by Justin Go
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For my mother and father
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said the other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. . . .”
—Wilfred Owen, “Strange Meeting”
THE FORTUNE
The letter came by courier last week.
I knew when I touched the envelope that it was fine stationery. I knew from the paper, the porous surface of pure cotton rag; the watermark that shone through as I held it to the light. The letter is in my bag in the overhead compartment, but I imagine the cream fibers, the feel of the engraved letterhead. Twyning & Hooper, Solicitors, 11 Bedford Row, London.
The courier knocked at my door, the letter and a clipboard in his hands. He asked for my name.
—It’s a special service, he explained. The sender requested we check ID.
I showed the courier my driver’s license and signed the delivery bill. He set the letter in my hands. On my kitchen counter I pulled the plastic zipper of the express envelope. Inside there was a smaller envelope of cream bond stock.
I read the letter standing over the sink.
Dear Mr Campbell,
I am trustee of an estate of which a substantial portion remains to be distributed. Information has recently come to light that suggests a significant connection between you and the named beneficiary. As we could find no current telephone number for you, we have despatched this letter to your listed home address in the hope of making urgent contact.
I cannot stress enough that the proper resolution of this matter is our utmost concern. Accordingly, I would be most grateful if you could telephone me at your earliest convenience, reverse charge, using the direct-dial number listed above.
For your own benefit, please retain this matter in the strictest confidence until we have had the opportunity to speak.
Yours sincerely,
JF Prichard
Solicitor – Private Client
For and on behalf of Twyning & Hooper LLP
I walked four blocks down Valencia Street to reach a pay phone. Part of the plastic receiver had been smashed off, but when I put it to my ear I heard a dial tone. Three collect-call operators transferred me before I got through to England.
The law firm’s secretary answered. She said Mr. Prichard was away from his desk, but I could speak to a Mr. Geoffrey Khan. Khan sounded breathless when he came on the line.
—So you do exist. My God. James will be delighted, I expect he’ll be retrieved immediately. Listen—in case our connection is severed, could you give me your current phone number? We had enough trouble just finding your address—
—I don’t have a phone right now.
—I see. Well stay on the line, James will be with you momentarily. Tell me, did your grandmother—
Another voice came on to the telephone. The second man sounded older. He enunciated his words with a strange precision.
—James Prichard here. Geoffrey, I can take over.
Khan excused himself and his line clicked silent.
—Mr. Campbell, Prichard said, I’d first like to thank you for calling. If you’ll pardon me, so that we may verify we’re speaking to the correct individual—just in case we’ve blundered—could I trouble you to answer a few simple questions?
I pushed a steel button on the pay phone to increase the volume.
—Sure.
—Splendid. I should add that obviously we are not connected with any official enquiry, and you are not required to speak to us, though it may be in your interest to do so. Naturally, any information you give us will be used only for the resolution of the case, and will be kept in the strictest confidence. Would you mind telling me your mother’s full name?
—Elizabeth Marie Campbell.
—And her maiden name?
—Martel.
—Her place of birth?
—San Francisco.
—Thank you. And your grandmother’s name?
I hesitate. —It was Charlotte Grafton. I don’t know if she had a middle name—
—That’s all right. Do you know her place of birth?
—Somewhere in England.
—Indeed. Thank you for answering my questions. If I may, I’d like to explain briefly why we’re making all this fuss. Nearly eighty years ago, this firm was engaged to draft a rather singular will. Our client passed away not long after the will was completed. Remarkably, the client’s estate was never claimed by the principal beneficiary. What is doubly remarkable is that the will set up a trust explicitly required to retain its assets until they could be distributed to this beneficiary, or their direct heir. For a host of reasons, this distribution has never been possible.
Prichard paused. Faintly I heard a woman’s voice in the background. Prichard muffled the receiver and replied to her.
—Pardon me, Prichard said. I was recently shown a document that suggests you may be related to this beneficiary. I don’t wish to give you false hope, but we’ve been waiting a long time to fulfill our client’s wishes, and this is the first substantial lead we’ve had in decades. I must emphasize that all this be kept in confidence, for your sake as much as ours. Unwanted attention could be a hindrance to any potential claim of yours.
I told Prichard I understood.
—I do realize, he continued, that this is a lot to digest at once, coming as it does from the other side of the Atlantic. So by all means make enquiries about our firm, look us up. May I ask you something else? Would you happen to know if your family’s vital records are extant? That is, do they survive, and do you have access to them?
—I’m not sure.
—I mean in particular not only your birth certificate and the like, but also your mother’s papers and most especially any papers relating to your grandmother.
—I doubt it, but I could look. I don’t think we have anything from my grandmother.
—I’d be grateful if you could have a look. Geoffrey shall give you a list of the kind of documents we’re interested in.
