 
# GARSTEIN'S LEGACY

## Peter D. Wilson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Peter D. Wilson 2011

Licence Notes

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance therein to persons, events or situations in past or present reality is coincidental.

Contents

Chapter 1 Background

Chapter 2 Forster's fortunes

Chapter 3 Garstein

Chapter 4 Inheritance

Chapter 5 Transmogrification

Chapter 6 Undercover

Chapter 7 Garstein's hoard

Chapter 8 Calamity

Chapter 9 Aftermath

Chapter 10 Discovery

Chapter 11 Confluence

About the author

##  Chapter 1. Background

Mike Crampton's school days were not by any means the happiest of his life, and they were trying for his teachers, too. Although he was anything but lazy, and perhaps a shade above average in general intelligence, he showed little sign of exercising it. The only exception was a penchant for crosswords, in which he took after his father, to whom it was some relief since if nothing else, it did help to develop his vocabulary. Among the schoolroom subjects, he hated maths, showed no talent for languages, found science baffling and the literature in the English curriculum uninteresting, although books that did appeal to him he read voraciously. Neither did sport offer him the usual alternative possibilities for the non-academic. If someone else particularly wanted to be first at the far end of a running track, Mike was quite content to let him, while he could easily think of better things to do than chasing a ball around a field or waiting at the edge on the off-chance that one might come his way. The most attractive of the better things was fiddling around in the metalwork shop, making little gadgets to his own design. He could happily have spent all day every day doing that.

His reports, despite stressing his amiability and good conduct as the best that could be said of him on any other subject, were the despair of his parents, Walter and Muriel. Both were from families that prided themselves on having risen in the previous generation from proletarian origins into the comfortable reaches of the middle class and were quite content to be called "bourgeois" by the lefties they despised. Their original ambitions for young Michael to climb further, ideally into one of the more lucrative professions, had long ago faded in the face of reality, as had any prospect of a more promising sibling for him, so after his sixteenth year it was with relief rather than disappointment that they greeted his gaining an apprenticeship in a local engineering works. At least he could deploy his one evident talent and might in time make something better of himself.

Unfortunately the mid-1980s were not the best time for engineering, and despite satisfactorily completing his apprenticeship he found no employment near his Berkshire home. However, a cousin living in the midlands heard of a vacancy for a junior mechanic in a small bus company based nearby. There was no harm in applying, and although the pay offered was too low to attract serious competition, it was enough for him as a start and he was glad to take the job. The cousin was prepared to let him a room if he wished, but both agreed that whilst it might serve for a week or two as a stop-gap, he ought for everyone's sake to have independent accommodation, so he took a small flat in a converted vicarage.

He found the company of his work-mates a little coarse, and on their side a few of the more aggressively uncultured openly considered him disagreeably posh, but he made the best of it and after a few blunders settled down tolerably well among them. The most considerate and congenial, although rather older than most of the rest, was one of the drivers, Terry Haskins. He noticed Mike's early difficulties and was a great help in guiding him through the pitfalls, in particular warning him of dangers in associating too closely with some of his less scrupulous fellow-workers. No criminal activity had been proved against them, but they were strongly suspected of drug dealing and handling stolen property among other things, and their apparently trying to cultivate the acquaintance of a vulnerable youngster itself aroused Terry's concern.

One evening in the pub Terry introduced Mike to his wife Sheila, who took pity on his isolation (rather more than was really necessary, as Mike was not particularly gregarious, but he was grateful for the kindly intent) and occasionally invited him for a meal with them. It was usually followed by a film or a game of Scrabble, in which Mike's familiarity with words outside the colloquial range gave him a considerable edge and often needed confirmation from the dictionary.

At the beginning of December Sheila asked what he was doing for Christmas. He had given it no thought, but assumed that he would be expected back home and confirmed that by telephone. He had grown rather lax about keeping up his promise of regular contact, and Muriel was greatly relieved to get his call after imagining all kinds of disaster. Walter, who during National Service in the fifties had been just as casual towards his own parents, assured her that it was perfectly normal and she shouldn't fret, but she couldn't help it.

Mike therefore arrived on a chilly Christmas Eve to an emotional welcome from Muriel, who in a rush of pent-up affection urged him to take off his coat, put on his slippers and warm himself thoroughly before he did anything else bar drinking a really hot cup of tea with a slice of cake - not of course the Christmas cake, which was reserved for the following day, and it might be a bit stale but she thought still palatable - there were some mince pies too if he would like one, which he declined - assured him that he would find his room undisturbed - well, tidied up a bit but essentially as he had left it - Mike didn't believe it for a moment but refrained from comment \- and eventually had to leave him to his own devices while she returned to her mysteries in the kitchen. Dinner was to be ready for when his father came in, expected about an hour ahead, and meanwhile she had to get on with the cooking.

Slippered and warmed, he took his bag upstairs and as expected found the room considerably reorganised, or at least much neater than he had left it, but had no great difficulty in finding anything. He thought of changing but decided that a wash and brush-up would suffice for the time being. Although not particularly religious, the family habitually attended the midnight service at a nearby church. Many of the congregation, including no doubt his mother, would take some pains to dress up for it, but under heavy winter clothing in a poorly-heated nave it could only be a private gesture of respect. For himself Mike thought it a waste of time and well beyond the call of duty.

Coming downstairs he noticed an envelope on the doormat. The shape suggested a greeting card rather than a letter, and it bore a German stamp, but the postmark was mostly illegible with only "...berg" decipherable. The address too was smudged, with the result that whatever it was had evidently been wrongly delivered and brought round by a considerate neighbour.

"There's another card, Mum," Mike called, but Muriel was too busy to leave her stove and told him to see who it was from.

Taking it through to the kitchen, he found a knife and slit it open.

"It's from someone called Alex," he said.

Muriel was pleased and rather relieved.

"Oh, good. I was a bit concerned when we hadn't heard from him this year."

"Who is he? Come to think of it, I noticed his card last year and couldn't remember your mentioning anyone with that name, but never got round to asking about him."

"Oh, it's an old story, and a very sad one. From before you were born."

"Is it worth telling?"

"Let me get this in the oven first."

With that out of the way, Muriel explained that in the summer of 1965, she and Walter had won a newspaper competition for a short break at an expensive hotel in the Cotswolds, something that in the normal course of events they could never think of affording. It was a splendid place in an attractive village setting, and on the second evening they had taken a walk around it before dinner. As they returned they heard the sound of cars rapidly approaching, and since the road was narrow they kept well to one side, very fortunately since a sports car came hurtling round a bend with a great squeal of brakes, skidded a little but recovered and raced off into the distance. They could hear another evidently in hot pursuit so stayed where they were, but as it rounded the bend a woman came out of the hotel right into its path. It hurled her across the road to land heavily a few yards away from them and of course failed to stop, although it left some debris behind.

Without much hope Muriel rushed to the woman and found her still alive and just about conscious but terribly battered, much too badly hurt in her opinion to be moved by anyone without proper training and equipment; she was already out of the way of any further traffic. Muriel did what she could to give comfort while Walter ran across to the hotel and asked the receptionist to call an ambulance, although from what he had seen he thought it a pretty hopeless case. Meanwhile a man dashed out distraught and across to his wife, if that was what she was, cradling her head in his arms and trying desperately to get some signs of recognition from her. Muriel's instinct was to prevent him from touching her, but on second thoughts he was unlikely to make much difference to the eventual outcome, and if what he was doing gave any comfort to either of them it seemed best not to interfere. Soon the ambulance came and he went with it to the hospital.

The Cramptons were of course horrified, with Muriel in shock now that the crisis had passed, and scarcely able to walk. Walter helped her across the road into the hotel lobby, where the receptionist immediately understood the situation and brought a large brandy that revived her to some extent. They were in no state to face the restaurant and the inevitable questioning by other guests, but she promised that the chef would do something light for them to eat in their room. They did the best they could with it, but Muriel could take very little and even Walter's appetite was depressed. The next morning they were still too upset to continue with their break and sombrely returned home.

However, some weeks later a large and heavy parcel came by special delivery with a covering note signed Alexander Forster, thanking them for their great kindness towards his dying wife and asking them as another favour to accept the gift as a token of recognition for it. He must have got the address from the hotel register.

Although they thought what they had done was no more than their duty in the circumstances, they could hardly refuse and in any case had no way of getting in touch with Forster; the note, evidently posted to the supplier for inclusion in the package, bore an American postmark but no other indication of its origin.

The package turned out to be the fine canteen of cutlery that they had ever since kept for use on special occasions. Thereafter, Forster had always sent a Christmas card, often in recent years from Germany or Austria, at first with his full signature but in time just "Alexander" and eventually the simple "Alex." He still gave no hint of his own address, and in any case it seemed that he moved about quite a lot, so they could never respond. Perhaps he didn't wish to impose the obligation on them. It would have been impossible to tell him if they moved house, but that was something the Cramptons had never felt inclined to do.

"Did they ever catch the maniac who caused the accident?" Mike asked.

"We wondered about that, and after a while we got a letter from the hotel, I imagine from that kind receptionist, with a newspaper cutting about someone being done for causing death by dangerous driving."

"I'd have thought you'd be called as witnesses."

"So did we, although it had happened so fast we couldn't have identified him anyway, but apparently he turned himself in and pleaded guilty. I suppose that's something to his credit, though he probably thought the damage to his car would give him away in any case. It certainly saved everyone a lot of trouble. Maybe that's why he got a lighter sentence than we'd have thought he deserved, but he didn't get away with it completely. But heavens, look at the time! Here am I gassing when there's work to be done. Now be off out of my way while I get the rest of the things ready."

Mike retrieved a magazine from his bag and settled himself by the fire in the sitting room, studying the plans for a rather elaborate model boat that he fancied trying his hand at making. Half an hour later Walter came in, so Mike had to give an account of his experiences, but was only part-way through when Muriel called them in for the meal.

"I see I don't rate the best cutlery," Mike chaffed.

"That's for tomorrow," Muriel replied. "You'll have the full fatted calf treatment then."

"Only it isn't calf, it's turkey," put in Walter.

Muriel was struck by a sudden thought. "Will you be coming to the midnight service with us?" It had never occurred to Mike that he might get out of it, so that was settled easily enough.

"Then I do think you ought to wear something a bit better than your travelling clothes." Mike was about to demur but caught a warning glance from Walter and after the meal had a thorough wash and change.

The church was already fairly full by the time they arrived, but Walter noticed a half-empty pew near the back and headed for it.

"Not there, Walter," Muriel murmured. "I shouldn't be able to see the vicar. There's room just up there." Neither Mike nor Walter could see the need for moving, as she had never made a fuss about sight-lines before, but there was no point in arguing and they let her usher them into the space indicated although it was scarcely wide enough for the three of them. In fact Mike found himself wedged rather more tightly than he really liked against a chubby girl of about his own age whom he vaguely recognised from his school days.

He had no particular objection to her, but found the situation a shade uncomfortable. Muriel had several time hinted that he ought to have more company of his own age, and he suspected a deliberate manoeuvre on her part. Catching a sly glance from her towards him reinforced his suspicions, and a wink from Walter confirmed them. Mike supposed she meant well, smiled at the girl and got a shy grin in return, then dismissed the matter from his mind.

The next morning he took advantage of the opportunity to lie in for once, and when he eventually arose found the dining table already set for the Christmas dinner, this time with the special cutlery. Muriel heard him moving about and called to him that there was toast and marmalade in the kitchen if he'd like it, and his usual cereal; would he prefer tea or coffee?

"Coffee, please.". He went through and commented on there being four place settings at the table; who else was expected? Muriel explained that she'd had a call from Ben Alsopp; his wife had been taken ill, badly enough to go into a Reading hospital, and he would be very grateful if the Cramptons could look after young Carol for the day.

"Why isn't she going too?" Mike wondered.

"I didn't ask. They were good neighbours to us when we needed them, and it's little enough we can do in return. We can't leave the poor girl alone on Christmas Day, after all."

Mike took the point well enough, but could not for the life of him remember any occasion for particularly needing good neighbours. He also realised that Carol had been his own neighbour at the previous evening's service, and without suspecting his mother of actual fibbing, wondered just how much real coincidence there was in all this. Walter kept a studiously straight face, which might mean anything or nothing.

Mike decided to do likewise, as far as he could. "Fair enough," was all he said about it, as he tucked into his cereal. "What time are we eating?"

"You'd better finish your breakfast before you worry about the next meal."

"It's just a matter of planning."

"Why, have you anything particular in mind?"

"No, but if I do happen to be doing something that needs concentration, I don't want to abandon it at an awkward moment."

"What sort of thing is that?"

"For goodness' sake," Walter interrupted. "The lad only wants to fit into your plans. There's no need to make an issue out of nothing."

"I wasn't making an issue."

"Look, Mu, you know you always want to have everything ready at just the right time and get anxious if anything upsets the schedule. We can best avoid getting into a tizzy if we know what you have in mind. When are you planning to get to the table?"

"Well, I've suggested that Carol should come about twelve, to give her time for a sherry and anything else she needs to do, and sit down about half past."

"Thanks, Mum, that's all I wanted to know."

"And Michael, will you please get into something a bit more respectable before then."

Walter sighed and gazed heaven-wards. There were times when he almost imagined he had married a clone of Mrs. Bennett from 'Pride and Prejudice', and sometimes said so when driven too far, but Christmas mornings were always a little fraught with her anxiety that everything should be just right. This wasn't the time to say anything that might raise tension any further. He glanced at Mike who had recognised the significance of the formal "Michael" and winked back at him. Walter nodded with relief and turned to the crossword in the previous day's paper, as often happened finding solutions to clues that had previously baffled him. When Muriel left the kitchen for a moment he suggested that they should take a walk out of the way so that she could get on with whatever she had to do by herself as she always preferred.

It was a frosty morning and Walter wondered how the ducks were faring on the pond in the park, so he risked disturbing Muriel enough to beg some scraps of bread for them. The pond proved to be frozen as expected, although fortunately none of the birds had been trapped, and they took flight as people approached. Returning to the pond they evidently had some difficulty in adjusting to a solid surface, several of them misjudging the approach and at first managing only a clumsy three-point landing on two feet and beak. Later they got the hang of it better, making it two feet and tail, still comical but decidedly more dignified.

Walter produced the bread and threw a few of the scraps, provoking the usual frenzied scramble among the ducks, much to the amusement of two young children who had approached with their mother. They jumped at the offer to feed the ducks themselves, squealing with delight that however turned to alarm when one drake decided to go for the whole bag. Walter drove it back to the pond and then had a few casual words with the mother before noticing the time and apologising for having to leave abruptly.

Mike noticed that he seemed rather thoughtful and wondered what was up.

"Oh, nothing to worry about. It's just that we could go back by way of the Alsopps' house and call for Carol."

"Oh?"

"Don't take alarm, I'm not trying to do any match-making - I leave that to your mother, and anyway it would probably back-fire - but if you don't mind it would probably help to break the ice a bit - no reference to the duck-pond." Mike though it could hardly do any harm, so they slowed their pace a little ("It wouldn't do to catch her not ready," said Walter, but they still did) and escorted her home.

After a nudge from Walter, Mike offered to take her coat and realised that she had dressed up more than he expected for the occasion. For once his mother had evidently been right, so while Walter offered a choice of pre-prandial drinks he nipped upstairs to change. He found a pair of trousers smarter than his habitual jeans and realised that he ought to wear the sweater that was his mother's Christmas present; fortunately there was no serious clash between them, not that it would have worried him if there were, but Muriel would probably object. He even wondered whether to wear the tie from his aunt the previous Christmas, but it seemed excessive and in any case he couldn't remember where he had put it.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough, and Mike actually volunteered to walk Carol home, which seemed to please her although she was rather quiet on the way. At her door she seemed to come to a decision, but then hesitated, and Mike wondered what was coming. Eventually she simply asked if he would write to her occasionally. He was unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved. On the spur of the moment he could think of no reasonable excuse and said he would, but refrained from the goodnight kiss that her manner suggested would be welcome. He was very thoughtful on the way home.

He was not much of a letter-writer but remembered his promise, if rather belatedly. A fortnight after returning to work he summoned up the effort to make a start, although he could think of little to write beyond asking whether Carol's mother was still in hospital and how well she was recovering. A week later he could still think of nothing to add so posted it as it was. The reply, embarrassingly prompt, was that she was home, progressing well and sent her good wishes. In fact there was an enclosed note from the mother also wishing him a happy new year and thanking him for saving Carol from what would have been a very bleak Christmas; she hoped he would come to see them on his next visit home. Mike wondered how much collusion there might be between the two mothers; the fathers, he was fairly certain, would be keeping well out of it.

There was a longer delay before his next attempt at a letter, as he could still think of nothing to say except about his work which was unlikely to interest her but the best he could do. Again the reply came quickly. Mike's mind blanked every time he tried to compose something appropriate, and the best part of a month had passed until during a telephone call home, Muriel wondered if he was all right and said that Carol had also been asking. He could make only a feeble excuse of being busy but asked her to pass on his good wishes; he didn't want to hurt the girl, who was pleasant enough in her way, nor for that matter to offend his mother. Neither did he want to involve himself any further or raise hopes that he had no wish to encourage.

As Easter approached, he realised that he would be expected home again and wondered how to deal with the situation. When the time came, however, he found it unnecessary: Walter told him that Ben Alsopp had taken the whole family off to Paris for the holiday weekend, ostensibly to put a bit of sparkle back into Madeleine's life after her long convalescence. That was a perfectly good reason, but he had privately told Walter that he understood the position with Mike and Carol, and thought it best to get her out of the way for this occasion; two birds with one stone. Afterwards - well, time would tell.

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## Chapter 2. Forster's Fortunes

Alexander Forster never fully recovered from his wife's death, although the marriage had been in no way a fairy-tale union, more a companionable arrangement between friends. Alex himself distrusted emotional entanglements and had remained unattached long after most of his contemporaries had formally paired up, several on the second time around. Anne Broadbent was a serious girl who had come through bitter experience to a rather similar attitude, although she secretly hankered after a touch of genuine romance and suffered spells of deep depression over the lack of it. Her parents had reluctantly concluded that she would probably be on their hands, problems and all, for the rest of their lives; it was not a situation they liked, but better than having her attached to any one of the wastrels who had shown an almost certainly spurious amorous interest.

Cyrus, founding chairman of Broadbent Holdings Inc., had in 1952 noticed Alex as a rising star among employees taken on after World War II and was anxious not to lose his services, especially to any rival organisation. He first invited Alex to meet the family simply to add a little social cement to the connection, although it was gratifying to see him apparently finding Anne a congenial conversational partner. Connie, his wife, immediately saw more possibilities, or more likely imagined them, and Cyrus felt compelled to warn her against pushing the two together prematurely. The likely effect of another disappointment on Anne's already shaky mental stability was something he dared not risk. Nevertheless, when a year later there had been no sign of any developments beyond the purely social, he himself ventured to hint that a son-in-law would be a not unwelcome addition to the family: friendliness, consideration and conscientious attention to duty might be less than Anne wanted, but much more reliable than rapturous infatuation.

Alex had not seriously considered the possibility, but when he did, recognised the practical benefits of a comfortable home, a compatible house-mate and a more securely-based position in the business. Anne's brothers, Ernest and Conrad, took a rather different view. Although Cyrus had given them good positions in the corporation, he could not altogether hide his disappointment with their performance, nor they their frustration at the lack of further advancement. A cuckoo in the nest was decidedly unwelcome.

To Ernest, the elder, it was a tolerable irritation since he recognised his own limitations and was content to work within them rather than make possibly expensive mistakes, an attitude that in the circumstances Cyrus reluctantly accepted as probably the course of wisdom. However, Ernest's wife, Sylvia, was more ambitious and made no secret of objecting to the preference given to the younger brother. She had a point since Conrad was not really so very much more talented, merely less free from illusions about his own ability. He especially resented Alex's favoured position, although for his own sake and simply in the hope of a favourable opportunity for satisfying them later, he kept his feelings about the intruder mostly to himself; his time would come, he believed.

For Alex, the marriage was a vast advance on his origins. Born in 1925 in one of the poorer areas of Idaho Falls, by hard work and innate intelligence he had worked his way upward under the strenuous urging of his formidable widowed mother, who had deliberately named him after the Macedonian conqueror and regularly made it clear that she expected great things of him. She was a devout member of a religious sect that saw no conflict between the worship of God and the enthusiastic service of Mammon so long as both were completely honest. After her death in 1949 the deity did not feature largely or often in his thoughts, but honesty had become not so much a virtue as a habit. His reputation for integrity served him well in his work, although it came with the penalty of torment whenever he recognised the occasional slip, however inadvertent it might be. It was not conscience, he simply could not bear to see himself in the wrong. Moreover, honesty of course included justice to himself, and he could drive as hard a bargain as anyone, but fulfilling his obligations under it was then a point of honour.

He now had greater material comfort than he had ever known before, though in view of Anne's temperament, whether he would have much emotional comfort from her was the subject of much speculation among their acquaintance. There was indeed some friction in the routine business of living together during the early months, but on the whole they worked through it well enough. In time they grew quite affectionate in an undemonstrative kind of way, very much more so than anyone had believed likely. It probably helped that neither had ever expected anything more passionate in the relationship.

One outstanding irritation, however, was over money. There was no shortage for ordinary purposes, far from it, but Alex occasionally wanted more for some particular venture than came readily to hand, and Anne had control of it. Cyrus was no fool and had seen many apparently more promising unions go disastrously wrong, so in giving the couple a very substantial nest-egg as a wedding present he had made quite certain that it was held in her name and that Alex would not be able to draw on it without her approval. Alex was slightly miffed but saw the point; he often wished, however, that Anne would treat it less like a dragon's hoard, and sometimes had to bite his tongue when he was tempted to voice the comparison.

To be fair, she had reasons for a cautious approach to its management. Although as a rule Alex was remarkably astute in his investments, she knew that they did occasionally go wrong. So of course did he, and took such contretemps in his stride, believing that he held a sensible balance between risk and opportunity; Anne however would not stand for any threat to the security of her dowry. Time and time again Alex pointed out that risk is inseparable from the human condition, and Anne admitted the point in principle but would still not countenance any but the most conservative investments imaginable. If Alex wanted to chance any of his own money that was not needed just then for more serious purposes, fine, but he wasn't getting his hands on hers.

Another, more personal, cause for Alex's concern was related to her continued difficulty in making or keeping real friends. Her amatory history, if it could be so called, had shown her all too clearly that the family's wealth made it hard to distinguish between real friends and parasites, actual or aspiring. The number of pirates that Cyrus had successfully repelled, two especially painful episodes in particular, moved Anne to cynicism about other more genuine acquaintances. It made for coolness on both sides, and however much she pretended not to mind the shallow nature of her contacts, she felt the lack of genuine affection in them more than she would admit even to herself, and the bouts of depression became deeper and more frequent.

In time she drifted back towards the bottled friendship that had given false comfort in her spinsterhood until she had recognised the danger and sought help to abandon it. The relapse that came some years into the marriage still fell short of alcoholism, and Alex was chary of criticising in case it might make matters worse. Cyrus, privately consulted, agreed. Connie, hoping for grandchildren that neither of her sons had so far provided, thought that they might ease the situation, but after two miscarriages medical opinion was that for all practical purposes the chances were negligible.

Nevertheless the marriage survived, so much better than might have been expected that after ten years Alex thought a special celebration was in order. Anne had long fancied a visit to Europe, and he decided that a fortnight away from work could be spared, so they arranged a tour briefly visiting France, Germany, Austria, Italy and finally England. After a quick round of the capital they fancied seeing something of the more traditional Old England, or whatever might remain of it in the mid-1960s, and booked into an Oxfordshire village hotel. That evening Anne was as usual taking much longer than Alex to prepare for dinner, so he left her to it saying he would see her in the bar. What he did not say was that although he was unlikely to prevent her from drinking too much, if nothing else he could keep a rough tally on her intake.

As he was ordering for himself, another American at the bar noticed his accent and commented on it, asking if he was alone.

"No, but my wife's still dressing."

"Oh, she'll be an age yet." Alex had to admit that it was all too likely, and his new acquaintance pressed him meanwhile to join a party celebrating a success at the university. Alex was reluctant to intrude, but the other, already fairly well lubricated, insisted that he couldn't leave a fellow-countryman out in the cold and practically dragged him to the table. Alex found this embarrassing, but the welcome from the rest of the party seemed genuinely friendly, and after introductions he asked what it was they were celebrating. The answer was way above his head, but he gathered that it was something to do with magnetic resonance, whatever that might be.

One of the party, who was getting some chaff from the rest for sticking resolutely to fruit juice and might therefore be supposed to have his feet still firmly planted on the ground, explained that it was a breakthrough that could have enormous technical and possibly commercial implications if the early indications were maintained and it was properly exploited. There was a problem, however, in the second part of the "If"; capital in the amounts likely to be needed was hard to find. Alex asked how much, and agreed that it was a tall order, but added that it was not impossible. In fact it might be ... At that point Anne appeared and Alex had to excuse himself, but took a moment to exchange business cards.

The next day they spent mostly in looking around the university buildings, and Anne had devised a route that covered her "must see" list in the most efficient manner possible, but a sudden downpour caught them unprepared in the open and ruined her hair-do. She insisted that it had to be repaired as soon as a tolerable hairdresser could be found. The best way to find one seemed to be in a trade directory, so once the shower had passed they looked for a telephone box. None had the Yellow Pages, so Alex bought a book in Blackwells and asked if he might consult theirs.

"Is it a local call, Sir?"

"Yes - at least I hope so."

"Then go ahead, with our compliments."

"It may take several attempts, I'm afraid."

"I dare say we could stand up to half a dozen." In the event three were needed before he located a salon willing and able to deal with the emergency, and that had to be later that afternoon. It would take about an hour, so Alex made another call. It was a long shot, but Bob Rothwell, his contact of the previous evening, happened to be available and would be glad to spare part of that time to give him an outline of his project. Alex thanked the helpful assistant profusely, spotted another book he was ready to buy, and both were happy. Anne however was greatly annoyed at having her carefully-arranged schedule disrupted and remained in an irritable mood for the rest of the day.

The session with Rothwell was brief but very interesting. Alex would obviously need a lot more information than could be garnered on such an occasion before deciding whether it offered a serious prospect of being a good investment, but he was sufficiently impressed by what he was shown to ask for more and promised to give it careful consideration.

"Supposing I'm still interested, and can organise the necessary funds, how soon will you need an answer?"

"There's no desperate hurry. We've a lot more to do before we're anywhere near going commercial."

"Six months?"

"Probably more like a year, maybe two, quite easily a good deal longer. Unexpected snags are always liable to arise in this kind of work. It's not like building a factory where any difficulties to be met are usually of a more or less familiar kind."

The sum required was actually more than Alex could spare from his own resources, and if he was to go any further he would need Anne's co-operation. On past experience it would be hard to get, but worth the attempt. He thought it best to wait until after her second drink that evening before broaching the subject. She took longer than usual to come down, and in bracing himself beforehand he took an amount of Dutch courage that he afterwards regretted.

When she did appear, Alex thought she seemed a little unsteady and wondered if she too had primed her system already, but kept the thought to himself and instead indulged her in a little game she often liked to play, speculating on the relationships and circumstances of other diners around them. Depending on their mood at the time, the suggestions might sometimes become scandalously fantastic, and he often wondered how close even their more sober imaginings came to the actual prevalence of adultery.

On that particular evening, when her interest in the game eventually flagged, he remarked as an opening gambit, "That guy I was talking to last night ..."

"Which one?"

"The one with the heavy spectacles and sideburns."

"What about him?" He wondered why her expression suddenly darkened, and in a more cautious mood might have dropped the subject for the time being, but as it was he felt committed and had to go on.

"He had an interesting project going, and while you were at the hairdressers I went to see him again."

"Oh, yes?"

"Of course there was nothing like enough time to go into it properly, but I got a feeling that it's definitely worth looking at more closely as a possible investment."

"Well then, go ahead and look at it. What's to stop you?"

"Nothing to stop me just looking. But if I decide it's worth taking an actual stake in it, he needs more capital than I can spare at the moment."

"How about going in jointly with anyone else?"

"Apparently all the usual sources have turned him down flat."

"Well, that's it, then. They must have their reasons. Why go on with it? Do you imagine you know something that they don't?"

"No, but I've a gut feeling ... Would you consider putting in say ..."

"If you think I'm going to risk a dime on a ploy like that, just on the evidence of your digestive system, you've another think coming. Forget it!"

It was the reaction he should have expected, but was not in a mood to leave it there. "Why not? Why throw it out like a bad potato?"

"I've seen that face before."

"You mean you know him already?"

"Not him personally. But that was the face on one of those skunks that tried to sweet-talk me into marriage when all he wanted was my money."

"Come on, Anne. You can't judge a man by his face - condemn him just because he reminds you of someone who tried to cheat you."

"Oh yes I can. Who's to stop me?"

Despite knowing that he ought to have left it there for the time being, he could not stop himself from going on. "Anne, that's no better than my gut feeling. You're being totally irrational."

"Irrational, am I? Was it irrational when I warned you about the Templeton business? Or Collinsons? You lost a packet on both of those."

"Just two out of dozens that turned up trumps. I've never claimed to be infallible - just right as a rule. Can't you trust me to be careful?"

"Frankly, no. This could easily be the odd one out of the next dozen."

Alex's alcohol-weakened patience snapped. "Anne, you're going on just like Ernest in one of his obstinate moods."

"Leave Ernest out of this. He's never done you any harm. And he's never come a cropper either."

"Only because he's never backed anything but certainties."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"It means he's missed a lot of good opportunities. Think of Prestons. Think of Walkers. They both made millions after he turned them down and Johnsons went in instead."

"I dare say he had good reasons."

"No, he was just being pig-headed."

That was too much for Anne. "That's enough. Pig-headed, was he? I'm not taking that from an upstart from nowhere."

It was a long time since he had heard that taunt, and coming from Anne it was especially hurtful, but he knew it was the alcohol talking. If she remembered she would probably apologise for it in the morning. "For goodness' sake calm down, Anne. I'm sorry if I offended you. We can talk about it after dinner."

"To hell with dinner. You can eat by yourself - if you can't find any other blood-sucker to join you."

"Anne, be reasonable. You had hardly anything for lunch - you can't miss dinner as well. You'll make yourself ill."

"I'll get on to room service. You can do what the hell you like." Swallowing the last of her third drink that he knew about, she stormed out of the bar. She must have been disorientated, as instead of heading for the lift she went the other way and stalked out of the front door, which on a balmy evening had been left wide open. Alex heard the braking squeal of the first car and the bang as the second passed the hotel, and rushed out to see what had happened.

He went with Anne to the hospital and, although warned that there was little hope, stayed by her bedside once what could be done had been. He desperately watched for some sign of consciousness, however faint, that might recognise a touch of affection, but none came before the nurse closed Anne's eyes and after a few minutes gently led him away.

It was nearly midnight when he returned to the hotel. The night porter, aware of what had happened, was deeply sympathetic and asked if he could provide some sandwiches. Alex had little appetite, but realised he ought to eat something and accepted; in the event finding that he did welcome them. Going repeatedly over the events was not at all what he wanted to do but he could not stop it, and it kept him awake for hours, but at some stage during the night exhaustion took over and he slept until about eight in the morning.

Everyone was concerned to make things as easy as possible for him The couple who had helped Anne had already checked out by the time he asked about them, so he could not thank them personally, but he did get their address from the register and would write to them. Better still, he would send a more tangible token of his appreciation. He wondered what might be acceptable in British culture, and asked the receptionist for suggestions.

"Hmm. That's a difficult one. I'm sure they wouldn't expect anything. Not cash, certainly."

"No, of course not. Insufferably crass. I was thinking about some kind of permanent memento."

"I rather think they'd prefer to forget. They were terribly shaken up."

"An expression of gratitude, then. You can't forget that sort of thing. To remind them of their kindness, not the accident itself."

"Well, I suppose that might be all right. Now I think of it, Mrs. Crampton did comment on the cutlery in the restaurant and ask about the make. I didn't know, but I could try to find out, if you like." He thought that a very good suggestion.

The return home was inevitably dismal. He dreaded the prospect of facing Anne's family, but it had to be done, and a strictly factual account of the evening's events seemed best. Cyrus and Connie, although stricken by losing their daughter, knew how erratically she could behave at times and accepted it as philosophically as anyone could, but the two brothers made no attempt to hide their belief that Alex was somehow responsible. Since he thought so too, it was not a matter to hold against them. What he did resent, very deeply, was Conrad's "I suppose you'll be looking for another heiress now," and it was all Alex could do to resist smashing him in the face.

The moment or two that it took to control his anger was covered by Connie's "Conrad! What a terrible thing to say! At this time especially. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Alex took a deep breath and corrected her. "No, Connie, if that's in his mind it's best out in the open. But Conrad, whatever you may think, and for all the trouble I had with her lately, Anne was very dear to me and I shall cherish her memory for ever. I shan't touch any other woman."

At that, Connie looked duly gratified, but Cyrus took Alex aside and remonstrated with him. "Look, Alex, I dare say that's how you feel just now, and I don't doubt you mean it absolutely, but it's a hell of a tall order. Not many men could stick to it for a year, let alone for life. I know you're strong-minded, more than anyone I can think of, but if you did slip up it would hit you all the harder for that very reason. You are taking this to an extreme, you know."

"Don't worry, Cyrus, I shan't fail. I swear - "

"No, Alex, don't swear. Promise if you must, but don't bring an oath into it. I for one wouldn't blame you over much for an occasional lapse."

So that is how it was left. They re-joined the others, Alex repeated his promise and Conrad, no doubt heavily prompted, gave a rather grudging apology. The two shook hands on it and the subject was never mentioned again.

Nevertheless the tensions within the business remained, with the brothers' long-standing resentment intensified by Conrad's lingering suspicions. They increased to the point where Alex decided in the fall of 1967 that he could no longer remain in the firm, and offered his resignation.

Cyrus was horrified. "What the hell for? Are you not satisfied with the opportunities here?"

"No, Cyrus, that's not it. It's just getting too difficult, working with Ernest and especially Conrad. They've never really accepted my position, you know, and it's getting worse."

"I knew there was a problem, but I hadn't realised it was that bad."

"I didn't like to trouble you."

"Hmm. I suppose they didn't either. I've always tried to keep the peace."

"Yes, I know, and I appreciate it. It's all that's stopped me going before."

"Is it, indeed? Then there's something you ought to know. Connie's been nagging - well, no, that's too strong - she's been trying for years to get me to retire, and she's at last persuaded me. I'm coming up to seventy two - "

"What? I'd have put you at ten years younger."

"No need for flattery, my lad, though it's true I've looked after myself. But I can't go on indefinitely, and I think Connie deserves a few years of full-time attention.. Keep it under your hat for the time being, but I'm planning to retire in December."

"I think that would be the time for me to leave, then. We can announce both together and all the reorganisation can be done in one go."

One thought troubled Cyrus. "I hope you realise, Alex, that you'll always have a welcome in this house as long as Connie and I are around, but perhaps you'd better choose your moment. And it would probably be a good idea to move away from here, though we'll keep a room ready for you whenever you may need it."

"That's very kind of you. You're all the family I've got, and I sure do appreciate it."

Alex had already reached the same conclusion about moving, and looked around for a suitable location to set up his own business. Rexburg was probably too close to avoid competition with his former colleagues, and after scouting various possibilities, he found a suitable niche in Billings, Montana. There was no desperate hurry, and he took a few months over the arrangements. By then Anne's estate had long been settled, with the bulk of it going to him, so he had a good fund of working capital. At the end of his first full day in the new office, remembering the difference in time zones, he made another call to Bob Rothwell.

Back to top

## Chapter 3. Garstein

Forster Associates (Billings) Inc. was a prosperous enterprise, although by the late 1970s it was only a minor part of Alex's business interests. After a shaky start his investment in Rothwell's venture had paid off handsomely, not only in itself but in introducing Alex to major players in continental Europe when substantially more capital was needed for expansion. He now spent most of his time there, with an office in Nuremburg and occasional forays into Austria.

While he was away on one of these trips in 1979, Cyrus was taken seriously ill and died within a week. Connie had messages about his condition sent to Alex's office, but unfortunately the clerk left with instructions to forward anything important had been taken into hospital with acute appendicitis and complications, too suddenly to make other arrangements. As a result, Alex received the news only on his return, and the best he could do was to telephone his condolences. By then the funeral was already over, but he brought forward his next visit to the States in order to give them in person to Connie and the brothers.

Although he would never say so, he strongly suspected that to one of them congratulations might have been more appropriate; Conrad had been openly chafing for years over what he regarded as his father's continued interference after a supposed retirement, and now he would have a free hand. Alex, who had heard something of the situation, commented privately to Connie that he thought Cyrus's idea had been to spend much more time with her.

She sighed. "Yes, that was what he intended, and I did see a lot more of him than before, but he was worried by rumours about the business."

"What sort of rumours?"

"Mostly that Conrad wouldn't take sensible advice and was sailing too close to the wind financially, enough to get into serious difficulties if conditions turned at all nasty. I told Cyrus it wasn't any of his business any more, but he said it wasn't just Conrad who would suffer if the balloon went up, and he must try to keep the firm out of the riskier speculations. I'm not sure it had much effect, though."

"Couldn't Ernest do something about it?" Silly question, he thought immediately after saying it, and Connie confirmed that although Ernest had been anxious, he never had much effective influence on Conrad.

In early 1981 the anxiety was found to have been amply justified when one of Conrad's wilder deals proved to have been not only commercially but legally disastrous. He kept it to himself as long as he could so as to make his own arrangements, and the first the family knew was a letter to his wife asking her to join him in São Paulo. For all his faults he had been a good husband to her, so rather tearfully and despite many arguments against it, Sally eventually went.

Meanwhile, over months of thorough investigations, several other instances of malpractice came to light. In the end and to great relief all round, they implicated no one else in anything worse than unquestioningly following apparently legitimate and reasonable instructions. Nevertheless, besides the damage to its reputation, the firm was still liable to substantial penalties. Together with the losses already incurred, and especially in the general recession that followed, they threatened its very survival.

Ernest, left in charge, did his best to sort out the mess but eventually conceded that it was beyond him. He raised only token objections when Connie took matters into her own hands and begged Alex to come in and deal with it even if it meant running the whole business. If any more dirt should be uncovered, it was best kept if possible within the family, as she still regarded him. It was to say the least inconvenient for Alex, needing very much more of his time, energy and resources than he was really willing to spare just then, but he felt under an obligation and his sense of duty compelled him.

By the time the firm was back on its feet three years later, he held the largest single stake in its equity. However, he was anxious to give more attention to his other interests that had suffered a little from neglect over the past year or so, so Ernest was left to continue as best he could. He might not be brilliant, an honest plodder would be a better description, but that was the kind of manager that the situation then demanded. Despite the uneasiness in the personal relationship that had never completely subsided following Anne's death, Alex considered him competent enough in routine matters and to that extent trusted him completely.

Nevertheless Connie was anxious that Alex should not lose touch altogether, and he in turn had a great affection for her, to the extent that with little sense of humour he often bridled at mother-in-law jokes told in his presence. He therefore returned more often than the demands of business really dictated. She once suggested that in the present circumstances it would be sensible to close his Billings office and consolidate the two concerns, but although he saw the point and promised to think about it, that was as far as it got. The old gut feeling told him that it might be wiser to maintain the distinction and again he followed it.

After one of these visits, he was preparing to leave when he heard on the radio that a prominent local business, Watermans Engineering, was about to file for bankruptcy. It was no surprise to him, as months before while considering it as a possible minor investment he had been given a tip that it was not as sound as it looked. However, shortly afterwards Ernest's wife Sylvia had bought a substantial block of shares in it. She had not asked his advice, nor even mentioned her intention, as at the time their relations were at one of their occasional low points, so he could not by any stretch of imagination be held to have any legal responsibility, nor more than the slightest trace of the moral variety. However, he had a vague memory of having heard her talk about the possibility, causing him to feel uneasily that perhaps he ought to have warned her when he heard about the suspicions and in failing to do so had let himself down a little. Although he knew the memory could easily be spurious, he could not entirely dismiss it, and the thought niggled him for the rest of the day.

