by Peter D. Wilson

Mike Crampton received little mail in the ordinary way of things, and the official-looking envelope that landed on his mat that Thursday took him completely by surprise. He spent a good five minutes looking for clues to the contents before doing the obvious and opening it. Inside was a single sheet under a solicitor’s letterhead to the effect, beneath 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 when as clumsy as Mike’s. She nevertheless offered him a coffee which he declined, knowing from experience that it would inevitably arrive just as he had to abandon it. He was wrong about that, as it happened, but only ten minutes after the appointed time 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 over the bill for the funeral." "Very unfortunate. But do you remember if they ever mentioned a Mr. Alexander Forster?" "I don’t know about the Forster, but every year they had a Christmas card from someone called Alex. Usually with a German or Austrian stamp, I’m not sure which." "Good. That seems to fit. Mr. Forster was actually an American citizen, but spent most of his time in Europe. He had a business in Nuremburg; quite a profitable business, by the looks of it. It also seems that many years ago your parents did him a great kindness, to the extent 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 - sorry, I didn’t mean to be sarcastic. His executors have now asked us to trace those heirs, and you seem to be the only one."

Mike knew of no other possible claimants, and none had been named in the wills, but he thought that in the circumstances some might crawl out of the woodwork. He also wondered what the great kindness might have been; since he had heard nothing of it he assumed it must have been before he was born or perhaps during his early infancy. Dodgson knew no more than he did, and in any case was more concerned to explain the nature of the legacy, consisting mostly of shares including a large batch in the Nuremberg business, now being run as a still-thriving concern by Forster’s partner. Assuming that all would go smoothly, he urged Mike to get his investment adviser to handle them when they actually came, an idea that Mike thought hilarious as the nearest he had ever come to an investment was five pounds on the lottery. "Your solicitor, then?" "Never needed one. Could you do it?"

Dodgson considered the ethics for a moment, than decided that the connection with Forster was indirect 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, whether he could assume that Mike was not used to handling large sums of money. Keeping as straight a face as he could, Mike agreed, and was treated to a 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 was evidently 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 thousand’s worth or so." Mike gulped; if that was a small proportion, the situation was a lot more serious than he had understood; of course in a very agreeable fashion.

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." Mike wondered what unreal estate might be; castles in the air, he supposed. "Whereabouts is it, then?" "I can’t tell you precisely, but the executors have an office in - oh, where’s the letter? - ah, here we are - Idaho Falls." "Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it." "Well, Idaho’s in the northern part of the USA, just to the west of the Rockies, and I imagine the town’s somewhere in that state. But does it matter? Wherever they are, I’m sure they’d be very happy to sell the property on your behalf and transfer the proceeds."

Less their substantial cut, 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 really any of my business, of course." "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 Susie to copy the details for you."

The visit had to await settlement of some administrative details, completed a few months later. It was Mike’s first long-haul journey, and if typical he would not be repeating it very often. The eleven-hour flight to Denver was cramped, as in view of Dodgson’s advice he had booked economy class. The wait for the connection seemed interminable, and the hop over the mountains was in darkness so there was no view of the scenery; in any case, mountains are seldom impressive from above. In Idaho Falls the only feature to stand out was the floodlit Mormon temple. Searching 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, so he treated himself to the luxury of a cab.

He 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 concerned. After the usual pleasantries and confirmation that there had been no problem in the transfer of shares, Weinberg came to the matter of the property, 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 isn’t absolutely certain that the property actually belonged to Mr. Forster." "How’s that?" "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 it." "Didn’t anyone notice?" "I imagine folks must have realised that something was going on, but the plot was well inside the forest on a track that had fallen out of general use. It was a worthless, barren spot that according to local legend had been cursed after a settler killed the son of a native shaman. 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 for it." Mike nodded. "He had some long-standing association with Garstein and the last time they met, they went off on a 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, notifying Social Security and so on, but then it turned out that Garstein himself had no more official existence than his house; must have been an illegal immigrant, I suppose. Digging into it could have opened up a whole can of worms, but no one seemed to have a particular interest in him - his wife had died a few years earlier and there were no children - and somehow all the notes on the case went missing. 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 the community was rather poor, and a reserve was set up to cover any substantial expenditure that might arise. Forster occasionally spent a few days there when he wanted to get away from business, and was well satisfied with the working of the arrangement during the two years until his own death. There was enough left in the pot, barring calamities, to cover it for another year or two if Mike approved, as he readily did.