A fire truck rumbled down the street behind me, the siren’s whine shifting pitch as it went by.
—Quite a bedlam, Prichard said. Are you outside?
—I’m at a pay phone.
—Ah, Prichard sighed. No wonder Geoffrey couldn’t find your number. Well there’s a final thing I wished to mention. I certainly don’t need an answer now, but I wonder if you might be able to visit London in the near future, at our expense? This case is rather time-sensitive, and much would be expedited by your presence here.
—I don’t know. I might be able to go.
—I’d be pleased to see you here. I understand you’re a university student?
—I just graduated.
—My congratulations. Then perhaps you can delay your entry into the working world long enough for a jaunt to England?
—Maybe—
—Consider it. I shall give you back to Geoffrey to discuss some administrative matters, including our confidentiality policy and the prospect of your journey. He’s your man for all the details. Feel free to
contact either of us should you ever need to, of course, but you’ll find he’s more easily reached.
Prichard drew a breath. It was a moment before he spoke.
—Mr. Campbell, I must advise you not to discuss this matter with your family until you’ve closely examined your feelings. I do not encourage deception, but if you are party to any portion of this estate, it is through your mother’s family, and as such would be yours undivided. Neither your father nor your stepmother nor stepsiblings have any possible claim. Thus I advise the utmost discretion.
—I understand.
—I’ll put Geoffrey on now. I shall be forward enough to hope that the next time we speak it shall be in London.
That call was four days ago. They had been long days and it felt good to finally get on the plane this morning. I’ve never flown business class before. All through the flight the stewardesses offer me food and champagne and coffee, until the cabin lights are switched off and everyone pulls back their seat. For an hour I lie wide awake under a blanket. Then I turn on my reading lamp and take out my notebook.
Aug 15
BA Flight SF–London
Barely slept last night. But I still can’t sleep on the plane. After all those plans, always waiting for the right moment—suddenly something happens and I’m on a plane to London. Because I didn’t have a choice, I just had to go or stay. That’s a good lesson.
Tomorrow I meet the lawyers. I couldn’t find anything worth showing them, but they wanted me to come anyway. Why?
It doesn’t matter. In four hours I’ll be in London. That’s all I know and that’s plenty.
I shut the notebook and lean my head against the cold windowpane.
I wake to a pink sunset streaming through the double glass. Crystals of ice gather on the rim of the outer windowpane, drops of dew carried from California and frozen hard in the thin air. In a break between the cumulus clouds below, a jagged black coastline appears, then terrain of the deepest green. A vast blue-white glacier drops to the sea. Iceland. I’m at the gates of Europe.
Before I left I asked Geoffrey Khan one question.
—Why would anyone leave money to someone who’d never bother to collect it?
Khan sighed. —Even if I knew the answer, I couldn’t tell you. Information about our client can be given only at the trustee’s discretion. You can ask James when you arrive, but I can’t guarantee he’ll be able to say.
—I understand.
—However. If I may say something so obvious as not to be a breach of confidentiality—
—Please.
—This was 1924. And these were not people like you and me.
BOOK ONE
ALBION
Son of the goddess, let us follow wherever the fates draw us or draw us back. Whatever may be, every fortune must be mastered through endurance.
—Virgil, The Aeneid, V. 709–10
THE SOLICITORS
Gentle rain falls from a colorless London sky. I thread my way through the sidewalk crowds on High Holborn, checking the street signs against the map in my hand. Kingsway. Procter Street. Rainwater gathers in dark puddles, reflecting the white delivery vans, the jet-black cabs and candy-red buses.
I turn left and follow Sandland Street to Bedford Row, a line of four-story terraced Georgian houses with brick facades. Beside the entrance to number 11 there is a brass plaque: TWYNING & HOOPER, SOLICITORS. I push a button on the intercom, feeling dazed and shaky. At breakfast I had two cups of coffee, but they didn’t help much. I look up at the security camera. The white columns of the doorway have Ionic capitals.
—Good morning. How can I help you?
—I’m Tristan Campbell. I have an appointment with James Prichard—
The receptionist buzzes me in. She takes my jacket and leads me into a waiting room with a tufted leather couch.
—I’ll get Geoffrey right away.
A few minutes later she comes back carrying a tray with a porcelain tea service. The tea scalds my tongue, so I stir in more milk. I look up and see the receptionist watching me from behind her desk. Our eyes meet and she smiles. Absently I page through a copy of the Financial Times from the coffee table. I finish the tea and flip over the cup. SPODE COPELAND’S CHINA ENGLAND.
—Mr. Campbell. A pleasure to meet you at last.
Khan approaches with a quick stride and shakes my hand. He wears a slim-fitting suit of dark navy. His brogues are buffed to an impressive shine.
—Shall we go and meet James?