Refuelling his car for the long drive north, he noticed on the forecourt one of the same model as he had first owned, and in an unwonted fit of sentimentality went across to have a look at it. There was evidently some problem as the driver was delving into the engine compartment, but emerged on hearing approaching footsteps and Alex realised that the face was faintly familiar. The other seemed to have the same idea; he looked surprised, then doubtful, and then said tentatively "Alex Forster, isn't it?" "Yes. I'm sorry, but who ...?" Then it clicked. "Garstein!" That wasn't the man's real name, but the only one that Alex had ever known him to use.

They had been near neighbours in their childhood, often walked to school together and became quite friendly. He gathered that the parents were Jewish immigrants whose families had drifted west after escaping the Ukrainian pogroms. The lad's grandfather had learned the hard way that being at all conspicuous was bound to invite trouble from one quarter or another, and on arriving in the USA had adopted a common English surname, much to his wife's indignation at this denial of the cultural heritage to which she was passionately devoted. Her grandson, deeply attached to her, had picked up something of the same spirit and to give it some practical expression insisted among his friends on being called simply Garstein; his "official" name was never mentioned except among the closest intimates, a circle to which Alex did not belong.

"Got a bit of a problem?" Alex asked after a minimum of the obligatory enquiries about each others' well-being since then.

"More than a bit, I'm afraid. She simply died on me. Just after I'd filled her up, too - maybe stirred up some crud in the tank, but I've a nasty feeling it's probably more than that. She's been playing up a bit lately. No wonder, I suppose, at her age. I had to push her away from the pumps. I was poking around in case there was something I'd missed before, but nothing that I can find. I'll have to leave her to be sorted out. Luckily I know a decent mechanic"

"Hard luck. Can I give you a ride anywhere?"

"He's within walking distance, but thanks."

"To get you home, then?"

Garstein grimaced. "It's not just round the corner, you know."

"I dare say. Where is it?"

"Way up north. Beyond Ashton."

"Well, I'm going that way in any case. No problem."

"What? You're not just saying that, are you?"

"No, I'm on my way to Billings, practically passing your door."

"Well, that would sure get me out of a pickle."

Garstein transferred a few packages into Alex's car and guided him to his friend's workshop. There he seemed to be taking rather a long time in the office, and Alex went across to see what was holding him up. "More trouble?"

"Yes, Joe's had to go to the dentist and the kid here doesn't know me. They've had some unpaid bills and won't take on any job without a deposit."

"You'd be leaving the car. It probably has antique value by now."

"Maybe, but it's not here, is it? He wants a deposit, and I ain't got enough with me."

"How much do you need?"

"Hell, I can't expect you to fork out after only just meeting."

"Never mind that; how much?"

"Well, if you could possibly lend me twenty dollars ..."

"Right, no problem."

On the way north Alex fended off Garstein's embarrassing gratitude by asking what he was doing these days. "Oh, this and that. There's a bunch here I do the odd bit of troubleshooting for."

"A sort of consultancy?"

"I suppose you might call it that. How about you?"

"Mostly finance."

"You must be doing fairly well out of it, if the car's anything to go by."

"Yes, I've been lucky"

"You always were!"

The fifty miles to Ashton passed quickly and Alex was about to take the turn-off into the town but Garstein told him to carry on. Three miles further they crossed a river; after another mile and entering a forest Garstein warned him to slow down, then pointed out a boulder beside the road on the left and told Alex to turn on to an ill-defined track just before it.

They continued along the track for perhaps half a mile, and Alex commented on being really out in the wilds.

"Yes, it is pretty isolated, but it happened to suit us when we built the place."

"We?"

"Oh, didn't I mention my wife? We did it between us." Alex was astonished. He remembered nothing of Garstein's being particularly adept at any kind of construction; on the contrary, the model aircraft he built invariably fell to pieces on crashing at the end of the first short flight (hand-launched, of course - there was no chance of a take-off from the ground), while his Erector models seldom looked much like the illustrations in the manual, and if mechanical never worked properly. Presumably the wife had been the brains behind the project, and very likely much of the brawn too.

Something curious had happened to the forest around them. For the first quarter-mile or so from the road, the trees around the track had been tall and healthy-looking, but now Alex remarked that those beside the track seemed to be getting more and more stunted and deformed.

"Yes. According to local legend, the land hereabouts was cursed in the distant past after the settler who lived here had killed the son of a shaman."

"Sounds a silly thing to do."

"It does, rather. There'd been a good deal of trouble between newcomers and natives who hadn't actually settled here but regarded it as their own province, and it was probably a part of that. I don't suppose there was much in the say of official justice around here in those days, but after a good deal of argument about what actually happened, the locals - the few of them there were - set up a sort of kangaroo court. The natives swore that it was deliberate murder, but no one took much notice of them, and the other settlers accepted the story that it had been more or less accidental when he caught the boy trying to steal a goat. They made him pay compensation, probably only nominal if there's any truth at all in the whole business, but he wasn't any too pleased even at that, and the father naturally was furious."

"What were they all doing in the middle of a forest, anyway?"

"Don't expect too much logic in a folk tale. But whatever actually happened, if anything, it's true that nothing will grow well in the ground just here, and that's odd, because most of the land in these parts is particularly fertile; it's famous for seed potatoes, of all things. But when Minna wanted a bit of garden, I found I had to bring in a load of soil from outside. It's more likely to do with some local peculiarity of mineralisation than anything the old shaman could have done or said, but that's just my theory - not even a theory, just a guess - and I've never had it tested."

The deterioration in the trees continued to the point of leaving an apparently natural clearing, very roughly circular and perhaps a hundred yards across. A little off-centre was the house, and Alex was pleasantly surprised; it looked well designed, and as far as he could see well built and maintained. Minna's contribution must indeed have been predominant. Then again, perhaps his memory of Garstein's incompetence might be a shade exaggerated. However, as they were drawing up on the more open side, he glimpsed a shed behind it that looked considerably more ramshackle, and a comment on its condition slipped out before he could stop it.

Garstein laughed. "Oh, that. It's just a shack we put up in a hurry to use during the main work. I was going to knock it down, but by then there was so much stuff we couldn't conveniently keep in the house that we left it. It came in handy, too, when we decided we couldn't really manage without a fridge and I put a small generator in there. Better than having the noise in the house itself. But I never got round to making a decent job of it."

"I must say it's more like I'd have expected from my memories of you at school."

Garsrein chuckled. "You know what? It's the damnedest thing. It wasn't until my army medical that it turned out I had extreme long sight. I simply hadn't been able to see properly, specially close to. That's why I had so much trouble reading."

"Didn't your family realise something was wrong?"

"Ma had had it dinned into her all her life that we must never seem in any way unusual, and besides, she probably couldn't bear to think that she'd produced anything defective. Pop never took much notice anyhow. But a simple pair of glasses made a world of difference."

Another thought struck Alex; "I wonder you got permission to build here."

"Permission? I never thought to ask. There'd been a house here before - that old settler's, I imagine - so we just went ahead and used the original foundations. No sense in starting from scratch when we had those, and we couldn't see any objection. In any case, no one else ever comes this way."

"You can't rely on that. It'd be best to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to yourself."

"You sound like my grandfather!"

"That was his advice, was it? Wise man."

Alex offered to help carry in the parcels, and Garstein insisted he should come in anyway for a coffee and to meet Minna. She proved to be a humorous, chubby little woman, delighted to meet an old friend of Garstein's and eager to provide coffee and cookies. They were of her own baking, of course, and Alex truthfully complimented her on their quality. She thanked him effusively for bringing her husband home, and Alex repeated that it was no trouble as he was passing that way for his own reasons. "Is that something you do often?"

"Occasionally, when I've business in Billings and Idaho Falls."

"Then you must call to see if we're in. And some time bring your ... Oh, there I go again, putting my foot in it as usual. I didn't ask if you were married."

"I was, but she died. Quite a long time ago."

That put a damper on the conversation, and soon afterwards Alex said he had better be getting along. Garstein saw him to the car. Alex noted with amusement that there was no suggestion of repaying the twenty dollars, but that was a triviality best overlooked; it could give the credit side of his moral account a slight boost that he felt it needed. Garstein had been looking rather thoughtful for the last few minutes, and on the way asked diffidently if he could beg another favour. "What's that?"

"I don't usually talk about it, especially in front of Minna, but my health isn't too good, and there's a chance I might drop dead any time without much warning. And there's something else: I sometimes have to go away for quite long spells, weeks or more. If you're coming by, could you call in to see that she's all right?"

With only slight mental reservations, Alex agreed. Apart from anything else, it gave an additional lift to his damaged self-esteem, and in any case it wouldn't really be any trouble unless he was in tearing hurry.

"And there's yet another thing. I'm really pushing it, but now I've started ..."

Alex wondered what was coming next, but told him to go on. "It's crazy, I know, but Minna and I have a particular fondness for the house itself; in a way it doesn't seem like just an inanimate possession, more a part of ourselves because of all the work we put into it, but something that will probably outlast us. When we're gone, if you're still around, could you see if anyone will look after it for us?"

"Well, I can't make any promises. I may be a wreck myself by then. But I'll keep it in mind."

"I can't ask more than that. Thanks."

Over the nest few years Alex faithfully kept his promise to call in on the increasingly infrequent occasions of travelling that way, and always found a hearty welcome. Once, however, Minna was there alone, and rather cagey about Garstein's whereabouts, disclaiming any knowledge of his work. Alex realised that any question about his activities had always been delicately side-stepped and wondered whether they were entirely legal, but that was none of his business and he never pressed the point. His next visit happened to be only a few months later; Garstein was back by then and Alex noticed a suspicious-looking scar on his forearm, explained as the result of a flying chip from chopping logs, but to Alex it looked more like a superficial gunshot wound.

That was in fact his last call at the house for many years. For a time he had been very glad to have kept his own business separate from Broadbents, as it enabled him to trust his judgement on investments that Ernest would never have countenanced, but now that his business was chiefly in Europe that consideration no longer had much force. In the current circumstances he realised that Connie's view had gained more, and he transferred the Billings office to his partner there who for some time had been dropping increasingly broad hints that he would like to buy him out. Alex kept thinking that he ought to make a special visit to Ashton, as it was little more than an hour's run anyway, but there was always some reason, or rather an excuse, for delaying. The cue for his next visit came from an entirely unrelated event.

One spring day in 1995 he had an urgent call from Connie to come for a family conference on a matter too delicate to discuss, or even describe, on an insecure line. Alex thought such caginess decidedly over the top, but knowing her almost obsessive concern for the family's honour, especially since Conrad had blotted the escutcheon, he though it most probably something to do with that. So it indeed turned out, though not in quite the way he had imagined.

When he arrived, to find that Ernest and Sylvia were already there and had been partly briefed, Connie told him that a Senhora Martinez had arrived from São Paulo with ten-year-old twins she claimed to have been fathered by Conrad. A query about it to his last known address had gone unanswered.

"Doesn't seem very likely," was Alex's comment.

Connie was not at all so sure: "He is getting on a bit, I know, but fatherhood in the sixties isn't so very unusual."

"I wasn't thinking so much of that. It just doesn't seem like him. I'd have called him if anything a bit puritanical."

"Well, yes. But people can change, especially in an alien environment. Think of Byron's dictum."

"What was that?" chipped in Ernest, who had never cared much for poetry but in this instance was curious.

"If I've got it right, 'What men call gallantry, and the gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry.' I suppose Brazil's sultry enough. The blood tests show that it's possible, although they can't give a more positive indication, of course. I know Conrad always seemed strictly ethical, but he gave us one nasty surprise. Cyrus used to say that morals are indivisible, and that a man who would cheat in his private life couldn't really be trusted in business, so I dare say it may work just as well the other way round."

"Maybe. We just can't tell. More to the point, now that the woman's here, what are her demands?"

"That's putting it too strongly. Let me give you the story as she tells it. She was widowed fifteen years ago - one of those casual street crimes you hear about - and went back to live with her parents. Conrad hired her to help in the house while Sally was ill a while back, and you can imagine what might have happened - I don't say it did, mind you, but he wouldn't be the first man to take unfair advantage in that way, and I don't suppose the last. When Sally recovered, the job finished and the woman was back with the parents. They're religious types of the 'Thou shalt not ...' school, and while they wouldn't actually throw her out after the twins' birth, they made it fairly clear that she was not really welcome. Somehow or other she managed to stick it for about three years, which seems to show remarkable resilience, but then a particularly snide remark made her snap. She managed to support herself and the kids until earlier this year, but then the economic crisis finally beat her. Conrad couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything to help because Sally would be bound to find out and he couldn't bear to face the music, so she decided to throw herself on our good nature. He provided her with our address and enough cash for her fare and a month's lodgings: at least he had the decency to do that."

"To pass the buck, you mean," commented Ernest sourly. "But it sounds as plausible as any story we're likely to get."

Again Alex asked what she was asking for. "Just enough to live on and give the kids a more or less decent education."

"So she's got her priorities right. She could hardly ask for less, if she's thought about it at all. I think we should give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, if she is telling the truth we do have some obligation towards her."

"I don't see why," Sylvia objected. "I know Conrad's my brother-in-law, but he did cut himself off pretty completely from the family. And supposing just for the sake of argument that there is an obligation, once you start giving her money you never know where it will end."

"That's right. So we don't give it to her; she earns it."

"What do you mean?"

"You hire her as a live-in maid and sponsor her application for a work permit. That way she gets a home for herself and the kids and a reasonable amount of pin money besides. We don't need to be niggardly - or over-generous, for that matter. I'm happy to chip in, if you like. If she's genuine she'll probably jump at it. If not, nothing doing."

Connie thought this a reasonable suggestion, but one thing bothered her: Betsy Fellows had been maid to the family for longer than anyone could remember, and how was she going to take it?

"That does need very careful handling. You probably haven't noticed, being with her all the time, but she's definitely getting rather frail. Hardly surprising, after all; she must be - what? Late sixties, at least, probably a good deal more. She could have retired long ago if she'd wanted to. All you can do is to make it as clear as you possibly can that there's no thought of putting her out to grass until she's ready for it herself, and the Martinez woman is to help, not supersede her. Then we just have to hope it will work out."

At that point Betsy herself appeared with coffee and cookies. There was nothing wrong with her hearing and Alex wondered how long she might have been just outside the door. He consoled himself with the thought that anything overheard in such circumstances was likely to be the truth, and hoped that Betsy would follow that reasoning.

Connie thanked her, then asked her to bring an extra cup and show Mrs. Martinez in. Alex wondered what to expect, and was pleasantly surprised by the reality: not by any means the floosie he had half expected, but a respectably if poorly dressed woman of about forty with a modest demeanour. After the introductions, Connie explained that for reasons she would probably understand, they had decided not to pay her off - the woman's face fell - but they had another proposition to put to her. There was room for discussion of the details, but in principle it was the only offer on the table.

The woman looked apprehensive but said she understood, and Connie described the scheme and its implications to her in some detail. It took a little while to sink in, but then she broke into smiles. "Ah, Senhora, it is much more than I had hoped. Thank you a thousand times!"

"Don't thank me; thank Mr. Alex - it was his idea."

"No, please don't," he said good-humouredly. "It would be too embarrassing."

She nevertheless crossed to him, looked into his face for a couple of seconds, then solemnly took his hand and kissed it. Alex bowed to her, and she returned to her place; dignity maintained all round.

This little ritual left a stunned silence, which after a few seconds Connie broke with "Well, I take it that that means you agree. I'll have a proper contract of employment drawn up and than we can start the application for a work permit. By the way, do you wish to be addressed simply as Senhora or by your name?"

"I am quite happy to be called Maria."

"Thank goodness," Ernest said. "I was afraid it might turn out to be something like Concepcion or Assuncion."

"Ah, they were my elder sisters."

"Were?"

"They disappeared five years ago."

"So there's no one left to look after your parents?"

"I have a brother who does what he can."

"I see." Alex looked thoughtful, but left it at that.

"Well, now," said Connie, breaking the mood. "I think we should introduce the boys to the family. Where are they, Betsy?"

"In the kitchen with Martha."

"Who is no doubt spoiling them rotten with cookies."

"Very likely," she said rather tartly, but then it was many years since she had had to put up with children in the house and the prospect must have been unsettling.

While she was gone, taking Maria with her, Alex raised a point that perhaps ought to have been considered earlier. If Maria's story were to be accepted wholeheartedly as true, then Connie must be supposed to be the children's grandmother and they should address her accordingly from the start; it would simply confuse them to start off with "Mrs. Broadbent" and then change over later on. On the other hand, employing Maria as a domestic servant implied a significant doubt about her story, and in any case it would be improper for the children of one in that position to treat any member of the family with such familiarity. That appeared to be the direction they were taking, but it would be best to have a conscious decision on it.

To Sylvia, Alex's query at last brought home a horrifying realisation. Although childless herself, she had never quite given up hope of pregnancy despite disapproving of artificial means; within her own mind if never mentioned openly, she could not wholly rule out the possibility of a miracle. For reasons never explained, Conrad's Sally had steadfastly refused to contemplate having children, something she had carefully kept quiet until after the wedding since she rightly suspected that otherwise Connie would have thrown some kind of spanner into the works. Sylvia could thus assume uniquely, however hypothetically it might be, the status of potential mother to the next generation.

With little imagination, she had not noticed the threat to that position posed by the arrival of Maria and her children. In fact it had never occurred to her until then that Maria's story might actually be true, still less that it might be believed. Now however it was being given serious consideration, and Sylvia's unthinking incredulity instantly flipped into total conviction of Maria's genuineness: the next generation had already arrived, and. the only shred of comfort for Sylvia was the doubt over whether it should be recognised as such. That must not be allowed to happen. She therefore insisted on maintaining a strict employer-employee relationship, and put that view forcefully without disclosing her real reasons. At bottom, she was ashamed of them. Fortunately for her, that was already the trend of opinion and it prevailed.

Evidently Maria shared it, as she was quite formal in introducing João and Felipe, who were both overwhelmed by the luxury of the house compared with anything they had known before and remained completely tongue-tied. It was immediately obvious that they and Maria would need a complete change of wardrobe, and Connie, sensing something of Sylvia's mood if not the reason for it, sought to engage her in the process by deputing her to supervise the shopping. All was of course to be charged to Connie's account. Maria thanked her profusely, and Betsy took her and the children to see their new quarters.

Alex was quite unaware of the storm he had unleashed in Sylvia's mind and before going to his own room, offered in all innocence a hundred-dollar bill for some extras, only to be overwhelmed by the fury of her refusal. "There you go again, crashing in like you always do," she practically screamed at him. "Why don't you, just for once, try minding your own bloody business for a change?" With that she stormed out, slamming the door.

Ernest looked horribly embarrassed and mumbled a barely-audible apology on her behalf. Alex was dumbfounded by the outburst and could only turn in bewilderment towards Connie. She, equally nonplussed, shrugged, sighed and said she had no more idea than he had of what it was all about. "I'd leave her to it for the time being, Alex. Anything else would probably make matters worse."

She was right, as Alex had already realised. However, Sylvia had unwittingly hit a nail on the head: there was one matter of business that he should indeed have minded but had neglected unconscionably for far too long. He could not remember the last time he had acted on his promise to look in on the Garsteins. True, he no longer had any other occasion for going that way, but it was not really much of an excuse for balking at so short a distance. The matter of Conrad's putative offspring had taken less time than he expected, and he had no commitments for the following day. Although there was no real call to explain the situation to Connie, he did so in any case and she agreed that of course he ought to go.

There was something else on his mind, too. "I've been thinking about the twins. If they're going to school here, they'll need pretty intensive tuition beforehand or they'll never catch up with their age group."

"That's true. I hadn't given it any thought."

"And have they any English?"

"I gather Maria tried to teach them some, but didn't get very far."

"So they'll need a crash course in that, for a start. At their age they'll probably take to it fairly easily, but I can't see Maria being able to afford it unless you're absurdly over-generous in the matter of pay - which I certainly don't recommend."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"Well, in a sense I seem to have taken over Conrad's position. I'd like to pay for whatever's needed to prepare the kids for mainstream education."

"That's very generous, Alex. Though I hate to think how Sylvia's going to react after this afternoon's outburst."

"It'll be best if she doesn't know anything about it. I'm not suggesting you should actually lie, but if you could somehow give an impression that it's all part of the remuneration package ..."

"I'll see what I can do."

With that out of the way, Alex turned his mind to the trip north. It was a long time since he had kept a car of his own for the relatively infrequent road journeys he now had to make in that area, but there was a standing arrangement with a hire firm and a quick telephone call confirmed that a suitable model would be waiting for him first thing the next day. That morning was crisp and bright, so that Alex was in a cheerful mood as he set off. He silently thanked whatever powers might be that he had not been cursed with a workaholic disposition and could enjoy the excursion without qualms, except of course for having delayed his visit for so long. The sun glinted off the tips of the mountains to the east, and he wondered how much snow there had been that winter. He noticed minor changes in the topography since he had last been that way; the odd side track had been upgraded or fallen into neglect, occasional buildings had been refurbished or half-collapsed, a previously uncultivated area was now being cropped. In a moment of anxiety, he wondered whether he would still be able to distinguish the marker to Garstein's track, as the boulder might easily have become overgrown with vegetation.

On that point he was quite right, and despite slowing down more than usual after entering the forest, he very nearly missed it. Undergrowth had invaded the earlier part of the track itself and the car could only just get through. Alex belatedly wondered if he would find anyone at home; for some reason the possibility that he might not had only just occurred to him. It was therefore with some relief that on reaching the clearing he noticed a wisp of smoke from the chimney.

Other appearances were less encouraging. The house had evidently not been painted for years. One of the gutters was sagging, and the down pipe broken near the base, although a sheet of tarpaulin had been tacked to the wall behind and a rough channel scraped out to take the water away. One broken window pane had been replaced by boarding, and some roof shingles had been displaced or were missing altogether. The general air of neglect was painful.

The step up to the front door creaked ominously underfoot, and Alex hastily shifted his position away from the centre. A first knock brought no response, but after a second, he heard a very faint "Come in!" from inside. The door had sagged a fraction away from its post so as to scrape against the floor, and Alex was chary of forcing it for fear of causing more damage. He squeezed through a minimal opening and after the brilliant sunshine outside, failed for a moment to see anyone in there; then he noticed a strangely shrunken figure wrapped in blankets in one of the two easy chairs. Garstein blinked myopically at him, and in a rather feeble voice said "Who is it? Excuse me a moment," then reached out a shaky hand to a pair of spectacles on the table beside him. Fitting them took some effort, but once achieved enabled him at last to recognise his visitor.

"Alex! It's good to see you," he croaked, after apologising for a fit of coughing. "I'm sorry I couldn't come to the door; if I move too quickly after a nap I'm liable to collapse, so I have to take it gingerly."

Alex mumbled something inconsequential; he was too shocked by the state of affairs to be altogether coherent. The room was hopelessly untidy. Half a dozen books had fallen from a shelf and been left in a heap on the floor, while several mugs were scattered around; some with dried remains of unidentifiable beverages visible in them. He thought of how house-proud Minna had always been, with everything neatly in its place, and depending on the season usually a few vases of flowers placed to brighten the room. Now the nearest thing was a moribund pot plant that Alex did not recognise.

Garstein seemed to sense his thought. "It isn't the same without Minna," he said. "You won't have heard, of course. She died about five years ago, very suddenly. I always thought I'd go first."

"Yes, I remember your saying so. You'll miss her badly, I'm afraid."

"Yes, I do" he fell silent for a while and Alex wondered what more he could say without being unutterably trite, but then Garstein went on. "And it isn't just missing her. I've let her down badly."

"How come?"

"It's rather a long story."

"Well, I'm in no hurry, if you can bear to tell it."

Garstein seemed eager to get it off his chest and started his tale, but was almost immediately interrupted by another fit of coughing, and Alex offered to fetch him a drink. Garstein started to accept, then suggested that if he could manage the stove, he could make a coffee for the pair of them. "Only instant, I'm afraid. I can't be bothered with the real stuff these days."

"That'll do fine."

Alex had to hunt for matches, but found them eventually, together with other necessary materials. He also had to wash a couple of mugs before using them, then took them through. "Right, fire when ready."

"OK, here goes. You never met Minna's cousin Lucy, did you?"

"I never met any of her family."

"No, of course you didn't; silly of me. Well, the two were always very close. She married a man called Tim Marshall, one of a business family in Rexburg. I don't know what position he had in it but he always seemed to have plenty of money and I got the impression he didn't do all that much to earn it. At any rate he seemed able to get away whenever he felt like it, and they were always going off on trips together. They often asked us to join them, all expenses paid. I was a bit uncomfortable about it - well, a good deal more than a bit - but it was kindly meant, not showing off at all, so we couldn't always refuse, and I must say that Tim did us proud."

"They weren't always expensive jaunts. One of their favourites was to drive over to the other side of the Tetons - do you know that area?"

"Not particularly well; nothing much apart from Yellowstone."

"Well, there's a fairly big lake over there - Jackson Lake - and a string of smaller ones. Near one of those is a spot that they particularly associated with a happy time in their childhood, and in fine weather they'd often up sticks, throw a few provisions into a hamper and make a day of it. Nothing much, just lazing around and chatting for the most part. Possibly the odd bit of fishing. I used to like those occasions; Minna would provide some of her baking, I could easily take along a bottle or two of something interesting, and I didn't need to feel a complete free-loader."

"One day we were held up on the way after a horrendous pile-up on the road. There were smashed-up bits of wreckage all over, and not a chance of getting through until it was shifted. While we were waiting I asked a patrolman what had happened. He wasn't completely sure, but as far as he could make out, a couple of young tearaways had decided to have a race. They were neck and neck and neither would give way when someone came from the other direction - a young family evidently minding their own business and perhaps not paying as much attention as they should to what was happening ahead. The mother was killed outright, two of the kids might survive but it wasn't very likely, and the father had a broken leg with a lot of minor injuries that were the least of his worries. It sobered us up, I can tell you. We had mortality very much in mind that day, and we got on to talking about what we wanted done with our own remains when the time came. I think it was Lucy suggested that we should be cremated and the ashes buried there where they'd spent so many happy times together, and everyone thought it a great idea."

"A few years later, Tim and Lucy had to go off to a family conference about a crisis that had been developing for years but suddenly blown up. There was a nephew, Carl, an amiable fellow but a bit of a dreamer with ambitious ideas that he never bothered to think through systematically. When a bit of extra money came his way he'd insisted on setting up his own independent business in Boseman and apparently assumed that he could run it more or less by the seat of his pants, relying as usual on his personal charm to get him out of any difficulties. It didn't work with his creditors, and it caused real trouble with the wife of one of them - probably nothing serious, but the other guy didn't see it that way. He'd never had an ounce of patience with any sort of discipline, and that included keeping proper accounts, so his affairs were in a hell of a mess but no one could tell just how bad it was."

"The idea of the conference was in the first instance to stop Carl switching about between blind optimism and black despair, get him to face reality, and then whether he liked it or not to set up a proper analysis of his actual position. Until that was done there was no point in attempting more than damage control. In the longer term, depending on just how crippling his liabilities might prove to be, they would try to stave off personal bankruptcy and see what if anything could be done about his business. Frankly I thought it a waste of time. I didn't believe there was a cat in hell's chance of getting him to run the show properly."

"Be that as it may, that evening Lucy phoned Minna to say that they'd made a good start and things didn't seem quite as black as they'd feared. Quite bad enough, but she was very cautiously optimistic about salvaging something from the wreck. She didn't say why, and we never found out any more because on the way back she and Tim were both killed in an accident. As we'd promised, we buried their ashes in the spot by the lake, and Minna made me swear to do the same for her if her time came before mine. I'd always expected to go first, so it seemed just a formality."

Garstein paused; he seemed to be having some difficulty in controlling his emotions, but after taking a gulp of his neglected coffee, managed to continue. "I was wrong, of course, but when she was taken from me I couldn't bear to part with what was left of her. I kept telling myself I'd do it when I didn't feel her loss so keenly, but that time never came, the months and years dragged on, and I still haven't done it. Now I'm too feeble and I've broken the one and only serious promise she ever asked me to make since our wedding." His composure finally broke and he collapsed into a losing struggle with his tears.

Alex thought it best to let the fit pass, but an idea had occurred to him. His conscience, much exercised of late by painful memories of past gaffes and misdemeanours, had been further troubled by realising how badly he had neglected his old friend; now he saw a way of restoring some of his self-approbation. He knew himself well enough not to mistake it for altruism.

"You say you're too feeble?"

"I know it isn't far really, but I couldn't drive that distance now even if the old car would make it, and I don't think that's very likely."

"But you'd be OK as a passenger?"

"Well, yes, I imagine so, but ... You aren't suggesting ...?"

"I've got the day free. It's a lovely run up there, and I'll enjoy it. How long would it take you to get ready?"

"No, I can't put you to all that trouble." But the refusal was only in the words, not the voice; Garstein's heart was obviously not in it, and little persuasion was needed.

"Have you a box for the urn?"

"No need. I'd rather carry it as it is, if you don't mind."

"Of course not."

He checked the back door, locked the front and clipped the keys to his belt loop. "It's just a matter of habit, really. No one ever comes this way, and there's nothing worth stealing in any case, but Minna always insisted." He found the urn, raised as though inviting her to take a last farewell of the house, then joined Alex in the car. In the same way as nearer the road, the forest undergrowth was encroaching into the clearing, but presumably because of the local infertility it was weedy stuff and scarcely impeded turning.

The trees cast heavy shadows, but the sun was quite high and the main road was mostly in sunshine, although little could e seen on either side. Garstein was silent and Alex reluctant to interrupt his thoughts, until they crossed the Henry's Fork river and the landscape opened out. At Last Chance Garstein commented that he and Tim often used to spend a day fishing there.

"Catch anything?"

"Tim usually got a decent trout or two. I never did much, but it was a pleasant day out. It let the women get on with their stuff without bothering us."

Alex, never an angler, remembered the apocryphal story of an old man's occupation while waiting for a bite: "Sometimes I sits and thinks, sometimes I just sits."

"Not much chance of that with fly fishing."

"No, I suppose not."

They crossed the continental divide and came to West Yellowstone. Alex asked if it was time to stop for a meal, but Garstein had dozed off and made no response. He stirred slightly when they stopped to pay the entrance fee to the park, and Alex took the opportunity to settle the urn a little more firmly in his arms but left it at that. He was however concerned; from his searches in the kitchen it seemed very unlikely that Garstein had been feeding himself adequately, so when they reached Old Faithful he insisted that they should have a respectable meal in the cafeteria. In any case the angle of the light, combined with drifts of vapour from the geyser overflows into the Firehole River, was making difficulties in driving and a break would be no bad thing.

The meal over, they hurried on past West Thumb, along the gorge of the Lewis river, out through the southern portal and on into the Grand Teton national park. After the dominance of lodgepole pine in Yellowstone, the more varied vegetation was a welcome contrast, especially with the afternoon sun picking out the brilliant green shades of the spring growth. Once past Jackson Lake, Alex had to rely on Garstein's navigation along minor roads until they came to a viewing point beside a smaller lake where they parked.

It was a clear, still day, and the lake was like a millpond, with only the occasional circle of ripples from a rising fish to disturb the image of the snow-capped Tetons beyond, but time was passing and Alex was becoming too anxious about the approach of nightfall to spend much time admiring the view. Garstein, who had been rather abstracted for the past half hour, suddenly asked if Alex had a spade. Neither of them had thought of that before setting off. As it happened there turned out to be a snow shovel in the trunk, not very good for the purpose but perhaps a little better than nothing. Behind the tool kit Alex also found a large cabinet screwdriver that a previous user of the car must have left behind and might be better for loosening hard ground. What he really wanted was a mattock, but he would have to make do with what was available.

Garstein took a while to get his bearings, as he remarked that things had changed considerably since his last visit, but eventually found the peculiarly twisted stump that marked the beginning of an indistinct path through the trees, not quite parallel to the shore line. It was even more overgrown than his own home track, and Alex rather wished to have worn tougher clothing but said nothing. After about half a mile they came to a glade where a gap in the surrounding forest gave a narrow view of the lake and mountains.

In the centre was a stubby square pillar, about three feet high and slightly tapered up to a slab on the top that looked as though it might at some time have supported a statue or other adornment. The whole had once been painted white, but much of the coat had peeled away while what remained was now stained and shabby. There seemed to have been some sort of inscription carved into the stone, but Garstein said they had never been able to make anything of it and it might have been merely an abstract design.

Embedded near the foot of the pillar were two fairly large stones that Garstein said marked the locations of the Marshalls' ashes. He would have liked to place Minna's urn next to Lucy's, but he could not now remember for certain which way round they were, and it was not especially important. He hunted around for a third similar stone, but found nothing of the kind in the glade and had to search further afield. Meanwhile Alex attacked the ground at what he judged to be a suitable spacing from the existing interments. As half expected, the snow shovel proved completely useless, and he found the best way to proceed was to break up the soil with the screwdriver and scoop it out with his fingers. He tended to lose as much as he removed, and progress was painfully slow, so that he toyed with the idea of placing the urn on its side rather than upright, but abandoned it as insufferably disrespectful. In any case it would mean widening the hole, which would be almost as troublesome as deepening it.

Eventually he had a hole adequate to take the urn, and checked that it could be stood stable and upright with room for what he hoped would be an adequate overlay of soil, but took it out again so that Garstein himself could perform the final ceremony in whatever manner he chose. That immediately raised the question of where in fact was Garstein? Alex had not checked his watch on arrival, but the man must have been gone the best part of an hour or even more, and the prolonged absence was worrying. There would be no point in searching as he had no idea in which direction to go, calling Garstein's name met no response, and Alex was at a loss to think what he should do. Fortunately his quandary lasted only a few more minutes: he heard clumsy movements approaching, and soon afterwards Garstein appeared.

Alex's relief was tempered by anxiety as Garstein was breathing heavily and evidently in some physical distress. On Alex's insistence he found a log to serve as a seat and rested for a quarter of an hour until he seemed to have recovered as well as was likely. However, he did have a stone: after much searching he had found a tree, evidently uprooted by a gale, leaving a pit in which was just what he wanted. The problem then was finding his way back, as he took a few false directions before realising his error. He apologised for the anxiety his prolonged absence must have cause, and Alex untruthfully assured him that it was no matter for concern.

He then showed what he had done. Garstein approved, took from his pocket a small article that Alex could not see distinctly but supposed to be a favourite trinket of Minna's, put it in the hole, packed it round with soil and reverently positioned the urn over it, then stood for a few minutes with head bowed in almost silent prayer. Alex wondered how long Kadish was supposed to take, as the sun was sinking towards the mountains. Eventually Garstein ceased praying, gave an immense sigh of relief, and thanked Alex profusely for taking a colossal weight off his mind. After that a reaction seemed to set in and he started shivering violently. Alex insisted that he should rest, and got him to sit propped against the other side of the pillar while the loose soil was replaced and tamped down with the stone in position. He seemed recovered enough by then for Alex to leave him and wash his hands in the lake; it took longer than expected as the gap between the trees was obstructed by fallen branches, and twenty minutes had passed before he returned.

He found Garstein still propped against the pillar, his head bowed. "Are you ready to go?" went unanswered, and Alex anxiously raised the head. Garstein was calmly smiling, but there was no trace of any pulse.

Alex was again in a quandary. He had no idea where he might get medical attention, and anyway it was almost certainly too late to do any good. He very much doubted his own ability to carry the body back to the car along that heavily-obstructed path, and after a sudden death should it not be left undisturbed pending investigation? Then again, not as a legal consideration but weighing very much more heavily in Alex's mind, Garstein had been extraordinarily reluctant to be parted from Minna's ashes, and having at last kept his promise seemed completely at peace where he was.

The light was beginning to fade and he decided to let things be for the time being. Just as he turned to go, he remembered one further near-promise he himself had made ten years earlier: to take care of the house. With the utmost care to avoid unnecessary disturbance to the body, he unclipped the keys and put them in his pocket.

Back at the viewing point he took another look at the marker stump, and thought it reminded him of some well-known figure but could not think what. It was a total irrelevance, of course, but for some reason it seemed important to him so he made a fairly accurate sketch of it in his diary. Subsequently he kept it safe, but never managed to identify the original, if indeed the whole idea was more than an aberration of his own mind.

He ought of course to report the death, but to whom? The nearest possibility would be in Jackson, and that would be on his best way back to Idaho Falls, so he set off southwards. In the town all public offices were of course already closed for the night, and he could find nowhere where he might sensibly make his report, so he carried on over the Teton Pass and through Sun Valley back to the Broadbent mansion. He would sleep on it and think tomorrow about what to do next.

He was no clearer in his mind the next morning, and asked Connie's opinion of the situation. Taking together the facts that Garstein's real name was unknown, he appeared to have had no living relatives, and the remains lay in an unfrequented spot in Wyoming, she frankly thought it most unlikely that any official in Idaho would want to know about them with all the bureaucratic complications that might ensue. Letting the matter rest would do no harm to anyone, and that was what she recommended. With some considerable misgivings, Alex concurred.

He had a lot of business in Europe, so that it was the next spring before he could again make the journey to Ashton, and he wondered what might be the condition of Garstein's house. After almost a year there was almost certain to be some deterioration through natural causes, and quite possibly damage by human agency now that the place was unoccupied, so he was relieved to find no sign that anyone had entered or even approached the clearing since his last visit, nor of more than trifling structural failures. The key turned in the lock with no great reluctance, and everything seemed much as he remembered it except for a foul smell in the kitchen. Of course, the generator had run out of fuel and food in the refrigerator had rotted. Fortunately it was all wrapped and not too disgusting to take a little way into the forest for burial. If the bears detected it and fancied digging it up, they were welcome.

It came home to him that keeping his word to Garstein would need more attention than his irregular visits could afford, and he wondered how he might go about arranging some more systematic care-taking. After much thought he decided that an enquiry at the Post Office was the most promising line of approach, so he locked up again and went back into the town. He had been wondering what kind of story to tell; he objected on principle to lying, and besides, improvisation carried serious risks of conflicting with facts known to others but not to himself, so there was the least danger of coming unstuck if he kept as close as possible to the actual events without revealing the risky parts of them.

Half a dozen customers were waiting at the counter, and two or three more came in while he was waiting, but he waved them ahead of him as his business could be more time-consuming and he did not really want it to be overheard by anyone not directly concerned. After they had left, he asked if the counter clerk could spare him a little time to advise on a rather difficult situation. "Sure, pal, what's the problem?"

"Well, I've just come back from a long trip abroad and found something left for me with relatives in Idaho Falls." He did not need to mention that it was he who had left it there. "It was a set of keys belonging to an old friend who was convinced he was dying and had no one else he could ask; would I do him the favour of looking after his bit of property near here? For personal reasons he had a strong sentimental attachment to it and couldn't bear the idea of leaving it neglected. I've just been to check, and it looks as though no one's been there for months, so I take it he was right about dying. Now obviously I want to do what I can to keep my promise, but I'm out of the area too much to keep a regular eye on the place, and I wondered if you could suggest where I might find someone reliable to do it for me. They'd be paid for it, of course."

"Hmmm. Do you mind if I ask where this property is?"

"In the forest, to the west of the highway about five miles to the north."

"Sounds rather like the old Garstein place."

"That's it!" This was an enormous relief; whatever its legal status might be, Garstein's living there was evidently known and accepted without question. A whole range of possible complications had been wiped out in an instant.

"Well, now," the clerk continued, "I think you may be in luck there. Iris Carter used to be very thick with Garstein's wife - Minnie or something like that, wasn't it? - and don't tell her I said so, but I happen to know she could use a little extra regular cash. She's as honest and reliable as anyone I know. Shall I call and check whether she's in just now?"

"That'd be very kind of you."

"Right. Oh, just to be on the safe side, have you some ID?" Alex produced his driving licence which the clerk duly noted in his log before making his call.

"Iris? Hi there. It's Steve Hall at the Post Office. I've got a guy here who's been asked to look after Garstein's place ... Yes, it seems he died a little while back ... No, I don't know any of the details ... Anyway, the point is he can't make a proper job of it personally and he's looking for a sort of part-time caretaker. Might you be interested? ... Right, shall I send him along now? ... Right-oh. His name's Forster, by the way. 'Bye."

"Sorry, Sir, I rather jumped the gun there - got carried away a bit. Would you rather have explained your business to her yourself?"

