by Justin Go
—Ashley went up to Magdalene College, Cambridge, in the Michaelmas term of 1914. Rather bad timing, wouldn’t you say? The war began that August and Ashley duly applied for a commission in the army. By the summer of 1916 he was about to be sent to France. In his last week in England he met a woman called Imogen Soames-Andersson.
Prichard looks up at me. —Does that name mean anything to you?
—No.
—A pity. I’d hoped it might. You see, Imogen was the sister of your great-grandmother Eleanor.
I shake my head. —I’ve never heard of them. Soames—
—Soames-Andersson. Anglo-Swedish—an unusual family. Twyning left pages of notes on the Soames-Anderssons alone. The father was a Swedish diplomat, first deputy to the Swedish envoy in London. The mother was English, apparently an accomplished sculptress. They had two daughters, Eleanor and Imogen. The English side, the Soameses, had quite an artistic pedigree, and the daughters were brought up in the same line, rather bohemian. Eleanor later became a painter of some distinction.
—She was my great-grandmother?
Prichard frowns. —Yes, we’ll get to that bit. As I said, Ashley met Eleanor’s younger sister Imogen in August 1916. They had some kind of love affair for a week, then Ashley was deployed to France. We presume the two of them kept in touch. In November 1916, Ashley was badly wounded in one of the last battles of the Somme offensive. He was mistakenly reported dead. Imogen was notified by this law firm of Ashley’s death, only to learn a week later that he was in fact alive. As soon as she heard, Imogen went directly to France. She found Ashley at a hospital in Albert, near the front line. They met briefly but had an argument, or so Ashley told Twyning. Then Imogen disappeared. As far as we know, she never returned to England and was never seen again.
—What happened to her?
Prichard takes off his eyeglasses.
—We don’t know. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. Ms. Soames-Andersson had a reputation for being rather—impulsive, shall we say. At least in Twyning’s view. From his notes, I gather he considered her something of a wild card. Certainly he wished she’d never crossed paths with Ashley. There was much speculation on the cause of her disappearance, but nothing was ever proven. Evidently Ashley believed she was still alive, for he told Twyning so on several occasions.
Prichard glances at his wristwatch. He puts his eyeglasses back on.
—I’ve neglected the most important part. The climbing. At Charterhouse one of Ashley’s schoolmasters was Hugh Price, the famous mountaineer. Price took him climbing in Wales, with summer seasons in the Alps. In 1915 Ashley was elected to the Alpine Club, and by the early 1920s he was said to be one of the best climbers in England. In 1924 Ashley won a spot on the third British expedition to Mount Everest. A few days before he sailed for India en route to Tibet, Ashley came to this law firm and asked Twyning to revise his will. Previously his principal beneficiary had been his mother, but Ashley had Twyning amend the will to leave the majority of his estate to Imogen.
—But I thought she was gone—
—She had been missing for seven years.
—You can leave money to a missing person?
—Why not? It’s not illegal. It’s simply a very bad idea. Naturally Twyning tried to dissuade him from the changes, but Ashley insisted the money sit in trust until such time as Imogen or her direct descendant claimed the estate. He ordered that the trust sit for eighty years. If no one claimed it by then, it was to be divided among various charitable beneficiaries—the Ashmolean Museum, the Alpine Club, a few village churches in Berkshire. This clause was intended to make it impossible for anyone to preempt Imogen’s claim during her conceivable lifetime, or for the estate to escheat to the Crown.
Prichard flips over the sheet of paper on his desk.
—Ashley Walsingham was killed on Mount Everest on the seventh of June 1924, caught by a storm during a summit attempt. His mother received her portion of the estate, but Imogen never surfaced. For decades we’d been expecting to distribute the remainder when the eighty years ran out. We’d already drawn up the papers. But last month all that changed.