"So," Weinberg said, "the point is what to do about it." "What’s it like?" "Actually, I’ve only Forster’s description when he took it over, and I know he made some improvements afterwards, so please bear that in mind. Well, as I remember, it’s a single-storey wooden 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. 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; lighting is by kerosene lamps, cooking and heating by a wood stove, plumbing rudimentary, sanitation downright primitive. On the other hand it’s sturdy and has come through several nasty storms with no damage worth mentioning. Garstein 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 outside 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 you might choose to stay in one of them rather than rough it." Mike agreed that it seemed a good idea. Then Weinberg had another suggestion; if Mike was in no hurry to return home, he could kill two birds with one stone by visiting the Yellowstone National Park which was well worth it, then perhaps for good measure go on to the Grand Teton National Park and return to Idaho Falls by way of Jackson ("A thoroughly bogus Wild-West tourist trap, but amusing in its way") rather than retrace his steps. Mike had not realised that Yellowstone was so close, and having been fascinated for years by what he had seen and read about it, jumped at the idea.

He also accepted the recommendation of a tourist agency nearby to arrange car hire and hotel reservations. Just before leaving, on an impulse he asked if anything was known about the "great kindness" done to Forster that had led to the legacy.

Weinberg had not been involved with Forster’s affairs at the time, although he was said to be a rather unpleasant character but strictly honest in business, and that did mean strictly: hard as nails where sure of his rights, yet extraordinarily scrupulous in anything that might be considered an obligation. He was reticent about personal matters, but according to one of his few close acquaintances there had been a tragedy long ago, a few months after his marriage to a woman considered to be very much above his station. While staying in England they had a violent argument over money, as she controlled it and refused to countenance putting any into what he was certain would be a brilliant investment. He could be intemperate and the row ended that night with her storming out of the hotel into the path of a car that failed to stop. Mike’s parents had come across her badly hurt in the road, called for an ambulance and done all they could to comfort her until it arrived. However, she died and Forster was filled with remorse, to the extent of condemning himself to celibacy in her memory. On the other hand he was now free to make the investment, which proved to be the foundation of his subsequent fortunes. Even so, at times he had strange notions that made Weinberg suspect a part of his mind to have been permanently damaged by the trauma, and perhaps he had come to believe that as the Cramptons had been so closely associated with the origins of his eventual wealth, they had the greatest right to it after his death.

That seemed as good an explanation as any that Mike was likely to get. Provided with directions, maps, contact numbers, a cell phone for keeping in touch and a letter of introduction to the caretaker, he checked out of his hotel and set off.

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 address and presented his letter of introduction to Mrs. Carter, who had been warned to expect him.

She seemed rather distracted, and asked if he minded her returning home after guiding him to Garstein’s place, as she still thought of it; she had some serious business that couldn’t wait. He had no objection, and she led him out of the town on a continuation of the road he had followed towards it. It headed north through fields, then crossed a river into the vast forest. A few hundred yards in, she turned off on to an unpaved track to the left where she stopped briefly to point out a marker for the junction, which otherwise might easily be missed. 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; it appeared well constructed and recently re-painted. Mike had trouble opening the packet of keys, so Mrs. Carter used her own and asked him to return it when he had seen enough; she then left him to examine what he realised with a thrill he could now, with some reservations, justly call his property.

He found it rather 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, 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. Cupboards and drawers contained a collection of culinary and table ware suited to a small household. Forster had evidently upgraded the toilet facilities as the washroom now had a respectable chemical closet, while the shower, wash basin and kitchen sink all had hot and cold taps. The main bedroom had, beside the double bed, a couple of chairs, a wardrobe and tallboy; the other bedroom was much as Weinberg had described but did have a small locker for personal belongings. Both beds were unmade but the mattresses seemed comfortable and there was an adequate stock of bedding in the tallboy. If it came to camping there, he wouldn’t 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 was were three folders and, clipped to the first, what was evidently intended as a covering letter.

