly impossible to account for the extraordinary condition of the instrument; as Jonathan Betts, senior horology specialist at the Royal Observatory at Greenwich has remarked,"This has never been lying around in the open air. I have handled a pocket watch recovered from the expedition, and it is so corroded it is not possible even to open the case. Conditions in the Arctic are so extreme this would have rusted within a day, and been a heap of rubbish within a month."The timepiece will be one of the featured exhibits at the new exhibit on the search for the Northwest Passage at the National Maritime Museum, which opens this week -- but in the meantime, perhaps those of us who post here at Visions of the North can do some footwork to solve this singular mystery.
The case, as Holmes might remark, presents many "singular points of interest." Let's enumerate what we know:
1. The timepiece was made in London by John Arnold. Like all such naval chronometers, it was given a number -- Arnold 294 -- and sent to the Admiralty stores at the Observatory (the very room which now serves as Betts's workshop). From there, its movements were carefully tracked, and the tracks end with its being assigned to HMS "Erebus" in 1845.
2. An examination of the present casing shows, according to Betts, that the chronometer was altered in ways which strongly suggest an attempt to disguise its origins. Apparently, the "Arnold" name on the faceplate was "hammered flat" and another maker's name (made up, and not that of any actual clockmaker) substituted. At some later date, when the interior name was discovered, the "Arnold" on the faceplate was restored. This strongly suggests that, in the first instance, the clock was disguised in order to make its provenance less notable, and the second instance, restored when its value was recognized. The second instance can be dated to 30 years ago, and began the course of events by which the timepiece was acquired by the Observatory and returned to its original home.
3. No known reference exists to the timepiece between the sailing of HMS "Erebus" and 26 June, 1886, when an entry was made in the Observatory's official ledger: "Lost in the Arctic Regions with the 'Erebus.'"
4. That the chronometer was, for any length of time, exposed to the elements while in the Arctic can safely be eliminated as a possibility.
5. No Franklin search expedition, in any case, noted recovering a ship's chronometer; those found and returned to Greenwich were pocket chronometers, all in various states of decay. Such a find would certainly have been remarkable.
So what can we say? According to The Guardian, Mr. Betts "yearns to know who dunnit." Can we assist?