—You see Mr. Campbell, in the last few years there’s been a certain interest in Eleanor’s painting, though from what I’ve gathered it has less to do with her work than her connections. Evidently Eleanor was close to the Camden Town Group as well as some notable French painters. Last month a graduate student was looking through Eleanor’s letters at the British Library. She found something that caught her eye, and eventually the letter got passed on to us. We believe it concerns Imogen.
Prichard lifts a photocopy from his desk.
—This letter may clear up why Mr. Walsingham left the money to either Imogen or her direct heir. Not her sister or parents, mind you, but only her descendant.
He pushes the page across his desk.
—The letter was written in 1925 from Eleanor to her husband. The ‘C.’ mentioned here is, of course, your grandmother. She was eight at the time, and evidently having difficulties in school.
The photocopy is the final page of the letter. The handwriting is florid but precise.
Francis thinks I shall be able to get at least 8,000 francs for Smythe’s portrait. Provided it hasn’t been damaged in transit – as I fear given its odd shape & the inevitable shoddy crating. He’s certain that Broginart will take it as soon as he lays his eyes upon it. I’m not convinced.
Naturally it worries me to hear that C. is again at odds with her best interests. I agree that Miss Evans is rather dense & unsympathetic when it comes to C., yet there is no denying the girl is impetuous & easily distracted. Certainly we’ve striven to raise her as we judged best, but I suppose it’s equally true we’ve made allowances for her & always shall. Every day she is more the image of her mother, in both appearance & temper.
I laugh to think how I. would consider it another mark of destiny or divine signature that C. is not as we raise her, but as she was born to be. I must also admit I sometimes treasure C.’s obstinacy, having been without I. all these years. But above all, I worry, lest she meet the fate of her mother.
I must go now – the concierge has just announced the intrepid Mme. Boudin. Once again.
Burn this.
Love to all,
Eleanor
I hand the letter back to Prichard. He takes his glasses off and leans back in his chair.
—You understand the implication?
—My grandmother was Imogen’s daughter, not Eleanor’s.
Prichard nods. —With you her only living descendant. I suppose the letter survived by pure hazard. Legally it’s of little use. It doesn’t even call Imogen by name.
—It seems clear to me—
—If it’s truthful. But it may not be, for any number of reasons. That’s why the law won’t rely on a letter like this. We would need more substantial documentation.
—Like what?
—Official documents connecting your grandmother to Imogen. Considering they went to the trouble to hide your grandmother’s maternity, one wonders if such papers exist. Failing that, more evidence like this, put together, could be a persuasive argument. But we would need far more.
I take a moment to think.
—Would this Walsingham be the father, then?
—Possibly. It would explain a great deal.
—I don’t understand. You think I can find out something about this?
Prichard stands. He begins to pace around the room.
—We are at an impasse. The Walsingham trust was drawn up with great privacy in mind. What the trustees can do by way of investigation is strictly limited. Mr. Walsingham believed Imogen would come forward on her own to claim the estate, and he didn’t want anyone probing into their private affairs. This letter certainly suggests why. In any case, the trust explicitly forbids us from hiring third-party help of any kind. For eighty years there have been no probate researchers, no private investigators, nothing.
Prichard stops before a ta
ll window, shaking his head.
—It’s exasperating to say the least. And it’s persisted all my career. Mr. Twyning always said the Walsingham fortune must sort itself out sooner or later, that with so much money involved an heir must surface. But it’s never happened. You’re the first outside party that’s ever qualified to be told about this trust, and I can tell you achieving that wasn’t easy. Even as a potential heir you had to be subject to a confidentiality consistent with the trust, which is why you can’t hire outside help any more than we can. That’s hardly encouraging, but it’s possible the evidence may not be particularly difficult to find. We simply don’t know, because we’ve always been straitjacketed. We know the truth exists, but we’re prohibited from looking for it.
Prichard looks at me.
—You’ve the opportunity of being more enterprising.
He turns back to the window. The rain has quickened outside and sheets of water are tumbling down the glass. A man on the street below dashes for cover.