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 near 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 report its presence to any authority, and for all he knew the remains might still be there. The request, emphatically conditional on complete willingness, 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 this 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, one that she confirmed to be at least satisfactory. She was expanding on this when a man, presumably Joel Carter, approached looking very glum and 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." Fearing that they might be worried about their own position, he told them of his agreement with Mr. Weinberg that they 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, and Carter explained that the cause of his wife’s distress was news of foreclosure on their mortgage. They had no means of paying it off, and must leave their house by the end of the month, with nowhere else to go unless they could move into the Garstein place, "just until we can get something else arranged, of course." Mike was more than happy for them to be there as long as they wished, especially since it meant that Forster’s first request was fulfilled immediately. In fact it seemed altogether too neat, and Mike had an 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, and in fact they could forget about it as he didn’t want the complication. They would in effect be resident caretakers, and he would phone 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.

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 took his departure.

He had intended to study the other files in Forster’s envelope before going to bed, but after he checked into the hotel, fatigue suddenly overcame him and instead he slept continuously for ten hours. At the Post Office the next morning, he waited until more conventional customers had been cleared, then put his enquiry. The counter clerk was puzzled; "None that I know of. Doris, you’ve been here longer than I have; have you heard of anyone called Lake hereabouts?" "There was one, 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, there is someone. A month back a young woman came in and said that if any mail came in for Miss J. Lake she’d be staying with the Hamiltons on Maple Street. None did, and I’d clean forgotten about it until 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 his inability to miss a particular location had been overestimated, 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. 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 involved business, but could I please speak to her?" "I’ll see if she’s around."

Hamilton went to the door and called "Josie!" which was far from encouraging. 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. What is it?"

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 am taking a bit of a tour though I’m here mainly on business. Why?" "That figures. You see, Jenny Lake isn’t a woman at all; it’s a place across the Tetons, probably on your route."

Mike groaned. "Why didn’t I think of that? But my instructions are to look for a particular spot there. 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 the rage had evaporated so suddenly, but the suggestion of coffee was attractive and the girl herself quite personable. He explained that for reasons too involved to bother her with, he had been asked to check the condition of a clearing in a forest 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. The cover of the third and last appeared unmarked, but Josie noticed that it was in fact inside out, so that the plainly inscribed "JENNY LAKE" was visible only on opening it. Josie pounced on it in triumph, and Mike could only nod humbly. The contents were a single sheet with a sketch map of the area around the viewing point; markers for the indistinct start of a path through the woods were described, and in the clearing at the end of the path a small feature was ringed with a line to a note, "Small white pillar." Mike wondered why Forster had not simply attached the map to his letter, but perhaps that was just an aspect of the slight oddities that Weinberg had mentioned.

He finished his coffee and thanked Josie, apologising again for interrupting whatever she was doing at an evidently awkward moment, but she said it might actually be providential. She was committed to going to West Yellowstone that day, her car was being repaired and the friend who had brought her down, and promised faithfully to take her back, had just telephoned to say he must go somewhere else. There was no public transport, but it was on Mike’s route and would he oblige? "It’ll be a 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 be to the effect that no one so stupid could possibly present 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 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 page torn from his diary and waited while the calls were made.

On her return Sal seemed somewhat relieved. "That seems satisfactory as far as it goes. 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. Curves were broad sweeps and driving was easy, almost too easy; Mike was afraid of nodding off and forgetting to stay on the right-hand side of the road when no other traffic was about. On the run up from Idaho Falls there had been more of it.

He was relieved to find that Josie was not the kind of woman to chatter incessantly. If anything she was on the serious side, and left to herself tended to lapse into a reverie, apparently rather sad. After a while Mike felt he had to make some effort at conversation, if only to keep himself awake, and asked about the reason for her journey. She explained that West Yellowstone was the base for tourism in the national park and she worked as a guide there, but the summer season seemed to be running down earlier than expected so when Sal had to spend a few weeks in hospital she had been given leave to look after Bill, her uncle, who was completely helpless domestically. "He seems a bit gruff," Mike commented. "Oh, that’s only his manner. He’s a dear, really."