"No, it doesn't matter in the least - saves me the trouble, in fact. I'd been wondering how to go about explaining it and you've done far better than I should. You've been extremely helpful, Mr. Hall - thank you very much indeed."

"You're very welcome. Now I'll just draw you a quick sketch map ..."

He did so, with a little verbal explanation, Alex shook hands with him and followed the directions to the Carters' house.

Iris Carter was a plump, rather worried looking woman, apparently in her mid-forties but quite possibly five years or more either side, who greeted him with "Mr. Forster? Come on in." The house was simply furnished but neat and evidently well kept, which was a promising start. He explained that in rather peculiar circumstances he wouldn't bother her with, Garstein had asked him to take care of his house, and it was a responsibility he took seriously. However, he spent most of his time away from there, often out of the country altogether, and in his opinion the task needed more regular attention than he could give it, say a quick visit every couple of weeks and something more thorough every few months or after a storm. The idea was to keep the place reasonably clean, check for damage and make the necessary arrangements for repairs. Quite a lot of those would probably be needed straight away after several years of general neglect. He would set up a maintenance fund on which she could draw with the approval of his attorney, and for herself he offered the monthly payment that Connie had suggested might be the going rate; would that be acceptable? "Quite satisfactory, Sir, thank you."

He asked if she had time for a visit to the place so that he could point out some things he had already noticed needed attention. "It'll have to be fairly quick one, I'm afraid. Joel's due back in a couple of hours and I don't want him wondering where I've got to

"Your husband?"

"Yes, and he expects a meal ready when he comes."

"Right, let's get a move on."

He was not in the mood for idle chatter but eventually felt that some attempt at conversation was called for on the way. "I believe you knew Garstein fairly well, Mrs. Carter."

"Oh, for goodness' sake call me Iris. I can't bear formality."

"Right, then, Iris. Was that right?"

"Yes, although it was Minna I was really friends with."

"I remember her particularly for plying me with cookies whenever I visited."

"Yes, she was very proud of those."

"She was right to be." That exhausted Alex's ideas for a while, but approaching the river he commented "You'll miss her, I imagine."

"Yes, it was a great shock when she died."

"What was it? The cause, I mean. Garstein didn't say."

"Pneumonia, I think. Quite sudden. He never got over losing her."

"I know." He was about to elaborate, but realised it might stray into dangerous territory, and was saved from indiscretions by having to look for the marker.

Approaching the clearing he commented on Garstein's scepticism about its having been cursed by a long-dead shaman. "Oh, that old story! I don't believe a word of it. Though something's wrong with the soil, no question about it. Joel once took a bucketful to see if anything would grow in it, and it was pretty useless. Seeds never germinated, plants generally died within a week. Nothing thrived."

"So you think Garstein may have been right about something noxious in the mineral content?"

"I dare say. It seems as likely as anything."

Alex pointed out the various things about the house that he had noticed needing attention, and Iris thought that Joel could deal with most of them. "Then do make sure he charges the proper rate for the job."

"OK, if you insist."

"I do. Not over-charging, mind you." To avoid offence he made that humorous.

"He'd never do that, I'm sure."

In a kitchen drawer he found a spare set of keys and entrusted them to her. "I'm glad I found these; it means I can keep the others and don't need to bother you if I ever turn up unexpectedly."

That was a new idea to her. "Do you think you'll be using the place, then?"

"I hadn't given it much thought, but it might be convenient on occasion." It might indeed, he thought privately. Connie had always insisted keeping his room ready, but although she was remarkably sprightly for her age, she was probably well into her nineties and he strongly suspected that after her passing Ernest and Sylvia would be considerably less welcoming, especially after the events of the previous year. "Yes, Iris, I see what you're driving at. I think it would be a good idea to keep a bed made up and a basic stock of imperishables in the place for the odd occasion when I might need it."

"Right, I'll see to it. Long-life milk, dry biscuits - matzos perhaps - tins of corned beef, coffee, sealed packets of cheese that would keep long enough to rotate with my own stock, that sort of thing ..."

"You've got the idea."

"Right, I'll do that."

Returning to the town, Alex gave her two hundred dollars to be going on with and promised that back in Idaho Falls he would get his attorney to send her a proper contract, nothing complicated of course, which he was sure would be a pure formality but would put the arrangement on a business-like footing. It would include all the details of payment for anything beyond the basic retainer, which would be automatic. "And if there's a problem with anything in it, I'm sure it can be sorted out amicably."

"So am I, from what I've seen so far. And thank you very much for your trust, Sir."

Back at her house, she asked if he would stay to meet Joel, assuring him that he wouldn't be in her way as she prepared the meal, but he declined, being anxious to start things moving on their agreement. He was much easier in his mind travelling south than on the outward journey, and the first thing he did on his return was to call his attorney's office to arrange an appointment with Mr. Weinberg for the next day.

Ushered into Weinberg's office in the morning, he was astonished to find a man vaguely familiar in appearance but about thirty years younger than he expected. "You surely haven't had a face lift, have you, Joe?"

Weinberg laughed. "Obviously you haven't heard - I'm sorry about that. I'm Harry Weinberg. Pop had a stroke in the New Year; he's made a good recovery but decided he'd had enough, so I was brought in to fill the gap from an associated firm in Rexburg. Are you happy for me to take over your affairs?"

"Well, if you do as well as your father, I'll have no complaints. Give him my good wishes, by the way."

"Thanks, I shall. I haven't his experience, of course, but I'll do my best. Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

Alex explained the story of Garstein's request, skated over the circumstances of his death, and detailed the arrangement he had made with Iris Carter to look after the place. What he wanted was in the first place to make a legal contract with her, and then to set up the maintenance fund that he had promised. Would Weinberg be ready to administer it on his behalf? It would mean approving unusual items of expenditure, of which there would probably be a great deal in the early months if not for much longer, and an occasional visit to see what was actually being done with the house. He had at first intended only to maintain it in more or less the same condition after essential repairs, which was clearly all that Garstein had contemplated, but on reflection he might want to make some more extensive improvements.

"Well, that doesn't sound unduly onerous. But building work isn't my forte. I know a good man in Rexburg who could deal with that side much better, and of course he's that much closer as well."

"Trustworthy?"

"Very much so, in my experience."

"So be it, then."

"But one thing puzzles me: you've only taken on the job of looking after this house, but you talk of possible improvements. Who actually owns it?"

"I imagine the land belongs to the State, though it seems there was some question over whether Garstein had any right to build there in the first place so I haven't pursued it. The house itself - goodness only knows. He doesn't seem to have had any natural heirs."

"It sounds like a case of _res nullius_ \- nobody's property. From what you say it seems very unlikely that there are any official deeds, or unofficial ones for that matter if such a thing could exist. I'd better make some discreet checks."

"Very discreet, I hope."

"Of course. But as it is, you are clearly exercising the responsibilities of ownership, and I imagine if the question arose you could make a pretty convincing case for the rights that go with it. Though I gather you don't want to press the matter."

"No, I don't want to risk stirring up things that I might regret. Let sleeping dogs lie."

"Right, I understand. I'll draw up the necessary paperwork. One thing - what's the name of the house?"

"Everyone seems to refer to it simply as 'Garstein's place'. I don't know that it has any other."

"Well, 'Garstein's Place' will probably serve as well as anything, though to be on the safe side I'll qualify it as 'known as' in the document. "

"Fair enough."

The first time that Alex did stay overnight in the house, a couple of months later as a trial rather than from necessity, brought home to him that the amenities indeed left a very great deal to be desired. The few electric lights were of low power, in the bedrooms and by the back door; otherwise the basic oil lamps were fiddling to use and at best barely good enough for reading; the wood stove in the kitchen was probably just about adequate for cooking, and spread enough heat into the rest of the house for an ordinary summer evening but no more; there was no way of telling how much water had been pumped into the storage tank in the loft until it overflowed, and some sort of indicator was needed - a possible design basis occurred to him. Worst of all was the privy, a small hut outside over a hole in the ground. What it would be like in the northern winter did not bear thinking about, and how Garstein and Minna had fended off pneumonia for so long was a mystery.

He consulted Joel Carter, who seemed know about such things, and between them they concocted a programme of improvements that Carter could either put in place himself in his spare time or get done by specialists. When Carter totted up the likely costs, including on Alex's insistence what he considered a reasonable charge for his own time and effort, they came to a sum that alarmed him, and he asked whether Alex was really sure about it. "Oh, yes, there shouldn't be any difficulty there."

Joel was still more than a little nervous about it, and later confided in Iris that he had two worries: was the money really there, as he didn't want to be left with unpaid bills especially on the scale involved, and if it was, where did it come from? Iris thought that anyone who had put so much trust in them on such slight acquaintance must be trustworthy himself, and Joel conceded that it looked probable, but the argument was flimsy. "Well then, the next time you have to go into Idaho Falls, why not ask to see Mr. Weinberg and explain your worries?"

When it came to the point, Joel was rather diffident about expressing them, but Weinberg understood well enough. "You're anxious in case he's in drugs, illegal arms or prostitution, I suppose."

"Well, something like that."

"You're very wise to want reassurance." That cheered Joel up immediately. "But you've no need to worry. Mr. Forster's business interests are perfectly legitimate. I can't go into detail, of course, but I don't think he'd mind my saying that they're mostly a matter of helping to start up a new business venture in return for shares in it, waiting for it to become successful, and then selling the shares at a profit."

"But what if the new business isn't a success?"

"Then he loses out. But that happens very rarely; he seems to have a nose for the ones that are going to work out well. The sums that can be made that way are sometimes quite staggering. I'm not saying he's in that league, and certainly not that the sort of figures you mention would come out of petty cash, but they wouldn't put any strain on his position. He's not a man to let them, according to my father, who knew him pretty well."

Joel was greatly relieved by this and relayed it to Iris when he returned home, but to his surprise she was rather doubtful. "It's really a kind of gambling, isn't it?"

"In a way, I suppose it is, but there's skill in it, not just luck, and it's used for a good purpose."

"That depends on the kind of business he funds."

"We've been assured it's legitimate."

"Yes, but only by his lawyer. He'd be bound to say that."

"Well, I've made some enquiries about Weinberg's firm and it seems to be well respected but on the old-fashioned side - the sort I like to deal with, not one of these modern sharks. Do we really have to poke our noses in any further? Anyway, when we talked about this before, you were all for trusting Mr. Forster. What's made you change your tune?"

Iris had no real answer to that, just vague anxieties. She could only repeat a quotation she had read somewhere about great wealth rarely being achieved without some sharp practice. "But 'rarely' doesn't mean 'never'. And from what Mr. Weinberg said, we're not talking about really great wealth, just enough for the work on Garstein's place to be easily afforded."

"That seems a pretty monstrous amount to me."

"Oh, well, have it your own way. Fret about it if you must, but don't expect me to lose any sleep over it. And whatever you do, don't go and offend either of them with your fancies. I've a feeling there are hard times ahead, and we'll need all the friends we've got."

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## Chapter 4. Inheritance

Connie died just before her ninety-seventh birthday, but kept her faculties well enough until very near the end. Alex's forebodings about the attitude of Ernest and Sylvia afterwards proved correct, especially after the reading of her Will. She had already purchased an annuity for the maid Betsy; otherwise she left the whole of her estate "in two equal parts to my son Ernest and to my son-in-law Alexander Forster, who has been like a son to me and whom I name as executor as being the more capable of the two." That last phrase particularly irked Sylvia, and Ernest was none too pleased although inwardly he recognised the truth in it. Even Alex thought it unfair since such a task was well within Ernest's capabilities, and said so, but for his pains was sharply told not to be so damned patronising.

More materially, Sylvia's expectations were shattered by the division of the estate, since in her usual thoughtless way she had confidently assumed in the absence of Conrad (who like the Prodigal Son had already taken his share) that it would pass entirely to Ernest and herself. She urged Ernest to challenge the Will on the grounds of undue influence, but he thought success very unlikely and their attorney agreed. Everyone took it for granted that they ought to keep the family home, and Alex had at first intended that it should be substantially undervalued in the assessment of Connie's estate, but in view of their stance he hardened his own and took an average of two estimates commissioned by their respective attorneys. That left him with the greater part of the family share in the business and its revenues.

With much lower income than she had expected, Sylvia decreed economies, the first being that the Martinez woman and her brats must go. Where they went was not her concern, but Maria appealed to Alex who felt obliged to do something for her in view of his hand in setting up her position, and considered carefully what it should be. There was clearly no point in asking Sylvia to reconsider her decision. He thought of finding another house for them, or rather for himself in Billings with Maria as resident housekeeper, but then remembered that in winter she suffered from the northern climate and had several times compared it unfavourably with São Paulo's.

Instead, after enquiries about conditions there, he set up an account for her with a sum sufficient to buy a modest house in a tolerably respectable area of the city, and found for her the address of an agent his contacts believed to be as honest as any she was likely to find. He also set up a trust fund for the twins' education, with a margin for subsistence. From Betsy's initially grudging acknowledgement of Maria's attitude to work, he believed (or rather hoped) that she would not take long to find employment paid well enough for a living standard suited to the district. She was full of gratitude and assured him that like Connie, he would always be remembered in her daily prayers. Well, they could do no harm, and were certainly preferable to the curses that he thought might be directed at Sylvia and Ernest. With that in mind, he suggested that she might also pray for them as well, since for all their blessings they were not a happy couple. Her first reaction confirmed his suspicion, but on a moment's reflection softened just a little. "It goes against the grain, Senhor, but I shall do it for your sake."

Thereafter, when he had business in the area, he would stay in a city hotel if the meetings were particularly early or late, but more often preferred the peace and solitude of Garstein's place. He gathered a small library of paperbacks that would not matter greatly if spoiled by damp in his absence. With the improvements he had made to the facilities, especially a few Tilley lamps to improve the lighting, he could happily spend the evenings reading.

Some months after Connie's death, it occurred to him that he ought to revise his own Will, which had been made about ten years earlier under very different circumstances. The main legacy had been to Ernest and Sylvia, so that could be deleted for a start. There were bequests to various charitable or cultural organisations, and with some adjustments to the selection he corrected these in line with inflation, then doubled or tripled them. The results were still small in relation to his current wealth but in most instances a substantial part of their annual budget. A portion of his estate could of course go to the Martinez family, but he was anxious to avoid the dangers of swamping them with a sudden massive windfall and restrained his inclinations. That still left the great bulk to be reassigned, and he pondered very carefully how that should be disposed. Now that the Broadbents were dead or estranged, he had no close friends, and knew that various other people who had been especially kind to him were also now dead, but then he suddenly thought of the Cramptons; yes, why not? A letter to the only address he had for them went unanswered, but they could have moved house. He explained his intention to Weinberg, already appointed executor, and inserted in the Will an instruction to commission a search.

*****

Mike Crampton received hardly any but junk mail in the ordinary way of things, and the official-looking envelope that landed on his doormat on the Thursday before the spring Bank Holiday of 1999 took him completely by surprise. The return address meant nothing to him, and he spent a good five minutes debating the possible nature of the contents before admitting defeat and opening it. Inside was a single sheet under a solicitor's letterhead to the effect, once he had cut through the legal jargon, that if he were to present himself at the firm's offices with his birth certificate, it was just possible that he might learn something to his advantage. To save time it would be helpful to make an appointment by telephone to speak with Mr. Dodgson.

Having the previous week been made unexpectedly redundant with no discernible prospect of fresh employment, practically on his thirtieth birthday, he felt that fate owed him any advantage that might be going. It also left him free during working hours, so he duly telephoned and arranged to meet Dodgson at ten o'clock the following Tuesday. The firm was in a neighbouring town, but there was a reasonable bus service and he should be able to make it without any difficulty. What did cause trouble was finding his birth certificate; he kept such important documents in a concertina file, but it proved to be under neither B nor C. He was going frantic by the time he found it by accident, inexplicably under Q.

The solicitors' receptionist was an attractive young woman, adept at gently fending off attempts to chat her up, particularly those as clumsy as Mike's. She nevertheless offered him a coffee which he declined; "Thanks, but on these occasions it always seems to arrive just as I have to abandon it." In fact he had about ten minutes to wait before he was called into the inner office where Dodgson apologised for the delay, introduced himself and quickly got down to business.

"I understand that you are the only child of parents now deceased, Mr. Crampton."

"Yes, that's right. Mum caught a nasty bug on holiday three years ago and never recovered from it. Something in the water, apparently. Then Dad had a heart attack, probably over the bill for the funeral."

Dodgson cleared his throat as if deprecating a tasteless facetiousness. "Very unfortunate, but not strictly relevant just now. More to the point, do you remember if they ever mentioned a Mr. Alexander Forster?"

"The name rings a bell; but a pretty distant one; let me think a bit. Oh, yes, that's it. They used to get a Christmas card from him every year. Apparently they'd been helpful when his wife was killed in an accident, goodness knows how many years ago. Before I was born, anyway."

"Good. That seems to fit the case exactly. Mr. Forster was actually an American citizen, but spent most of his time latterly in Europe. He had a business in Nuremburg, quite a profitable business by the looks of it. My information is that many years ago your parents did him a great kindness, which tallies with what you have just told me. The upshot is that in gratitude he has left a very substantial legacy to them or their heirs."

"So he's dead, then?"

"Yes, that would appear to follow." It was Dodgson's turn to apologise for a _faux pas_. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to seem sarcastic. His executors have now asked us to trace those heirs, and so far you seem to be the only one."

Mike knew of no other possible claimants, and none had been named in either of his parents' wills, but he thought that in the circumstances some might crawl out of the woodwork. "That might be so if the will were published in this country, but I'm not aware of any reason why it should be. More to the point, you will probably be interested in the nature and extent of the legacy: mostly company shares including a large batch in the Nuremberg business, which is now being run as a going concern by Forster's partner, and another in his deceased wife's family corporation. In total it's very impressive. If you'll give me the details of your investment adviser, I'll get my US contact to forward the complete list."

Mike laughed. "Investment adviser? You must be joking The nearest thing to an investment I've ever made was five quid on the lottery - wasted money, of course."

"Oh. Your solicitor, then?"

"Never needed one. Could you do it?"

Dodgson considered the ethics for a moment, than decided that his own connection with Forster was tenuous enough for there to be no real conflict of interest and in any case there was no need for him to be personally involved. An internal call to the partner who dealt with such matters quickly established that the instruction would be acceptable. Dodgson then asked, rather diffidently in view of his previous gaffe, whether he could assume that Mike was not used to handling large sums of money. Keeping as straight a face as he could, Mike confirmed it, and was treated to a severe lecture on the perils of sudden extravagance in such circumstances. Whatever his faults, that was not among them especially now that he was unlikely to earn anything for the foreseeable future, but he listened patiently to what he recognised as sound if unnecessary advice. He did however raise the question of a little of the ready to be going on with, and Dodgson agreed that if the executors were satisfied about his identity, they should be asked to realise a small proportion of the portfolio and pay it on account. "How much, do you think?"

"Oh, say ten or twenty thousand's worth."

Mike choked. "Cripes, if that's a small proportion ..."

"Just so, though as the value of shares can fluctuate a lot I can't say precisely how small. I think you'll see now why I recommend having an adviser."

Mike, acknowledging his ignorance of the stock market, took the point readily. He then remembered that the legacy was "mostly" in shares, and wondered what the rest might be. "Ah, yes, I was coming to that. It doesn't amount to much, just a small property in the USA. Of course we have to remember that they always call it 'real estate' over there."

"I wonder what unreal estate might be; castles in the air, perhaps?"

"You could very well be right: there are some worrying trends in the housing market these days. But to return to the case in point: I can't tell you exactly where this property is, but the executors have an office in Idaho Falls."

"Where's that? I've never heard of it."

"I had to look it up myself. The state of Idaho's in the northern part of the USA, just to the west of the Rockies, and the town's near the south-eastern corner of it. Most likely the property will be there or thereabouts. But does it matter? Wherever they are, I'm sure they'd be very happy to sell it on your behalf and transfer the proceeds."

No doubt, Mike thought, but another idea was forming. "You know, I've often fancied visiting America but never been able to afford it. Now it seems I can. Would it be possible to take a look at the place before I decide what to do with it?"

"Hmm; I don't see why not. But you aren't thinking of keeping it, are you? Not that it's any of my business, of course," he hastily added.

"Probably not. But you never know, I might even decide to settle there."

"I think that might be more complicated than it sounds, but if you fancy it ..."

"I wasn't really serious."

"Oh, right. But in any case I'll get Sue to copy the particulars for you. And if you do go, perhaps you'd better realise a rather larger proportion of the legacy, say a hundred thousand. It still wouldn't make too large a dent in the whole."

Mike whistled. "Phew, this'll take a bit of getting used to."

"Yes, but do please remember what I told you. Be cautious in any life-style changes. Some people landed with sudden wealth have frittered away enormous sums with nothing to show for it but a ruined life."

"Don't worry, I'm not likely to go mad over it." He did however decide that the windfall warranted celebrating in style with a really slap-up meal in the best restaurant he knew with his old friends Terry and Sheila Haskins, as even Dodgson agreed would be entirely appropriate.

Mike waited until the first instalment of the transfer was safely completed before phoning Sheila, and was still cautious, saying simply that he'd had a bit of luck and would like to treat them. "Have you won the lottery, then?"

"Not that exactly, but something a bit like it. I'll explain when I see you."

"Well, hearty congratulations. I hope you thoroughly enjoy it. You could do with a bit of good luck for a change."

"Too true. I was pretty worried before I got the news, I can tell you. But for the meal: where do you think would be the best place?"

"I'll have to talk to Terry about that. Would you like a word with him when he comes in? He'll be about an hour, I expect. Better still, why not come round for a bite of supper - say about nine o'clock?"

"Right, thank you, that'll be fine."

First of all he had to explain the nature of his "bit of luck", saying simply that someone his parents had once helped had left him a substantial and very welcome dollop of cash. For the meal, they all agreed that what they wanted was something straightforward and satisfying, not (as Terry put it) "a spoonful of foreign muck in the middle of a big plate."

Mike wondered where Terry had come across such a serving; "I haven't, myself, but Alf Biggins saw it when he took a Rotary party out to the Rufford Manor last week. He was utterly disgusted, especially considering the prices." Sheila had no particular suggestions, but Terry had heard good reports of the King's Head in that regard, so the next day Mike had a look at the menu posted outside, thought it looked suitable, and booked a table for three.

"Not for four, then?" Sheila asked in a disappointed tone when told of the arrangement.

Mike was amused. "Don't you start. I had enough trouble with my mother that way."

He would have gone for the four-course menu, but Sheila dissuaded him as she was putting on quite enough weight already, so for starters the men had traditional vegetable soup while she chose melon. She followed it with salmon, Terry had roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, and raised his eyebrows when Mike ordered scampi and chips, although at least these were so described and not listed as "pommes frites." To finish, Terry had sticky toffee pudding, Mike rhubarb crumble "with plenty of custard, please," and Sheila limited herself to a fruit salad. Over coffee, Terry told (not for the first time) how on a rail journey he had been joined by a young Scottish lad with a shopping bag full of sandwiches that he proceeded to demolish comprehensively, then leaned back with a satisfied burp and "Ee, I'd like to burrrst!" That was more or less how he felt.

Some weeks passed before the visit to the States as for the first time in his life, Mike had to get a passport. It was to be his first long-haul journey, and he looked forward to it with eager anticipation, especially thinking of the nubile flight attendants in advertisements. The reality proved rather different; his lascivious instincts received no encouragement whatsoever, and if the rest of the experience was anything like typical he would not be repeating it very often. Getting to Denver was bad enough, with the transatlantic flight horribly cramped since in view of Dodgson's advice he had booked economy class. The wait for the onward connection seemed interminable, and the hop over the mountains was in darkness so there was no view to compensate for the previous discomforts.

In Idaho Falls approaching midnight, the only feature to stand out was the floodlit Mormon temple. Realising that a search for his hotel in a strange city at night in an unfamiliar hire car on the "wrong" side of the road would have been madness even if he were not exhausted, he treated himself to the luxury of a cab.

He had allowed a full day to recover, and needed it. Then he again took a cab to the office of the attorneys handling Forster's estate and was introduced to Harry Weinberg, the affable elderly partner in charge of it. After the usual pleasantries and confirmation that there had been no problem in the transfer of shares, Weinberg came to the matter of the real estate, and paused looking rather embarrassed.

"Is something the matter?" Mike asked.

"Well, it's a rather peculiar situation. One I haven't met before, and I don't know anyone who has."

"Oh?"

"You see, it's never been firmly established whether the property actually belonged to Mr. Forster."

"Why ever not? I don't understand."

"I'm not surprised. In fact, it's even more peculiar. Officially, the place doesn't exist. It seems that when the original owner wanted a house, he simply found an unused piece of land and built on it."

"Didn't anyone notice?"

"Well, America's a big place, as you've probably realised. It wouldn't be like building on an English village playing field. I imagine folks around there must have realised that something was going on, but the plot was well inside the Targhee forest on a track that had fallen out of general use, and I don't suppose anyone had particular reason to investigate. Mr. Forster told me it was a worthless, barren spot that according to legend had been cursed centuries ago after some quarrel with the local natives. Garstein - that was his name - wasn't bothering anyone, no one bothered him, and the world isn't so short of problems that we need to look for any more. It just became accepted that he was there, and there was no cause to ask about title deeds or anything like that."

"So there aren't any, I suppose."

"Not that I know of. Certainly Mr. Forster didn't have them."

"How did he come to own the place, then? Supposing he really did."

"There's an odd story about that, if you've time to hear it. You're paying for the time, remember."

Mike said it was worth it. "Very well, then. You've probably been told that for many years he had worked mostly in Europe, but he started over here and never completely broke his ties with the place. There's a family connection by marriage, and he was particularly close - don't laugh - to his mother-in-law. He had a long-standing association with Garstein and when they met for what turned out to be the last time, they went off on a fairly long trip together. Garstein apparently wanted to visit a sort of family shrine on the other side of the Tetons in Wyoming, and while they were there he suddenly took ill and died on the spot. As that was in another state it was no business of ours over here except for a bit of administrative tidying, and that turned out to be less than expected. I remember it particularly because I'd just taken over Forster's account from my father. For some reason he was reluctant to take any action over the death, but I insisted we had to notify Social Security and so on, only then it turned out that Garstein himself had no more official existence than his house. He might have been an illegal immigrant, I suppose. Digging into it could have opened up a whole can of worms, but when I did make a few tentative enquiries no one seemed to have a particular interest in him - his wife had died several years earlier and there were no children - and when eventually someone did come along with a query, it turned out that the few notes there were on the case had disappeared. Forster had keys to the house, and that's as good a title as anyone has. Here they are." He fished in his desk and handed over a sealed package to Mike.

There was in fact a little more to the story. Forster had found a woman in the nearby township who had known Garstein, seemed honest and was willing to keep an eye on the house, arranging for any necessary maintenance and making sure that it was always ready for occupation at short notice. "She was paid a monthly sum, no doubt welcome as her finances were far from healthy, and a reserve was set up to cover any substantial expenditure that might arise. Forster occasionally spent a few days there when he had business in the area, and was well satisfied with the working of the arrangement. There's enough left in the pot, barring calamities, to cover it for few more years if you approve."

"Well, so far I don't see any need to upset the arrangement."

"Right," Weinberg said, ticking an item on a paper before him. "That's the first thing on my list. Now the point is what to do about it."

"What's it like?"

"Actually, I've only visited it once, when Forster first took it over, and since then I've relied on reports from a more local agent I got to keep an eye on it when I found I couldn't do it properly myself. There were substantial improvements afterwards, so please bear that in mind. Well, as I remember, it's a single-storey timber building on brick footings, not large of course - kitchen, washroom, one decent bedroom and another that's little more than a cupboard. Plus an outhouse serving as workshop and for storage. There's a small generator in there to power a refrigerator and one or two crucial lights. You'll understand of course that there are absolutely no mains services - electricity, water or what not. There's a well with a manual pump to fill a storage tank in the loft; the rest of the lighting is by kerosene lamps, cooking and heating by a wood stove, plumbing rudimentary, sanitation downright primitive. On the other hand it's sturdily built and has come through several nasty storms with no damage worth mentioning. Garstein evidently did a good job there."

"Hmm. It seems a pity to have come all this way and not to see the place. Whereabouts is it exactly?"

"A few miles north of Ashton, a little place fifty miles up the road to West Yellowstone. It's classed as a city; in Britain you'd call it a village and a small one at that, about a thousand people, but it does have hotels, and in view of what I've said, if you're planning to stay the night you might prefer to use one of them rather than rough it." Mike thought he might need more than that afternoon to look over the house and consider what to do with it, so that seemed a good idea.

Then Weinberg had another suggestion, nothing to do with the house. "Do you mind if I ask whether you're in any hurry to get home?"

"I wasn't sure how long this business would take, so I allowed plenty of time for complications. Then I'm going on to San Francisco next Monday. It's a place I've always wanted to visit."

"And why not, indeed, while you're here. So you've plenty of time. Before that, why not have a look at Yellowstone National Park? It's well worth it."

"It's near here, then? I didn't notice it on the map I used. Mind you, it was a pretty small scale."

"The park isn't, anything but, though the lettering on the map might have been. It's just over the mountains. You could do a complete circuit, up into the west portal, through Yellowstone, then out through the south portal and into the Grand Teton National Park, have a look at Jackson, Wyoming (a thoroughly bogus Wild-West tourist trap, but quite amusing in its way) and back here through the Teton Pass. At a pinch it might just about be done in one day, but why rush it?"

"That's a good idea. Yellowstone's another place I've wanted to see for years. If I'd realised how close I'd be it would have been top of my list."

"Good. I thought you'd want to do that, so I've taken the liberty of provisionally booking a car for you; there are the details, and it should be ready for you at midday. There's a reputable travel agency next door, and they'll fix you up with hotels on your route."

"You seem to have everything very well organised; I'm impressed, and thank you very much indeed."

"You're welcome. Right, that's settled. But back to our main business - there isn't much more. Here's the address and telephone number of my agent in Rexburg, just in case you want to see him, but you'll probably only need to contact the caretaker. That's a Mrs. Iris Carter in Ashton, so there's her phone number and address, and I've marked it here on the street plan. What time are you planning to set off?"

"As soon as I get the car, I suppose."

"Better allow half an hour to get used to it - for goodness' sake don't forget we drive on the right here - so I'll call Mrs. Carter and warn her to expect you about two. Here's a letter of introduction to her, and a cell phone in case you need to get in touch while you're away. It belongs to the firm, so please be sure to bring it back. Oh, and a more general road map of this area, I nearly forgot that. Is there anything else you think you may need?"

Mike thought not, so he made his farewells and called on the travel agency. After discussing the options, he settled on overnight stays in Ashton itself, West Yellowstone and Jackson, and the necessary reservations were made. It was still only half past ten, so he bought a newspaper, found a coffee bar, had a leisurely late breakfast or early lunch and found his way to the car hire office.

The drive to Ashton was straightforward, positively boring in fact compared with winding English roads. Within the township the customary grid pattern of barely-distinguishable streets confused him a little, but with the help of some local guidance he found the right house and Mrs. Carter waiting to receive him.

She seemed however rather distracted, and asked if he minded her returning home straight away after guiding him to Garstein's place. "I still think of it as that," she explained, "even though it was Mr. Forster's for three years."

"As far as I'm concerned you can still call it that. It seems as good a name as any. I've been wondering - what was he like? Mr. Forster, I mean. I'd scarcely heard of him until this bequest came out of the blue."

"Well, people said he was as hard as nails in business, but we never found that. He was more than fair with Joel and me. I couldn't say he was easy to get to know, very reserved you might say, but we never had any problems with him. We've sure been glad of what he paid us to look after the place." Detecting a note of anxiety, Mike assured her that the arrangement was continuing for the time being, at least a couple of years as far as he could see.

"That's a relief - thank you. And I hope you don't mind my asking, but we've been puzzled, Joel and me - what's your connection with him? We heard you were English, and it seems a bit odd."

"I don't mind at all. I'd have thought there were much stronger claims, but apparently he was grateful to my parents for something that happened long ago when he was in England, and left the house to them as a result. They'd died before him, so it came to me." He saw no need to go any further into the nature or extent of the bequest, and if they thought it strange to leave a house to people living in another continent, well, it was indeed odd, taken in isolation, but he was not going to attempt throwing any more light on it.

Before leading him to the house she briefly described the route and particularly warned him to look out for the boulder marking the turn-off from the highway, something he might easily miss if he were by himself and not paying close attention. He was relieved to find the directions so straightforward. Once into the forest she slowed down, and after turning off on to the track to the house, stopped briefly to point out the marker. Half a mile further on, the track opened into an apparently natural clearing where the house stood.

He was pleasantly surprised. The building was certainly unpretentious, but larger than he had expected. Although no expert on such matters, he thought it appeared well constructed and it had evidently been recently re-painted. Mike had some difficulty in trying to open the packet of keys, so Mrs. Carter used her own and asked him to return it when he had seen enough. She apologised for leaving him there by himself, but explained that Joel had been out on some crucial business and she was especially anxious to be at home to hear the outcome when he returned. Mike assured her that he didn't mind at all, and she then left him to examine what he realised with a thrill he could now, with some reservations in view of the unconfirmed title, justly call his property.

He found it considerably better than Weinberg had suggested. The kitchen area, for instance, was divided by a set of bookshelves from what amounted to a sitting room with a low table, two easy chairs and one upright at a small desk. In the kitchen proper, besides a camping stove for boiling a kettle or doing a simple fry-up, the "wood stove" was in fact a dual-purpose range incorporating a boiler, evidently supplying a hot water tank in the loft. A kind of barometer tube was calibrated to show the level in the cold water reservoir above, and the handle for the pump was close by. A box of split logs for immediate use stood by the back door, and a key hanging there on a hook was presumably to the outhouse, which for the time being he refrained from investigating. The refrigerator was of course empty now that the generator was not running, but in a cupboard he found an unopened packet of biscuits together with some tinned meat and vegetables. Other cupboards and drawers contained a collection of culinary and table ware suited to a small household. Forster had evidently upgraded the toilet facilities as the washroom now had a respectable chemical closet, while the shower, wash basin and kitchen sink all had hot and cold taps. The main bedroom had, beside the double bed, a couple of chairs, a wardrobe and tallboy; the other bedroom was much as Weinberg had described but did have a small locker for personal belongings. Both beds were unmade but the mattresses seemed comfortable and there was an adequate stock of bedding in the tallboy. If it came to camping there, he would not fare too badly.

Returning to the sitting area Mike noticed a large envelope on the desk. It was marked "To my heirs," and Mike wondered what message he might expect from Forster. Inside were two folders and, clipped to the first, what was evidently intended as a covering letter.

Greetings, and welcome to this little hideaway that I hope will give you as much pleasure as it has to me over recent years.

I have two requests to make. I must emphasise that they are no more than that, and I have chosen this rather unconventional way of putting them to you in order to avoid giving any semblance of legal force by including them in my Will.

The first concerns Joel and Iris Carter, who have been faithful stewards of the property throughout my tenure. They are deeply religious and I fear suspicious of my business practises. Perhaps for that reason, although often in financial difficulty, they have always refused to accept any more than their legal due in payment, and when I mentioned my intention of making some provision for them in my Will, earnestly begged me not to leave them any bequest. Being well acquainted with scruple myself, I have respected theirs. However, if you do find an opportunity to show them some acceptable kindness, I hope you will act on it.

The second request is much more tentative, considerably less straightforward, and will be meaningless until you have read the account in the attached folder of how I came into possession of this place. The request itself will follow.

With my best wishes to you, sincerely, Alexander Forster.

The contents of that particular folder were in essence an elaboration of the tale that Mike had heard from Weinberg. The "shrine" was actually a favourite secluded spot in the Grand Teton National Park where Garstein had buried the ashes of his wife next to those of two close relatives, and then unexpectedly expired himself. He had looked so contented that Forster could not bring himself to move the body or, when it came to the point, think how to report its presence to any authority without risking unpredictable difficulties, and for all he knew the remains might still be there. The request, to be disregarded if there was the slightest reluctance to follow it, was to go and look, then do whatever seemed appropriate.

Unfortunately the description of the spot was too vague for identification, as Forster had evidently realised at more or less the last minute, since at the foot of the page with an arrow to the reference was scrawled in a shaky hand, "See Jenny Lake." No address was given for the woman, but perhaps the Carters would know her. This reminded Mike that he had promised to return the key, and should then check into his hotel.

Returning towards the town he made a point of noting particularly the marker for the track, and then negotiated the grid more successfully. Mrs. Carter accepted the key abstractedly, then as an afterthought asked if he would be staying; if so she could point out where to get provisions. He explained the plan for his tour and that he would spend the one night at a hotel, which she confirmed to have a satisfactory reputation. She was expanding on this when a man with his arm in a sling, presumably Joel Carter, approached looking very glum and excusing herself, she ran to meet him.

The news was evidently very bad and she burst into tears. Carter took her hand, trying to comfort her, and they very slowly walked to the house, oblivious of Mike's presence. Not wishing to intrude he tried to escape without being seen but Carter noticed the movement, apologised for the difficult situation that had arisen and asked if he was the new owner of the Garstein place. Mike said yes, adding that he was very pleased with the way it had been kept. Carter nodded satisfaction, but another thought seemed to be forming: "Pardon my asking, Sir, but will you be staying there?"

"Not for the time being, at any rate. I'm off for a few days' touring, and afterwards flying back home. I haven't decided what to do about it after that, but as I told Mrs. Carter, I've arranged that you should continue to look after it."

"In that case, Sir, I hesitate to ask, but ..."

"Yes?"

"Could I beg a very great favour?" Mike wondered what on earth it might be, but replied that of course he could.

"You see, we're in a very difficult position. You may have heard already, but I don't mind telling you anyway, that for a long time we've only just been keeping our heads above water financially. That's why what we got from Mr. Forster was so important. Breaking my arm the other week has pushed us under. I've been trying this afternoon to get the bank to allow a postponement of our next mortgage payment, but apparently missing the last one was the last straw there, too, and they have no option but to foreclose. If we don't pay what's owing by next Tuesday, and there's way we could possibly do that, we must leave by the end of the month. That's what's so upset Iris. We've nowhere else to go unless you let us move into the Garstein place, just until we can get something else arranged, of course."

Mike recognised a very fortunate opportunity to fulfil Forster's first request straight away. "No problem. Move in by all means, and stay as long as you like. It's far better to have the house regularly occupied than just visited from time to time - not that I've the slightest criticism of the way that's been done." All the same, it was so convenient that he had a rather uneasy feeling of being merely a pawn in some celestial chess game with ramifications beyond his comprehension.

Iris brought him down to earth with a rather plaintive "We can't afford very much in the way of rent, but ..." which he hastily cut off by assuring them that that was the last thing on his mind.

"In fact you can forget about it altogether. I don't want the complication. In effect you'll be resident caretakers, and I'll phone Mr. Weinberg to tell him of the arrangement." He tried immediately, but had to leave a message.

The Carters' relief was immense and their effusion of gratitude embarrassing until Mike stopped it with a "Please, no more."

Then Iris exclaimed "What are we thinking of, Joel? We haven't offered any refreshment, and Mr. Crampton must be starving." He had to admit being a shade peckish, and Iris bustled about to produce a "snack" large enough to alarm him, especially as he realised that it might well put a strain on their evidently limited resources.

After doing what justice he could to it, he asked if the Carters knew of a family in the town called Lake, but they had heard of none. "Still, we don't know everyone. It's a bit late now, but you could ask at the Post Office in the morning. It's at the junction of Fifth Street and Fremont," and Joel marked it on the street plan that Weinberg had provided. Mike thought that it should be easy enough to find, thanked them and went to check in at the hotel.

After what he had already eaten, dinner was out of the question, and he had intended to study the other file in Forster's envelope before going to bed, but fatigue suddenly overcame him and instead, after scrambling hastily into bed, he slept continuously for ten hours. His thoughts of the evening must have persisted as he dreamed of being a pawn on a giant chess board. He rather fancied the opposing queen, but when he eagerly darted forward she unceremoniously took him _en passant_ and dumped him on one side, as was fairly typical in his experience of women.

At the Post Office the next morning, he waited until more conventional customers had been cleared, then made his enquiry. The counter clerk was puzzled. "People called Lake? None that I know of. Doris, you've been here longer than I have; have you heard of anyone called Lake hereabouts?"