—The Walsingham case was at our firm when I joined. That was forty-one years ago this March. I should like to have this case settled before I retire, and settled as our client intended. The money wasn’t really meant to go to any church or museum. So you can imagine how pleased I was to hear of this letter, and to learn of your existence. Let’s say it’s one of my legacy cases, and I shouldn’t like it to be a defeat.
—I wouldn’t know where to start.
Prichard nods. —Let me give you a piece of advice. If there is proof of your relation to Imogen, I doubt it will be in government archives or the like. You can look, of course, but you and Geoffrey already went through that business with your mother’s papers, and the one thing trustees have been permitted to do is look through vital records. There’s no paper trail to Imogen after 1916. All the usual records have been searched. Nothing turns up.
Prichard taps his finger on the photocopy.
—This letter is the breakthrough. It’s the thread you ought to follow. New evidence often opens new doors. In eighty years no one had the benefit of this knowledge, nor had they the freedom you have. Do you follow me?
—It’s incredible.
—It certainly is. It’s also a mess, and I’m enlisting you to sort it out. You won’t thank me, for I’ve yet to tell you the worst of it. Today is the sixteenth of August, is it not?
Prichard sits down behind his desk and lifts another sheet of paper.
—Ashley Walsingham was killed on the seventh of June 1924. The news appeared in the British press on the twenty-first. As soon as he learned of it, Twyning tried to get in contact with Imogen, but of course he couldn’t. Accordingly, the Walsingham estate passed into trust on the seventh of October 1924. You recall it was an eighty-year—
—That’s in two months.
Prichard looks at me.
—More or less. If the estate isn’t claimed, it passes to the alternate beneficiaries on seventh of October. That leaves you roughly seven weeks. You see why I insisted you come to London straightaway. I grant you, it seems foul luck to have learnt of this letter only now, but imagine if we’d found it two months from now. It’s a question of perspective. A pessimist would say you’ve seven weeks to find what could not be found for eighty years—
Prichard leans forward. A wry smile crosses his lips.
—Mr. Campbell, let me ask you something. You’re not a pessimist, are you?
I hesitate. —I’m not sure.
—Spoken like a true Englishman. For my part, I’m confident you can achieve much by October. I don’t say you’ll find the proof, because we can’t be certain it survives. But you ought to be able to trace that which is traceable.
Prichard pushes a button on his telephone. He asks for Khan to be sent back in.
—As ever, Geoffrey shall bring you up to speed on particulars. He’s your man for the details. Good luck.
Prichard stands and I spring up awkwardly, following him to the door. He shakes my hand again.
—If I can help, he says, don’t hesitate to call.
11 April 1914
Gorphwysfa Hotel
Snowdonia, Northwest Wales
It is four o’clock and everyone but Price is asleep. He had gone to bed right after his bath, leaving the curtain open to look up from his pillow every few hours and watch the progress of the waxing moon over the hillside. The Chamonix guides never used clocks for early starts. Neither would he.
The piano downstairs went on well past midnight and even when it ceased he still could hear the voices. He knew who was talking and could half-follow the conversation, occasionally broken by thumps and bursts of laughter, until finally it softened to whispers and Price fell asleep. His dream started almost at once. He walked into his father’s house in Cheshire, but he had his climbing boots on and the hobnails scratched against the floorboards. In the dining room he found the whole family at the table, his parents and brother and even his sister Beryl who had been gone these six years. His mother was in a gown and his father in white tie, but Price was wearing his heaviest alpine clothes, his jacket and felt hat dusted with snow. They told him to sit for dinner, but Price looked at Beryl and she opened her mouth to speak. Then he woke.
Price dresses without lighting the lamp, winding puttees over his calves in the dark. He wants to keep his pupils wide for the ridge. He feels the rope strung up between the posts at the foot of the bed. The flax is still damp. Price coils it and throws it over his shoulder, stepping quietly down the hallway in stockinged feet into the bedroom next door.