"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 reminded Mike of a report he had read years earlier of a blind man being fined for drunken driving. "Not in Idaho, I think." "I don’t remember. It must be difficult for Bill." Yes, but it should clear up soon. Just as well, because Sal won’t drive at all since 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 slight stretching of the truth that he was not thinking of anything afterwards. At that she laughed and said that some girls would take it as an insult; she didn’t, but her concern was about having to be up early the next morning. "How early should we eat, then?" He asked her to choose the restaurant and she suggested he pick her up 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." "Right. They’re all within easy walking distance." So it was agreed, and Josie evidently enjoyed his company enough to give 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 she was to call in the few days he would be around, he would be disappointed if she didn’t, and he had had enough disappointments of that kind.

The next morning he collected leaflets at the tourist information office, half hoping to see her there, but there was no sign. He thought of asking about her, then realised that it might cause embarrassment and refrained. Well, it had been pleasant while it lasted, but he could hardly expect more from it. No doubt Josie had her own regular friends here, and Mike surprised himself with a pang of jealousy. She had evidently affected him more than he realised.

He headed into the park, stopping at the Old Faithful geyser where he watched a couple of eruptions, between them taking a 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, with two tracks starting in a way that might have matched his description, but the second did lead to a clearing around a pillar. Now a plaque had been attached 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 care of Garstein’s remains; Mike took a photograph of the plaque and the marker stones, now four of them, 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 as Jenny 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 day he drove to Idaho Falls, 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 associated with Garstein’s place. As an afterthought he asked how easily he might upgrade to business class for his return flight. "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 rest 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. Anything else you need over here, just let me know."

Despite the greatly increased comfort, Mike found the subsequent jet lag worse than after the outward journey and took a day or two to recover. It was almost a relief to be unemployed. After that, he spent a few weeks visiting places he had always wanted to see but could never afford. By that time he was beginning to long for more constructive activity, and said so to his old friend Terry Hankins when they met in the pub one evening. Terry was a driver for the bus company where Mike had been a service engineer, always rather lugubrious and on that occasion particularly down in the dumps. "A fair number of other people look like having time on their hands, too," he commented. "How’s that?" "Haven’t you heard? The firm’s going bust." "Are you sure?" "Well, nothing’s definite yet, but it looks pretty black."

Before going to bed, Mike did some serious thinking, and the next morning phoned first of all his financial adviser, then Colin Turnbull, the owner of the firm in question, to asked if he could come to see him. Turnbull was a decent enough character, but rather ineffectual, and clearly embarrassed in explaining that if Mike was looking to get his job back, there was not a chance. The position was worse than ever. "No, that isn’t it. It’s a matter that I’m sure will interest you, but I don’t want to discuss it on the phone." After some havering, Turnbull gave him an appointment for the following afternoon.

Mike came straight to the point; "I hear that the firm’s likely to go bankrupt." Turnbull nodded gloomily. "Bad news travels fast, doesn’t it? I don’t see much alternative. We’ve got enormous debts, and we’re scarcely breaking even on operating costs. We may be able to stagger on for a week or two, but after that I’m afraid it’s curtains." "Maybe I can help." "Oh? You don’t happen to have a couple of hundred thousand in your back pocket, do you?" "Not in my back pocket, no, but I could have it next week." "What? Have you won the lottery or something?"

Mike explained the source of his unexpected wealth and that on certain conditions he was prepared to put the sum mentioned into the company, maybe more. The main proviso was that he should have effective managerial control. He was not bothered about being given any particular title, but he did insist on real authority to run things as he saw fit, subject to any legal requirements on which he would need Turnbull’s help. There followed some haggling, but Turnbull’s heart was not in it and if anything he was relieved to be freed from a responsibility that for months he had realised was too much for him.

From his own experience Mike was aware of things going on at ground level that would have escaped Turnbull’s attention. By cracking down on various fiddles, suggesting to one individual that it would be in his own interest to go quietly rather than face prosecution, hinting at something similar to several others where charges were possible but might not stick, and overhauling the system for purchasing and controlling supplies, he quickly improved the cash flow position. That enabled him to undercut the existing holders of the school run contract when it came up for renewal, a bit of a risk but it came off.

After a year of increasing prosperity he was feeling decidedly pleased with himself when he was brought up with a bump. Through his own carelessness he misdirected a driver to pick up the wrong party for a choral competition in the next town, and to make matters worse his instruction for the cashier to cancel the hire invoice went astray, so that the customer was exceedingly angry and made vague noises about legal action. Fortunately a large helping of humble pie averted the worst of the trouble, but he took it as a warning.