"Not lately. There was one once, but he went off to Rexburg years ago."

"Sorry, sir, it doesn't look as though we can help."

Then Doris exclaimed "Just a moment, Steve, whatever can I be thinking of, there is someone. A month back a young woman came in and said that if any mail came in for Miss J. Lake she'd be staying with the Hamiltons on Maple Street. None did, and I'd clean forgotten about it until you mentioned the name just now."

This seemed to be it, and the clerk marked the house on the map. "You can't miss it, a big place near the end of the road with a green roof." Mike thought ruefully of how often such confidence in his navigation had proved to be ill-founded, but the staff had been genuinely helpful and he thanked them accordingly.

He was a bit doubtful about presenting perfect strangers with such a peculiar problem, but he felt himself committed by now and braced himself to do it. The house was indeed easy to find, and although no one answered the door there were sounds of activity from the back, so Mike went round to investigate.

There a stout middle-aged man in shirt sleeves, busy splitting logs, looked up suspiciously at his approach with a curt "What do you want?"

Mike explained that he was looking for a Miss J. Lake who he believed was staying there. "What about?"

"It's a rather complicated business, but I don't see how it could cause her any problems. Could I please speak to her?"

"I'll see if she's around."

Hamilton went to the door and called "Josie!" which already seemed to indicate that he was barking up the wrong tree. Sounds of consternation came from within, and a dark-haired young woman emerged in a fury.

"Hell and damnation! Why can't people ... Oh, sorry, I didn't see you there. What is it?"

Startled first by the rage and then by the abrupt change of manner, Mike apologised for intruding at a bad time and said that it looked as though he had come to the wrong place anyway, as he was looking for a Miss Jenny Lake. The girl looked startled, then burst out laughing, and even Hamilton grinned. "Oh dear, I shouldn't laugh. Sorry again. But are you sure it's Miss?"

"Well, that's what I was told at the Post Office. I suppose there could be a mistake and it might be Mrs. or M/s or even Señorita, I just don't know. The original instruction I was given was simply to see Jenny Lake. But as you're Josie anyway ..."

"Hold on a minute. Pardon my asking, but are you on vacation?"

"In a way. I'm in the States mainly on business, but now I'm here I am taking a bit of a tour though these parts. Though I don't see what it has to do with my search."

"No, I don't suppose you could. But it figures. You see, Jenny Lake isn't a woman at all; it's a place across the Tetons, very likely on your route."

Mike groaned. "Why didn't I think of that? I already knew the place I'm looking for is over there. But my instructions are to find a particular spot. I have to locate it exactly."

"What instructions?"

"It's a long story."

"Then you'd better come inside and tell me. Fancy a coffee?"

Mike was astonished that her ill-temper had evaporated so suddenly, but the suggestion of coffee was attractive and the girl herself, now that he came to look at her properly, was decidedly personable. He explained that for reasons far too involved to bother her with unless she was particularly interested, he had been asked to check something in a forest clearing somewhere in the Grand Teton National Park, but in the note left for him the only way to get precise directions was to "see Jenny Lake." Josie asked if he was sure there was nothing else, so he fetched Forster's envelope from the car and took out the folders.

In the first he simply pointed out the hand-written addition. The second was labelled "Inventory" and indeed contained only a list of chattels, something he supposed he really ought to check, but it was at most a secondary matter and he doubted whether he would bother with it at all. Josie asked to look in the envelope itself, and opening it wide, spotted another paper crumpled into a corner. Withdrawing and straightening it out, she pointed at the inscription "JENNY LAKE" at the top, and Mike could only nod humbly. The sheet carried a rough map of an area around the lake, with roads and directions marked around the viewing point; and a description of the strangely-shaped stump serving as marker for the indistinct start of a path through the woods; stapled to the main paper was a diary page with a sketch of the stump itself. In the clearing shown at the end of the path a small feature was ringed with a line to a note, "Small pillar with three embedded stones beside it." This was clearly all the guidance he was expected to need.

He finished his coffee and thanked Josie, apologising again for interrupting whatever she was doing at an evidently awkward moment, but she said his visit might actually be very fortunate. "I actually live in West Yellowstone and I absolutely must get back there today. My car's being repaired and I came down with a friend. She promised faithfully to take me back, but just now she phoned to say she had to go somewhere else and couldn't get out of it. That's why I exploded; it just happened to be at the moment you came, and I'm sorry if I startled you."

"You did, rather, but it was well worth it."

"I hope you'll still think so. Where I want to go is right on your route, so is there any chance of begging a ride?"

"Of course, it'll be a real pleasure!"

She went to an inner door, called "Sal!" and an older woman appeared. Josie explained the position and Sal looked alarmed, glancing suspiciously at Mike. He could imagine her asking if that was really wise with a perfect stranger, and that Josie's reply, likewise inaudible to him, might well be to the effect that no one so stupid could possibly represent a serious threat. Sal was clearly not convinced, but faced with Josie's need to travel came across and sternly admonished him to "Be sure you take good care of our Josie."

"I certainly shall, Mrs. Hamilton. You must be anxious about her going off with someone coming out of the blue, and I can't offer a character reference, but there are a couple of people who know a little about me and I can give you their numbers if you'd like to ring them."

"You don't mind if I do that?"

"I really think you ought to. One's the caretaker of some property I've inherited, the other the lawyer who's handling the estate. My name's Michael Crampton, and you've probably gathered I'm from England." He copied the names and numbers on to a blank page torn from his diary and waited while the calls were made.

On her return Sal seemed somewhat relieved. "As far as it goes, that seems quite satisfactory. I can't deny I was worried, but the lawyer confirmed your story and you'd made a good impression on Mrs. Carter. It's the best I can hope for, I suppose." They made rather uneasy conversation while Josie collected her baggage which he put in the car, then she kissed the Hamiltons and they were off.

The road headed north past the turn-off to Garstein's place, and he checked that he could recognise the marker for it. Josie seemed withdrawn, he thought rather melancholy, and he wondered what was on her mind but felt he did not know her well enough to risk disturbing the reverie. On the other hand, he was suddenly feeling a little drowsy and needed help to stay awake. The road was smooth with curves only in broad sweeps so that driving was easy, almost too easy, and so he commented. "I'm used to English roads that twist and turn all over the place. On this one I'm rather afraid of nodding off, so would you minding talking to me?"

Josie was amused. "It's the first time I've known a man ask a woman to talk. The usual complaint is that we do it too much."

"Well, it's true I have known some who chatter continuously about nothing in particular, and that can be a real pain. But I can't imagine you doing that."

"Such confidence on only an hour's acquaintance!"

"All right, teasing's fine. Keep it up as long as you like."

"I'll try, but I'm afraid I haven't been terribly good company so far. I'm sorry. There's something on my mind, not something I can talk about. But you said you'd inherited some property; do you have relatives here? Or should I say did you?"

"No, it's a rather peculiar story."

"Tell me; that should keep you awake. Or is it private?."

"Not at all. Apparently thirty-odd years ago, a while before I was born, an American businessman from round here was on holiday in England with his wife, when she was killed in an accident. My parents happened to be there and gave what help they could, and he never forgot it. When he died he left them a house near Ashton, and I've been to see it while taking a trip that the attorney recommended."

"He's evidently keen on promoting local tourism. Good for him!"

That seemed to close the subject. After a while he asked "What do you do, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I work for a West Yellowstone tour company, but for some reason things seem a bit slack just now so when Sal (she's my aunt) had to go into hospital for a spell I got leave to look after Bill. He's completely helpless domestically."

"I thought he seemed a bit gruff. Did I annoy him, turning up like that?"

"Oh, that's only his manner. He's a dear, really, when you get to know him." Mike wondered hopefully whether he might get the opportunity to do that in Josie's company.

"He didn't offer to ferry you back, I noticed - not that I'm complaining about that."

"No, he can't drive just now; there's a bit of trouble with his eyes."

"That reminds me of a report I read years ago about a blind man over here being fined for drunken driving."

"Not in Idaho, I think."

"I don't remember, it was too long ago. It must be difficult for Bill, being stuck like that."

"Yes, but it should clear up soon. Just as well, because Sal won't drive at all since she had a bad smash a while back."

The journey was quite short by American standards. As they approached the town Mike asked if Josie knew anything about the hotel booked for him. She thought it among the better ones, but hadn't heard of any recent comments, good or bad. As for entertainment, she mentioned various ways of passing the rest of the day, but Mike found that jet lag was still affecting him and he would rather take a nap after dropping her at her apartment.

Doing so, he thought suddenly of suggesting dinner together that evening. She looked doubtful, and to allay one possible anxiety he assured her (with some stretching of the truth) that he was not thinking of anything afterwards. At that she laughed and said that some girls would be offended by such a lack of interest. She wasn't, and her concern was more about having to be up early the next morning. "How early should we eat, then?"

He asked her to choose the restaurant but as she seldom ate out herself and so was not really familiar with the various options, she suggested he call for her and they could look at some of the places along Madison Avenue.

"Sounds posh."

"Don't be misled. This isn't New York."

"So I'd noticed! And thank goodness for that, from what I've heard of it. It sounds utterly dreadful."

"Yes, I prefer smaller towns, too. Everything here's within easy walking distance."

So it was agreed, and when the time came they picked a place that was reassuringly well patronised but not overcrowded. Josie ordered spaghetti Bolognese, he said he couldn't eat spaghetti in public without making an exhibition of himself and so settled on a pizza instead. She advised him to be careful about the size. "Last year I was talking to an English visitor. He'd come with a Scottish companion, who wasn't actually there at the time. He said that at their last meal the Scot had ordered the smallest on offer, and it broke his heart that he still couldn't eat all of it."

"Yes, I'm afraid we're often very rude about the Scots and their supposed meanness, and it's quite unjustified. Mind you, some of them make the same jokes the background for their own. All those I've known have been as generous as anyone else, perhaps more so."

Mike did choose the smallest pizza, and despite having taken only a light snack for lunch, still had some difficulty in doing justice to it. Nevertheless, when he had finally disposed of it, she asked whether he had ever tried pecan pie. "No, I've heard of it, but I don't even know what a pecan is, animal, vegetable or - I suppose it can't actually be mineral."

She laughed. "No, it's a kind of nut, very like a walnut but without the touch of bitterness. Try it; if you can't cope, I'll finish it off. It'll be no trouble."

"Don't the Hamiltons feed you properly?"

"They do, very much so, but the relief after the worry over getting back here on time must have made me peckish." He found the pie delicious and that he could in fact dispose of it completely provided he didn't rush it; noticing Josie's anxious gaze on the disappearing substance, he ordered a separate portion for her.

Walking back to her apartment she thanked him and said how much she had enjoyed the date. "To be honest, I hadn't really fancied being at home by myself all evening."

She was silent for a while, apparently in thought, and then asked if he would like to come in for a quick coffee; "Just coffee, please note. I'm not offering anything else." He would, and although during the following half hour the conversation was not particularly animated, mostly about her work, simply being with her was very pleasant. A faint lingering hope that she might change her mind about "just coffee" never quite went away and remained unsatisfied; but she accepted without demur as chaste a parting kiss as he could manage. She had also given him her phone number in case he happened to be in the area again. He thought of offering his, but decided against it: unlikely though it was that she might have occasion to call in the few days he would be around, he would be bitterly disappointed if she did not, and over the years he had had quite enough disappointments of that kind.

The next morning he collected leaflets at the tour company office, half hoping to see her there, but she did not appear. She was probably out already on a job; he thought of asking about her, then realised that it might possibly cause her some embarrassment and refrained. Well, meeting her had been very agreeable while it lasted, but it was a totally uncovenanted bonus and he could hardly expect any more from it. No doubt Josie would have her own regular friends here, quite possibly more than just friends, and Mike surprised himself with a fierce pang of raw jealousy, an emotion he had hardly ever felt in the past and never with such intensity. She had clearly affected him very much more seriously than he realised.

The realisation shook him badly, and he pondered whether he should do something about it, or rather what he should do, as simply letting the matter rest there was unthinkable. On the other hand, he still squirmed in an agony of shame at the memory of a spell in his late teens when he had pestered a girl with unwanted and embarrassing attentions for weeks until he came to his senses and wondered at her forbearance. More subtlety was clearly needed now. The obvious thing was writing to her, nothing elaborate, say to start with a note of thanks for her company that evening, and at the appropriate time a Christmas card. He kicked himself for not having thought to take note of her address the previous evening, but she seemed close enough to the Hamiltons for anything sent by way of them to reach her fairly reliably.

With that settled in his mind, he could give due attention to his driving and headed into the park, stopping at the Old Faithful geyser where he watched a couple of eruptions, between them taking a light meal in the cafeteria. After that he continued to West Thumb to admire the hot alga pools, then on southwards to Jenny Lake.

Things had evidently changed around the viewing point since Forster's visit, and finding the marker stump among more recent growth took longer than expected. Even then, two tracks now started there and as might be expected the more obvious proved to be the wrong one. The second however did lead to a clearing around a pillar generally matching Forster's description with four stones embedded in the ground nearby. It had been repainted and now had a plaque attached to it with a neat inscription, "Near this spot lie the ashes of four unknown persons who must have loved it. Enjoy it, but please treat it with respect."

Evidently someone had taken considerable trouble to care for Garstein's remains, assuming that they were indeed what lay beneath the fourth stone. Mike wondered who that someone might have been, and why go to such lengths, but there was no likelihood of finding out without a much more thorough investigation than he could mount on this visit, or ever justify. He took a photograph of the plaque and marker stones as evidence in case anyone wanted it. Feeling his duty done, he drove on to Jackson and checked into his hotel, found somewhere to eat practically opposite, and since Josie had advised against the rodeo unless he was particularly interested in cows and horses, went to the theatre instead. The show was as corny as he expected, but quite well done.

The next morning he had a look around the town. The diner offering "breakfast all day" intrigued him slightly, and he took advantage of it. The arch of elk antlers at each entrance to the square was mildly interesting, but he was not impressed by Horse Feathers or the rest of the souvenir shops along the boardwalk, still less by the apparently stuffed figure of an Indian smoking outside. The stage coach replica packed with tourists cruising the streets filled him with contempt, and he thought with wry amusement how quickly he had come to think of himself almost as a resident: well, he did own property, quite close by American standards.

Returning to Idaho Falls by the southern route through the Teton pass, he handed in the car, called on Weinberg and confirmed the arrangements he had made with the Carters, suggesting that he should add a portion of the legacy to the existing account for Garstein's place. As an afterthought he asked how easily he might upgrade to business class for his return flight to London.

"You mean you came cattle class? Hell, we can't have that!" His secretary promptly phoned the airline and made the change. "Well, Mr Crampton, it's been a pleasure to do business with you. The remaining cash portion of the legacy will be transferred to your account in the UK within a week or two, but if you'll take my advice you won't go mad with it - you've probably been told that already. I'll see to it that the stocks are re-registered in your name. Anything else you need over here, just let me know."

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## Chapter 5. Transmogrification

Despite the greatly increased comfort on the homeward flight, Mike found the subsequent jet lag worse than after the outward journey and took a day or two to recover. It was almost a relief to be unemployed.

Once he felt capable of more than routine mental activity, he followed a suggestion from his bank manager that he ought to discuss the disposition of his now very substantial resources. The change in the man's attitude over the past few months had been remarkable, but the reason was obvious, and although Mike would readily listen to a reasonable amount of advice and consider it very carefully, he did not expect to follow it uncritically. Told, for instance, that what he had recently come to think of as "real estate" was the best possible investment, he looked carefully at several superficially attractive properties, but decided that as he had no appearances to keep up and had made himself quite comfortable enough in his present quarters, he would need more substantial reasons before changing them. Rightly or wrongly he was more inclined to trust Dodgson and his associates, and took their advice on employing an investment manager.

After that, he spent a few weeks visiting places he had always wanted to see but could never afford before. By that time he was beginning to long for more constructive activity, and said so to Terry Haskins when they met in the pub one evening. Terry was still a driver for Turnbull Coaches, the company where Mike had been a service engineer; he had always tended to be rather lugubrious and on that occasion seemed particularly down in the dumps. "A fair number of other people look like having time on their hands, too," he grumbled.

"How's that?"

"Haven't you heard? The firm's going bust."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, nothing's definite yet, but it looks about as black as it can be."

Mike was not particularly surprised, as he had realised that his own redundancy was only one symptom of the company's long, slow decline. Nevertheless this was very bad news for the community. Although Turnbulls was not really a key component of the local economy, its closure would be a serious loss. Besides putting people out of work directly, it would cause a good deal of general inconvenience, even if competitors took up some of the services it ran, and Mike had read in the local press of probable knock-on effects if it failed. Before going to bed, he did some serious thinking, and the next morning phoned first of all his financial adviser, then Colin Turnbull who now ran the firm in question, to ask if he could come to see him.

Turnbull was a decent enough character, not much older than Mike as it happened, but rather ineffectual; that was no doubt one reason for the company's problems and probably the most significant of them. He had always been more interested in the arts than in business, and might well have been much happier as an antiquarian bookseller though no more successful, but was forced into another direction altogether. Seven years earlier Horace Turnbull had at long last retired on his wife's insistence after a minor but alarming stroke, and Colin's much more capable elder brother Edgar had been expected to take over. However, he had longed for wider horizons, and against all precedent disregarding his mother's pleas and arguments, emigrated to Australia. Colin was reluctantly dragooned into taking his place.

He naturally jumped to the wrong conclusion on receiving Mike's call and promptly launched into an embarrassed explanation that he was very sorry, but if Mike was looking to get his job back there was not a hope, since the financial position had become worse than ever in the past month. Mike took the first opportunity to break into the stream of excuses and assure him that he wished to talk about something else altogether. "It's a suggestion that I'm sure will interest you, and I hope you'll find it constructive, but I don't want to discuss it on the phone." After some havering, he got an appointment for the following afternoon.

Mike knew he was in a strong position but still though it best to approach the subject gently. "I was sorry to hear about the firm's difficulties."

Turnbull nodded gloomily. "Bad news travels fast, doesn't it? We've got enormous debts, and we're scarcely breaking even on operating costs. We may be able to stagger on for a week or two, but after that I'm afraid it's curtains. I can't see any alternative to bankruptcy."

"A sad state of things, and I do sympathise, but as it happens I do see a possible alternative. Maybe I can help."

"Oh? With all due respect, I don't see how." A more callous man would have bluntly ridiculed such a suggestion from a sacked blue-collar employee, and Mike appreciated the courtesy, but Turnbull went on: "Nothing but an enormous dollop of cash could save the firm now. You don't happen to have a couple of hundred thousand in your back pocket, do you?"

"Not in my back pocket, no, but I could have it next week."

"Come off it, this is no joking matter."

"No, I'm perfectly serious. That money can be available."

"What? Have you won the lottery or something?"

Mike wryly commented that that seemed to be the usual automatic assumption, but explained the actual source of his unexpected wealth and that on certain conditions he was prepared to put a substantial amount of it into the company. "I'm afraid you may find my main condition unpalatable, but I must insist on it."

"What is it?"

"That I have unfettered managerial control. You're probably aware that things have been allowed to slide over the past few years, but I doubt whether you realise just how seriously."

"You mean I'm a useless manager?"

"I didn't say that, or mean to imply it, and I'm sorry if you took it that way. I'd put it rather differently: you're too good-natured. A lot more firmness is needed."

"And you can supply it?"

"I'm ready to try. More to the immediate point, I've got the cash you need and I'm ready to put it where my mouth is."

"Hmm. That's a pretty strong argument. You said your suggestion would interest me, and it certainly does. But you've stated your main condition; what are the others?"

"Just one; that you stay on in your present position."

"So you're not proposing to turf me out, then?"

"The idea never occurred to me. You're the head of the firm, and will be for many more years to come, I hope. I'll be the Joseph to your Pharaoh \- assuming you're willing to work it that way. But I'll need your help on legal and administrative constraints that have to be observed, and that sort of thing."

Turnbull was looking, and feeling, a great deal happier than at the start of the interview. Vanity was not one of his failings, and he was mightily relieved at the prospect of being freed from a responsibility that for months he had realised was too much for him. "That seems fair enough. For yourself, what precisely is the position you expect?"

"It's the substance I want; I don't much care what you call it."

"Operations Manager?"

"Sounds OK."

"Salary?"

"The going rate, for a firm of this size. You'll know better than I do."

"You trust me on that?"

"I've never heard anyone question your honesty."

They shook hands on the deal, and Turnbull promised to have the necessary documents drawn up for signature in the following week.

Mike promptly got in touch with Terry Haskins to tell him of the new situation and ask him to be his second-in-command. Terry was first astonished, then greatly relieved that the business had been saved against all his expectations, but doubtful about taking on the responsibilities that Mike seemed to be suggesting. "I'm a driver, and that's what I like doing. I can't get my head round all this damned admin nonsense."

"Turnbull's still taking care of that, thank goodness. I'm concerned with operational matters. What I have chiefly in mind is that you should help in any difficulties with the staff and keep the show running any time I'm away." Terry said he would think about it, and after a couple of days called Mike with his agreement.

From his own experience Mike was well aware of things going on at ground level that would have escaped Turnbull's attention. By cracking down on various fiddles, suggesting to one individual that it would be in his own interest to go quietly rather than face an almost certainly successful prosecution, hinting more vaguely at something similar to several others where charges were possible but the outcome more doubtful, and overhauling the system for purchasing and controlling supplies, he quickly improved the cash flow position. That enabled him to undercut the existing holders of the school run contract when it came up for renewal at the beginning of the following year, an auspicious start to the new millennium. It was a bit of a risk but it came off.

As for Turnbull, despite his relief at the turn of events, he was still initially apprehensive about the way they might develop. He could imagine nothing worse than the situation before Mike's intervention, but there was a real risk that bankruptcy might simply have been delayed by a few months rather than avoided altogether. He got surly looks on chance meetings with the most aggressive victim of Mike's purge, and for a while took care to avoid dark corners when out at night, but looks themselves can't kill and fortunately nothing more serious developed. The man with the shakiest case against him threatened Mike with an industrial tribunal but was surprisingly ready to drop the idea in favour of a modest _ex gratia_ payment. Among the remaining staff Turnbull sensed a new briskness now that the long-standing threat of redundancy had been lifted, at least for the time being, and time-keeping improved markedly.

Although the older Turnbulls no longer took any active part in the firm and had not been told of the new arrangement until it was found to be working satisfactorily, they quickly realised that something had substantially changed. The first indication was in their son's demeanour. Instead of the false cheerfulness with which he had failed to disguise from them the gravity of the situation, he allowed himself to show some anxiety but now tinged with a hope that gradually developed into something approaching confidence. The extent of his reliance on Mike's intervention was embarrassing but in time had to be admitted, and the old couple immediately insisted on meeting this newcomer to form their own opinion of him. More correctly Lavinia insisted and Horace knew better than to argue, not that he had any real objection anyway.

Hearing what was known of his history, she was especially anxious to know how a man so recently made redundant from not particularly well-paid employment in her son's company was now able to rescue it from bankruptcy. "It was through a very substantial legacy."

"I shouldn't have thought that anyone with such wealthy family connections would have been working as a mere mechanic."

At that Horace interrupted with "There's no such thing as a mere mechanic. A good one's worth his weight in gold."

"I don't remember that showing in my pay packet! But the legacy didn't come from anyone in the family. It was someone my parents helped many years ago."

To Lavinia this seemed much too far-fetched to be taken at face value, and Mike understood her concern but could only refer her to Dodgson. That, however, evidently relieved her doubts enough for her to give him the benefit of any that remained.

Over the next few months she became quite friendly, and learning that Mike had neither parents nor wife, almost maternal; in fact rather too much like his own mother in some ways. Every time she invited him to dinner, he found there was also some presentable woman of about his own age and apparently without any current attachment.

He found it a little annoying and after the fourth occasion diffidently mentioned it to Horace, who of course knew exactly what was going on and regarded it with tolerant amusement. "Don't you fancy any of them, lad?"

"In a way, sometimes, but I don't like feeling pressurised."

"Yes, I suppose it could seem something like a slave market. Now I don't want to pry if it's a touchy subject, but do you mind my asking if you have a regular girl friend?"

"No, I haven't. Well, not what you could call a girl-friend. There is a woman I'm interested in - very interested, in fact - but I can't see anything coming of it." Horace raised his eyebrows and cocked his head interrogatively. "The main problem is that she's about five thousand miles away."

"Yes, that is a bit of a difficulty, I agree, though I've known worse ones to be overcome. In one instance it turned out to be pretty disastrous, but that's beside the point. It needn't affect your social life here. No one's going to frog-march you to the altar, so why not indulge Lavinia in her little hobby, treat it as a game and simply enjoy it?"

Mike considered this advice and saw the sense in it. Afterwards, looking less suspiciously at the various partners wished on him, he generally found them quite pleasant company for an evening. The most agreeable of them seemed quite content for the time being with their lot and regarded Lavinia's machinations in much the same way as Horace had suggested. However, one of them was rather less light-hearted about it, and Mike ventured to suggest a one-to-one evening. It was going quite well, he thought, but just when it seemed to be coming to the point, he got cold feet and hastily backed off, to her evident disgust. Afterwards he was rather ashamed of the experiment and never repeated it. For one thing, he kept thinking about Josie Lake. Horace's comment on the conquest of worse obstacles than distance rang in his mind, and if ever he dreamed of being with a woman, she had Josie's face.

On more mundane matters, the business continued to respond to treatment. A year after taking over, Mike was feeling decidedly pleased with himself and seriously contemplated going up-market with coach tours to historic towns and the like. Before so substantial a move he thought it essential to discuss it with Colin Turnbull, who had no objections if Mike was reasonably confident that it would be a good one, but suggested that it might be unwise to jump straight into a firm commitment without more careful investigation. It might be a good idea, as well, to ask for Horace's views.

That seemed a sensible suggestion, and Horace was indeed interested, though cautious. "It's a big step. The right sort of coach is pretty expensive, and tourism may be booming at the moment, but that doesn't mean it'll go on like that. It's the first thing people can give up if times are difficult. Even as it is, I hear that Hutchinsons is going into administration."

Colin knew about that: "Yes, but that was as much through Tom Hutchinson's personal problems as anything else. 'Fast women and slow horses,' he said, and if he'd kept off the bottle he might have been able to cope even with those."

Mike mulled it over for a few more days, but then Colin came in with some interesting news. "I've just had a call from Jack Beaumont."

"Oh yes, who's he?"

"Of course, I was forgetting, you haven't met him. He runs a coach-building outfit over in Worcester. Apparently Hutchinsons ordered a touring coach for delivery in May, but when it came to the point didn't seem too keen on the idea of paying. Jack hadn't completed the livery beyond the ground, so he took it no further until he got a reliable assurance that the sale would go through. It never did, and it obviously never will. Now he has a cash-flow problem, it's the wrong time of year to be selling, but if we'd take it straight away he'd knock 20% of the price we were considering the other evening."

"He wants an answer more or less immediately, I suppose."

"Yes, or he'll have to try elsewhere."

Mike checked the diary, and there was nothing particular booked for the next day. "Hmm. Shall we take a look at it tomorrow?"

"We?"

"Yes, I'd like your opinion, and I'd want Terry to come along and give it a trial run. Better ask Beaumont if it's convenient, I suppose."

Colin called him back and made the arrangement. "That seemed to cheer him up," he commented. "I don't think he expected us to bite so readily."

Traffic was heavy, with more than usual delays at road works, so they arrived later than intended. The driver detailed to give a demonstration run had gone to lunch, and Terry was quite willing to take over without more ado, but Beaumont wanted his own lunch and suggested the others should join him at a nearby pub. Over the meal, Mike formed the impression of a character he would be happy to do business with.

Afterwards the demonstration went well, Terry was satisfied with his trial drive, and Beaumont asked Mike's opinion. "I'm definitely interested. If you make the discount 25% you'll have a deal on the spot, otherwise I'll have to think a bit more about it."

Beaumont took very little time to agree and they shook hands on it. On the way back Mike queried Colin's Cheshire cat expression. "You're learning. Six months ago you'd have jumped at the 20%."

His gratification was short-lived, as a week later he was brought up sharp by a mishap due entirely to his own carelessness. A rather late millennium choral festival was being held some twenty miles away, and St. Cyprian's church choir had booked with Turnbull Coaches to take them there. One of his drivers knew the church and some of the people involved, so was an obvious choice for the job, but on the actual day he called in sick so that another had to be found in a hurry. He asked for directions, but Mike was busy sorting out consequential changes to the roster and his hastily-scribbled note was barely legible. The driver had trouble in following it, but finding a crowd awaiting transport at St. Cyril's assumed that he had come to the right place and took them on board. It afterwards turned out that the coach actually booked by St. Cyril's from a much cheaper but less reputable outfit arrived later, was redirected to St. Cyprian's by someone who realised what must have happened, but broke down in the middle of nowhere half way to the destination and never reached it.

St. Cyprians' choir-mistress was justifiably furious, and to make matters even worse Mike's instruction for the cashier to cancel the hire invoice went astray. Fortunately, although with some difficulty, she was appeased by a large helping of humble pie together with a fair-sized contribution to the choir's expenses, but he took the whole episode as a serious warning.

Stepping back to look at himself, he realised that he was tired and making other mistakes as well. He had been overdoing things, not heavily but consistently, and needed a break. Terry's good sense had been an increasingly valuable support to him and could be trusted to keep the show running if Mike himself took a week off. One snag was that the new coach was due for delivery the following Monday, and as that was a slack period he had asked Terry to put it more thoroughly through its paces and report, but it was not an urgent requirement and anything more than a quick run around could wait until the following week. Getting away for a few days would be an opportunity to reconnoitre hotels and other features on possible tour routes - a busman's holiday if ever there was one, he thought wryly, but a complete change from his usual activities and something that could be taken in a fairly leisurely fashion.

The hotel where he stayed on Monday night on the basis of a rather doubtful recommendation immediately proved a poor choice, but there were others nearby. After a quick check he tried a meal at the most promising, was well satisfied and asked to look at one of the rooms. Only then did he ask to see the manager.

The receptionist naturally jumped to the wrong conclusion. "I'm terribly sorry if something's not to your satisfaction, Sir. I'm sure we can sort it out without troubling him."

Mike assured her that he wasn't making a complaint, quite the opposite, but had a matter of business to propose. Mr. Ferguson was fetched and introduced, they discussed availability and discounts, and although reaching no firm conclusion they left it with a promise of further negotiation when the overall pattern of the pilot tour was clearer.

The drive to the next destination was a long one, and Mike felt decidedly stiff on arrival. After checking in and being well satisfied with his room, he decided to take a walk to loosen up before dinner. A side road from the main street led unexpectedly to a gate into a large park, and away to the left he was astonished to see a massive building that looked somehow familiar. After racking his rather reluctant brains he recognised it as Blenheim Palace, which he had last seen on a trip with his parents over twenty years before. He had had not realised that he was so close, but it was an obvious point of interest for his intended pilot tour. It seemed a good omen.

Returning to his hotel, as he was heading for the stairs, a woman waiting at the reception desk caught his eye. She was facing away from him, but something about her seemed familiar, and he paused in his tracks for a moment. She happened to turn slightly towards him, and then he recognised her. "Josie Lake!" he almost shouted, returning to the desk practically at a trot.

She was startled, looked doubtful for a moment then exclaimed "Mike! What a lovely surprise!"

"Yes, for me too. What are you doing here?"

"Escorting a coach party around England - or rather that's what I'm supposed to be doing."

"What do you mean, supposed to be?"

"Just let me settle something here and I'll be with you."

"Right, I'll wait in the sitting room"

He asked coffee for two to be sent there, and found a suitable pair of seats, wondering what Josie had meant. Well, he should soon find out. She arrived just after the coffee and thanked him for ordering it; she needed it after the day she'd had.

"Why, what on earth's gone wrong?"

"Practically a disaster. I told you that I'm taking a party round England. We arrived at Heathrow on Saturday morning - and you know what you feel like after coming from the other side of the Rockies."

"Pretty well smashed."

"Yes, so we had an easy first day - a quick run round some of the sights of London. I'll skip the next couple of days, then we arrived here about four o'clock. We'd got the passengers checked in and had just finished unloading the luggage when we heard a police siren approaching, fast. Most people around got well out of the way, but one old guy kept on ambling across the road. Perhaps he was deaf. Then some maniac came tearing along at about eighty miles an hour, swerved to avoid this character, and crashed into our coach. He was in a fair mess when they eventually cut him out of the wreckage, I don't know whether alive or dead, and I'm ashamed to say I'm not all that bothered. My problem is that the suspension of the coach is wrecked and there's no chance of a repair this side of next week."

"You've tried to get a replacement, I suppose?"

"Of course, but no one I've tried has one available, and I've come to the end of those in the directory. I got on to our agent in London, but he couldn't do any better. Goodness knows what I'm going to tell our party."

"Damned awkward situation. Still, at least none of them were killed."

"That's something. Always look on the bright side of life, eh?"

"That's it. Now will you excuse me for a minute or two? There's something I need to check"

"Yes, of course. I'll see if the coffee can stir my brain into thinking of some solution."

Told it was about the tour party's problem, the receptionist was quite happy for him to make a call from the desk. "Terry? Mike Crampton here. Have you had a chance to try the new bus yet? ... Good. I didn't expect any problems, but it's always best to be sure. ... No, of course it isn't just curiosity; there could be a real job for it here; four days probably. I'm at the Feathers Hotel in Woodstock. Could you get it here by nine tomorrow morning? ... Ten, then? ... Yes, you're right, I do want you at your post. Is there another driver available? Overtime, if necessary ... Good, either of those should do fine ... Be sure to explain that it'll mean being away from home for the rest of the week ... Right, I'll call you again in a few minutes to confirm."

He returned to Josie and asked how many there were in her party, something he should perhaps have checked before, although it would have given the game away prematurely and raised possibly false hopes. As it was, the number proved to be no problem. "Twenty-five, mostly here but a few in the Marlborough. I haven't told them the worst yet."

"Then don't, not just now. You can have a brand new thirty-four seater here at ten o'clock tomorrow; any use?"

"What? You're joking!" He assured her of being perfectly serious.

"Mike, you're an angel!"

He phoned Terry to confirm that the coach would indeed be needed, and asked if he had managed to find another driver willing to take on the job. "No trouble at all. Fred Willis has just had a row with his missus and he's only too glad of an excuse to get away for a few days while she cools off. It's nothing unusual for them, and they always end up lovey-dovey afterwards."

"So it looks like satisfaction all round."

With that settled and the good news delivered to the tourists, he was able to ask if Josie was free to dine with him that evening. She recalled a previous occasion: "Are you still not thinking of anything afterwards?"

"Thinking, perhaps, but not planning."

She laughed, but maybe looked a shade wistful as she squeezed his hand - probably wishful thinking on his part. "Keep it that way. A nice thought, but I don't do it."

It was not really a disappointment as he had expected nothing else. There was even a touch of relief; after the previous debacle, he was far from confident of making a good impression. With that possibility ruled out he had a clear mind to exchange news with her, and suggested a walk before dinner while they did so. She still found Europe cramped after the vast spaces of America, so he took her along the side road that led into the grounds of Blenheim. "We did the palace this afternoon," she said. "Oxford tomorrow."

"A bit different from Yellowstone."

"It could hardly be more so, I imagine."

That reminded her; had he found the place he was supposed to inspect near Jenny Lake? Yes, and he now told her the rest of the story as related by Forster. "What a charming tale; quite romantic. So they were all laid to rest beside each other in the end?"

"So it seems, although of course I can't be absolutely sure that the fourth burial really is Garstein's."

"Not absolutely sure, of course, but it's overwhelmingly probable, isn't it? About ten million times more likely than any of the stories we're likely to be told about this or that ancient monument on our trip."

"Well, perhaps a slight exaggeration, but in principle you're probably right."

"I wonder, Mike. Perhaps it would be a point of interest for tour our guides."

"I don't think that would be a very good idea. 'Please treat it with respect,' the plaque read. The odd visitor or two might be all right, but a bunch of thirty or forty mixed tourists milling around ... I'm not so sure."

"No, you're right, of course, about taking them there, but there can't be any harm in just telling them about it."

"No, I suppose not. Even given the opportunity, they wouldn't have much chance of finding the place without directions. For that matter, unless they were extraordinarily detailed, not much even with them, supposing my experience is anything to go by."

It suddenly occurred to Josie that he hadn't told her on their previous meeting about his having a bus company. "I didn't then. I was just an unemployed mechanic, recently sacked from it as an economy measure, who happened since then to have come into funds. The firm was going bust, which seemed a pity for several reasons, so I bailed it out on condition that I should run it as I liked."

"Luckily for me," she said, "and for my party."

He in turn asked how she came to be on that tour, as he thought she dealt only with the Yellowstone area. "It's quite simple. A relation of my boss runs a travel firm in Idaho Falls. They had a party booked for a European tour in May but the intended escort fell sick too late for an experienced replacement to be brought in. I'm really too young to be picked for such a job in the normal run of things - they prefer the retired schoolteacher type - but Rick said I'd got a reputation for resourcefulness and keeping my head in difficult situations and that was the essence of it, so was I prepared to help his cousin out? I owed him a favour for allowing me time off to help the Hamiltons, it sounded interesting, so I accepted. Evidently they were satisfied with the way it went, and now there's a very unofficial agreement, probably quite illicit but that's not my problem, that the arrangement may be repeated whenever necessary. This time it wasn't quite so desperate but they asked me again anyway, and it was going well until the accident to the coach. And this is the second time you've got me out of a hole. Are you going to make a habit of it?"

"If you'll let me."

It was a flippant remark that had just slipped out, but he realised with a shock that he meant it. It was the nearest thing to an avowal that he had ever made to any woman, and he wondered if it had registered. Whether it had or not, she seemed very thoughtful as she took his arm and they headed back to the hotel.

The coach duly turned up at a quarter to ten the following morning, and Fred gave a good report on its handling. "Let's hope it's as good when it's loaded," Mike cautioned.

Josie emerged to see that all was well, but first handed him a slip of paper with the address of her firm's British agent, to send the hire invoice. "And don't undercharge them just because I'm involved!" He introduced her to Fred and asked her to give him any comments from the passengers about the coach; this was its first outing in earnest, and he would like to have some feedback.

When all their luggage was loaded, Josie made a short speech explaining how Mr. Crampton had saved them from what had seemed an impossible situation and asking them to show their appreciation with the usual round of applause. He blushed and told them he was delighted to have been able to help, it would never have happened but for Josie, so it was her they should thank. She checked them all on and before herself boarding, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, which one or two of the passengers who noticed it cheered, and they were off. Then he checked out from the hotel and continued his survey.

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## Chapter 6. Undercover

Mike started his new scheme tentatively with a simple early autumn four-day tour that he fully expected to make a substantial loss, especially after early bookings proved to be very sparse. As it happened, however, a month before the chosen dates a local travel agency failed, and some of its disappointed clients saw Turnbull Coaches' advertised mini-holiday as an acceptable substitute for their cancelled arrangement, not at all what they had really wanted but better than nothing. There were so many in fact that the tour was considerably over-subscribed and profitable, enough he thought to warrant repetition a month later, but the hotels could not accept the block bookings at such short notice. Prospects were better for the following spring. For the rest, several satisfied clients suggested possible destinations not served by other companies.

When the opportunity arose, Mike therefore set out prospecting for a second time. He wondered if he might again bump into Josie on one of her European sallies, but of course it was the kind of coincidence most unlikely to recur. He now had her own address and might have written to tell her of his plans, but had left it too late and in any case he could hardly expect her commitments to be modified just to suit his convenience.

His exploration yielded mixed results, but enough that met his criteria to make up two respectable circuits, and he planned for them to be the basis of the 2001 season's programme. Results from a circular about them to his known contacts suggested that they should be popular, and with the company's more routine business still prospering, he felt that in the following year he might be justified in ordering a second touring coach for the purpose. If so he would probably go back to Beaumont, but he would look at other builders as well.

He was making some adjustments to an itinerary one Friday evening in October when he received a curious call from his solicitor's secretary; there was no cause for alarm, but could he conveniently attend a meeting in Mr. Dodgson's office the following Wednesday morning? There were two important people who particularly wished to speak to him.