Khan leads me up a tall wooden staircase. Above us are vast murals on the walls and ceiling: a king on horseback heralded by angels; young Britannia with her shield and trident, receiving the tributes of the world.
Two young men in neckties come down the stairs, maroon folders tucked beneath their arms. They nod solemnly as we pass. I look down at my thrift-store clothes, a wrinkled dress shirt and a pair of old slacks.
—I feel underdressed.
Khan smiles. —Not at all. You’re the client. We’re the solicitors.
We walk down a corridor to a pair of French doors. Khan pauses here, lowering his voice.
—A word before we go in. Naturally you can address him as James, he doesn’t stand on formality. But I might suggest you answer any questions—
Khan hesitates.
—As directly as you can. I can say from personal experience that vagueness goes nowhere with James. He sees right through it. Be as blunt as you can with him and he’ll be honest with you in turn. How does that strike you?
—Great.
Khan smiles warmly. He knocks on the door and ushers me in. The office is large but spartan. A table with carved lion’s feet, its surface covered with paper stacked in neat piles. A leather couch and club chairs. An immense Persian rug. Prichard stands behind the table, a sheet of paper lifted intently before his face. He is silver-haired and wears a tie and waistcoat over a French-cuffed shirt. He raises a hand to us, then paces between the window and the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the page. Prichard signs the sheet over his desk and calls in a secretary to collect it. He turns, beaming.
—If you can fill the unforgiving minute, Prichard quotes, with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—
He extends his hand. —James Prichard. Sorry to have kept you waiting. I suppose London weather is living up to your expectations?
Prichard gestures to one of the chairs; he and Khan sit on the couch opposite. They cross their legs in the same direction. Framed photographs hang on the wall behind them. Above Khan’s shoulder there is a black-and-white picture of a group of men in three-piece suits gathered stiffly around a bald man with a white mustache. The bald man’s head is tilted slightly to the camera and he holds a pipe in his hand.
—Is that Clement Attlee?
Prichard looks at me.
—That’s right. He was a client of ours.
I point at a tall, fair-haired young man in the photograph.
—And that’s you?
Prichard nods, but he doesn’t turn toward the picture.
—I did very little work on Mr. Attlee’s estate. It was handled by the most senior solicitors, but they let me sit in on a few meetings for posterity’s sake.
Prichard pauses. —At any rate, how was your journey? Don’t be put off London on account of Heathrow. Or British Airways, for that matter. Our charms are elsewhere. What hotel have they put you in?
—Brown’s.
—Splendid. Seen much of London yet?
—I got here last night.
—Well, have a look around before you go. The Tower. Regent’s Park. The British Museum.
Prichard looks at Khan.
—The confidentiality agreement, Khan prompts.
—Of course, Prichard says. You’ve read it carefully?
—Yes.
—And Geoffrey tells me you’re without your own representation?
—Yes.
Prichard nods. —As I’m sure you noticed, the agreement forbids revealing details of the case to
any outside party, which makes advisors rather pointless anyway. Will you sign the agreement now? Without it I should not be able to tell you the details of the case.
Khan puts the thick document on the coffee table before us and offers his fountain pen. I flip to the signature page at the back and scratch out a misshapen signature. Khan calls in a young woman to notarize the document.
—Everything said henceforth, Prichard warns, is strictly confidential. Geoffrey, I can take over from here.
Khan walks out with the young woman, closing the door behind him. Prichard watches me for a moment, as if waiting for me to speak first. He smiles faintly.
—This is quite a long shot, but are you familiar with the Mount Everest expeditions of the 1920s?
—Expeditions?
—You’re forgiven. Geoffrey told me you were a history student, but it’s hardly the kind of thing one studies at university these days. Shall we move to the desk? I’m afraid I’ll need my notes to explain all this.
Prichard pulls out a chair for me in front of his desk and sits opposite. He shuffles among stacks of documents, some of them typewritten, others written in longhand on unlined paper.
—I’ve been brushing up on the case all week—I warn you, it’s quite a headache. I’ll endeavor not to bog you down with details, but it’s essential that you understand the ‘problem’ of the Walsingham estate, and the sooner you grasp the problem, the better, for our time is limited. Most of what I’ll tell you was recorded by Peter Twyning, the estate’s executor. Fortunately he took meticulous notes. The case was a headache from the moment Twyning took it on. And he knew it.
Prichard unfolds a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses and puts them on. He examines the page before him.
—Our client was a man called Ashley Walsingham. At the age of seventeen, Walsingham inherited a substantial estate from his great-uncle George Risley, the founder of a very profitable shipping line. This was 1913. Risley was childless, and as Walsingham’s own father was dead, Risley looked upon Ashley as his grandson. When Risley died, Ashley inherited the majority of his estate. Peter Twyning managed the Risley estate and would later become executor of Walsingham’s fortune.