Stepping back to look at himself, he realised that he was tired and making mistakes. He had been overdoing things, not heavily but consistently, and needed a break. For some time he had contemplated going up-market with coach tours to historic towns and the like, and had even arranged a lease with a view to eventual purchase on a 34-seater "luxury" vehicle. It was due for delivery the following Monday, and as that was a slack period he had asked Terry Hankins to put it through its paces and report. Terry’s good sense had been an increasingly valuable support to him and could be trusted to keep the show running if Mike himself took a week off. It would be an opportunity to reconnoitre hotels and other features on possible tour routes - a busman’s holiday with a vengeance, he thought.

The following Tuesday evening he walked into his hotel after stretching his legs following the drive. He was about to go up to his room when a woman waiting at the reception desk caught his eye. With a double take he recognised her: "Josie Lake!" She turned, startled, looked puzzled for a moment then exclaimed "Michael!" "What are you doing here?" "Escorting a party around England - or at least I should be." "What do you mean?"

She explained that they had scarcely arrived when a maniac pursued by the police had crashed his car into their coach and smashed the front suspension. There was no chance of a repair in time for the rest of their tour, and she had not been able to get another for the remaining four days. Mike commiserated, and while she sat down to ponder her next move, asked if he could make a call. "Terry? How’s the new bus? ... Good. I think there’s a job for it; four days probably. I’m at the Feathers Hotel in Woodstock; could you get it here by nine tomorrow morning? ... Ten, then? ... Is there a driver available? Overtime, if necessary ... Yes, either of those should do fine ... Right, I’ll call you again in a few minutes to confirm."

He asked Josie how many there were in her party; "Twenty-five, mostly here but a few in the Marlborough. I haven’t told them the worst yet." "Then don’t. You can have a thirty-four seater here at ten o’clock tomorrow; any use?" "What? You’re joking!" He assured her of being perfectly serious. "Michael, you’re an angel!"

With that settled, the good news delivered to the tourists and the arrangement confirmed with Terry, he was able to ask if she was free to dine with him that evening. "Are you still not thinking of anything afterwards?" "Thinking, but not planning." She squeezed his hand, perhaps a shade sadly. "Keep it that way. A nice thought, but I don’t do it."

On balance, he was rather relieved. Amorous opportunities never seemed to come his way, and he was uncertain how well he might cope if they did. With that possibility ruled out he had a clear mind to exchange news with her, and suggested a walk before dinner while they did so. She still found Europe cramped after the vast spaces of America, so he took her along the side road that led into the grounds of Blenheim Palace. "We did the palace this afternoon," she said. "Oxford tomorrow." "A bit different from Yellowstone."

That reminded her; had he found the place he was supposed to inspect? Yes, and he now told her the rest of the story. She thought it charming, and perhaps it would be a point of interest for tour guides, but Mike thought not, or rather, that it would be inappropriate; whoever had set up the plaque asking for respect towards the dead would probably object to the disturbance of their peace.

He in turn asked how she came to be on the present tour, and she explained that a relation of her boss ran a travel firm in Idaho Falls (not the one he had used). They had a party booked for a European tour and the intended escort had fallen ill too late for an experienced replacement to be found; Jenny was unusually young for such a job, but had gained a reputation for resourcefulness and keeping her head in difficult situations, that was the essence of it, and was she prepared to help out? She owed the boss a favour for allowing her time off to help the Hamiltons, it sounded interesting, so she accepted. It had turned out satisfactorily and there was now a very unofficial agreement that the arrangement might be repeated. This was in fact the third occasion, and had been going well until the accident to the coach. "And this is the second time you’ve got me out of a hole. Are you going to make a habit of it?" "If you’ll let me."

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

The coach duly turned up at a quarter to ten the following morning, and Fred Willis, the driver, gave a good report on its handling. The tourists applauded when Josie gave Mike a peck on the cheek, and he stayed to see them off. Then he checked out and continued his survey.