"No cause for alarm" is about as reassuring as a cry of "Don't panic!" and fretting over what it might portend nagged at the back of Mike's mind for the whole weekend and beyond. He found concentrating on his work particularly difficult on the Tuesday, and as Terry Haskins was not especially busy he handed over to him for the afternoon and went for a walk to clear his head.

Arriving next morning for the meeting, he was introduced to Mr. Staveley from the US Embassy and Mr. Gibbons, affiliation unspecified but clearly a Brit. Evidently this was going to be rather formal. Staveley started off by thanking Mike for taking the trouble to see them, then got down to the substance of his business which he emphasised was highly confidential. "I understand that last year you inherited some real estate in Idaho, known as Garstein's Place, and visited it in the August."

"Yes, that's right. Is there some problem there? The attorney mentioned a possible question about the title to it."

"Oh no, we aren't in the least interested in that. This is a much more serious matter."

"Now you've really got me worried."

"There's really no need to be, I assure you. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the property itself or its ownership. It's bound to seem a very curious business, and I'm afraid I can't be at all specific about it, not at this stage at any rate. The question is whether you found anything unusual there?"

"What sort of thing?"

"That's the problem; we've very little idea. All we can suggest is an object that seemed incongruous in that setting, perhaps, or maybe a message of some kind. I'm sorry to be so vague, but we're groping in the dark and clutching at straws."

Mike half expected him to go on about leaving no stone unturned and a string of other clichés, but he was spared that. "Well, now you mention it, there was quite an elaborate message, though I shouldn't have thought it would be of any interest to you."

"I think it's best if we decide that. What was the message about?"

"Well, it was more a story than a message, in fact. It was from Alexander Forster from whom I inherited the place. It had previously belonged to a friend of his. When he last visited this friend, he found him worried sick over breaking a promise to bury his wife's ashes in a particular spot they loved."

"Aha! - Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, but this is beginning to look rather promising. Was there anything about where that spot might be?"

"Yes, I'm coming to that. It was on the other side of the mountains, in the Grand Teton National Park. Forster ferried him there, and they duly buried the ashes, but then the friend himself suddenly died - a heart attack, I suppose. Forster couldn't move the body and apparently did nothing about it afterwards, so he wanted me - or whoever he was addressing - if it wasn't too much trouble to go and see whether whatever was left of it was still there."

"Yes, this is just the sort of thing we want. So I suppose he must have said where this place was?"

"Yes, he left quite detailed directions."

Staveley leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. "This is almost too good to be true. Do you still have those directions?"

"No; at least I've no idea where they are. I may simply have lost them, but I get cluttered up with dead paperwork if I'm not strict about it, so I probably threw them out ages ago."

"Damn! I might have known there'd be a hitch." He slumped despondently into his chair, but then had another idea. "Is there any chance you could reproduce them?"

"Maybe, but I doubt if they'd be much help. Even with them, I had a bit of a job finding the place. They're a bit difficult to describe verbally, so Forster had provided a rough map,. but there's one crucial marker that I'd never have recognised without a drawing of it that he'd left, and I doubt if I could reproduce it."

"What sort of marker?"

"A very oddly-shaped tree stump."

"Would you please try?"

Paper was produced, and Mike did his best but could not get it right; he was fairly sure he would recognise it if he saw it, but it wasn't clear enough in his mind. "So you think you could find the place if you went back?"

"Go back? Hang on a tick, what's all this about? It's a hell of a way to go just to find a pot of ashes."

At this point Gibbons objected, citing the "need to know" principle, but Stavely overruled him. "We're proposing to put this gentleman to a great deal of inconvenience, and I think he can reasonably claim a right to know why he should help us. We can't compel him, you know, and it probably wouldn't do any good if we tried. We need willing assistance."

Gibbons reluctantly conceded this, but insisted that before they went any further, Mike would have to sign the Official Secrets Act. "What? I'm not signing anything before I've read it."

"Very wise, Mr. Crapton."

"Crampton, if you please!"

"Oh, sorry, what an unfortunate misprint."

That error broke the tension. Gibbons chuckled and corrected his brief. "Anyway, I have it here; the relevant bit is quite short, take a look."

Mike did so, and wondered what all the fuss was about. "Nothing more than common sense, really."

"I'm very glad you see it like that."

Gibbons then asked if Dodgson would mind leaving them and make sure they were not disturbed. They didn't actually need a sound-proof room, but if he found any of their conversation substantially audible he should let them know.

Staveley then explained that nearly six years earlier, a Dr. Donald Harris, a specialist at the Idaho National Laboratory, had been kidnapped by a terrorist organisation to which his knowledge could have been useful, although perhaps as a smoke-screen they appeared more immediately interested in him as a hostage in negotiations to have some of their number released from jail. As part of efforts to get him back, Garstein (not his real name) had managed to infiltrate the gang and photograph documents that he thought would help to identify the personage, known only to be someone prominent, who was running it. The hints meant nothing to Garstein, but he thought they would probably be significant to anyone who regularly moved in those circles. However, on the "leaf in a forest" principle, he had hidden the film with half a dozen others when he made his get-away.

"The distinctive mark on the canister obviously had to be very discreet. The clerk to whom he handed it in admitted afterwards that he had been in a bad temper that day - hung over, I suspect, though he didn't say so - and his impatience must have flustered Garstein, who it turned out later was already in a very nervous state - probably a result of the strain he'd been under. Be that as it may, through whatever cause, he unfortunately handed the wrong one in."

"Wasn't the mistake noticed?"

Staveley sighed. "Not at first. Apparently the clerk asked what was in the package, but couldn't be given an explanation of its importance for reasons of security, so he took no particular care with it. In fact he stuck it in his desk and forgot about it for six months. It was only when he was fired for other reasons that he had to clear the desk, came across it at the back of a drawer and simply stuck it in the internal post."

Gibbons tut-tutted, shook his head sadly, and sighed as though finding the situation all too familiar. Staveley glanced at him in mild irritation, then continued.

"When it came to Garstein's boss he wondered why on earth he'd been sent what looked like a bunch of ordinary vacation shots. It was only when he recognised Garstein on one of them that he made the connection and realised what must have happened. By then his - that is, Garstein's \- nervous condition had developed into a kind of breakdown, he was suffering from delusions and when our men went to see him he thought they were part of the gang after his blood. I believe he recovered partly afterwards, enough for a more or less normal life though not for questioning to do any good. With his wife's permission the place was searched while they were out, but nothing relevant was found. However, it was a hurried job and something as small as a roll of film might have been missed. Now that you tell me he buried his wife's ashes later on, I just hope that he'd recognised his mistake, found the right film and hidden it where it was least likely to be found. Don't ask me for a logical reason, though. You see what I mean about clutching at straws."

"Would it really be any use after all this time?"

"Well, Harris is evidently still being kept alive and reasonably well; from time to time the gang send photographs to accompany their demands, although those are now for ransom rather than release of their colleagues. I'm rather surprised they're still bothering, but it's fortunate for us - and for him. This is obviously a very long shot, but if the top man can be identified from data on the film and discretely arrested, there's just the faintest possibility of finding clues to Harris's present location and possibly mounting a rescue mission. Straws again, I'm afraid. Supposing it got that far the attempt would still be extremely risky, but so would leaving a man with his knowledge in unfriendly hands, and to be brutally frank, even a failed rescue could deny them that knowledge, or at least his application of it. We've considered the pros and cons very carefully and the scheme seems just about worth trying, so would you be willing to help? It's the only way we have a chance of success, however slight. All expenses paid, naturally."

Mike was impressed by Stavely's earnestness, but explained that it was more than a matter of expenses; he had a business to run and it needed practically all his attention. "But surely you have to be away sometimes, and I imagine you must have a capable deputy to cover on such occasions? No man is indispensable, and all that. What is the business?"

"A bus company. Yes, I have a deputy, but he's also one of my best drivers, we don't have all that many and there's an unexpected rush of business just now. I can't pull him off his main job."

Staveley and Gibbons conferred for a moment and came up with a suggestion; if they were to second a first-rate PSV driver to his firm for the week of Mike's absence, at national expense, would that meet his objections? He had to consult Terry, who took some time to be found and brought to the telephone. With great reluctance, and only when assured that Mike's absence was unavoidable for reasons that he was not allowed to say (Gibbons winced at that, but it was too late to do anything about it), he accepted the arrangement and so it was settled.

Staveley then told him that one of his embassy staff was due to fly back to Idaho the following Monday, and would be company for him if he was willing to travel that day. Mike saw through that one at once; he was to have a minder. Still, he had no objection, and it was arranged that they should meet at the check-in.

Sam Barker turned out to be a cheerful, burly young man who might have been a Rugby forward, or rather American football of course. They were both ushered very smartly through the VIP section of Security, for reasons that Mike thought probably connected with the slight oddity in the hang of Barker's jacket, and settled themselves for the wait in the first-class lounge. This was something rather different from his previous experience, but he commented that if it were forced upon him he might in time come to accept it without too many complaints. Offered a range of beverages, most of them highly alcoholic, Barker declared himself teetotal and settled for coffee \- for such occasions only, Mike suspected - but urged him not to stint himself unduly.

On the aircraft, the first-class cabin was also very different from the cramped conditions of his first Atlantic crossing. The flight attendant, a rather attractive young negress (to hell with political correctness, he thought; there was nothing derogatory in the term) seemed determined to thrust more alcohol upon him, so that he eventually accepted a Drambuie miniature to go with his coffee and was not inclined to argue when she left another with him "for later". The meal presented to him was vastly better than he remembered, too. The in-flight entertainment was not really to his taste, but he had a good alternative: remembering his father's comments about Mrs. Bennett, overheard by chance many years earlier, he had determined to read 'Pride and Prejudice' in full as for some reason he had never done before, and found a paperback edition in the airport bookshop. That occupied him well enough for the time not spent in dozing or chatting with Barker.

At Denver the authorities, whatever they were, had saved him the interminable wait for the scheduled connection by laying on a private jet to Jackson Hole, where he was introduced to Captain James Martin in charge of the operation. Martin, a man with a brisk, business-like manner whom Mike judged to be in his late twenties, immediately made himself agreeable. He also seemed to have a good relationship with the two squaddies in the party; it was noticeable, however, that they showed no sign of presuming upon it, and Mike imagined that any transgression of that kind would be slapped down very firmly.

It was too late to start work that day, so Mike went to bed early according to local time and had a good night's sleep in a Jackson hotel. They started off early the next morning, although Mike had been awake for about four hours. He suggested that although they were south of the lake, there would be less risk of confusing his memory if they approached from the north as he had done before, and Martin readily agreed. On the way he asked how Mike came to be involved, and was intrigued by the whole story.

The temperature had dropped sharply during the night with a few inches of snow, but in view of the notoriously capricious climate Martin had thought to bring boots for the party with a range of spares, and hoped that one of the pairs would fit Mike. It was a shade large, but he could manage. Although the vegetation around the viewing point had encroached further, Mike found the right path eventually. It seemed rather more distinct than he remembered, and in the clearing itself there were signs that the surrounding trees had been trimmed back recently, but the pillar and the plaque were just as he remembered them. One thing did surprise him, however: "Hello, that's new!"

"What is?"

He pointed at a crude seat, large enough for two or three people, that someone had made out of fallen timber. One of the squaddies tried it and pronounced it not too uncomfortable for a brief rest. Then he started bouncing, gently at first, but Martin told him to desist: "No need to test it to destruction."

The four stones had been covered by snow, but their locations were obvious and the area around them was soon cleared. The snow had been if anything a blessing, since it had insulated the ground from the frost and made digging that much easier than it might have been.

Martin, who now confessed to having been rather sceptical about the practicality of the whole expedition, was greatly relieved that everything had so far gone according to plan. He supposed that if the film were there at all it would be with the ashes of Garstein's wife, and Mike thought that was almost certainly so, but since there was nothing either on the site or in his memory of Forster's instructions to suggest which of the stones might be the right one, they would probably have to investigate all four unless they struck lucky earlier.

Martin had assumed that all the ashes would be enclosed in the customary urns, and that the film if present at all would be in one of them, but Mike pointed out that although that seemed very probable, no urn was actually mentioned in his instructions, so they had better proceed rather carefully. Martin took the point, but was a little concerned that it might upset the timetable for the operation, although fortunately that seemed so far to be not at all critical. The squaddies were duly warned to dig carefully, a little at a time.

They were working on the second interment when a woman came bustling along the path, stopped in horror when she saw what was going on, and berated them furiously for vandalising a sacred burial place. Martin let her have her say, then apologetically produced his authorisation and quietly explained that he was under orders and pursuing a serious official investigation; he was not permitted to say more about it, except that someone's life might depend upon it. "We'll treat any remains we find with the utmost respect, and put the whole site back as closely as possible to what it was when we've finished. You're welcome to stay and make sure if you wish, and for that matter to carry on with whatever you came to do."

In view of the secrecy enjoined on him, Mike was startled at this and was about to question it, but Martin signalled to him to be silent, and indeed the woman's response was "I only came to see what was happening here after I noticed all the tracks leading to the path. I can't hang about here all day while you lot mess around."

"Then if you tell me where you can be found, I shall report when we've finished and you can inspect to your heart's content."

She was still unhappy but perforce agreed to that, and digging was carefully resumed. All four interments proved to be of urns that were recovered undamaged and carefully opened, in one instance with the help of a little easing oil that Martin had fortunately thought to bring. The contents were sifted separately into a saucepan shielded from the gentle breeze, but in each case consisted only of ashes, and Martin cursed quietly in frustration, then remembering the supposedly sacred nature of the place apologised to no one in particular. Each collection was returned to its original urn through a funned of rolled card.

Despite all precautions, a little ash escaped and some blew into Mike's face. He sneezed, and fishing for a handkerchief, pulled out a few coins, one of which rolled into a still-open hole where it vanished into the loose soil at the bottom. It was probably only a dime, but instincts formed in years of penury reasserted themselves and he scrabbled for it. Every movement seemed to send it further down and he borrowed a spade to get underneath. Even so, he never did retrieve the coin, because he lost interest when up came a slightly battered 35 mm film canister.

Martin noticed and shouted "Don't open it!"

Mike felt insulted: "What sort of fool do you take me for?"

"None at all, but better be safe than sorry."

"Oh, fair enough. I suppose this really is what you're looking for?"

"It sure looks like it, but in case it hasn't been processed we'd better wait until we can get it into a darkroom."

"Perhaps you'd better check the other holes more thoroughly, too; this might be just a decoy."

"Good point, Mr. Crampton. We'll do that."

However, nothing else of interest appeared, so the urns were carefully and reverently re-interred. The custodian was fetched, she pronounced herself tolerably satisfied, and Martin diplomatically invited her to join him in a prayer. At that she blushed, apologised for her earlier outburst and went so far as to offer refreshments after their efforts, a suggestion gratefully appreciated but gracefully declined, much to the squaddies' disgust. When it was safe to say so, Martin consoled them with "It would probably only be tea anyway," and produced the cans of beer that he had surreptitiously brought for the occasion.

For operational reasons the team had to return to Idaho Falls. The job had taken less time than had been allowed, it was still only mid-afternoon, and with his homeward flight booked for the following day Mike asked if he might attend to a little business of his own in the town. "I didn't know you had any."

"Yes, I've a lawyer looking after my interests here, and there's something else I want to discuss, too."

"I see. Well, it was you who actually found what we were looking for, so I don't see how we can decently refuse you. How long will you need?"

"Two hours should be enough, I think." Martin had no objection to that and arranged transport, so Mike was able to check with Weinberg whether there were any outstanding issues over Garstein's place.

Fortunately there was nothing that needed his attention, but Weinberg was understandably curious. "You didn't come all this way just to ask that question, did you?"

"No, there was something else I had to do."

He was aware of seeming decidedly shifty, but Weinberg saved the need for any more awkward evasions by humorously taking the wrong end of the stick: "If there's a lady involved I shan't pry any further." Mike laughed: it was as good a cover as any he could have devised.

Then he went to the travel agency that he had used before and asked to speak to the head, a Mr. Dennison. He introduced himself as managing a travel company in England, without mentioning at that stage how small a part of his business that actually was. "I've noticed back home that there don't seem to be any packages offered specifically for the Yellowstone area; if it's included at all it's as an odd day in a more general tour, usually starting in New York or Washington. Now I realise it would be a specialised niche, but I think there might be a market for a longer stay, perhaps camping and wild life or geothermal interests, and possibly with a West Coast extension. Do you think from your own experience that it might be worth considering bypassing the East Coast altogether?"

"Well, people often do spend a week or two in the parks, but of course they aren't coming from so far away. Hmm. It would have to be at the top end of the market; we couldn't expect people to tolerate economy class from Europe all the way here."

Shuddering at the recollection, Mike agreed. "And that dreadful connection at Denver would be unbearable, so unless the schedules are altered it might be worth arranging a charter. I suppose we should look into the possibility of approaching by way of Seattle instead, but there may be the same problem there; I didn't think to check."

Dennison observed that Jackson would be a more natural starting point, and Mike agreed. "But tours could start there and finish here, or the other way round, to save covering the same ground twice."

"That's a reasonable suggestion; I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask for the present. Here's my card; you'll want to know more about me, of course, so I suggest you speak to Harry Weinberg; it was he who recommended you to me."

"Ah yes, Harry and I are old friends. I'll do that, and get in touch before long."

Returning home, Mike was more than usually preoccupied for a couple of weeks, as on top of all the usual stuff a few complications had arisen that Terry had thought best left for the boss. Nothing came from Dennison in that time, and Mike supposed he had found the costs too high or some other obstacle. He had almost forgotten his suggestion when the best part of five months later, a letter arrived with impressively researched details that Mike was invited to go back and discuss if they chimed well enough with his own ideas. They looked very interesting indeed and he telephoned promptly to that effect. Dennison thought the meeting should take no more than half a day, and had no objection when Mike suggested holding it in the morning so that he could attend to other matters in the afternoon; he would gladly book a hotel room in Idaho Falls the for the following Wednesday night, in Ashton for Thursday and a car for the journey.

He arrived near midnight and checking in at the hotel, found the night porter polishing his shoes using a weeks-old issue of the Post Register to protect the desk surface. The headline RETURN OF INL SCIENTIST caught his eye and reminded him of his visit the previous October, so he asked if he might have a closer look. "Take it, Sir, I've done with it. We only kept this one because the manager's son used to work at INL and was coming back for his mother's birthday."

The page was dominated by a photograph of a well-built man, apparently youngish but clearly the worse for wear with a nasty scar across the forehead. Skimming through the text, Mike came across the name Donald Harris which confirmed his interest. Stripped down to essentials, the story was that new information recently acquired had enabled the long-kidnapped specialist to be located and freed from captivity, although with serious injuries sustained in the battle that wiped out most of the gang holding him. He had now recovered well enough to convalesce at home, although for reasons of security and privacy the address was not disclosed, and he wished to thank sincerely all those who had been instrumental in releasing him; that applied especially to the two who had died in the raid, and he offered sincere condolences to their families. Evidently, Mike thought, the long shot with Garstein's film had paid off vastly better than could realistically have been hoped, and on the whole the rescue too had been surprisingly successful.

He commented on that aspect during the preliminaries of his meeting the next morning. Dennison was of course completely unaware of the extraordinarily tenuous possibilities that had been realised in the preparations for the operation, but from what had been published agreed that it was a remarkably satisfactory outcome, and then turned to the matter in hand. It ended with an arrangement for a pilot tour to be included in the next season's brochure.

Mike thought of paying a courtesy call on Weinberg, who however was out visiting another client, so he left a verbal message of good wishes, then headed north and was glad to find Iris Carter at home, although Joel was working in St. Anthony. She greeted him warmly and was delighted to show him proudly all the improvements that they had made to the house; as a sudden afterthought she asked anxiously if he approved of them. "Very much so. This is your home, and within reason you can do whatever you like to make it more comfortable for yourselves."

"That's very kind of you, Sir, and we do appreciate it. Now you will stay for a bite to eat, won't you?" Mike could think of no reason to decline it that would not seem intolerably churlish and so felt obliged to accept, although with some apprehension in view of the blow-out he remembered from the previous occasion. Perhaps someone had dropped a hint to her, or maybe she was short of supplies, but the meal proved to be merely substantial rather than gargantuan and he was able to do something like justice to it.

While they were eating he asked how they were faring generally, but her answer was non-committal and he suspected that they were still having some difficulty in making ends meet with any overlap. "You know," she added, "it took us quite a while to get used to living here in the forest, having to manage with only a trickle of electricity and so on, although Joel's thinking of getting a bigger generator and that would make quite a difference, but now we've settled in we really love the place. We'd hate to have to leave it." Mike took that as a hint,. so assured her that he had not the slightest intention of turning them out and as far as he was concerned, the place was theirs as long as they needed it. Indeed, he thought briefly of asking Weinberg if he could find a way of giving them legal tenure without raising too many awkward questions; however, considered in relation to a place that didn't legally exist, it seemed a logical impossibility.

Taking his leave, he suddenly realised that he had forgotten to telephone the Hamiltons and warn them of his intention to visit the area, but he hoped they would not take his unexpected arrival amiss and might have news of Josie, as he had heard nothing from her for some time. For that matter, neither had she heard anything from him, apart from a Christmas card that hardly counted. He had never been much good at personal correspondence himself, as Carol Alsopp in particular would have had every justification in complaining. Why he should think of her just then he could not imagine. Nevertheless he wondered what she was doing now; probably married with several children, but he was unlikely to find out as he had not maintained the family contact. Neither did he particularly regret it.

As he approached he could hear Bill again splitting logs and had a sense of having slipped back in time, but the greeting he received now after a moment of surprise was very different from that on his original visit. "Michael! I hardly recognised you. Good to see you again, though. Why have you taken so long? It must be getting on for two years. Eighteen months, at any rate."

"There just wasn't an occasion." He forbore to mention his last visit to the area, but on that trip it would have been out of the question and he probably ought not to speak of it anyway, though what harm it might do now he could not imagine.

"Sal will be delighted you've come, and so will Josie. She's here too."

Mike's heart jumped at that and he was glad that no one saw his blushes. Bill went to the door and shouted "Sal! Josie! Guess who's here!"

From inside there was a call of "Coming!" In fact it was Josie herself who appeared first, did a double take, then rushed at him, flung her arms round his neck and gave him a real smacker. Sal appeared a moment later and greeted him equally warmly if in a more sedate, matronly manner. "This is a real occasion. Why on earth didn't you say you were coming? We'd have had a proper welcome for you. Josie's told us about how splendid you were that time her coach got wrecked."

"Oh, that, it was no trouble at all, really. I was only too glad to help. It was such a joy to see her again. And as for not telling you I was coming, I'm sorry, I simply forgot. I wanted to see the Carters - you remember I referred you to Iris when I needed someone to vouch for my good character - and I'm ashamed to say it put warning you out of my mind."

"Well, perhaps we can forgive you for that. What do you say, Josie?"

"I'm not so sure. It's a heinous offence. What sort of penalty can make up for it?"

"Don't ask me. I've no idea."

"I've got it, how about a really stupendous kiss?"

"That's one I'll be delighted to pay."

It was a long, sustained embrace and he made the most of it, thinking that fortune was really smiling on him. It left her gasping for breath. The she became more serious. Taking his hand, she said "I'm so glad you've come just now, Mike. You couldn't have picked a better time. There's someone here I particularly want you to meet."

He wondered who on earth that could be, but more immediately was puzzled by something he could not quite identify, something unexpected about her manner, deeper than the excitement of her initial greeting. He took a little while to pin it down, but it eventually clicked; instead of the air of slight melancholy that he had previous felt in all her quiet moments, there was now a kind of sparkle about her, a lightness and gaiety he had never sensed before - not of course that he had had the opportunity to know her as well as he would have liked. It was as though an immense weight of care had been lifted from a naturally buoyant nature so that it could burst out after years of suppression.

She led him to an inner room, where a big man with a leg in plaster supported on a stool was sitting reading with his back to the door. "Don, you'll never guess who's here"

"Who's that?" As he turned, Mike recognised the scar on his forehead from the photograph he had seen in the Idaho Falls newspaper.

"Mike," she said, "come and meet my husband."

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## Chapter 7. Garstein's Hoard

The call from Joel Carter was the first that Harry Weinberg had received for the best part of a year. There had been a flurry of them in the months after the Carters first took up residence in the Garstein house, mostly about details too trivial to worry a less obsessively scrupulous couple, but it had died down and he wondered what aspect of their tenancy had now surfaced to bother them. In fact the subject was a new development altogether.

"It's like this, Mr. Weinberg. You know the little electric generator in the outhouse - "

"I remember there was one, yes."

"Well, it's fine for the fridge and a few lights, but Iris misses the TV - I do myself, for that matter - and we'd both prefer to keep the kerosene lamps just for emergencies, so we're thinking of getting a bigger generator."

"That sounds a perfectly sensible thing to do. Safer, too; the lamps must be something of a fire risk, however careful you are."

"Yes, of course, there is that. Anyway, I was clearing a bit of space in the outhouse, because we don't want to shift the old generator before the new one's ready to connect up."

Weinberg felt obliged to try and stem the flow of irrelevancies. "Very sensible, but I don't really see how it concerns me."

"I'm sorry, Sir, Iris often tells me I go all round the block to get to the back door. The point is that when I was clearing out some junk - I know I ought to have done it long ago, but I never got round to it \- I came across a metal deed box that must have been there since Mr. Garstein's time. It was carefully sealed around the lid and even in the keyhole, I suppose to keep the damp out, so I didn't look inside. Now it was obviously important at some time to someone, but there's nothing to show who that someone might have been, or when it was put there, or what might be in it, so we wonder what we ought to do about it - open it ourselves or pass it as it stands to - well, who? I was for breaking the seal to see if there was any clue inside, but Iris insisted on consulting you first. I think she's been reading too many horror stories, but that's by the way. What do you think we should do?"

Weinberg had had a great deal of correspondence and telephone calls with them, especially in the first few months of their residence. Most was of a kind that he could refer to his agent in Rexburg, but through what he had dealt with personally he believed that he knew Iris well enough by now to be sure she would be satisfied on this matter with nothing less than his own attention, and humouring her would probably cause him the least trouble in the long run. He therefore checked his diary, arranged a time and asked whether the marker for their track off the main road was still as he remembered it from his one visit, five years earlier. "It's still there, but no one else comes here and we're so used to it that we've let it get a bit overgrown lately. I'll make a point of tidying it up."

The day when it came was wet and chilly. For some reason the car heater had gone on the blink, the screen wipers had developed an irritating squeak, and he was distracted enough to miss the marker on the first pass so that he had to retrace his path. Half way along the track, dodging a pot-hole before the area of moribund vegetation, he scraped a wing on a large stone that he had failed to notice in the grass at the edge, and by the time he finally arrived on what he fully expected to be a completely unnecessary errand, he heartily wished Iris Carter and her scruples at the Devil.

Iris's fussing over him, although much as he expected ("Do come in, Sir - what a nasty day - Oh, your hands are frozen - come and warm your self by the stove - let me take your coat -" and so on), added to his irritation, and he was rather short with her.

"I'm sorry, Sir - it must be a dreadful nuisance to be dragged all the way out here, and I know it may turn out to be a complete waste of your time, but I felt it was too important to handle ourselves. Now you're here, will you have a coffee to warm yourself up?" He admitted that it would be welcome, but was too diplomatic to express his opinion of the errand. "And cookies?"

"Well, yes, just a couple, thank you." Of course the plate when it came was full, with a large wedge of Iris's fruit cake beside half a dozen cookies. He could reasonably leave most of those, but not the cake, and he rather surprised himself by enjoying it very much. His mood improved a lot and he offered a sincere compliment, which pleased her greatly.

Much to his relief, the box had been moved from the outhouse into the kitchen and the stove was going well. Joel appeared and also apologised for dragging him all the way from Idaho Falls for what might turn out to be nothing of importance. "Iris would have it so; she probably thought there was a severed head in it."

"Now, Joel, don't go making it seem sillier than it is," she objected, but he was closer to the mark than she cared to admit even to herself.

After making what he hoped was an acceptable onslaught on the refreshments, Weinberg asked if Joel had anything for prizing the sealant away from the metal, and he produced a suitable screwdriver. The lid was fairly easy to clear, but Weinberg took extra care with the sealant over the keyhole fearing that some might fall in and jam the lock. In fact it had not been forced in and came away quite cleanly. Fortunately, too, the key had been attached to a handle with a length of bell wire rather than string or steel that would probably have rotted or rusted away, and although itself superficially corroded it turned not too reluctantly. Inside were three stacks of paper bound with twine, one a pile of manuscript and the others collections of sepia photographs and official-looking documents.

"Can you make anything of them, Sir?" Iris asked.

"I'm afraid not. This lot's in Cyrillic - that's the Russian alphabet. I know most of the characters but hardly any of the language. These others I think are in Hebrew, and I know nothing at all of that."

The manuscript however was in English, and although the handwriting was ill-formed and faded it was still generally legible. Iris thought she recognised it as Garstein's, plausibly enough as it was headed "The house by the Dniepr: a fragment of Jewish life in 19th century Ukraine, by Jacob Garstein."

Weinberg was impressed. "Mrs. Carter, I owe you an apology. I'd quite convinced myself that you'd brought me out on a wild goose chase, and I know I was a bit abrupt when I came in, but you were absolutely right. This could be very important historically."

"There you are, Joel," Iris exclaimed in triumph. "I told you it must be, with so much care taken over it."

"So you did," Joel admitted. "What are we going to do with it, then?"

"Well, first of all there's the question of ownership. Garstein didn't seem to have any living relatives when he died and apparently never left a Will, so as far as I can see, if it belongs to anyone that must be Mr. Crampton. I'll have to get on to him about it. Meanwhile, am I right in supposing that you'd rather not have it cluttering up the place?" Iris, despite the relief from her more gothic imaginings, was only too pleased to have it taken out of her way.

She insisted that he should stay for a proper meal with them before going back south, and would take no refusal. Remembering Mike's account of her ideas on proper meals, and considering his own tendency to indigestion, Weinberg was deeply apprehensive but resigned himself to facing something of an ordeal, so he was pleasantly surprised when what appeared was quite modest and by her previous standards merely a snack. Afterwards, while she was clearing up, Joel helped Weinberg carry the box to his car. Fortunately the rain had stopped so a little conversation was possible. Weinberg commented on his relief at not being faced with the sort of table-straining blow-out that had so daunted Mr. Crampton.

Joel chuckled and said he understood very well. "A few weeks ago, a new pastor arrived in the town. He heard about us living out here in the forest and came to visit, so of course Iris had to give him the full works, offering more and more until he said he absolutely couldn't take it. I was amazed how he managed that much. Anyway, he was full of thanks to Iris and compliments on her cooking, but then asked if she minded if he said something to her. She said go ahead, and he pointed out that pressing guests to take more than they could comfortably eat was not really a courtesy. That knocked her back a bit, but she put a brave face on it and said she'd think about it. She grumbled about it after he'd gone, but I told her he was right and tried to think of an analogy that she'd recognise. The nearest I could get was offering booze to a dried-out alcoholic, and she said that was a different thing altogether - she was right, of course - but after she'd mulled it over for a while she took the point."

Back in the office, Weinberg had the box put in safe storage but first photocopied the opening dozen of the manuscript pages. His idea was to show them in the first instance to Marion, his wife, who had strong literary and historical interests, and then if she thought it worth while to seek professional advice on what should be done with the rest. It would of course depend on gaining Crampton's approval once they had some idea of what they were talking about.

Marion read the sample text carefully and was impressed. "As far as I can judge, it's well written and the subject matter's interesting, but you really need an expert opinion."

"And where can we get that?"

"For the subject matter, I've no idea, but I've one or two possible contacts on the literary side. If you're going into it seriously, it would be worth getting the whole text transcribed as a computer file. Then it can easily be sent to a whole range of people, perhaps critically edited and eventually printed."

"But that could be expensive. Before we commit ourselves to all that, shouldn't we test the water with a sample?" Marion agreed, and suggested transcribing a dozen or so pages. "Right. Even that's a lot to ask of a volunteer, so I'd better ask for Mr. Crampton's agreement to having it done professionally and give him some notion of what's likely to be involved. In fact I'd better tell him about the find in any case. It's possible he may have his own ideas. He does do some surprising things; I was astonished when he took on running a bus company rather than just buying shares in it, though I get the impression it's working out quite well."

Told of the discovery, Mike was quite intrigued and wanted to know just what the material was about. Weinberg could only give him the title of the script and a summary of what Marion had read, but that was enough to convince Mike that the proposed course of action was correct, and that in a way he owed it to Garstein to have it done.

The first step was to get the sample transcribed. Michele Grant, the general typist in Weinberg's firm, was already fully occupied in the working day, but he suggested that she might like to earn a little extra pin money by doing the first few dozen pages at home, say to a point where there seemed to be some kind of natural break in the subject matter. "If it looks like being worth while I might ask you to do the rest in due course, supposing you're willing, although I can't promise anything definite about that until the picture's clearer." As she was saving for a special vacation she jumped at the chance.

It was a few days before she had an opportunity to start, and she had some difficulty in getting used to Garstein's handwriting, so more than a week had passed by the time she came to Weinberg with a problem about it. "There's a sudden break in continuity, at the end of a page but right in the middle of a sentence."

"What sort of break?"

"Well, as you know, the script starts off as a straightforward family history, but then it looks as though another completely different document's been stuck into the stack. What do you want me to do about it?"

"What kind of other document?"

"I'm not sure. I only read a sentence or two and didn't like to go any further. In fact I didn't like the look of it at all."

"Pornography?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I just got the feeling it shouldn't be any of my business."

Weinberg read a paragraph or two of this new section and saw what she meant. Indeed, he was quite alarmed. "Did you actually type up any of this?"

"No, I thought I'd better not until you said so."

"You were quite right, it isn't any of our business. Maybe the original material continues later on, but for the time being we'd better not assume anything. Nor for that matter say anything about it to anyone else - that's important." Fortunately Michele was used to dealing with confidential matters and had a good reputation for discretion. He paid what was already owed to her plus a small bonus, and resolved to ask Mike if he had come across any suggestion that Garstein might have been involved in some way with the security services; he thought it best not to telephone or e-mail, but made an opportunity to write in the old-fashioned manner less susceptible to eavesdropping.

The postal service lived up to its common sobriquet and three weeks passed before Mike received to his astonishment a single-page hand-written letter and wondered what possible technological calamity could have struck Weinberg's office. On reading it he quite understood and was careful to shred the sheet thoroughly. His response by e-mail was a terse "Re your letter of the 17th. Yes."

Weinberg commended Michele on her vigilance in recognising the significance of the discontinuity; he was mightily thankful that she had saved them from a serious embarrassment or worse. However, he suspected that the material could still cause trouble if it got into the wrong hands, whilst ignoring or destroying it might also have highly undesirable consequences. Rightly or wrongly, he had doubts about the ability of the local police to distinguish adequately between the dangerous and the innocuous portions of Garstein's manuscript, and was anxious that both should be treated with respect and in the manner appropriate to their characters. Who might more appropriately deal with either was not immediately obvious to him, but the alarming insertion clearly had to take priority. After some futile searching he at last found a promising postal address. Emphasising that he had read no more of the script than enough to arouse his suspicions, and that he could not therefore be certain of its nature, he sent off a very cautiously worded summary of the situation.

There was no immediate reply beyond a formal acknowledgement, but soon afterwards he was visited by two very serious gentlemen in dark suits and dark glasses, with ID making it quite clear that they were not the Mafia, who took a close look at the first few pages of the suspect document with much muttering and tut-tutting. After that they were extremely anxious to be assured that no one else was aware of it or would learn of its existence for the indefinite future, with grave warnings of unspecified dire consequences if there were any loose talk about it. They took away the whole box, with a promise that after the contents had been sufficiently studied, which might take some considerable time, the portion irrelevant to the authorities (supposing it to be so) would be returned to him. On his insistence they gave him a receipt that might just possibly have been slightly better than nothing if questions were asked or he needed to reclaim possession.

He did not really trust that promise, and so was pleasantly surprised when several months later a large package came by special delivery from Washington with all but a small portion of Garstein's papers as they had been found, packed quite carefully and much as they had been into the original box. With the papers was a newspaper cutting on the abrupt dismissal and apparent suicide of a senior government official of whom he had never heard, and scrawled in the margin a single hand-written word: "Thanks" - an insertion almost certainly against the spirit and probably the letter of regulations on such matters, but a graceful touch nevertheless and he appreciated the consideration. He should clearly not mention this development to the Carters, who would surely have been seriously distressed by it.

There remained the question of what to do with the material now returned, and on that he was right out of his depth. He obviously needed professional advice, and even where to turn for it would depend on whether he should pursue mainly the literary or historical aspect. Theoretically the Internet should offer some prospect of finding a starting point, but of the organisations he could find that looked as though they might have been appropriate, the Jewish Historical Association seemed to be concerned only with history within the USA, while on the literary side the web site of the local university had nothing at all relevant. However, Marion had friends in the faculty and wangled an invitation to a lecture to be given by a visiting professor about the impact of immigration on academic life; with luck Weinberg might make some useful informal contacts in the customary social gathering after the presentation.

The lecture itself was of little interest to him, but he was well practised in feigning attention. Afterwards Marion introduced him to a few members of the department for whom the discovery of the documents was itself a point of mild interest, but no one had any constructive suggestions until the visitor became free and was invited to hear the story. He immediately showed interest and had a vague recollection from a previous visit thirty or forty years back that someone in the faculty had been working on a very similar topic; he thought the name was Margaret Robinson, but was not at all sure, and she had probably retired many years past. However, if she could be traced it might be worth talking to her. The Dean of the faculty, who had also joined the group, promised to look up the records and get in touch if anything helpful turned up.

A few days later he phoned Weinberg to say that he had found an entry about a Margaret Robertson who seemed to fit the bill. "The name's close enough, given that Professor Edwards wasn't at all sure about Robinson. There's something very odd about it, though. She seems to have suddenly abandoned her project, or rather changed to another completely different, before it had got very far and for reasons that were not given."

"For something more juicy, perhaps?"

"It doesn't look like it. At any rate, it doesn't seem to have done her any good; her publications seem to have been barely enough to warrant her retention, and she was completely forgotten even in her own department. No one knows whether she still lives anywhere round her, of course, but there's an address and telephone number that might be worth trying."

In fact it turned out that she had moved out of the town, but the present tenants had a forwarding address in Rigby, about fifteen miles away, that might still be valid. In hope but little confidence, Weinberg wrote to it explaining that he understood she had once worked on documents relating to Jewish life in the Ukraine and wondered if she would be willing to advise on how to deal with a cache of similar material that had recently come into his hands.

There was no reply for about a month, and he thought she must have moved again, or of course she might possibly have died. However, she eventually phoned saying she was sorry for the delay, but his letter had revived memories of an episode so painful that at first she had been unable to face it again. "I'm dreadfully sorry, I'd no idea."

"Of course, you couldn't possibly have known anything about it. The whole thing was kept very quiet. I can see now that I was foolish to get so upset about it, and I'm sorry if the delay's caused you any trouble."

"None at all. There's nothing urgent about this business."

"That's a relief. I'll be glad to help as far as I can; it may even help to exorcise a ghost or two from the past."

"That's very kind of you. When would it be convenient to call on you for say a couple of hour's discussion?"

"I'm rather tied up for the rest of this week, but next is clear so far."

"Wednesday, ten o'clock?"

"That'll be fine."

It seemed inappropriate to turn up with the whole box, but he took a copy of Garstein's text so far as it had been transcribed and a sample of the associated documents; he assumed that Dr. Robertson would be acquainted with one if not both of the languages used in them. He found the address without too much trouble. An elderly white-haired woman answered the door, he asked "Dr. Robertson?", she welcomed him in and told him to call her Madge. In turn, he asked to be called Harry, exceptional familiarity for him, but he could not ignore her request and one-sided formality would be ridiculous. She offered him coffee but he declined for the moment.

Weinberg first presented the transcript, which she glanced through, he thought at first rather superficially; then she suddenly stiffened. "Harry," she said, "if you don't mind I'm going to tell you a story that I've kept quiet for a very long time. It probably wouldn't matter all that much if it got out now, but I'd rather it didn't. Can I trust your discretion?"

Puzzled, he assured her that she could; as an attorney he often had to exercise it. She nodded, and explained that her story went back about forty years when she was a young post-doc at the university with a rather insecure position in a small ethnographic research group.

