Garstein's Legacy

  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 lo
cal 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 h
ere. 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 t
han 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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