He started his new scheme tentatively with a simple four-day tour that he fully expected to make a substantial loss, but it proved to be over-subscribed and profitable. Ever cautious, he raised his sights slowly, but after three months ordered a second coach for the purpose. He was making some adjustments to an itinerary one Friday evening when he received a curious call from his solicitor; no cause for alarm, but could he conveniently attend a meeting in Dodgson’s office the following Wednesday morning? There were two people who wished to speak to him.

"No cause for alarm" is about as reassuring as a cry of "Don’t panic!" and fretting over what it might portend was at least at the back of Mike’s mind for all the weekend and beyond. Arriving for the meeting, he was introduced to Mr. Staveley from the US Embassy and Mr. Gibbons, affiliation unspecified. Evidently this was going to be rather formal. Staveley started off by saying he understood that Mike had inherited some real estate in Idaho, and visited it shortly afterwards; so Mike confirmed. Had he found anything unusual there? "What sort of thing?" "An object that seemed incongruous, perhaps, or maybe a message of some kind."

Mike described the set of folders that Forster had left, and Staveley immediately showed interest especially in the request to visit the spot by Jenny Lake. "Have you still got it?" "No, I get cluttered up with dead paperwork if I’m not strict about it, so I threw it out ages ago." "Damn. Can you reproduce the directions?" "Maybe, but I doubt if they’d be much help. They’re a bit difficult to describe verbally." "Then do you think you could find the place if you went back?" "Hang on a bit, what’s all this about? It’s a hell of a way to go just to find a little monument."

At this point Gibbons interrupted and said that before they went any further, Mike would have to sign the Official Secrets Act. "What? I’m not signing anything before I’ve read it." "Very wise, Mr. Crapton." "Crampton, if you please!" "Oh, sorry, what an unfortunate misprint." He chuckled and corrected his brief. "Anyway, I have it here; take a look." Mike did so, and wondered what all the fuss was about. "Nothing more than common sense, really." "I’m glad you see it like that."

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

Staveley explained that five years earlier, Donald Harris, a specialist at the Idaho National Laboratory, had been kidnapped by a terrorist organisation to which his knowledge could have been useful, although they were more immediately interested in him as a hostage in negotiations to have some of their number released from jail. As part of efforts to get him back, Garstein (not his real name) had managed to infiltrate the gang and photograph documents that he thought would help to identify the evidently prominent personage running it; the hints meant nothing to him but might well be significant to anyone moving in those circles. However, on the "leaf in a forest" principle, he had hidden the film with others and unfortunately handed the wrong one in. Even more unfortunately its importance was not recognised and the mistake was discovered only months later. Meanwhile Garstein had had a nervous breakdown, convinced himself that the investigating team was part of the gang, and refused to co-operate with it. They had searched his place regardless, but found nothing relevant. However, an item as small as a roll of film might have been missed, and his burying something at Jenny Lake was therefore of considerable interest.

Harris was evidently still being kept alive and reasonably well, as the gang periodically sent photographs to accompany their demands, now for ransom rather than release of their colleagues. It was admittedly a long shot, but if the head could be identified from data on the film and quietly arrested, there was a worthwhile chance of finding clues to Harris’s present location. Would Mr. Crampton be willing to go and help find it? All expenses paid, naturally.

Mike explained that it was more than a matter of expenses; he had a business to run. But surely he had a deputy for occasions when he had to be away? Yes, but the deputy was also one of his best drivers, and this was a busy time. Staveley and Gibbons conferred for a moment and came up with a suggestion; if they were to second a first-rate coach driver to his firm, at national cost, would that meet his objections? He had to consult Terry, who with some reluctance accepted the arrangement, and so it was settled.

The flight to Denver was just as tedious as before, but much more comfortable. From there the authorities, whatever they were, had laid on a private jet to Jackson Hole, where he was introduced to Captain James Martin in charge of the operation. It was too late to start that day, so Mike had a good night’s sleep in a Jackson hotel. They started off early the next morning, according to local time, although Mike had been awake for hours. He suggested that although they were south of the lake, there would be less risk of confusing his memory if they approached from the north as he had done before, and Martin agreed.

Although the vegetation around the viewing point had again changed to some extent, Mike found the right path eventually. There were signs that the trees around the clearing had been trimmed back recently, but the pillar, the plaque and the four stones were just as he remembered them. He supposed that if the film were there it would be with the ashes of Garstein’s wife, and Martin agreed, but as there was no telling which of the four might be the right one, they would probably have to investigate all four unless they struck lucky earlier.