"I couldn't afford to lose that position. I'd only just scraped into it after being rejected by half a dozen other universities, and I had no other means of support. I was rather tactless in those days and one way or another I'd already offended several senior people, so I had to walk on eggshells."

"One of my students was a shy young man called John Smith. I gathered he was often teased about his name's reputedly appearing in shady circumstances on hundreds of hotel registers around the land, and some of the randier types used to embarrass him by asking how he'd managed such a remarkable record. In fact I don't suppose he'd had any sexual experience at all, and he was caught between shame at his lack of it and horror at what his very strait-laced family would think if they believed in any fraction of the scandalous liaisons attributed to him. I told him that it was just ordinary student banter and he shouldn't let it bother him, but it's a lot easier to give that advice than to follow it and he became very distressed. He was probably a bit unstable to start with. If the university allowed it he'd have changed the name, but it insisted that he had to stick with the one in its files. I believe that among his buddies he used an alias, but I don't know what it was."

"His project was based on a package of family documents originally belonging to a grandmother or some relative even further back, and to take his mind off the bullying we'd often study them in my apartment. I wasn't all that much older than he was, we were both lonely and only human, and one thing led to another in a thoroughly corny way that I'm not very proud of. I dare say you can imagine it. How anything about it became known, I've no idea, but a few months later I was hauled before a disciplinary committee, under an ancient statute that hardly anyone knew existed, and told that unless I desisted from conduct incompatible with the student-teacher relationship, my position would have to be seriously re-examined. I complained that plenty of the male lecturers seemed to regard fornicating with the prettier students as a perk of the job, perfectly acceptable so long as there was no coercion or improper inducement, and some of them weren't any too fussy about the proviso; why was nothing being done about them?. They said the question was about my conduct, not theirs, and in view of my uncooperative attitude I must transfer that particular student to another supervisor."

"I thought it totally unfair, and said so, but it didn't cut any ice, and I knew that the faculty would be only too glad of a plausible excuse for getting rid of me. In fact when I thought about it a bit more, I was rather surprised at being given any chance at all, and I suppose someone must have spoken up for me. It's never occurred to me before, but thank you, whoever it was. I had a hell of a job bringing myself to break the news to John, and he took it badly. He became violently emotional, accused me of stringing him along, swore that he was going to have nothing more to do with the project, and disappeared altogether from the university taking his whole archive with him. The authorities made some half-hearted enquiries but they soon came to a dead end, and I never heard any more from or about him."

"The reason I'm telling you all this, Harry, is that this text seems identical with the start of what John and I were studying so long ago. Is there anything else?"

"I've brought along these documents that were with the manuscript. I couldn't make anything of them myself, beyond recognising the Russian characters. Can you?"

"I can read Russian, after a fashion. Yes, these are part of the same collection."

"In fact there's a whole box full of papers. It's a bit awkward to handle, so I've brought only a sample. About half of them are Garstein's text, - I mean, John's - the rest what appear to be supporting documents. A family archive, in fact."

"A metal deed box, about so big, with a key on a bit of bell wire?"

"Yes, that's right."

"It must be the same collection. How do you come to have it?"

"I'm only looking after it temporarily. It was found on a property inherited by one of my clients, who is anxious to do the right thing with it. So am I, for that matter."

"Inherited? So that means that John is dead."

"It seems so. Garstein is certainly dead, about six years ago." He saw no need to mention the peculiar circumstances.

She nodded, and sat for a while in thought. Weinberg was reluctant to disturb it. Eventually she raised her eyes: "It's sad news, but it puts an end to my doubts. What they call 'closure' these days. Assuming that what you have really is the same box, and I don't see how it could possibly be anything else, I'd like to buy it, or at least the contents. Is it likely to be for sale? My means are limited, remember."

"Well, as you probably understand, I'm only an agent in this business. The box isn't mine to sell."

"Who does it belong to, then?"

"As far as I've been able to make out, no one has _de jure_ title to it. The _de facto_ owner is my client, an English businessman with interests in Idaho. He would probably be content with any arrangement that I made on his behalf, and if that's what you'd like I'll consider what the asking price should be bearing in mind what you've just said. However, I think on the whole that you might do considerably better by talking to the owner directly. He may be visiting this area in a month or two, if you can wait for that, or else I could ask on your behalf; which would you prefer?

"After forty-odd years, I think I can bear another couple of months easily enough. Is he likely to be difficult, do you think?"

"From what I know of him, I'd say quite the opposite. I've always found him extremely reasonable, but it isn't for me to presume on that." He though it improper to mention his belief that Mike, hearing the story from her, would almost certainly prefer to make an outright gift of the collection. That was something that an attorney could not very well do on his own initiative; meanwhile, however, it seemed safe enough to leave the samples with her.

He thought this development warranted another telephone call to Mike, and wondered if he was likely to visit in the next few months. "Funny you should ask," Mike said. "I've just had notice of Broadbent's AGM and thought it's about time I met some of my fellow shareholders, not to mention the management. Has something else cropped up?"

Weinberg recounted the story of finding Garstein's box, and Mike was immediately interested. "So what do you think is the best thing to do with it?"

"I've made some enquiries, and the only person who shows much interest is an old flame of Garstein's. She'd like to buy it."

"What's it worth, do you think?"

"Intrinsic value, practically nil, I should say, but historical or cultural interest, maybe considerable."

"Then she can have it gratis, on condition that it eventually goes to whatever organisation can best handle it. She must be pretty ancient by now, I imagine."

"About eighty, I'd say."

"Oh, well then, definitely gratis. She isn't likely to have it for very long."

"I thought that's what you'd say - about no charge, I mean - but it wouldn't have been proper to tell her so without your agreement. There's one other thing; the reason I asked whether you're coming over ..."

"Yes?"

"This may not suit you at all, and I'm not sure that it would be considered professional conduct even to mention it, but she's had a sad life, there probably isn't much to it nowadays, and I think it would really buck her up if you delivered the box to her personally. I hope you don't mind my making the suggestion."

"Not at all. I think it's an excellent idea."

For this transatlantic flight Mike took enough paperwork to occupy the long spells of forced inactivity, including the material sent out in preparation for the Broadbent AGM. It was held in one of the Idaho Falls hotels, and turned out to be a fairly low-key affair with only about twenty people present, most of them minor shareholders. Ernest had retired as Managing Director in 1992, nothing had been heard of Conrad since Maria Martinez arrived, so the family interest had passed to a much younger cousin, Edward Fairbrother, and the chair to a more distant relative who handled all the business briskly; most of it went through on the nod.

Mike sensed that this was standard practice and was quite content with it. However, after the scheduled business, someone from the floor commented that there were some interesting developments in housing finance, and was Broadbents taking advantage of them? Fairbrother replied that he had looked into this business and felt that it involved greater risks than he could recommend taking; company policy, especially since a near-disaster some twenty years earlier, had always been towards caution, and he believed it was in the shareholders' interest to continue in the same way. If Mr. Lawrence had specific information that might warrant reconsidering the application of the policy in this particular field, however, he would be very willing to discuss it, but Lawrence explained that he had none and was merely raising a general query.

There was no other business and the meeting adjourned to the hotel bar. There Mike was approached by Fairbrother: "Yours is the only face here that I don't remember seeing before, so may I assume that you are Michael Crampton?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well, I'm very pleased to meet you at last. And if you've no objection, I'd like you to meet Ernest Broadbent, who used to run the firm until his retirement. He's the son of our founder."

"Of course I'd be glad to."

Fairbrother led him across to a corner where a stoutish man he would have put at about eighty was seated in an armchair with a silver-topped walking stick hooked on one arm. "Excuse my not getting up," he said, "but the arthritis is a bit troublesome today. I'm very pleased to meet you; after all, you're almost part of the family, by posthumous adoption you might say."

"Well, it's very kind of you to say so, though I never thought of it in those terms."

"No, I suppose not. Alex Forster was my brother-in-law, you know, and my mother regarded him almost as her own son. They became very close. I'm afraid my wife and I fell out with him - no need to go into why, it's water under the bridge now - but it doesn't reflect in any way on you, of course. In his will he left most of his wealth to a couple in England who had been kind to his wife after an accident. I suppose they would be your parents."

"That's right. It was before I was born, but I heard the story when I asked about a Christmas card from him."

"Yes. Anne was my sister, so I have a debt of gratitude as well, but I can only give my thanks to you as their representative."

"I'm sure they were very glad to do what they could for her. They were only sorry it was so little."

"It was the little that was needed at the time, and willingly given. That's what counts. Now there's another matter I wanted to talk to you about."

"Yes?"

"It's much more mundane, I'm afraid. I don't know whether you realise it, but the shares that you inherited from Alex are the largest single holding in the company."

"No, I hadn't realised it. The possibility hadn't occurred to me."

"Nevertheless, it is so, and if you felt like it, you wouldn't need a vast amount of support to vote all the family off the Board."

"I can't imagine that I'd ever want to."

"You may not now, in fact I'm sure you don't, but it isn't inconceivable that we might some time go in a direction you didn't like, so I'm concerned that your interests should be properly represented. And for that reason, Edward and I think that you ought to be on the Board yourself."

"What! But I know nothing about your kind of business."

"From enquiries I've made, you seem to have picked up your own remarkably fast. I guess you'd do the same here. It would do us good to have a view from the real world where money is just a tool, not the _raison d'être_. Besides, we're getting a bit inbred, you might say, and we could do with someone from outside."

"Phew! I appreciate the suggestion, in fact I'm pretty well gobsmacked, but I do have my own business to run, you know - nothing on the scale of yours, but it takes up most of my time."

"I see your point. But it's that kind of business experience that we'd like to have represented, and as a non-executive director you'd only need to attend a few meetings a year. But there's no need to decide on the spot, in fact we couldn't do much about it until the next AGM anyway, so will you think about it?"

"All right, that can't do any harm."

"Right. And now that the business is out of the way, if you have the time, I'd very much like you to come back home and meet my wife, Sylvia. It was she who had the real row with Alex, and now she's worrying about never having made it up with him. He did get us out of a really appalling mess at one time - no need to go into the details, but if it hadn't been for him the firm would probably have gone under - and now she feels guilty about the continued animosity. There's nothing she can say to him now, of course, but we do think of you as his representative and she'd like to do what she can to bury the hatchet at last."

"Well, I'm all for burying hatchets, so long as it isn't in anyone's skull."

"Hear, hear to that! You'll stay to dinner, I hope - or have you other commitments this evening?"

"None, thank you, I'd be very pleased. Though I hope it isn't a black tie affair; I haven't come equipped"

"Oh no, completely informal. I'll be glad to get out of this suit; it seems to have shrunk lately, and at my age I can't be bothered with buying a new one. If you'd like to do the same, I'll have you picked up at your hotel, say six o'clock?"

"That'll be fine, thank you."

The dinner was a pleasant one, with Sylvia a very attentive hostess. She disliked flying, especially on a long haul, so had never visited Europe, but was very interested to hear about England, especially Mike's part of it. Ernest was more interested in the story of his gaining control of Turnbulls. The reference to Forster's legacy prompted him to ask if the house in Ashton had been included, and then he wanted to know what it was like.

"I gather it was quite primitive when he took it over, but he put in a lot of improvements and I was quite impressed by it. I probably shouldn't want to live there, but it would serve very well for a short stay."

"I remember Alex saying something of the sort."

"In fact it was convenient for the caretakers he appointed to move in there, with my approval, and they quite like it. They've been making more improvements still. While they were doing that they came across a cache of documents left by the original owner in an outhouse, and finding a good home for them is one of the things I'm here for. There's an academic researcher who's interested, and I'm seeing her about it tomorrow."

"What are they about?" Sylvia asked.

"Nineteenth-century Jewish life in the Ukraine, I gather, but they haven't been fully explored yet. I've only heard what's in the first few pages. If you like I'll pass on anything interesting that comes out of the rest."

"Thanks; I'd appreciate that. In fact it gives me an idea. Will you excuse us a moment, Mike?

"Yes, of course."

They went into a huddle and Ernest emerged a few minutes later with a suggestion. "Sylvia fancies the idea of sponsoring some research on these documents. It isn't something I've ever done, and I've no idea about the ins and outs of it, but so far I don't see any reason why we shouldn't.. Who is this academic?"

"I should have said a retired academic. A Margaret Robertson in Rigby."

"If I give you my card will you ask her to get in touch with us?"

"With pleasure. But do you mind if I ask what's your interest, Sylvia?"

Ernest said he had had been wondering about that, too.

"I've been worrying over our long estrangement from Alex, you know. At our age, Mike, you can spend a lot of time going over things in the past, and they often start to look rather different to what you thought at the time. I can't help thinking that a lot of my trouble with him - my resentment at the way he'd taken over so much of the family's business - was really jealousy, annoyance that he could do what we couldn't. It probably seems crazy, but in a way this may help to make up for it."

Ernest was evidently satisfied. "Well, honey, if it eases your mind, that's good enough for me."

This was clearly a very significant development that Mike discussed with Weinberg the next morning when he called as arranged on to collect the box. "Yes, it could help to tie up some loose ends. Do you want me to draft a legal agreement about it with Dr. Robertson?"

"No, that's getting altogether too heavy. We'd have to involve the Broadbents as well and goodness knows what other complications - where to get the research done, for instance. No, I'll just do as Ernest suggested, and ask her to get in touch with him. By the way, they've invited me to join their board."

Weinberg's raised eyebrows were the legal equivalent of a "Wow!", Mike imagined. "A very substantial 'by the way'. Are you going to do that?"

"I said I'd consider it. It's a far cry from the little company I run back home, and I'm not at all sure about it, although it would be a big step up. What are your thoughts?"

"As an attorney, make quite sure beforehand what your commitments would be, and consult a specialist in company law. As a friend, if I may call you that, I sense you're rather uncomfortable with the idea."

"That's true. I don't want to get so tied up with business over here that I can't do what I consider my real job. On the other hand I do feel something of a responsibility to the Broadbents."

"It sounds as though you've inherited Alex's scruples as well as his shares; perhaps his gut feelings, too, and he didn't do too badly by trusting them. I suggest you think twice about joining and then a dozen times more, and if still in doubt, don't. Legally, the responsibility is entirely theirs towards you."

"Thanks. It's something to ponder on the flight home. Now, where's this box, and where do I find Dr. Robertson?"

Weinberg had again drawn a sketch-map, with directions to Madge Robertson's house. "I'll give her a call and tell her you're on the way."

"Is there anything else, while I'm here?"

"No, everything's going smoothly - I hope that isn't tempting Providence."

"Right. Until the next time ..."

The box would have fitted on the back seat of the car, but Mike was afraid that a sharp corner might damage the upholstery and so put it in the trunk. Rigby was on the way to Ashton and he thought if there was time he would go on to see the Hamiltons; there was always a chance that Josie might be there. He ought to warn them, but a lonely old woman would probably want to talk and there was no telling how long, so that had better wait until he was leaving.

Madge was evidently watching for him, as by the time he had retrieved the box from the trunk she was already standing at the door. "It's very good of you to bring it," she said.

"Not at all. I've friends in Ashton I was planning to visit, and this is on the way."

Seeing the box for the first time in so many years, Madge was overcome with emotion and almost wept over it. Mike was deeply embarrassed and moved to leave, but she recovered her composure, apologised for her near-breakdown and reminded him that they had yet to discuss a price. He assured her that she was welcome to it with his compliments, and that he was delighted simply to have found a good home for Garstein's family history, especially since it meant so much to her. His only stipulations were that when she had done with it, it should go to some institution that could follow up either the literary or historical implications as she judged more appropriate, and that if anything of more than specialised interest came out of it he should be informed. "It may help that one of my business contacts here is interested and has offered to sponsor some work on it. Here's his card; he'd like you to discuss it with him."

She made a token objection to taking the collection as a gift, but was clearly relieved, and then insisted that he couldn't go without taking some light refreshment. Fortunately her ideas in that direction were more modest than Iris Carter's had been; she had just made one of her special chocolate cream cakes and he must try it. Very good, he pronounced diplomatically, and she pressed another portion on him, but he managed to dissuade her from giving him a third.

To make conversation he asked if she was planning to resume her own academic project; if so, he had already authorised Weinberg to have the manuscript transcribed at his expense.

"Thank you, that could be a very great help. I doubt if I can get very much further with it, though - there are medical reasons - but I'll do my best to find where it can best be carried on afterwards. And of course I'll get in touch with Mr. - what was his name? - Broadbent."

For herself, she valued the cache chiefly as a relic of someone to whom she had once been very close. "I've had had no contact with him at all since he left the university, but there was always a faint hope of somehow meeting him again. It was never likely to get me anywhere beyond making peace with him, and. now I know he's dead even that's impossible this side of my own grave. The worst of it is - you may think this absurd, but it's the way my mind works - that I don't even have any idea where he might have been buried."

"I can show you," said Mike, quietly.

She was duly astonished. "You know where it is, then?"

"Yes, exactly \- well, within a foot or two," and he described the location.

"It sounds lovely. A pity it's so far away."

Mike did some quick mental calculations.

"I'm heading in that direction now, and I think there's just about time to find the place before dark if I don't take too long at the intermediate stops. What do you think?"

"It's putting you to far too much trouble," she said, but was obviously longing to take up the offer and not much persuasion was needed. Getting into the car, she suddenly thought she would like to take some flowers; would he mind stopping to get them?

"Not at all, but it isn't a good time of year for them. How about some kind of shrub that you can plant?"

"Are you sure no one would mind?"

"The place doesn't seem to belong to anyone in particular. There's someone who keeps an eye on it, but all she asks is respect."

"It seems a good idea, then." At the Garden Gate nursery she selected an azalea and Mike bought a trowel.

On the way she asked how he had come to know of the burial place, and he gave her a summary of the story without going on into its more recent ramifications. "So he died at peace, then."

"So I gathered."

"That's something to be thankful for, at any rate."

Madge was surprised that he had any occasion for business in Ashton, and he explained that the visits he was to make were almost purely social. "The first, in the town itself, is to people I was directed to when I thought I was looking for someone called Jenny Lake. They were very helpful and I don't like to miss a chance to see them again. The second is to the house itself, the one that Garstein built -"

"You mean he built it himself?"

"He and his wife, I gather."

"So he married eventually. I did wonder. By the way, I don't want to seem inquisitive, but if you don't mind my asking, how did you come to be involved? I don't see any connection."

"It's a complicated story, but in a nutshell, it came to me by way of a friend of Garstein's who happened to be acquainted with my parents. It's now occupied by people who used to look after it for that friend, and they found the box when they were clearing out an outhouse. They've made some improvements that they'll almost certainly want to show me."

Madge seemed lost in her thoughts for the rest of the way to Ashton, and Mike did not like to disturb them. Sal Hamilton seemed more than a little distracted but welcomed them warmly, and was sorry that Josie was not there. "Hardly surprising, but I only called in passing. I couldn't go by without seeing you at all. By the way, this is Madge Robertson, an old friend of Garstein's who would like to see the place where his ashes were buried."

"Glad to meet, you, Madge. Have you both time for a coffee?"

"I think we can just about manage that, thanks."

"Bill's had to go into Rexburg today. He'll be sorry to have missed you."

"I'm sorry, too. He's got over the eye problem, then? I forgot to ask the last time."

"Oh, yes, thank goodness, long ago. Just as well, too. It was a real pest while it lasted. Madge, can you manage another cookie?"

"I don't usually, but I think I will, thank you. They're very good."

"Michael?"

"Have you ever known me refuse?"

"No, I haven't. But now I look at you, you seem to be putting on a bit of weight. Have this one, but you ought to take more exercise."

"You're probably right. I'll think about it."

"That won't take many pounds off!"

Madge thought it wise to take precautions in view of the long journey ahead, and while she was out Sal apologised if her mind seemed to be wandering but she was worried about Josie.

"Why? Whatever's the matter?"

"She's been having a very difficult time, especially over the last few months."

"In what way?"

"I don't think she'd want it to go outside the family, even to someone as close as you" (Mike was pleasantly startled by the phrase) " - I know she's been writing to you, but don't be surprised if there's a long gap. I didn't want to mention it at all in front of a stranger, so don't say anything to Madge, will you?"

"No, of course not. Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't think so, at present. There may come a time ..."

"Then don't hesitate to call on me."

At that point Madge returned so no more could be said. After they left, she commented on what a nice woman Sal seemed to be, and Mike agreed wholeheartedly. "But who's this Josie she mentioned?"

"Her niece. It was she who found the piece of paper with the directions I needed."

"I got the impression she thought you were rather interested."

"I was, until I found she was already married."

"She hadn't told you? That seems a bit unfair."

"There were reasons. Did you hear about the INL man who was rescued from a kidnap gang about a year ago?"

"I should think so, yes, there was enough fuss about it."

"He's the husband. She hadn't heard anything of him for years, and it was quite likely she never would. I don't blame her for keeping it quiet."

By then they had reached the turn-off and Mike had to concentrate rather more. When they reached the clearing, Joel was splitting logs - it seemed a perennial activity in those parts - and looked up in surprise at the unfamiliar car. Mike introduced Madge, and explained that she had known Garstein very well in their younger days but had lost touch, and was interested in the house he had built.

"Well, come inside and have a look round. You're very welcome. Iris will be pleased to see you both."

"How is she?"

"Pretty well, considering. Come and meet her, Madge."

Iris was indeed happy to show Madge all round the place, as Mike had expected pointing out particularly the improvements that she and Joel had made. "It does seem very cosy, Mrs. Carter."

"Iris, dear, Iris. Now you will stay for a meal, won't you?"

Mike looked doubtful, and Joel burst out laughing. "Don't worry, Mr. Crampton, she's a reformed character. She won't stuff you with enough to sink a battleship. Didn't Mr. Weinberg tell you?" He had mentioned it, Mike said, but he was concerned that they were rather short of time.

On reflection, however, they would need a meal somewhere, and it would probably be quicker here than in the Old Faithful cafeteria, so he accepted with thanks. "It's we who should thank you for all your kindness."

"You've done that more than enough already."

Despite Joel's remarks, Mike was relieved when the meal was served and proved to be indeed quite light, an omelette with fruit to follow. Madge complimented Iris on it and was urged to come again some time when she was less in a hurry. Privately she thought that unlikely to be possible, but merely said she would see how things turned out.

As they continued northwards, she commented that Mike had evidently made some very good friends in the area. "Yes, they're very friendly people here."

"Hmm. Your experience must have been different from mine." He supposed it had, and left it at that.

He was relieved to make the journey to Jenny Lake in good time, with the sun still high in the sky. He found the right path without too much trouble, too, and it was not as badly overgrown as he had feared possible. In the clearing he pointed out the marker stones; "As far as I can make out, that one is most probably Garstein's, although I can't be at all sure."

He planted the azalea, wondered what to do with the trowel, thought of leaving it beside the pillar in case anyone else needed it, but then thought it might tempt some visitor to investigate beneath the marker stones and so after wiping it as clean s he could on the grass, put it in the car. "Would you like me to leave you alone for a while?" he asked.

"Yes, please, if you wouldn't mind." She sniffled a little, and he offered her a clean tissue that she accepted with a nod. He wandered down the ride to the lake and waited ten minutes, then returned, finding her now quite composed and sitting abstractedly on the seat, which he noticed had been improved a little since his last visit.

Looking up, she smiled gently. "You've been very kind, thank you."

"I'm very glad to have been able to help".

"I've loved seeing the place, and being able to make a proper farewell. I haven't felt so peaceful for - oh, I can't tell you how many years."

"It's a peaceful sort of place."

"Yes. In fact I've been thinking ..."

"Yes?"

"I don't see how it could be done, but wouldn't it be wonderful if when my time comes, my own ashes could be buried here too?"

Mile could tell that it was just an idea, not a request, but on consideration he thought that it might just possibly be arranged. "Put it in your Will, as a wish, not an instruction, and make sure that Weinberg is informed of it. I'll give him the best directions I can."

She beamed and said that would be marvellous. Then he took her back home.

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## Chapter 8. Calamity

Donald Harris had had a bad night, worse even than usual, and the morning was not much better. After tossing and turning for hours, he must have slept right through his alarm and eventually awakened over two hours late with a thumping headache, a nasty taste in his mouth and a very much nastier feeling of having done something the previous night that he could not remember but was very much worse than just getting drunk. Try as he might to recall, the nature of it eluded him. What he did remember was a nightmare of finding himself chained in a dark, narrow space with a roof seeming to bear down on him. Perhaps it was a vestige of his horror, many years earlier, on reading a story in which the unfaithful wife of a mediaeval magnate awoke from a swoon to find herself buried alive in a sealed coffin.

Nothing more recent offered a clue to the dream. True, he had been chained at times, when there were particular reasons for it, but on the whole he had been treated well throughout his years of captivity. The pressure had been mental, not physical. The worst moment had been the last, when the hideout was stormed and one stray bullet creased his forehead while another smashed a bone in his leg. He neither knew nor cared which side either of them had come from. He had been lucky; all but one of his captors had been killed and so had two of the rescue party.

Heaving himself out of bed, he had second thoughts about the luck. The throbbing in his head deepened to such a pounding that he was forced to freeze until it subsided. Then he gingerly moved to the bathroom, splashed some water in his face and rinsed out his mouth. After that he felt strong enough to face some sort of breakfast. Real solids were out of the question, but he might manage a soft-boiled egg, and he hoped Josie would have some coffee ready for him; they had ceased to share a room when his thrashing about had made sleep impossible for her as well. However, she was not in the kitchen, so he filled the kettle and set it to boil while he tried to remember where the coffee was kept.

Then he found the note, a single sheet in an erratic hand with a smear of what looked like blood on it. "Dearest Don, I'm sorry, but I can't take any more. Last night you really terrified me. Please, for your own sake as much as mine, get help before you do something completely unforgivable. I desperately want to come back to you, but I daren't until you've recovered your real self. I hate doing this, but I don't see any choice for both our sakes. Please, please remember that you still have all my love, Josie."

So that was that. He'd really done it this time. What he had actually done he still could not remember, but the trace of blood was ominous. The worst of it was that he could hardly feel surprised, except that she had put up for so long with his treatment of her. Whether he could brace himself to seek help was another matter. The shame of his degradation was too great to confess, and knowing that countless others were in exactly the same position was no help at all. What he suddenly realised he could do, and did immediately, was to search out every drop of alcohol remaining in the apartment and pour it down the drain before he could change his mind. It was quickly done as most of the bottles and cans were already empty.

He could not remember what day it was and to find out had to switch on the radio, very low. It turned out to be Sunday the tenth of March, so to his immense relief he was not expected at work.

How had he got into this disgusting state? He had never been an habitual drunkard. Of course in the early weeks after his release he had been in hospital and a binge would not have been possible even if he had fancied it. Afterwards there were other constraints. Josie had had to give up their earlier marital home six years before, when it became obvious that the kidnappers were not going to let him go in a hurry. Her apartment in West Yellowstone, merely a couple of rooms rented from a friend, was unsuitable for his convalescence, so they had stayed for a while with the Hamiltons in Ashton. There he might have had the odd drink with Bill, but Sal would have made quite sure that it stayed within reasonable bounds. The trouble started when despite lingering pain from his injuries, he was at last medically cleared fit to go back to work at the Idaho National Laboratory and they found a place to live in Idaho Falls. Josie felt obliged to continue with her job in the tour company but stayed with him when she could. Even so, he was alone for much of the time.

He was unaware of a conversation that had previously taken place between his superior, Jim Monaghan, and the head of department when Donald's convalescence had progressed far enough for the matter of his return to be given serious consideration. The section in which he had worked had been disbanded, and no work of a similar kind was being contemplated elsewhere. Monaghan had visited him, not so much to discuss the possibilities as to assess the likelihood of his fitting in anywhere, and his report was not very encouraging. "He certainly expects to come back, and he finds it hard to come to terms with his project's having been axed. It isn't easy to see where he might usefully be redeployed, though. Apart from anything else, after six years away he'll be pretty rusty professionally. On the other hand, after all the fuss about his rescue and return home, leaving him on the scrap-heap would be bound to get out, and it could easily be a PR disaster."

"Quite. It looks as though he may have to join the NF brigade." NF was officially New Facilities, colloquially No Future, and no one could now remember which came first. It was the Limbo for people like the senator's niece who were never likely to earn their keep but for political reasons could not simply be fired.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Luckily, as it happens, there's one idea of a scheme for that where he might have a contribution to make."

Reporting to Monaghan on the first day back after the enforced absence consequently seemed very strange, although it was friendly enough. "Welcome back, Don. We've missed you. How do you feel now?"

"Pretty well, Jim, thank you, considering. I still get a fair amount of trouble from the smashed leg, but it's generally controllable with pain-killers. And how's everyone here?"

"Well, as you've probably heard, there've been quite a lot of changes while you were away. The whole focus of the lab has altered. There's a lot more about renewable energy, clean-up and waste management now. Your old project was chopped the year before last, I'm afraid."

"Yes, I heard about that. So where do I fit in now?"

Jim scratched his head. "That's the problem. There's nothing that really follows on from what you were doing before."

There was a pause, and Donald began to fear a suggestion of early retirement on medical grounds. He realised that they were unlikely simply to sack him, not while his ordeal was still fairly fresh in the public mind, but that mind tends to change like the wind and in the longer term his position looked none too secure. However, Monaghan's problem was not one of breaking the news that there was no place for Donald, but how to present the one positive idea he did have in a manner that would seem tolerably attractive.

"Well, the big anxieties are still about waste management and weapon proliferation. To some extent they come together in the issue of plutonium-contaminated waste. Of course no terrorist in his right mind would consider it as a source of weapon material, but you can't tell that to some of the Greens, and in any case it's an embarrassment in its own right. So there's a project to collect the stuff from the various sites, separate out the combustible part - paper tissues, protective clothing and so on - incinerate it and extract the plute from the residue. That's a chemical job, of course, but there's a good deal of engineering involved as well."

"In what way?"

"Firstly in containing the dust from the incinerator, but that's a specialised field in its own right. Where you might fit in is improving the remote-handling equipment. Of course we're long past the stage when simply shoving stuff in and out of glove boxes was acceptable, though I'm pretty sure that some of our people still hanker after it. In any case some of it needs shielding. That makes maintenance difficult, and of course if equipment breaks down, it becomes waste itself and adds to the problem, so for that reason alone apart from any others, extreme reliability is essential. It's quite a challenge. How do you fancy helping to tackle it?"

"What's the alternative?"

"Frankly, I haven't thought of one."

"So it's that or nothing, then."

"I wouldn't say that. There's bound to be some engineering work to be done in almost any area, but it's liable to be bits and pieces, and most of the projects are fully staffed already. I doubt if you'd find them much more appealing, anyway."

Donald was not in the mood to start looking for another job, so he accepted what seemed to be inevitable with the best grace he could, and asked who was running the project. "Chris Bradshaw - I think you know him."

"Yes, but didn't you say it was a chemical job? Surely, he's a physicist."

"That's right, or he was to start with, but we all pick up bits of expertise in other fields as we go through life. Anyway, he's always said that chemistry is really only a branch of physics, and he was quite happy to take it on."

This struck Donald as a rather cavalier attitude, and indeed suggested a lack of professionalism that was distinctly worrying. His anxieties increased over the following weeks as he got to know the rest of the team better. They seemed a generally discontented lot, none of them showing any enthusiasm; all seemed to be going mechanically through the motions of their jobs with a good deal of grumbling and no commitment or thought. They were clearly the has-beens of the department, simply working out their time to earn their pensions, and he deeply resented the implication that he fell into the same category. In fact the whole project looked to him suspiciously like a cosmetic exercise to avoid the need for compulsory redundancies. The more he thought about it, the more he found himself falling into the same kind of attitude as his colleagues, becoming increasingly depressed and disagreeable, snapping at any contretemps. Once, in Josie's absence, he had an extra shot of whisky to cheer himself up. It didn't work, so he had another, and so it went on.

That was the start of his drink problem. He still managed to stay fairly sober during the week, but more and more often, Josie coming south when her days off fell at the weekend found him already truly drunk. Her attempts to persuade him away from the booze only angered him, the more so since a part of him knew she was right but could not govern his actions, and anger led to violence. It was mild at first, just thrusting her away from him too forcefully as she tried to coax him back to sanity, but it gradually became more serious until the night when he finally drove her away. He had no recollection of how exactly he had done it, and perhaps that was merciful.

The shock of her leaving and forcing him to recognise the gravity of his condition sobered him up, and he seriously thought of joining Alcoholics Anonymous. However, that was an acknowledgement of personal inadequacy that he was not yet quite ready to make. He did not believe that he had become fully addicted, rather that his drinking was a habit of seeking forgetfulness rather than a necessity, and a habit that could be broken. He would at least make the effort. It proved immensely difficult at first, but he persisted. It became a little easier with time, and to take his mind off his loss he took a more active interest in his work. It might have begun as a non-job, but with a clearer head than he had had for many a week, he began to see that he could make it into something substantial.

The down-side was that he became increasingly impatient with the generally lackadaisical attitude to work in the section, and gained a reputation for snapping people's heads off for lapses and misdemeanours that others would have corrected with a civil rebuke. It reached a point where Monaghan advised him to go easy on it, and try giving a bit of praise as well as criticism. The crew wasn't particularly good, he knew, but a couple of competent fitters would be assigned to translate Don's ideas into functional equipment.

That meant the ideas had to be tightened up, and he spent extra time on particular details. Over the next few weeks a further reason for working late became apparent, although it took time to develop and at first seemed quite the opposite. The apartment across the landing had a new tenant, a slim redhead a little below medium height, always neatly dressed and pleasantly endowed in every visible respect. He put her at about forty, older than himself but not unduly so. The first few times they passed each other they merely smiled and exchanged conventional greetings, but his appreciation apparently registered since on about the fourth occasion she introduced herself as Vanessa and asked his name. Soon she started bringing him portions of pies or cakes "because I'm sure you don't look after yourself properly," and a month or so later invited him to a meal, which was excellent. He felt he had to make some return and since he could never hope to match her cooking, suggested she might watch a film with him.

Afterwards he offered coffee, which she accepted, but wondered if he had anything stronger to follow. "I'm sorry, no. You see I wrecked my marriage through drink a while back, and very nearly my life too, so I promised myself never to touch it again."

"Oh, I see. You're right, of course, but would it bother you too much if I fetched some of my own?"

"It should be all right. I don't get the craving now." She was gone for about five minutes and returned with a bottle of vodka, but said she seemed to be out of orange juice and could he oblige?

"There's some in the kitchen, I think, but it may take a few minutes to find."

"No problem."

He had been right about the difficulty, and rummaged through all the possible cupboards before returning to the start and finding a carton hidden behind a packet of cereal. He poured it into a jug, and on returning with it was sharply taken aback to find her half-undressed and reclining Cleopatra-like on the sofa.

Torn between completing her partial strip and throwing her out as she was, he resisted the first with a struggle while rejecting the second as ungentlemanly, and moreover too embarrassing in the need to deal with her discarded clothing. Seeing his hesitation, she gave him a few seconds to appreciate the tableau, then held out her glass with its quota of spirit. He pulled himself together, filled it up with orange juice as nonchalantly as he could, put the jug to one side, and then sat primly in the armchair, wondering what was to come. She slowly half-emptied the glass, eyeing him all the time with a quizzical smile (he thought of a cat watching a mouse-hole, and of a few other things besides), then carefully put it down, paused briefly and launched herself on to his knee, tearing fiercely at his shirt buttons. It was too much; once he had recovered from the shock, he picked her up, to the peril of his injured leg, and carried her back towards the sofa.

Misreading the situation, she hooked an arm found his neck, whispering that surely he had somewhere more comfortable for what must follow. He felt unable to reply without betraying his agitation, but his intention became obvious as he dumped her on the sofa, disentangled himself from her arms, covered as much as he could with her dress and went back to his chair.

"Aw, come on," she protested incredulously with a touch of southern drawl that he had never noticed before. "You're not a fifteen-year-old school kid any more. You know very well you want me, and why ever not? It's quite safe."

To add further persuasion she threw off the dress, sat up, and was evidently about to continue disrobing. He did not trust himself to argue or to delay in any other way. "Maybe, but it won't do. I'm sorry, but you'll have to go."

"Well, that's a let-down and a half," she grumbled, and again he apologised. She seemed disappointed but not at all abashed. "Ah well, win some, lose some," she added with a shrug, taking her time to finish her drink, and only then putting on her clothes as casually as if in her own bedroom. He reminded her to take the vodka. Leaving, she quietly warned him "I don't give up easily, you know."

"Phew," he said to himself when something approaching normal equanimity returned. "That was a damn close thing" He considered what he ought to do. Vanessa had been right about his lust for her and clearly pleased with herself for having aroused it. However, although it would no doubt be incomprehensible to her, he was determined not to add adultery to his existing offences against Josie: remembering the parting note left for him after his disastrous assault, he still had faint hopes of getting her back. The best thing would be as far as possible to avoid seeing Vanessa, and from then on he timed his movements accordingly. Nevertheless, despite his frequent late working, their paths still crossed occasionally and she would greet him with a sly grin and a wink, if no one else was about sometimes sidling up and murmuring "Remember!" in an artificially deep contralto.

He resented the attempted seduction all the more because part of him had welcomed it so much. The longer he thought of it the angrier he became, and he tended to take it out on other people, especially when the residue of his injuries was giving him more trouble than usual. Delivering a routine report to Monaghan's PA, a motherly type, he barked at her in response to some conventional remark and instantly regretted it as she was one of the few people in the department he really respected. "What's the matter, Don? You've been like a bear with a sore head the past few days."

"I'm sorry, Monica; it's just that someone's put me in a very difficult situation."

"I won't ask what, but does being mad about it make it any easier?"

"I suppose not, but I can't help it."

"Right. I can understand that, but you should be able to. It's worth the effort. Think, now: was it deliberate malice, an accident, or simple thoughtlessness?"

That needed some pondering. "It was certainly deliberate, but I couldn't honestly call it malice. In fact plenty of people would have been delighted with it - and probably wondered if they were dreaming."

"A misjudgement, then. We've all made those. Why not assume that it was kindly meant? You're only hurting yourself by nursing a grievance."

It was plain common sense, but reason has little force in such matters: had it been anyone else he would have told her in fairly brusque terms to mind her own business, but from her it deserved serious consideration. Thinking a little more carefully about his acquaintance with Vanessa, he realised that he must have given the impression of being divorced, and there had been no occasion to mention his Puritanical upbringing, so he could not fairly accuse her of consciously tempting him against principles that in much of society had become unfashionable. Again, her surprisingly calm reaction to his refusal suggested that there might perhaps have been more generosity than raw desire in her approach.

The idea did not actually inspire him with gratitude, but it did lift the burden of resentment and he felt a good deal better. He was almost pleased when some weeks later he happened to see her in the street arm in arm with a distinguished-looking, rather older escort; they seemed very happy together. She really was a good-hearted soul, he thought afterwards, with a lot to offer any man free from his impediments, and with great relief he sincerely wished her luck. He pushed a card to that effect under her door and she responded with a simple "Thanks!" A month later her apartment was vacant again; another fortnight, and a package delivered by post proved to be a carefully-packed portion of wedding cake. He genuinely regretted knowing no address for a letter of congratulation and good wishes, but did wonder how long the marriage would last after such a precipitate start.

These developments removed a constraint on his movements, but by then he had reached a critical point in his project and for his own satisfaction needed to put the extra time in. Monaghan noticed and asked how it was going. "Rather well, Jim. I think we could have a preliminary design ready in a month or two."

"That's good, because in the autumn there's an IAEA seminar with a section on the subject, and it would boost the section's profile if you presented a paper there. We could sure do with it."

"Yes, but shouldn't it be Chris doing that?"

Monaghan agreed in principle. "Strictly, you're quite right. Between the two of us, though, I'm pretty certain you'd make a better job of it. Of course Chris will be nominally the senior author, and in any case he'll have to write up the chemical side of the process, which after all is the core of the project. I'll make it my own business to smooth any ruffled feathers."

In the event, Chris's technical contribution turned out to be quite small, since the chemistry as he described it was perfectly straightforward. The account of the mechanical arrangements was much more involved so it was obvious that Donald should present it, and the budget would not run to sending both of them to Vienna. Monaghan's placatory offices were therefore not needed.