Ashley is asleep on his side. His mouth is open and a shock of hair hangs down his forehead. Price shakes him gently by the shoulder, but Ashley only turns his head on the pillow. Price pulls back the blanket. Ashley curls up toward the wall, fully dressed in plus fours and a thick Shetland.
—Kitted before bed?
Ashley grabs the blanket, his eyes still closed.
—You always come too bloody early.
—So does the sun.
Price fetches his rucksack and the two men meet in the foyer downstairs. The checkered floor is littered with boots and Ashley picks them up one by one, holding the leather soles before his eyes. Save for the nailing pattern they all look the same.
—Damnation. Two left boots. Don’t even know which is mine—
—Probably neither.
Price lights a candle and they grope among the shadows until they find the right boots. Ashley pulls on his Norfolk jacket and Price dons a misshapen hat. They open the front door, a gust of frigid air surging in.
—Coldest part of the night, Price remarks.
He starts up the path at his usual clip, the white stone of the miners’ track bending and rising among brown and green hills. Ashley follows a few paces behind, wrapping his muffler around his neck. They walk along the shore of a narrow lake, the water glowing silver beneath a murky sky. Price glances back at Ashley.
—Who was the last to bed?
—Fraser and Cousin David, I expect. Fraser was still on the rafters when I left.
—Still game for the girdle?
—Of course.
They pass another lake and follow a steeper trail onto the mountain’s broad shoulder. The sun is breaking over the ridge to the east, but the great north cliff ahead remains in shadow. Price walks off the trail and the angle of the hill steepens until they stand on the eastern edge of the thousand-foot cliff, its two peaks and soaring buttress high above them. They mean to traverse the whole face.
—Still a touch of snow, Price remarks.
He uncoils the rope from his shoulder. The dampness has stiffened into frost and he takes his gloves off to smooth the kinks before fastening his waist loop. Ashley ties on and anchors the rope around a jammed boulder, paying out handfuls of slack as Price pulls himself across a crack and lowers himself down a smooth gully, sweeping footholds below him of snow and pebbles with the toe of his boot before resting his weight.
They work quietly, Price moving across a ban
d of milky quartz in fluid, rhythmic movements, calling back only occasionally.
—Goodish hold here. Rather damp—
—Frightfully icy. Stay clear of the lower slab—
—For God’s sake, some slack, Ashley!
Ashley leads the next pitch and they go on alternating, one man belaying as the other edges westward across the cliff. The rock is freezing and the icy patches leach cold water in the sunlight. Both men climb with bare hands, stopping at times to rub blood into their pale fingers.
They rest on a nose of banded quartz and Price lights his pipe. The wind howls on, pulling swift curtains of mist across the spectacle of mountain and valley below. Suddenly the sun flares over Snowdon, sending a narrow beam of light across the peak. Both men let out a little gasp.
—There she goes, Price murmurs. Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t fools, forever chasing foreign peaks when we’ve hills like these. Are you hungry?
Price opens his rucksack. He takes out his pocketknife and spreads anchovy paste over a pair of biscuits.
—What would you call this view, Ashley? Beauty or sorrow?
—Foreboding.
Price hands Ashley a biscuit. —Oughtn’t say that on a climb.
—Sorrow then. With British hills it’s always sorrow.
—Why is that?
Ashley looks down at his boots.
—I don’t know. All the moors and dark rock and clouds. I expect they were made to suit us—
—Or they made us.
Price stands up, buckling his rucksack shut.
—I suppose you might lead this one—
Ashley edges his way along flakes of rock, his face brushing patches of snowy vegetation. The ledge narrows until he has only the toe of his boot on the rock, then a single nail scratching the flaky ledge. He looks down to the slope of jagged scree five hundred feet below, the calm opal waters of the lake. Ashley hooks the rope over a knob of outcropping rock and spiders along westward, Price belaying with his pipe still in his mouth.
