*****
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 th
e 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 sing
le-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 th
e 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 someo
ne. 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 fr
om 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 investigati
on 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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Garstein's Legacy Page 5