However, an unfortunate incident with a couple of his staff looked like seriously upsetting the apple cart. Through failing to follow instructions, they ruined a piece of equipment that had taken a fortnight to build, and worse, they seemed to regard it as a joke. His injuries still gave him trouble, and although pain-killers generally kept it under control, their effectiveness varied from time to time; that happened to be one of the bad days, and he seriously lost his temper with them. After allowing a day for cooling down, he asked to see Monaghan on a disciplinary matter.

"Come in, Don," he said, with less than usual friendliness. "I was going to send for you anyway. What's your problem, first?"

"It's a case of serious misconduct."

"Not Smith and Welinski, by any chance?"

"Yes, it is, as it happens."

"Then it's the same incident. They have lodged an official complaint of verbal abuse and a threat of physical violence. A very grave accusation, of course."

"Oh, have they indeed. Well, I was furious with their attitude, and it's true I did blow my top that day - my tablets didn't seem to be working and I admit being unusually edgy - but I don't remember anything about violence."

"Perhaps there's a certain amount of exaggeration, then. But leaving that aside, 'Polish bastard' is no way for a man in your position to address a subordinate - especially when his forebears are Ukrainian."

"No, I can see that now."

"Too late. You ought to have seen it at the time. Losing your rag is bad for discipline, and we have quite enough trouble without it. I'd been hoping for months to get rid of that pair, and when I heard about their wrecking your kit it looked the perfect opportunity, but the way you behaved has screwed it up thoroughly."

"I'm sorry; I didn't realise."

"That's no excuse. We all know you've been through a rough time, and we make allowances, but it doesn't justify taking your frustrations out on other people. It wasn't their fault that you were mistaken for someone else a damn sight more important."

"What do you mean?"

"So the nickel hasn't dropped, then. And I shouldn't really have mentioned it now, so keep it to yourself - that's official. But you don't seriously suppose, do you, that you were a big enough fish in your own right to warrant all the trouble that was taken over you, on both sides?"

The question shook him, as he had supposed just that, but it needed no answer. However, he had one of his own. "What actually happened, then?"

"The real target, who looks very much like you, was able to go on quietly with his vastly more significant work without any of the publicity that had been getting in his way before."

"So I was set up, was I?"

"That's how it looks to me, I'm afraid."

Monaghan sighed and leaned back in his chair. "See here, let's be sensible. You've reasonable grounds to be mad over that, but it won't help. We have our own job to do, and quite enough problems without a major upset that won't do anyone any good. So I suggest you withdraw your complaint against these two miscreants, and I'll get them to withdraw theirs in return for my taking no action this time on their negligence; otherwise the charge is liable to be upped to gross misconduct. I think they'll know which side their bread's buttered. Now for goodness' sake get on with your job and don't cause any more trouble - keep that blasted temper of yours under control."

The realisation of having been used merely as a dummy rankled. His increasing bitterness about it showed, and eventually Monaghan called him in again. "Don, I'm worried about you. You've been going around with a face like thunder for the past fortnight, and it's affecting your teams' morale, what there is of it. I don't know what's behind it and I don't particularly want to, but for goodness' sake pull yourself together, stop looking as though you're searching for grounds to murder someone, and concentrate on the job - which includes running a section. Apart from that you've got the paper for Vienna to prepare, and I want to see a draft of it by Monday week. OK?"

"I'm not sure ..."

"Never mind the excuses. That's what I expect. Now get on with it."

The shock treatment worked. There was no time to waste if he was to meet that deadline, and although he should in theory write it at work, the practical work still had to be directed and he had to do most of the writing at home. If nothing else it gave him a convincing reason for declining invitations to several convivial occasions that despite the confidence expressed to Vanessa, might have triggered a relapse into his former trouble.

The draft was finished just in time, Monaghan offered some suggestions that after a spasm of annoyance Donald recognised as improvements, and two weeks later the paper was submitted for clearance, which would probably be little more than a formality.

Since Donald had never visited the IAEA headquarters he asked advice of those who had, and got a great deal more than he had bargained for. The airport was at Schwecat, fourteen miles from Vienna itself, but with a good bus service into the city, so there was no need to take a cab. Everyone he consulted had different ideas about hotels, but Chris recommended a place on the Stubenring, comfortable, friendly and within easy walking distance of both City Air Terminal and the Schwedenplatz Metro station on the line to the United Nations building. All this he marked on a street plan. One point of caution was to buy Metro tickets at the kiosk outside the station as none were available inside or on the train. Another was that the UN area was extra-territorial so he must be sure to have his passport and invitation ready. To reach it he should alight at Kaiserműhlen, just beyond the divided channel of the Danube, and if in doubt, follow the crowd to passport control.

There was a great deal more in similar vein. Donald felt overwhelmed and doubted whether he could remember a quarter of it, so he asked Chris to write out the main points for him.

As the time approached, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder if Josie might return and possibly even accompany him to Vienna, so he tried to call her, only to find the number unobtainable. Frustrated, he called Sal Hamilton to ask if she knew what was happening. "Yes, I've told her to break off all contact."

"What? She is still my wife, you know - let no man put asunder, and no woman either."

"Don't take that line with me, young man. If anyone did any putting asunder, it was you. The way you treated her was abominable, and she was close to a breakdown when she came to us. She still loves what you seemed to be - there's no accounting for tastes - but she's terrified of the reality you became, and I'm mot taking any chance of your getting at her until I'm quite convinced that you aren't going to start beating her up again."

The fierceness of the onslaught shook him badly. "Honestly, Sal, I'm a reformed character. It was the booze that did that, and I haven't touched a drop since she left me."

"So you say, but booze can't bring out what isn't there already, and in any case I've only your word for having given it up."

"What else can I give you? Won't you at least forward a letter to her?"

"No, I'm not going to risk weakening her resolve. I tell you what, though. You sound sober enough at the moment, I'll grant you that. If I call you some evening, say in about three months' time, and you still sound sober, I'll think again." That was clearly all he was going to get, and he had to make the best of it.

A couple of weeks later, his travel documents arrived, and the arrangements were a rather unpleasant surprise. He had expected a hop over to Denver and then a direct flight, but although Vienna was much better served by air than it had been a decade or so earlier, two or more changes would still be needed. Even setting off at the crack of dawn and with good connections, he would not arrive until well into the following morning, allowing for the difference in time zones.

After the first shock he was inclined to make light of this, but in the event found himself more weary on arrival than he had expected. His luggage was heavier than he had really intended, and his leg had started playing up enough to justify taking a cab to the hotel. Through an oversight his tablets were in the hold baggage, and the pain had made sleep practically impossible during the flights, so once installed, he took the maximum dose and spent the afternoon in bed.

To avoid further aggravating the troublesome leg he used the lift rather than the stairs to the ground floor, oriented himself on the street plan and worked out a route. One of the restaurants recommended to him was near the Gutenberg memorial, so he found his way to it, was a little disconcerted to be directed down a rather steep staircase to the dining area but had no particular trouble with it. He felt that in the circumstances he had to order Wiener Schnitzel but cautiously declined the suggestion of wine with it, making up for it with a portion of gateau, and in fact quite enjoyed the meal.

He still felt rather tired afterwards so returned to the hotel and booked a wake-up call as well as setting his alarm. Typically for the situation, he awoke naturally and more than an hour early the next morning, then was kept awake by annoyance at being unable to sleep again. After a simple but adequate breakfast he walked the few yards to the road beside the Danube Canal and the two hundred to the Schwedenplatz, where he bought the half-dozen Metro tickets he expected to need. There was no queue at the kiosk, and in view of the limited opportunities for purchase he wondered how many among the crowd of locals entering the station had actually bothered.

Even without the on-board announcement he would have known the Kaiserműhlen station from the directions given to him. At Passport Control his invitation was quickly checked and he was given a security badge, then he followed the crowd. The main building struck him as impressive and less hideously designed than many a modern structure, with tall extensions radiating from a drum-shaped core, but inside, the atrium was consequently circular and he realised that orientation could be tricky. Although the queue at the reception desk was quite long, as he had been warned was likely, he therefore thought it worth waiting for directions and noted the appropriate radial corridor in relation to the array of UNICEF display stands. The lifts were a few yards along it and given the number of floors passed, he sincerely hoped he would never have to use the stairs.

He emerged into a small hall off the peripheral corridor, made his way round it to the required seminar room, and was a little surprised by its shape until he remembered that it had to fit into a sector. Seats were arranged at desks each with a microphone and push-button that he realised must be for the sake of simultaneous translators in a gallery along the outer wall. The chairman's desk was at the inner edge.

Donald's paper was scheduled for the second day, as was fortunate since he was still considerably jet-lagged and at the end of the first could remember little of the proceedings except the Brazilian delegate's arriving late and apologising for appearing in track suit and trainers because his main luggage had been sent in error to Venice. The next day it had been sent on from there to Vientiane, and Donald wondered where next; Vilnius, perhaps? Marcel Duparc, sitting next to him, was reminded of a very aggressive passenger in front of him once at Heathrow check-in. The man had been giving hell to the clerk, moving Duparc to commiserate with her when his turn came and ask where the unpleasant character was going: "Washington - but his luggage is going to Tokyo." He wondered what Senhor Dias could have done to deserve a double misdirection.

Donald had slept much better this time and felt reasonably refreshed, so that to his great relief he was able to put in what he afterwards thought to have been a tolerably professional performance. It aroused a good deal of interest, so much that discussion had to be cut short for the sake of the following speaker. However, at lunch time while he was collecting cutlery, one of the delegates whose question had not been accommodated approached, introduced himself as Neil Ainsworth and asked if he might join Donald for the meal.

Eating hampers serious conversation, so it was purely casual until they had finished. Ainsworth then explained that he was interested in the INL scheme but puzzled by one aspect of it: what was the form of plutonium in the residues they were to treat? "Mostly oxide, I expect."

"And you're planning to leach it out just with nitric acid?"

"That's right."

"But plute oxide's practically insoluble in nitric acid."

Donald was affronted. "What do you mean, insoluble? Plutonium solutions are common enough."

"Not thermodynamically insoluble, no, but the kinetics of dissolution are impossible. You can stew it for hours and nothing happens worth mentioning. In my ignorance I tried it once."

Donald still persisted. "Look here, I know I'm no chemist, but I'm familiar enough with the Periodic Table. Plutonium is an actinide, right?"

"Certainly."

"And actinides behave like lanthanides, and their oxides dissolve easily enough, don't they"

"I believe they do, though I've never had anything to do with them myself, but if you'll pardon the anthropomorphism, the early actinides don't seem to know about all that. They behave chemically just as though they were continuing an ordinary long series - uranium very much like tungsten, for instance. Lanthanide behaviour doesn't kick in until you get to americium, half-way along the row, and plute oxide behaves more like silica. I'm afraid you might as well try getting nitric acid to dissolve beach sand."

Donald was not going to give in too easily. "Just a minute, though. There are other plants where the oxide is dissolved in nitric acid. There must be some way of doing it."

"Yes, of course there is, but it involves adding fluoride as a catalyst. And to stop the fluoride from dissolving your equipment you have to add aluminium. If you do that, by the time you've finished you're almost back where you started, except that the plute's mixed up with a mass of aluminium instead of the general muck, which I suppose is some improvement but not much."

"Hmm. That's a bit of a poser. Thanks for pointing it out. I'll have to discuss it with my colleagues when I get back."

"Good luck with it; I'd like to hear how you get on in due course. Here's my card. Bit now we'd better be getting back to the seminar."

So much for Chris's "chemistry only a branch of physics," Donald thought. He must have a serious talk with him about getting a real chemist in on the project. At least he'd been spared the humiliation of being challenged on so basic a point within the meeting, but thinking with horror of how that might so easily have happened he got more and more irritated as the afternoon session wore on; how could such a basic oversight have been permitted? Adding to his distraction, his leg was hurting rather badly again and he realised he had better have it checked thoroughly when he got back home in case something was seriously wrong.

Waiting on the Kaiserműhlen station platform, he was still thinking on these lines when he was startled by a tap on the shoulder. It was Ainsworth again. "Excuse me, Dr. Harris, but I've been thinking a bit more about your problem."

"Oh, yes?"

"I believe there may be a way round it, although it means adding another process to your scheme with quite a lot more kit. If you - oh, here comes the train. We can talk about it on board, if you like."

"Fine."

At that point two last-minute passengers arrived, arguing vehemently in Italian. One of them was gesticulating wildly, not looking where he was going; he tripped over some obstacle and stumbled into Donald, catching him not only with his shoulder but with a heavy briefcase behind the knee. The impact threw him forward, the injured leg refused to take his weight and he tottered over the edge of the platform. The train was too close for him to get out of its way.

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## Chapter 9. Aftermath

Mike Crampton was relaxing at last after a more than usually busy Friday, not expecting any interruption, and the ringing of the telephone startled him. He took a few seconds to collect his thoughts and answer it. "Michael, this is Sal."

"Who? Sorry, I was napping."

"Sal Hamilton, in Ashton."

"Oh, Sal, hello, it's good to hear from you."

"Thanks, but I'm not sure you'll think so when you hear what it's about."

"Why, what's happened?"

"You remember meeting Donald, Josie's husband, when you were over here three years or so ago?"

"Yes, of course. Rather a dour character, I thought, but I put that down to what he'd been through. What about him?"

"Well, it's a long story, but I'll give you just the bare bones of it. Apparently he had to give some kind of presentation at a meeting in Vienna, and afterwards was waiting on a Metro platform when someone jostled him - a pure accident, by all accounts - so that he fell under an approaching train. He didn't stand a chance, of course. The fact of its happening is bad enough for Josie, but now she has to go and identify the body. I suppose no one there knew him well enough, or maybe it has to be next of kin anyway - I don't know the Austrian regulations. And besides, she has to make all the arrangements for dealing with the remains."

"How awful for her! Do give her my condolences, won't you?"

"Yes, of course, but there's a lot more to it than that."

"Oh?"

"The point is that Donald was travelling on duty, so his department is covering all the costs, and all but insists on providing an escort for Josie, which is very decent of them, but not what she wants. The trouble is that she doesn't know any of his colleagues and doesn't fancy going on an errand like that with a perfect stranger."

"Naturally. Who would?"

"Of course, I'd intended to go with her myself, but Bill's just gone down with a particularly nasty dose of flu and I can't possibly leave him in that state. I know you've kept in touch with Josie and she always speaks kindly of you; there's no one else I can think of asking, no one who'd be at all suitable anyway, and I know it's a dreadful imposition, especially at practically zero notice, but if you remember you did say that if she needed help ... Is there any chance that you could do it?"

"Of course I'll do it."

The sigh of relaxed tension at the other end was clearly audible. "Oh, thank God. You've no idea what a relief that is. I've been going out of my mind worrying about it."

"I'm not surprised. You should have called me earlier. It's a dreadful situation."

"You don't know the half of it. Josie's had an appalling time over the last few years."

"In what way?"

"Well, I really shouldn't tell you all this, and for goodness' sake don't let on that I have done, but the marriage went to pot less than a year after Donald came back. I dare say his ordeal had a lot to do with it, but the immediate cause seems to have been frustrations at work. He started drinking, and it went out of control. He got more and more violent when he was drunk, and it ended with him almost killing her one night, so she took refuge with us."

"Good lord!"

"The worst of it is ..." Mike thought he heard a sob, and for a while Sal was unable to continue. "Do excuse me; I'm sorry about that. The worst of it is that it seems he'd conquered the drink problem and wanted desperately to get back together with her, but I didn't believe he'd sobered up well enough to risk it and stopped them meeting again."

"How was that? I'm sorry, I shouldn't be poking my nose in."

"No, it's quite all right. He called me not long before he went off to Vienna and assured me he'd kicked the booze, begging me to help him get back in touch with Josie - she'd moved to another apartment, you see, and changed her telephone number - but I wouldn't. I just didn't trust him."

"It's hardly your fault. You were right to be cautious."

"Maybe so, but I can't help feeling I overdid it."

"No, Sal, you'd only just heard he'd dried out, and with nothing but his word for it. Alcoholics can be dreadful liars about their condition, even to themselves, and it wasn't enough to go on. With things as they were you were absolutely right to insist on more reliable evidence. It would have been irresponsible not to."

"Well, perhaps you're right. You've certainly made me feel a good deal better. It's a huge relief; I've been worried sick over it. I'm not sure that Josie would see it that way, though, so please don't say anything about it to her."

Sal explained that on the provisional plans they had made, Josie would arrive at Heathrow about ten o'clock the following Tuesday; could he meet her there? Mike checked his diary and confirmed that he could. That flight would just miss the last connection arriving at a reasonable hour, and she would already be tired after a night on the plane, so she intended to stay in London and travel onward the next day; a nine-fifty departure looked reasonably convenient. Sal would check that INL would accept this arrangement instead of providing the promised escort itself, and reimburse his expenses; it would save thousands of dollars for a return flight to Europe, no doubt business class, so there could be no objection on grounds of cost.

It was too late for Mike to do any more about it that evening. Fortunately business was running smoothly and he was not aware of anything likely to demand his personal attention in the next week or so, but he telephoned Terry Haskins first thing the next morning to make sure that he was willing and able to stand in for him over the time he was likely to be away. If necessary one of the retired drivers who occasionally helped out could be brought back in. With that settled, as soon as he thought acceptable in her time zone he called back to Sal, who by that time had somehow managed to get a verbal assurance that INL would accept the revised arrangements.

With some apprehension he wondered how he would react to meeting Josie again. The last occasion had been over two years ago, when learning that she was already married had dashed some notions he had been cherishing on his own behalf. In all that time they had not been entirely extinguished, but even now he would not allow himself to entertain consciously a hope that might again be disappointed.

Heathrow seemed even busier than usual on that Tuesday, with the flow of people emerging from Arrivals dragging on for ever, although perhaps that was an illusion due to nerves. He still felt a flutter at the first sight of Josie's approach, and when she actually reached him with the faintest of smiles touching her woebegone face, he impulsively hugged her to himself almost like the father he had never been and maybe never would.

He had toyed with the idea of taking her to one of the more agreeable hotels on his tour circuit rather than stay overnight near the airport, but the requirement to check in hours before the flight made that impracticable. Instead he had booked rooms in one recommended by Horace Turnbull, who assured him that although it overlooked one of the runways, the noise of departing aircraft was scarcely audible inside. Fortunately that proved to be true.

She was very quiet on the taxi ride, tired and distressed no doubt, and he was not surprised when she retired for the afternoon as she couldn't face lunch. He took the opportunity to study a German phrase book picked up at the airport. At least, that was the intention, but he found that his mind wandered after half an hour and he allowed himself a few minutes' relaxation with a novel bought at the book stall. An hour or so later he put it down and tried the phrase book again, but this time managed only twenty minutes before deciding that he was doing no good and might as well pack it up. He thought of taking a walk, but the surroundings were not enticing and in any case it had started to rain, so he returned to the novel.

By evening Josie was sufficiently restored to dine with him and give an account of events since Donald's discharge from hospital, heavily censored but still horrifying enough. "It wasn't entirely Don's fault," she was anxious to stress. "He was eager to get back to work, but when he did he found his project had been axed and he was given a sort of graveyard job. He started drinking to help him over his depression, but of course it didn't and only made matters worse. Eventually I couldn't bear it any longer and had to leave him to it. I'd changed my phone number because he was driving me mad begging me to return - I wanted to but didn't dare - and I never heard from him after that, but he must have pulled himself together afterwards or he'd never have been sent to Vienna."

"I suppose so. He wouldn't have been much of an advert for his organisation in anything like his condition when you left him."

"No, far from it." She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn and asked him to excuse her; "I'm sorry to be such a bore, but I'm still tired out. I'll see you in the morning; sleep well."

"You too." Mike took the opportunity to call Terry and check that all was well. After that he went back to the phrase book, but he was tired himself and found it even harder than before to concentrate. After ten minutes he gave up and returned to the novel for a while before himself turning in.

In the morning Josie was fairly well recovered, very fortunately as an early start was needed. He mentioned that he had never been to Vienna and wondered what it would be like. "Are you worried about finding your way around?"

"A little bit, I must admit."

"Well, there's no need. Don's section head - he's been very kind - arranged for someone from the embassy to meet us and help deal with the local officials. I gathered that it's standard practice in this sort of situation."

"If anything can be called standard in this situation."

"I don't suppose it's routine, but fatal accidents and sudden death aren't all that unusual."

"Unfortunately, I suppose not."

She slept quite soundly during the flight and Mike thought it best not to disturb her when lunch was offered. After landing, baggage retrieval and customs, it suddenly occurred to Mike to wonder how they were to identify their contact; several people outside the barrier were waving name cards, but none of them was "Harris" and it would be a rather undignified procedure for an embassy official. "Didn't I tell you?" Josie asked. "We meet him at the information desk." Mike asked if she needed a bite to eat, but she was unwilling to keep the escort waiting and in any case still had no appetite.

Tim Drysburgh of the Citizen Services department was indeed used to this sort of thing and duly sympathetic to Josie in her bereavement. "Actually I thought the name Donald Harris rang a bell. Wasn't he in the news a while back? There seemed to be something at the back of my mind, but I couldn't quite nail it down."

"He was kidnapped nearly ten years ago, then rescued three years back after I'd all but given up hope of ever seeing him again. There was quite a splash about it in the media."

"I remember now. Terrible, though, to get him back after all that time and then lose him again through such an accident. It would be absurd if it weren't so tragic."

"Actually, I'd lost him long before." Her voice trembled and Drysburgh apologised for putting his foot in it, but she quickly recovered from the lapse in composure and reassured him. "You weren't to know."

He had an embassy car, and on the way apologised for the view of the vast chemical works that dominated the early part of the journey. "Hardly the romantic vision of Vienna, I'm afraid. Whereabouts are you staying?"

Josie said she had the address written down somewhere, found the note and passed it to him when the opportunity offered at traffic lights. "I believe it's the same place where Don was staying."

Drysburgh was afraid that it might have unpleasant associations for her, but kept that to himself. "Oh yes, I know it. It's comfortable, I'm told, and the people are friendly. Actually it's quite close to the embassy and on the same road."

On dropping them there he told them what was planned for the next day. "We have to visit the police headquarters in the morning to see the officer in charge of the investigation - "

"Investigation?" Mike interposed. "I thought it was a straightforward accident."

"It almost certainly was. The explanation given by the man responsible for it was so ridiculous it must be true, but they can't altogether rule out the possibility of manslaughter, or if a motive could be found even murder."

"What was the explanation?"

"I daren't tell you. My wife nearly had hysterics when she heard it. We don't wasn't to make an exhibition of ourselves in the street. Anyway, I'll call for you about half past nine if that suits you. By the way, I believe there's something else to do besides confirming Dr. Harris's identity and making the funeral arrangements. Just a slight complication Someone who wants to see you, I think"

"What about, and who on earth can it be?"

"Sorry, I don't know any more than that."

With time to spare after unpacking and a rest, Mike thought some distraction advisable and suggested that they could hardly visit Vienna without seeing some of the sights. The Stephansplatz was within walking distance and that was an obvious place to start. Josie was impressed by the cathedral, outside and in, and after walking slowly round the nave suddenly paused. "What is it, Josie?"

"Just a fancy. All these candles; do you suppose people light them as a memorial to someone?"

"Maybe. More likely an offering to go with a petition."

"Do you think ..."

"What?"

"It probably seems crazy, but would you think me utterly absurd if I lit one?"

"Not in the slightest. What's the petition?"

"I don't know, really. That Don may at last be at peace, perhaps, after all he'd been through."

"I'll join you in that, if I may." Josie almost kissed him, but thought it might be frowned upon in such a place and simply squeezed his hand.

After that she suddenly realised she was hungry, not surprisingly after missing lunch. Drysburgh had mentioned a particular restaurant as famous for its Wiener schnitzel, half way along one of the narrow alleys leading from the square, but it was evidently full with a queue already waiting, so they went on to the end of the alley and found another that looked promising. Having to go down rather steep stairs to the cellar dining area amused Josie, but she liked the alcove to which they were directed and enjoyed her meal; not the schnitzel as it happened, but a grilled trout.

The next morning Drysburgh took them to police headquarters by the long way round the Ring. "You may as well see something of our best buildings while you're here."

"Our buildings?" queried Mike.

"Well, we tend to think of ourselves as honorary citizens."

On arrival Drysburgh stated their business and they were ushered in to see Hauptmann Strasser. Shades of Casablanca, Mike thought, but there was nothing of the Nazi about this Strasser. He offered his deepest sympathy to Josie and apologised for the need to subject her to this ordeal, which she assured him she understood to be necessary however unpleasant. A female officer would accompany them to the morgue; Mike was welcome to go too if he wished, or he could wait for their return. "Oh, we're coming back, are we?"

"Yes, there's a little further business. Nothing to worry about." Mike asked Drysburgh, sotto voce, if this was the complication to which he had alluded, and he nodded.

The officer, Anneliese Schmidt, was called in and proved to be a motherly type, very sympathetic in offering her condolences. Josie was glad of her presence, since despite the best efforts of the mortuary attendants, the body when they came to see it was in a distressing condition not entirely concealed beneath the covers. Fortunately the face had been spared further disfigurement, and there was no doubt about the identity. Josie could not completely restrain her tears and apologised for them: "I know things went terribly wrong at the end, but I can't help thinking how good they were before the kidnap, and how we might perhaps have got them back again if I'd been braver."

"After a breakdown in a relationship," Anneliese commented, "it can never be quite the same. With a lot of patience and effort it may sometimes become stronger, though it will then be very different." Mike wondered to himself whether her own evident strength and compassion might have come from just such an experience. He also thanked his lucky stars for having kept Sal's secret, as otherwise Josie would have felt very much worse.

Strasser, back in his office, apologised for having to deal with practicalities that might prove distressing. "The question is, what would you like to be done about the funeral? There are two basic possibilities: the body could be repatriated intact, though that would involve certain formalities and of course be expensive at several thousand dollars, or it could be cremated and the ashes shipped to an address in the USA."

Josie asked Drysburgh's opinion, as he must be much more familiar with the situation. "It's completely up to you, of course, but quite apart from the matter of cost, local cremation would be by far the more practical course." She immediately saw the point and agreed. The procedure would take some days to set up; would she stay for the service, or return? She would have to think about that.

Meanwhile there was one other thing that Strasser had to introduce. "You'll probably be interested to know that Professor Bertolucci, whose blundering led to the accident, is not after all to be charged with any offence. We never seriously thought that he would, but we had to look into the possibility of foul play. So far as we've been able to find out he had never previously heard of Dr. Harris or for that matter INL itself, still less had any cause for complaint against them. Had he been an Austrian national; we might perhaps have dug a little deeper, but as it is we don't want to risk a pointless diplomatic incident by pursuing a distinguished Italian academic we had no grounds to suspect of anything. He has been given permission to leave as soon as he wishes, but he somehow heard that you were coming and was particularly anxious to apologise to you in person. Are you willing to see him?"

Josie wondered what Mike thought. "Well, it's bound to be embarrassing, but I dare say the poor sod's in agonies of remorse and it might help him. You could notch up a credit or two with the recording angel if you agreed."

So they met, and it was quite as embarrassing as Mike had expected. Bertolucci overwhelmed Josie with abject apologies, but she took it well, and her assurance of having no hard feelings produced some of the desired effect. Mike however wondered what actually had happened.

"Ah, Signor, it is so absurd that I can hardly believe it myself. I was engrossed in an argument with Dr. Antonelli, we were getting rather heated, and to my sorrow I failed to notice Signor Harris standing there. I tripped over something, stumbled against him and he seemed to lose his balance. For some reason he could not recover it and fell off the edge of the platform."

Josie told him that Donald's injured leg had probably not regained its full strength and might have given way under him, and Bertolucci nodded. "That must be it. It is some slight relief to my conscience."

"But what were you arguing about, to get so excited?" Mike asked. Remembering Drysbergh's wife, Josie reprovingly dug him in the ribs, and indeed Bertolucci had his head in his hands, muttering incomprehensibly. "What? I didn't catch it":

"I am so sorry, I am desolate that my clumsiness caused such a terrible accident through a dispute over so trifling a subject." "What subject?" "Mike, it doesn't matter, don't push it," Josie anxiously interrupted, but Bertolucci continued, perhaps wanting to get it off his chest. "We were disputing - God forgive me for it - whether Pavarotti or Domingo was the greater singer."

Josie gaped in astonishment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter that indeed threatened to become hysterical until Anneliese took her in hand. Meanwhile, Mike somehow managed to keep a straight face and as he could think of nothing constructive to say, in the hope of breaking the tension shook hands with the bemused Bertolucci, who accepted the gesture avidly. When Josie had recovered her composure she too offered her hand which instead he kissed.

By that time she had decided that she could not in conscience take more time away from her work than was already committed and asked if it would be fitting for Drysburgh to represent her at the cremation. "I'll do that gladly. You'll want the ashes shipped back to you in the States, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, of course. Mike, do you think Sal and Bill would mind if I had them sent there?"

"Well, you know them better than I do, but I'm pretty sure they'd gladly fit in with whatever you want."

Drysburgh looked puzzled. "Oh, of course, you wouldn't know. They're my aunt and uncle. I spend quite a lot of time with them when I'm not at work, and I'm not sure about keeping my present apartment, so that would be safer. I'll write the address for you."

"There is one other thing," Drysburgh added. "Before the ashes can be despatched, Austrian regulations require a certificate that a cemetery has a burial plot for the urn."

"Oh, right, I'll see to that as soon as I get back."

"Of course, it doesn't mean you have to use it if you've other ideas about the disposition." Indeed she had, but for the present she kept them to herself.

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## Chapter 10. Discovery

Neil Ainsworth made his statement to the Vienna police as brief and objective a he could. He had been talking to Dr. Harris and standing beside him at the time the Italians approached. Out of the corner of his eye he had been vaguely aware of Bertolucci and Antomelli but took no particular notice, as he was more concerned to see where would be the best place to board the approaching train. Consequently he had not realised the danger until Dr. Harris cannoned into him and then off the platform. He had no reason to suppose that it might have been anything but a tragic accident, nor had anyone else so far as he was aware.

The following morning's session of the seminar opened with a minute's silence in respect towards the late Dr. Harris, then got down to the scheduled business. Neil's heart was not really in it, and his mind returned to his last words with Harris. He supposed that the flaw in the INL plan would probably be noticed before there was any commitment of material resources, but then it ought to have been spotted long before. To be on the safe side he would write to the co-author listed in the programme. It might be tactful to append his thoughts to a note of condolence, on the conventional assumption that the death would be regretted, although from his slight acquaintance he was not too sure about that.

There was no immediate response but five weeks later he received an e-mail from Jim Monaghan. "Many thanks for your message of condolence and the attachment, which Dr. Bradshaw has forwarded to me and is greatly appreciated. Dr. Harris will indeed be very seriously missed. The technical issue that you describe was, as you probably realise, remote from his own field and he could not have been expected to query it. I have since raised it with the specialist concerned who confirms that it had in fact been overlooked."

Neil smiled to himself; "raising the point" almost certainly meant a very sharp and well-merited rebuke. The message continued: "The outline solution that you suggest appears very interesting, and as we have no one in this section with the expertise to elaborate it, I have received approval to offer you a consultancy. The formalities took longer than expected, hence my delay in responding to you, for which I sincerely apologise. If you are willing in principle to consider this offer, please send me your provisional acceptance as soon as possible and we can then consider concrete arrangements, including of course your fee."

Neil was astonished to find himself called in rather than an American chemist or chemical engineer, of whom there must have been plenty quite as well acquainted with that kind of process, although since the Carter presidency its application had been somewhat neglected. However, he was only too well aware how often and how seriously issues of organisational politics or "face" might cloud apparently straightforward technical considerations, and he supposed that something of the sort might well be involved here. Whatever the reason, he was coming up to retirement and not disposed to look this particular gift horse too closely in the mouth, so he replied that he was indeed interested. Again there was some delay before any further contact, perhaps because of some internal wrangling over the terms to be offered. When the draft contract arrived they were more generous than he had dared to hope, and he accepted them without hesitation.

As it happened another three months passed before his first visit to INL and introduction by Monaghan to Chris Bradshaw, who struck him as a thoroughly agreeable character although perhaps a rather surprising choice to head that particular project. Still, that was none of his business. He was shown the engineering test rig and expressed due admiration, then at a team meeting presented his understanding of the original process scheme, his objections to it, the way he proposed to overcome them, and the kind of design extensions that would be needed to accommodate it; unfortunately they would be substantial, involving a whole new range of equipment, but that was inevitable.

The reason lay in the need to separate the recovered plutonium from material protecting the dissolver itself from the extremely corrosive reagents need to attack the oxide, which would be very resistant especially after it had been through an incinerator. The technology he invoked was familiar, and in fact there were two basic types of equipment that would serve the purpose, one very much more user-friendly than the other, with the choice depending on how heavily the plutonium was contaminated with other radioactive materials that might also pass into solution - another possibility that had previously been disregarded.

This prompted some discussion among his hosts, with the eventual conclusion that it was perhaps not to be ignored but substantially less than had been in the spent fuel from even the earliest industrial reactors. That was fortunate, since it meant they could use mixer-settlers, the kind easier to control, a very serious consideration when it would not be readily accessible once put into service.

"How easy?" someone asked.

"Well, once, to test a particular point, I set up such a system on the laboratory bench using a dozen ordinary glass beakers connected by inverted U-tubes, plus a couple of pumps and a few stirrers, with nothing at all in the way of design calculations beforehand, and it worked perfectly well at any reasonable setting of the pumps."

"What was the point you were trying to test, then?"

"I don't remember now, so it can't have been terribly important. Nothing to do with the operation of the equipment, anyway. That was probably why I went about it in such a casual way - it wasn't worth all the fuss of a proper design study and specially-built kit. I don't suppose it would be possible now, with all the safety implications you have to consider before you so much as blow your nose."

At that point a very serious-looking young man stood up and said he hoped that Dr. Ainsworth was not trying to belittle safety culture, prompting cries of "Oh, not again!" - "For goodness' sake!" - "Sit down, Jerry," and worse. Jerry flushed a deep red and did sit down, but looked very cross.

Neil thought it a little unfair on him, but understood the reaction very well. "No, Jerry, not at all, when it's applied with a bit of common sense, and you're quite right to stress its importance, but there's a troublesome tendency these days to take it to an inordinate extent even with obviously minuscule risks. It gets to a point where it presents real dangers of its own; I'm sure you must be aware that sometimes worrying too much about trivialities distracts attention from more serious hazards and can even create some that didn't exist before. Sometimes I'm reminded of a swan I watched chasing harmless ducks away from its nest while behind its back a rat stole the eggs."

Jerry still looked glum but made no comment, so Neil continued. "But to get back to the substantive issue, the technology I'm proposing you should use is well established, so I don't foresee the need for much research. On the other hand I've known instances - two come to mind straight away - where over-confidence in existing knowledge almost led to failure of the whole project because that knowledge was incomplete, and worse, not known to be incomplete; almost a case of pride coming before a fall, I'm afraid. I think you'd best run some confirmatory process studies on a small scale, then inactive trials with a full-sized mock-up of the plant as you intend it to be."

He had no more to say at that stage; Bradshaw thanked him formally, there were a few questions, not particularly demanding, and that appeared to be that for the time being. Money for jam, he thought.

Afterwards in private, Bradshaw thanked him again for his presentation and suggested a further visit during the pilot runs, to which Neil agreed in principle; definite arrangements could be made nearer the time if it still seemed appropriate so far ahead. Something else also occurred to him, unrelated to the technical matters. "I don't know whether you heard about the circumstances of the accident to Dr. Harris, but I happened to be talking to him at the actual time. If he has any family living hereabouts, I'd rather like to offer my personal condolences if it's possible now that we've finished our business so early. Maybe, too, they'd be pleased to hear how well his paper had been received. Do you know if there is anyone?"

"It's a kind thought. He had no children, but there's a widow, though I believe they'd been estranged for some time. Still, absence may have made the heart grow fonder. I've some telephone numbers and can make enquiries during the lunch break." It turned out that she was actually at the marital home in Idaho Falls and would be glad to see him. "But she's just there to close it down and hopes you'll understand if it seems a bit Spartan."

"Of course, I don't want to embarrass her."

"I don't think you'll do that. I'll arrange a car for you."

Josie had little occasion to visit the city at that time. Once she had disposed of Don's effects, apart from a few mementoes of their early married life, she had sub-let the apartment for all but the last week of the lease. The tenants had moved on, and now that she had finished most of her other business she was checking what else might need to be done before she was due to return the keys a couple of days later. The call from Bradshaw came as a complete surprise, and she was rather embarrassed but felt that she could not refuse the offer; the visitor must be a sympathetic type to make the suggestion - or was that wishful thinking?

Neil appreciated her situation and suggested they should adjourn to a coffee bar, which seemed a good idea. Once they had ordered and were settled, conversation was a little hard to start, but Josie thanked him for thinking of her; she really did want to hear how Don had been, and was glad that he had happened to catch her in the city. "You usually live somewhere else, I gather."

"Yes, I work for a tour company in West Yellowstone, and it's too far for daily commuting."

"That's a place I've always wanted to see - the park, I mean. No time on this trip, of course; I fly home tomorrow."

"Are you likely to come again?"

"Yes, that's part of the agreement, though it probably won't be for a year or so."

"Then supposing everything still suits, what do you say to allowing a couple of days for a quick tour of the area? After you've been kind enough to come out to see me I'd love to show you around."

"It hasn't been all that great a kindness!"

"Perhaps not, but I appreciate it. And Mr. Bradshaw said something about your helping with a problem that hadn't been noticed in Don's project.

"It wasn't really a problem of his - a difficulty that someone else had overlooked and Don couldn't be expected to know about."

"Even so, it might have reflected on him. If anyone else had noticed and been less tactful, it almost certainly would have done."

"Don't give credit where it isn't due; it wasn't tact, there simply wasn't time for my question in the meeting. Perhaps I might have thought of arranging to see him privately once he'd confirmed my understanding of the intended process, but I'm not at all sure. On these occasions there can be a very great temptation to point-scoring."

"Anyway, when you know about your next visit, let me know and I'll arrange everything. Now do tell me about Don. I never saw him at all after we broke up three years ago, but I still cared for him. I hoped he'd come to his senses and we could get back together again, but it wasn't to be."

"Well, he seemed pretty fit, although he limped a bit at times."

"That would be the injury he got - did you know about his kidnap and rescue?"

"Someone mentioned it at lunch today. Bad, was it?"

"Pretty bad, but as he said, others came off worse. Still, he was on pretty strong pain-killers, and even those weren't always effective."

"I suppose that would account for my impression he could be a rather difficult character."

"Probably, the pain did make him irritable. That wasn't what I was anxious about, though. Soon after he got back to work he developed a terrible drink problem - that was what broke us up, in fact - although I heard later that he'd been trying to kick it. Were there any signs of it?"

"None that I could see, and no one I've spoken to today has mentioned anything of the sort, though of course there'd be no occasion for bringing it up."

"So he'd done it. I wish I'd known. I still loved him - leastways, what he had been - but we had no contact except through my aunt. I think she may have been a bit over-protective there, although it would be well meant."

"I'm sure it was. Beating that sort of habit is a hell of a job, and she may not have believed he'd done it so well."

"I suppose not. Ah well, it's too late now. There is one thing, though; I'm very glad that he got his self respect back."

"And the respect of his colleagues. The paper he delivered in Vienna was mostly out of my area, but people who knew his subject seemed to find it very impressive."

Neither could think of much more to say after that, so he saw her back to the apartment, promised to let her know when he was next coming to INL, and returned to his hotel for the night.

Six months later, Bradshaw sent him the engineering design for the pilot plant, which as far as Neil could see was satisfactory, but there was apparently some difficulty in getting the necessary construction effort. He wondered if he dare send a reminder to build it in stainless steel rather than normal engineering stock; it might seem like teaching a grandmother to suck eggs, but the drawings did not carry the material specification he expected, and while that might mean that no other was ever used, it could just as easily be another oversight. He got round the difficulty by suggesting in his acknowledgement, just in case they hadn't already thought of it, that when they came to the commissioning process they should take it in cautious stages, for instance first testing the set-up with plain water; it would be much easier and safer (Jerry would surely approve) to check for leaks, blockages and mis-connections before anything more noxious went into the plant. To make the point he added the amusing if possibly apocryphal tale of how a stainless nitric acid line in an early plant had been inadvertently connected to a mild steel handrail and flooded the area when the acid attacked the steel.

For the inactive mock-up, he recommended using Perspex as easier to work and allowing the internal operation to be observed visually. That would be far more informative than relying on instruments or merely inferring what was happening inside.

He never heard whether his warning had been necessary, but would have worried had he not given it. His next visit to INL was eighteen months later to witness the pilot-scale trials of his process. From past experience he was well prepared for some hitches if not for more serious problems, but to his relief there were no particularly unpleasant surprises. The Perspex mixer-settler bank aroused a lot of interest, and the fitters who had built it with much puzzlement over its function were especially intrigued when brought in to see it working. That effectively concluded his contract, although in case any minor problems arose within his competence he offered to advise informally on the basis of friendship.

By arrangement, Josie collected him from his hotel the morning after his business was complete, and asked if he would mind her calling briefly on relatives in Ashton on the way. "Where's that? I haven't heard of it before."

"It's a little town right on our route. They've always been good to me, in fact they practically brought me up, and they've been marvellous over Don's problem."

"Then you obviously must call on them. I hope they won't think you've collected a sugar daddy."

Josie laughed. "No, I explained how you'd met Don and had some business here in consequence. Sal seemed particularly keen to meet you, though I'm not sure why. I think she likes to vet my men friends." It was said in jest, but there was some truth in it, especially after the experience with Don.

Sal Hamilton indeed welcomed him warmly: Bill was out just then, but expected back soon. Josie excused herself for a few minutes, and while she was out of the room Neil commented on something that had puzzled him. "Josie's still quite young, and so was Don, but I've heard no mention of parents or in-laws. What happened to them, or shouldn't I ask?"

"It is rather a delicate matter, but there's no harm in your knowing. Josie was actually the daughter of my young sister. Not long out of high school, she had the chance to go off on a European tour, and the couple who were supposed to be keeping an eye on her turned out to be shockingly lax. In fact it seems they went off for a few days on a side trip of their own. Somehow Yvonne got involved with a rather loose bunch, not the sort she was used to, and after she got back her it turned out she was pregnant. She knew who the father was - there was no other possibility, more than plenty of girls could say \- but had lost touch with him."

"Hadn't he told her anything about himself - where he came from, who his family were, anything like that?"

"It seems not, at least not enough to trace him. He said they were a bit strait-laced and he'd drifted away from them. The only clue we have to his identity is this group photograph. There were no names with it; not that they'd be likely to help us much, anyway. Of course the family made sure that Yvonne was properly looked after during the pregnancy, but when it came to the birth, something went wrong and she died soon afterwards, so we brought Josie up practically as our own. And we've been very glad we did; she's turned out very well, though I say it myself."

"I'd say you'd done a thoroughly good job there. What about Don?"

"Oh, he quarrelled with his parents over breaking away from some very strict religious sect I hadn't heard of. To make it worse they had positions of authority in it, and when they realised he was to marry a 'child of sin' which is what they called Josie, it was the last straw for them. They disowned him completely and he had nothing to do with them since. For all practical purposes they might as well be dead. Maybe they are, of course."

Neil felt that the photograph reminded him of something and asked if he might take a closer look at it. It was the usual kind of holiday snap with people posing self-consciously in front of Sacré-Cœur de Paris, but there was something more, something about the group itself that stirred his memory. He asked which of the figures was Yvonne, and Sal pointed it out, with a young man's hand rather possessively round the waist. That young man particularly interested him, but the image was small and Neil's sight not too good at close range. "Sal, have you a magnifying glass of some kind?"

"Bill had one when his eyes were giving trouble a while back, but I'm not sure what happened to it. Would you like me to look?"

"I'm sorry to put you to any trouble, but this could be important." She went to search and was gone for some time before finding it; meanwhile Neil had almost but not quite convinced himself.

When she returned Neil studied the photograph very carefully as the issue was so serious that he had to be certain. One detail clinched it, and he handed the snap back to her.

"You see that young fellow who seems to regard Yvonne as his personal property?"

"What about him? Is it someone you know?"

"Yes. It's hard to believe, but that's my brother."

"What? It can't be!"

"I thought this photo looked familiar, and that's why; he had another print of it, and I particularly remember the silly hat he was wearing. I believe he still has it - about the only relic of his misspent youth that his wife's let him keep. And now I think of it, he did say that he'd been rather fond of that girl but lost her address when his wallet was stolen."

Josie had still not reappeared, and Sal called for her. "Coming!"

Neil whispered to her not to say anything for a moment. However, Josie got a question in first: "Sal, have you seen my cashmere scarf? I thought I'd left it here, but I can't find it anywhere."

"Never mind that for a moment, Neil has an important question."

"Oh? What's that?"

"I wonder - do you mind my asking about your blood group?"

"Not at all, it's B rhesus positive, but why?"

Neil was satisfied. "That pretty well settles it."

"Settles what?"

Sal could no longer restrain herself: "Josie, you'll never believe it, but guess what's turned up."

"Not my scarf, evidently."

"Oh, to ... with your scarf. This is far more important. It's scarcely credible, but we've found your father!"

"What? Neil, surely not?"

"No, and just as well, or my wife would have something pretty sharp to say about it. It's my brother Dennis. Wait till I get home and tell him; he'll be tickled pink."

"So will Bill when he comes in," said Sal, still bubbling over with excitement "But are you sure about how your brother will take it? Not all - er \- mature gentlemen are pleased when youthful indiscretions come home to roost."

"Don't worry, he'll be delighted. He and Molly have always wanted children but never managed it."

"Dennis, maybe, but will Molly take that line, do you think?"

"Oh, she wasn't around then. She knows there were a few wild oats scattered around before they met. Since then he's strictly honoured the 'forsaking all others' bit - I don't think he'd dare do otherwise - and she's satisfied with that."

Sal hoped he was right but rather doubted it. However, that was someone else's worry. Hers was to prepare the lunch for which the visitors would obviously have to stay after Neil's bombshell, so she excused herself and bustled around the kitchen. Bill, returning, caught her at it and wondered what was going on. "You'll never guess."

"No, of course I shan't unless you give me a clue."

"Josie's here."

"I know that. It's her car outside. Very nice to see her again, of course, but what's so special this time?"

"It's who's with her. Of all people, her father's brother."

"Don't talk nonsense, we've no idea who the father was."

"We have now. Josie's taking around an acquaintance of Donald's who recognised his brother on that old photo of Yvonne's."

"I dare say he did, but I seem to remember that getting a woman with child usually takes a bit more involvement than appearing in the same photograph. Just as well, too."

Sal told him not to be silly, of course there was more to it than that; for a start he had the right blood group, one of the less common types.

"That only means it's possible. You'd need a DNA test to establish paternity."

"Well, maybe it will come to that, but there's an easier way. Send him a copy of the photograph and ask whether he'd bedded that girl."

"Now why didn't you say that in the first place?"

"Because I've only just thought of it myself."

As it happened, the same thought had also occurred to Neil, who had taken what he hoped would turn out to be a tolerable reproduction with his own camera, not as good as a direct scan but with any luck sufficient for the purpose. After all, it didn't need to be a perfect reproduction for Dennis to see whether or not it matched his own print.

It was fortunate that he and Josie had allowed more than sufficient time for this leg of the journey, as over lunch the Hamiltons naturally wanted to know everything he could tell them about Dennis and his family, and it stretched well into the afternoon. After they left, Josie commented that it would seem odd to start calling Neil "Uncle" rather than "Neil" or "Mr. Ainsworth".

"Perhaps you'd better not for the time being. An old man travelling with a supposed niece would arouse very unworthy suspicions when we have to stay at the same hotel."

"You're not old; mature, rather."

"All the more grounds for suspicion, then!"

That night, of course, she spent in her own apartment, but joined Neil for dinner and afterwards had coffee with him. "This reminds me of the time I had to beg a ride from Ashton with an Englishman who had inherited some real estate there and as a result had an errand on the other side of the Tetons."

"I don't see the connection."

"No, it's a rather involved story," and she told him of Forster's request to check the clearing by Jenny Lake.

"Very strange. How did you come to be involved?"

"Again rather curious. His instruction was to "see Jenny Lake," meaning a separate map of the place, but it had got crushed down into a corner of the envelope and he didn't spot it. Not knowing the area he mistook it for the name of a person, at the time I was using my maiden name which happens to be Lake, and I was the only J. Lake known at the Post Office when he asked. Very luckily for me, as it turned out, and not just for the ride."

"Go on, you've got me intrigued now."

She explained how Mike had later come to her rescue when the tour bus had been wrecked in Woodstock, and that over Don's death, when Sal had been prevented from accompanying her to Vienna, he had been kindness itself.

She suddenly looked very thoughtful, and Neil asked what was the matter. "That makes three times he's been there and willing when I needed him, and I've just realised something rather shameful."

"What's that? If you don't mind telling me, of course."

"No, I don't. It's just that looking back, I'm very much afraid that I've treated him rather shabbily. One way or another he's shown quite clearly that he's fond of me, more than just friendship, and without intending it I've probably led him on."

"Oh?"

"You see, those first two occasions were while Don was being held captive - you knew about that, I suppose?"

"Yes, Chris Bradshaw told me."

" - and all that time I never mentioned to Mike that I was already married - for some reason I've never been able to stand wearing a ring - or even gave him a hint of it. Not until Don returned. It must have been terrible to have his hopes dashed like that."

"Assuming that he did actually cherish such hopes."

"It slipped out once. Quite early on."

"I see. Did you ever give him any encouragement?"

"Not in so many words. But I was fond of him, in a way, and probably showed it. Just not in the way he wanted."

"Hmm. You're free now, of course."

"I don't want to be! What I want is Don back, as he was when I first knew him. And I can't have him."

"No, you never will and never could. You wouldn't have him like that in any case. People always change over the years, relationships change, maybe better, maybe worse, maybe just as good but in a very different way."

"You're the second person who's said that or something like it."

"All the more reason for believing it. Tell me, how long had you been married when he was kidnapped?"

"About eight months."

"Scarcely out of the honeymoon. There'd have been enormous changes over the next few years, even if he'd stayed with you. Look, do you mind if I speak plainly?"

"Please do. It may help."

"Right. Do you mean to go on moping for him all your life?"

"Phew! That's plain enough! It isn't how I'd put it, but I guess it's more or less how I feel."

"Yes, I dare say that's quite usual for young widows, if the marriage has been reasonably successful. Plenty of them seem to get over it, in time."

"It wasn't just yesterday, you know, when he died."

"Of course not. But some people take longer than others to realise that it isn't treason to enjoy another relationship. Even a very intimate one."

"That's how it seems to me."

"I suspect you may be letting his terrible end influence you too much."

"Maybe you're right there. But that isn't all. It doesn't seem fair to Mike, making him second best."

"Now there I think you're rationalising, not reasoning. He wouldn't be second best, because you didn't know him when you married Don. And you were years older by the time you did. You'd both have developed quite a lot in those years and would see things rather differently. If you could put the two men side by side now, the comparison might surprise you. And even if it didn't, coming second is better than losing out altogether, isn't it? Think about it."

"I shall."

"And now I think we'd better say good night."

"Yes. And even if I can't take it, thanks for your advice. There's one thing I do know ..."

"What's that?"

"I'm sure glad to have you as an uncle!"

The next day, stopping at Jenny Lake, she was again reminded of Mike and told Neil of his looking for the burial place there. He thought it might be interesting to see the spot, but she had no clear memory of the directions and knew that even with them it could be difficult to find.

"Do you know, something rather curious has just struck me about it."

"What's that?"

"Well, it's a story purely about Americans. Yet whenever I've talked about it, it's been to an Englishman."

"And you're half English yourself, it seems."

"Of course! It's something that just hadn't registered. I wonder if I ought to look further into that side of my ancestry."

"Are you interested in genealogy?"

"I haven't been, but then I never thought there was anything worth pursuing in mine. Being illegitimate knocks half of it out at a stroke, of course."

"Yes, and then coming across an unknown parent must add a touch of spice to it. 'Now gods stand up for bastards!'"

She was shocked: "What?"

"It's a quotation from King Lear - suddenly came to me. Thoroughly inappropriate, of course; sorry."

"No, don't worry. It wouldn't suit the PC brigade, but I rather like it - probably because of that."

She mentioned the unconventional arrangement by which she occasionally escorted tours to England, and wondered if that might offer opportunities for chasing up records. "I doubt it. People who do go in for it seem to take months finding a single pertinent fact among all the chaff, at any rate when they dig back more than two or three generations."

"Even getting that far might be interesting."

"Maybe. But aren't you putting the cart before the horse? You haven't even met your father yet, and he should surely come before you go back any further. Perhaps he could give you a start. When's the next trip of that sort likely to be?"

"Goodness knows. It's usually a last-minute arrangement when something's gone wrong."

"Then I'm surprised you'd leave it to such a chance." She was reluctant to admit that the fare would be more than she could afford to pay herself, but in her hesitation Neil sensed the difficulty and suggested that if it was inconvenient to spend so much time away from her work, Dennis would probably want to visit her. Before leaving her for his flight, he promised to prod his brother in that direction.

Back home he got the copy photograph printed and showed it to Joan, his wife, who agreed that the man next to Yvonne certainly looked like Dennis in his younger days, and that peculiar hat made it very unlikely that he was anyone else, but getting him to admit having slept with her might be difficult. "I'm not so sure as you seem to be about Molly's attitude. Yes, she wanted children, but hers and his not just his with someone else."

"It was well before they were married, I think before they even met."

"That may help, but I'm not sure it'd be all that much. We'd better go carefully."

Neil would not argue with that. "I'll see if we can somehow arrange to meet him apart from her."

However, when he called he was greeted with "What a coincidence! Molly was saying only the other day that it was too long since we got together. I should have rung you earlier; we'd like to hear about your trip to the States. Can you come for dinner next Thursday?"

Neil was taken aback for a moment, but could think of no reasonable objection on the spur of the moment; his diary was clear that day and he agreed. In any case the duplicate photograph would itself be an interesting talking point even without any mention of its implications.

The account of the tour was sufficiently covered during the meal itself, and Molly went to prepare coffee. Joan then guided the conversation towards old times. "Do you by any chance still have that photograph of a group posing in front of Sacré-Cœur, taken when you were in your early twenties ?"

"No, it was lost or discarded years ago. Rather a pity, really. Why do you ask?"

"Neil has a rather interesting tale about it."

"Shouldn't we wait and let Molly hear it?"

"It might be better not to, for the time being anyway. There are reasons."

"Now you've really got me intrigued. Go on, Neil"

"Well, it seems an incredible coincidence, but on my travels I came across what I thought might be another print of the same shot."

"Extraordinary! Where was that?"

"In a little town near Yellowstone. My guide has relatives there, it was on our route, so she asked if I'd mind calling in on our way. It seemed only sensible."

"Obviously, I'd say."

"Yes. They had a framed photograph that I thought looked familiar, and looking at it more closely I was convinced. I know it seems wildly improbable, and of course my recollection may be hopelessly inaccurate, but I'd very much like to see if I was right or not. I've brought along a copy; do you think you could tell from memory if it is in fact the same?"

Dennis looked carefully at it and a slow grin spread across his face. Neil thought it decidedly lecherous, but that might have been his own imagination. "My word, those were good times."

"So it is the same, then?"

"Yes, definitely. You're right, what an extraordinary coincidence."

Neil carefully primed his charge. "Can you by any chance remember the name of the girl next to you in the group? It looks as though she'd made quite an impression on you."

"She did, but sadly, no. What were the relatives called?"

"Hamilton."

Dennis mulled it over for a few seconds. "No, sorry, that doesn't ring any bells."

"No reason it should. Could the girl possibly have been Yvonne Lake?"

"Yvonne Lake ... Yvonne Lake ... Yes! I do believe it was. My word, that takes me back. She was something really special, and no mistake."

"Special enough to - er - economise on accommodation for the night?"

"Well, yes, several nights as it happened, but for goodness' sake don't tell Molly that. Actually Yvonne took a hell of a lot of persuading; it wasn't her style at all, she was rather Puritanical if anything - still a virgin, in fact."

"I didn't know you could be so persuasive."

"I wasn't always the timid hen-pecked husband, you know. In those days I thought myself quite a Casanova. I've come down with a bump since then; it's rather depressing. But why all this interest in Yvonne?"

"Just the small matter that the guide who took me round Yellowstone is her daughter. More to the point, she's evidently yours, too."

This revelation left Dennis stunned, and Molly returning with the coffee wondered what had hit him. Dennis feebly waved at Neil to explain. "Well, that is a surprise," was all her comment, which Neil thought a colossal understatement in the circumstances, especially considering the casual tone in which it was uttered.

"You seem to be taking it very calmly, Molly."

"Well, from various snippets that have come my way from time to time, I've long suspected that there might have been some dark secret in Dennis's past."

He was astonished; "You've never said anything about it."

"Better to keep my ears open. Actually, after some of the lurid possibilities that occurred to me, a mere illegitimate daughter comes as rather an anticlimax. In fact the only thing that really annoys me about it is that I've always supposed it was Dennis who couldn't have children, and now it seems it wasn't."

"Did you meet Yvonne herself?" Dennis wondered.

"I gathered she died years ago." It would have been tactless to mention the cause.

Molly was more interested to know what Josie herself was like.

"I thought her charming. A credit to you, Dennis."

"Probably more nurture than nature," Molly remarked a little sharply. "Is she married?" she added as an afterthought.

"She was, but her husband was killed in an accident two or three years ago. I happened to be with him at the time, and that was the reason for my recent visits to the States - or rather, what we were discussing was the reason."

"Any children?"

"No." A pity, Molly thought. Even step-grandchildren would be better than none. But then, if the girl really was as attractive as Neil seemed to think ... "Neil, do you have a photograph of her?"

"There should be one or two in the camera. I haven't got round to checking."

"Well, will you let us have prints if there are?"

"Of course."

Then another thought struck her. "Dennis, we must invite her over," she commanded.

"What? Oh, yes, my dear."

Neil explained that there seemed to be some obstacle: "I'm not sure whether it's pressure of work, the cost of the fare or some other reason, but she didn't seem particularly eager to make such a visit."

"She's probably worried about the reception she might get from a step-mother," Molly suggested, and Neil agreed perhaps a shade too readily that that might be true. She glared at him. "As for the fare, we can pay it, can't we, Dennis?"

"I suppose so."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic!"

"Sorry, dear, I still can't get used to the idea."

"Of booking a flight?"

"No, don't be silly. Of having a daughter after all these years."

Neil pointed out that it didn't have to be Josie making the journey; Dennis, with or without Molly, could visit her. "All very well for you, Neil. You get your fare paid, and I dare say it's business class. For us it would mean either spending a fortune or going all that way in a peculiarly fiendish form of torture."

"Isn't it worth a fortune?" Molly demanded.

"Well, if absolutely necessary, I suppose."

"Come on, she's your daughter, not mine. I shouldn't be having to nag you into it." To put an end to this line of argument, Neil offered to tell Josie that she would be very welcome to come if the opportunity were to arise before her now more-than-putative father was in a position to visit her. That was how the matter rested.

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## Chapter 11. Confluence

The firm for which Josie sometimes escorted European tours had linked up with Dennison's, in which Mike Crampton had an interest, so it was natural to use one of his coaches for the British section, and in view of their known friendship to put her in charge of it when she could be spared from her usual job. This had happened four times, and on three of them she was able to let him know and arrange to share a meal at one or other of the night stops. On the second occasion Terry Hankins had been the driver, they got on particularly well, and afterwards Mike tried to put them together whenever possible.

The next time she was in England after the discovery of her parentage, at the first opportunity she asked about Mike. "He's well, thank you, and pretty busy, but he asked me to say that he can probably get away for dinner with you if you can spare the time."

"Good. I think I can do that." She snatched a moment to call Mike and tell him so, apologising for having time for only a few words just then.

"No need; I quite understand."

He arrived with a box of the English chocolates to which she had taken a particular fancy, and over the meal she told him her news. The big story was naturally of how the question of her father's identity had been resolved. "I hadn't realised that there was a question, but what a turn-up for the book! Meeting his brother and discovering the connection like that; I wonder what are the statistical chances?"

"Many millions to one against, I imagine."

"How did you get on with him?"

"Fine. It was very kind of him to go out of his way, quite unprompted, to tell me about meeting Donald and being with him at the time of the accident. Sal and Bill liked him, too."

"That's certainly a good recommendation."

"By the way, he was interested in the Garstein story, and would have liked to see the place where he was buried, but you'd said it was tricky to find and I couldn't be sure of remembering the detailed directions."

"Perhaps there'll be another opportunity. But his brother's the important one. Let's hope he proves equally amiable. I gather you haven't met him yet."

"There hasn't been a chance. I couldn't fit it into one of these tours."

"Might it be possible to get an extension on your stay for some family business?"

"It's not a thing I could ask. Part of my job is to see everyone through flight transfers, and I have to stay with them over the whole trip."

"So it means a special visit, either you to him or by him to you."

"That's right. Actually, I'm not quite sure how I stand there. Neil e-mailed me to say he'd explained the situation and that I'd be welcome, and it was reasonable enough for him to pass the message in the first instance as he was the one I knew, but I'd have expected his brother to follow it up personally straight away. I can't help feeling that for some reason he isn't too keen."

"Do you really want to meet him, eventually?"

"Of course, just as a matter of curiosity. I can't pretend any sense of family there. It's simply a fact, like the square on the hypotenuse and all that."

"There couldn't be any more, in the circumstances. Hmm. I wonder ..."

"What?"

"Would it help if I had a word with Neil and asked if he knew what the problem might be? If it's hurtful in some way he might be more willing to tell me than explain it to you directly."

"I'm not sure. But it's worth trying, if you wouldn't mind."

"Of course I wouldn't."

It was a few days before he could make that call. He then introduced himself as a friend of Josie, who had told him about the discovery of her parentage. "Not by any chance the friend who escorted her to Vienna?"

"Why, yes, as it happens."

"I thought you must be. She spoke of you in glowing terms."

"Well, I've been glad to help when I could. Anyway, I met her the other day while she was leading a tour over here and we discussed the possibility of her visiting her father. She had your message that she'd be welcome, but was surprised that none had come from him directly and felt it suggested that he was rather reluctant. Do you mind my asking if you know what the position really is?"

"I don't mind in the least. I'm just as puzzled myself. I was quite sure that Dennis and Molly would be delighted to find they had a daughter, or in her case a step daughter, and if there were any difficulty it would be on Molly's part, but she seems as keen as mustard to meet Josie."

"Very odd. I'd thought it might be the wife taking umbrage for one reason or another."

"Quite the opposite. I must admit I was staggered by Dennis's reluctance to get in touch."

"So there is a real reluctance, then. I'd wondered if it was a false impression."

"If so, then I share it."

"Is he perhaps questioning his paternity? That's the usual reaction, I believe - not that I've any personal experience!"

"Not at all. He accepted it immediately - no call for even the simplest medical tests, and I'd have said if anything he was rather pleased. I gave him a photo of Josie and he saw enough resemblance to our mother to satisfy him. I can't say I'd noticed it myself, but that's immaterial."

"So it's a complete mystery, then."

"Almost complete. There's just one possibility that occurs to me - please don't let this go any further, I shouldn't really be telling tales out of school - but I've lately had an impression that he's getting a bit tight-fisted in his old age. He demurred at the cost of visiting Josie in the States, and I'd have thought he could afford it easily enough. He keeps complaining about the effect of inflation on his provision for old age, too, but then we all do that - people of my generation, I mean. I can't help wondering if he's afraid she'll make some claim on his pocket."

"Now that would make some sense. Not that I think she's likely to do anything of the sort; she isn't the grasping kind. But as we don't know what's really behind the difficulty, do you think it best to hang fire until the situation becomes clearer?"

"I think maybe it would be wise. But I'm glad we've had this talk. Let me know of any developments, and I'll come back to you if I find out anything more."

Josie had given Mike her itinerary and hotel telephone numbers, but she was not immediately available when he rang so he left a message for her to call when convenient. When she did so he told her simply that he had talked to Neil, who had noticed there did seem to be some problem with Dennis but didn't know what it was, and they thought it was probably best to wait a while rather than force the issue. "Fair enough. It's bound to have been a shock for him. Can you imagine being told you had an adult daughter you'd never known existed?"

"I'm not sure that I can, but I see what you mean. Should I take it that you don't have any doubts about being his daughter?"

"I suppose we ought to have medical tests, but if he's satisfied there doesn't seem much point."

"I gathered from Neil that he accepts you without question."

"There's no point in losing any sleep over it, then. Now while we're on, there's another favour I'd like to ask you."

"What's that?"

"I'd rather not talk about it on the phone, but it would probably take a whole day some time when you're in Ashton or that area. Is that likely to be fairly soon?"

"As it happens, yes. The attorney who deals with my property there has come up with something that he says needs my personal attention, and he isn't one to pass the buck so I trust his judgement on that."

"Is it something to do with Garstein's house, or shouldn't I ask?"

"It is, though I've no idea what the particular problem may be, supposing it really is a problem. The Carters tend to fuss about next to nothing."

"You know I've heard so much about that house and what's happened about it; I'd love to see what it's actually like."

"Well, why not? I dare say that can be arranged. Weinberg said the business would take about half a day, but that would include a couple of hours travelling so it can't be much in itself. There's something that Dennison wants to discuss with me as well, apparently involving someone else, so I'll try to fit that in first. He says it shouldn't take long.. Then I'll drive up to Ashton to see the Carters."

"Why not stay overnight with Sal and Bill? That would save a double journey or another hotel stop."

"Are you sure that'd be all right with them?"

"Perfectly. They've often said you should do that when you're seeing the Carters."

"Better make sure this particular time is OK."

"Right. I'm due for a couple of weeks' leave in September, the tenth to the twenty-first; will a slot in there suit you?"

"I'll check and confirm."

When they met for dinner she assured him that the Hamiltons would be delighted to have him stay with them, for several more than the one or two nights if he could manage it, and he promised to look into the possibility of taking a short break. Terry Haskins, when consulted, was quite content to hold the fort for a week or so, so Mike felt he could do that.

He was getting almost blasé about transatlantic flights, although he still found the jet lag rather troublesome. It was not enough west-bound to interfere with his business, however. The meeting with Dennison was fixed for half past ten as it involved someone from Pocatello who had to check something in his office first, so Mike arranged to call first on Weinberg who apologised for having to involve Mike in a matter that was scarcely worth his attention at all. "It's the Carters and their super-conscientiousness."

"I thought as much. What's the substance of it?"

"It all stems from Iris having fallen and broken her ankle, with some complications. She was in hospital for about a week, and to make things easier for her when she came out, Joel made some minor structural additions to the house. He told me about them, and I got the agent to look them over. He's perfectly satisfied, but when Iris saw what had been done, she was furious."

"What on earth for?"

"She said he shouldn't have done anything of the sort without permission. Strictly true, of course, but when she told me about it I assured her that you would have no objection at all; I hope that was right."

"Absolutely. As far as I'm concerned they can improve it in any way they like. They're the ones living there."

"That's how I understood it. Unfortunately, even that didn't satisfy her, and she had to have your personal approval. I pointed out that she could hardly expect you to come five thousand miles or whatever it is just to ease her mind, and at least she saw the sense in that, but insisted that if you were coming anyway you should go and see what had been done. Nothing I could say would shift her from that."

"Don't worry, there's no problem. I'm going that way in any case. I've friends to visit in the town, and I'd like to see the Carters again. I've neglected them for too long."

The business with Dennison took a little longer. He introduced Mike to a proposed additional partner, Erwin Shaw, who presented his ideas for developing the business. They seemed soundly based, and he had satisfactory answers to Mike's few questions. Since they chiefly affected the American side of it and as far as Mike could see would make no difficulties for his, he was quite happy for Dennison and Shaw to arrange the details between themselves. Wishing them luck, he set off for Ashton.

Iris Carter greeted him warmly and apologised for putting him to so much trouble. "Everyone says I shouldn't have bothered you, but I was so worried when I saw what Joel had done that I couldn't sleep."

"Really, Iris, you worry too much. Mr. Morgan was quite happy with it, I gather."

"I know, people tell me I shouldn't fret so, but I can't help it. I've tried, I've really tried, but it only seems to make matters worse."

Mike thought of suggesting to Joel that some kind of treatment might ease her hypersensitive conscience, but instantly dismissed the idea in view of the likely response: "See a shrink, you mean? Not in ten million years!"

Joel's alteration to the house amounted to an extended porch with steps up to it on one side and a ramp for a wheelchair on the other, just in case of need. To Mike it seemed well conceived and soundly constructed, and in Iris's presence he congratulated Joel on his forethought and handiwork. With their anxieties soothed on that score, he suggested that in case a similar situation should arise in the future, he could provide them with a formal written authorisation to do whatever they liked.

"If you don't mind my saying so," Iris objected, "I think that's going too far. We might make some silly mistake and burn the place down."

"Hardly likely, but I see your point. Well, then, how about this? Any time you're planning an alteration you think big enough to warrant it, you prepare a detailed sketch and description and get Mr. Morgan to approve or modify it. Would that keep you happy?"

"I'd rather you saw it yourself."

"Then he can fax me a copy. Mr. Weinberg has the number." He thought it paradoxical that it was she who insisted on limiting their discretion, but if that was the way she wanted it, why should he complain?

It was agreed that he would draft the document and bring it for them all to sign the following morning. "By the way, I've a friend who's heard quite a lot about the house and the story behind it; and would very much like to see it; would you mind her coming with me tomorrow?"

"Not at all, we'd be delighted, and perhaps you could both stay for lunch?"

"That's very kind of you, Iris, but we've a long day ahead and I'm afraid it wouldn't be convenient."

"Another time, then perhaps?"

"We'll see how things go.".

They left it at that and he headed back into the town. Approaching the Hamiltons' place he wondered whether he would again find Bill splitting logs, as on the two previous occasions, but evidently it was not his sole occupation around the house. Both he and Sal had a warm welcome for him but Josie hadn't arrived yet, and Mike asked Sal if she knew what it was that needed his help. "I know it means going north again and will probably take all day, but beyond that I've no idea."

He told them about the odd behaviour of Josie's father and the conclusion he had reached with Neil about it, and they too thought it best not to push the matter too hard, at any rate until the reason for his reluctance became clearer. The news must after all have been a severe shock to Dennis, however well it might turn out in time.

"As a matter of interest, Sal, what did you make of Neil? I've only spoken to him on the phone, but he seemed a sensible type."

"We didn't see all that much of him, but he seemed thoroughly agreeable. Josie was with him a lot more - she showed him round the National Parks, you know - and was impressed. They'd talked quite seriously and he'd given her advice that she thought very well worth considering. 'A good uncle to have,' she said."

"What sort of advice?"

"She didn't say, just that it was on a difficult personal matter. It's left me wondering myself. She'd usually come to me with anything like that."

"Are you getting jealous?" asked Bill.

"No, of course not. Just surprised."

Mike was not so sure, but suggested that perhaps it was a matter on which a fresh viewpoint might be helpful. To get on to safer ground he offered his sympathy for the trouble and anxiety they must have suffered, first over Don's kidnap, and then after his release over his treatment of Josie. "I suppose it all goes back to his ordeal, being kidnapped and so on."

"Hmph!" sniffed Bill. "I don't know that it was so much of an ordeal By his own account he was given everything he wanted, bar freedom - books, films, music - women, too, I dare say, if he hadn't been such a prude. Judging by the amount of weight he'd put on he hadn't done too badly on the food, either. There are millions in this country who'd have jumped at a chance to change places with him if they'd known."

"Give me liberty or give me death," quoted Mike ironically.

Bill snorted. "You only get that from people who already have all the material comforts they want."

Josie arrived soon afterwards and explained her ideas: she would like to see the place near Jenny Lake where the clue to Donald's kidnappers had been found, but would need his help to find it. "There's something else, too. You'll probably think it's ridiculous ..."

"I can't imagine any idea of yours being ridiculous."

"Wait till you hear it. I've been thinking of Garstein and his family having their ashes buried there. It sounds a lovely place, and ever since Don's death I've been thinking I'd like to put his there, too. Do you think it would be allowed?"

"I don't know that the question arises. It seems that no one ever asked permission; they just went ahead and did it. No one seems to mind, either. In fact the plaque on the pillar seems to suggest a positive welcome."

"Yes, but the four there already are a family group."

"Whoever put up the plaque didn't know that. 'Four unknown persons,' it reads. I can't see one more causing any offence. Anyway, they may not be the only ones."

"You mean there may be others not specially marked?"

"Well, that is a possibility, but I was thinking of another more specific."

He told her of his visit to Madge Robertson, taking her to see the place of Garstein's burial, and her wish to join him after her own death. "It was four years ago, and she didn't expect to live long after that, so she may be there already - that is if she followed my suggestion of putting the request in her will, the directions are clear enough, and anyone has bothered to act on them."

"Is that likely, do you think?"

"I don't know. They're three very big ifs, especially the last, and I got the impression that people didn't generally go out of their way to meet her wishes. I hope they would, though, in this case; Harry Weinberg said she'd had a sad life, and it would be nice to think that something went right for her in the end."

Mike asked if Bill had a mattock that they could borrow. He hadn't, but produced a sturdy long-handled trowel that he thought would serve; Mike's recollection of digging in the glade was that it should be good enough.

Next day they first had to call on the Carters, which as Mike said involved only a slight detour from the main road but might mean a considerable delay. He was a little alarmed to see that despite his comments the previous day, Iris had prepared a spread of cakes and cookies that still looked formidable though modest by her previous standards, but he said nothing and resolved to make respectable inroads into them. Having been told what to expect, Josie had limited her breakfast to a glass of orange juice so as not to disappoint Iris unduly. At the introduction Mike was amused to notice significant glances between the Carters; all right, if that was what they were thinking, he'd had similar thoughts himself.

It was therefore no surprise when Iris asked about Josie, "Is this the young lady who wanted a ride north, it must have been seven or eight years back, when Mrs. Hamilton asked whether you were a trustworthy person to take her?"

"Yes, and thank you very much her for giving me a good character reference. You've probably gathered that I enjoyed her company on that trip."

He then produced the document they had discussed, it was duly signed and Josie witnessed the signatures, to Iris's evident relief. Then of course she had to show Josie round the house, proudly pointing out all the little touches that she and Joel had added since Mr. Crampton had so kindly allowed them to use it.

"You wouldn't believe how good he's been to us," she said.

"Actually, I would. He's been extraordinarily kind to me, too."

He was a little embarrassed. "It's been my good fortune. And all through a silly mistake on my part."

He explained his confusion over Jenny Lake, which the Carters thought very amusing, although Iris soon became quite serious. "Providence, that's what it was," she declared forthrightly. "Providence. You two were obviously meant for - hmm - to meet each other."

Almost as a follow-up, when the opportunity offered, Joel rather diffidently asked Mike - although of course it was a personal matter and none of his business - whether there were any developments in view between him and Josie. "Nothing at present, although there's no telling about the future." Then he realised why Joel had seemed a shade apprehensive, and reassured him that whatever happened, nothing at all was likely to affect the arrangement they had about the house.

Getting away from them took some time. "It's ages since we've seen you, and it's such a pity you can't stay longer. For goodness' sake don't leave it so long until the next time." However, Mike eventually pointed out that they had a long way to go and must get on. Joel gave him a sly wink and a thumbs-up as they left.

On the way Mike remarked that a few weeks earlier he had come across a bunch of papers, overlooked for years, and among them were Forster's original notes to his heirs including the drawing of the marker stump by Jenny Lake, so he had been able to fax them to Weinberg to help with Madge's request. "I think they ought to be preserved more securely, but I can't think how."

"Perhaps you should put them in with an account of all that followed. It would be quite a story."

"That's an idea - if ever I get round to writing it."

"I'll nag you until you do."

It was said with a touch of humour, and Mike was pleased to find something of the old Josie returning. They had a good run up to West Yellowstone where Josie collected the urn from her apartment, then they headed off through the National Park and beyond towards Jenny Lake. Evening was approaching, but the sun still shone, bringing out the glory of the fall colours. By the time they reached the viewing point it was less than ten degrees above the Tetons. There was some high cloud, and there would probably be a splendid sunset on the other side of the mountains, but by then the east would be in deep shadow, and Mike was concerned about finding the way if darkness should fall. He did have a little difficulty in identifying the right path through the trees, since as on previous occasions the vegetation had changed since the last visit.

Approaching the clearing, they were puzzled by a curious sound, a combination of a scrape and a sharp click, repeated at intervals of about half a second in bursts of half a dozen or so. It proved to come from an elderly woman's clipping the grass around the little pillar in the centre. Something about her seemed familiar, and when she stood up he realised why. After her first surprise she asked had she not seen him before? In fact, had he not been with the army party that had been digging there for something six years back?

"My word, you've got a good memory."

"It stuck in my mind because someone said that a life depended on it."

"That's right, and thanks to what we found, a life was saved." There was no need to go into the rest of the story.

"If you don't mind my asking, what brings you back this time?"

"Oh, this is Josie Harris. She's been widowed, and would like to bury her husband's ashes here, if there's no objection."

"No objection at all, dear. Anyone's welcome, so long as it's done respectfully. But I'm very sorry for your loss. If you'll tell me his name I'll get our Jack to carve a little stone for it."

"We really don't want to put him all that trouble."

"Oh, it's no trouble, he'll love doing it. Keep him out of mischief for a little while, anyway. He needs something to occupy him since he retired last May. It's a pity we don't know who's in the other spots."

"I can give you one name - Jacob Garstein. The others are his wife and two of her relatives, but I don't know who is under which stone. If another turns up unexpectedly, it'll probably be Margaret Robertson."."

"Well, that's something to go on. If you don't mind my asking, how do you come to know it?"

"It's a long story. Briefly, it was in notes left by the friend of Garstein from whom I inherited some property. Josie here suggested I ought to write it up, and she's probably right. If you'll give me your address I'll send you a copy - assuming I ever get round to doing the job."

"That's very kind. As for your own - just leave a marker on the spot. I'll be back tomorrow, but the stone will take a good deal longer - I hope!"

"It's really very good of you, Mrs ...?"

"Scattergood, Audrey Scattergood."

"Well, you've obviously been scattering a fair amount of good here."

She beamed, and then thought of something else: "Have you seen that nice Captain Martin lately?"

He was afraid not, but saw no reason to elaborate, promising to pass on her good wishes if the opportunity arose. The promise was safe enough as the likelihood meeting either of them again was negligible. She wrote her name and address on a "notes" page of his diary, then begged a blank page for the names he had given her.

"Well, I can't do any more tonight. I was thinking of trimming back some of the branches around the edge, but they look a bit tougher than I remembered and it's scarcely worth starting this evening. I'll be off now."

"Good night, and thank you."

The hole was quickly dug, Josie placed the urn and Mike smoothed out the earth above it. She stood quietly for a moment, shedding a few quiet tears, then her composure collapsed completely. She sank on to the seat, rested her head on her hands and wept unrestrainedly. Into that flood went the delights, hopes and fears of courtship, the bliss of early married life, the horror of Don's kidnap, the years of longing and anxiety during his captivity, the joy of reunion and the despair of his descent into brutal alcoholism.

Mike sat silently beside her, waiting for the storm to pass. It subsided into scattered sobs, she kept her head bowed but dropped her hands to her lap. He rested one of his on hers, and she made no objection but held it lightly. When she fished unsuccessfully for a tissue, he offered a handkerchief and she accepted it. Then she straightened up, looked up at the sky, took several deep breaths, closed her eyes and relaxed. Perhaps half a minute passed in silence. Then she turned to him, very quietly.

"Mike, do you remember, that time at Blenheim, when I asked if you were going to make a habit of getting me out of holes?"

"Yes, very well."

"And you said, if I'd let you. You've done it anyway, and I can't begin to thank you enough.

"There's no need. I've been glad to help."

"I know, and I've come to rely on it more than I realised. I'd trust you for anything. It's more than trust, too. I've kept you waiting a dreadfully long time, but at last, if you'll still have me, I'm ready."

###

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## About the author.

Peter Wilson is a retired industrial chemist living in Seascale, on the Cumbrian coast near the north-west corner of England.

A short biography and more of his writing (short stories, plays and film scripts) may be found with contact details at his web site

http://www.peterwilson-seascale.me.uk