The squaddies brought along to do the donkey work were on the second when a woman came along the path, stopped in horror when she saw what was going on, and berated them furiously for vandalising a sacred place. Martin let her have her say, then produced his authorisation and quietly explained that this was a serious official investigation on which someone’s life might depend. Any remains they found would be treated with the utmost respect, and the site would be restored to its former state when they had finished. She was welcome to stay and make sure if she wished. "I can’t hang about all day while you mess around." "Then if you tell me where you can be found, I shall report when we’ve finished and you can inspect to your heart’s content."

She was still unhappy but perforce agreed to that, and digging resumed. All four urns were recovered intact but contained only ashes, and Martin cursed quietly in frustration. Fishing for a handkerchief, Mike pulled out a few coins, and one of them rolled into a hole where it vanished into the loose soil at the bottom. Instincts formed in years of penury reasserted themselves and he scrabbled for it, but every movement seemed to send it further down and he borrowed one of the spades to get underneath. Even so, he never did retrieve the coin, because he lost interest when up came a slightly battered 35mm film canister. Martin noticed and shouted "Don’t open it!" Mike felt insulted: "What sort of fool do you take me for?" "None at all, but better safe than sorry." "Oh, fair enough. I suppose this is what you’re looking for?" "It sure looks like it, but in case it hasn’t been processed we’d better wait until we can get it into a darkroom." "Better check the other holes more thoroughly, too; this might be just a decoy." "Good point, Mr. Crampton. We’ll do that."

However, nothing else of interest appeared, so the urns were carefully and reverently re-interred. The custodian was fetched; she pronounced herself tolerably satisfied, and Martin diplomatically invited her to join him in a prayer. At that she blushed, apologised for her earlier outburst and went so far as to offer refreshments after their efforts, a suggestion gratefully appreciated but gracefully declined, much to the squaddies’ disgust.

For operational reasons the team had to return to Idaho Falls, and Mike asked if he might attend to a little business in the town. "As it was you who actually found what we were looking for, I don’t see how we can decently refuse you. How long will you need?" "A couple of hours, I should think." Martin was happy enough with that and arranged transport, so Mike was able to check with Weinberg whether there were any outstanding issues over Garstein’s place.

Then he went to the travel agency that he had used before and asked to speak to the head, a Mr. Dennison. He had been thinking of sending tours to the USA and had an idea that it might be worth bypassing the East Coast to start right there, or from Jackson; what did Dennison think of the suggestion? Of course the dreadful connection at Denver would be intolerable, and unless the schedules were altered it might be worth arranging a charter. Dennison thought this proposal seemed to have possibilities, so he agreed to look into them, and if the scheme appeared promising get in touch for more substantial discussions.

Returning home, Mike was more than usually reoccupied for a couple of weeks, as on top of all the usual stuff a few complications had arisen that Terry had thought best left for the boss. Nothing came from Dennison in that time, and Mike supposed he had found the costs too high or some other obstacle. It was the best part of two months later when a letter arrived with impressively researched details that Mike was invited to go back and discuss if they fitted well enough with his own ideas. They looked very interesting indeed and he telephoned promptly to that effect, so would Dennison please book him into a suitable hotel for the following Wednesday night?

He arrived near midnight, but in view of his habitual difficulty in sleeping in a strange bed, picked up a newspaper that he found at Reception. Under the headline RETURN OF INL SCIENTIST, the front page was dominated by a photograph of a youngish but rather haggard-looking character, clearly the worse for wear with a nasty scar across the forehead. Mike was skimming through the text, when the vaguely familiar name Donald Harris caught his eye. That brought him up sharply and he read more carefully. Stripped down to essentials, the story was that new information recently acquired had enabled the long-kidnapped specialist to be located and freed, although with serious injuries in the battle that wiped out most of the gang holding him. He had now recovered well enough to convalesce at home, although for reasons of security and privacy the address was not disclosed, and he wished to thank sincerely all those who had been instrumental in releasing him; that applied especially the two who had died in the raid, and he offered sincere condolences to their families.

On the whole the operation had turned out very much better than it might have done, and suppressing the sneaking temptation to mention his own part, Mike commented on it to Dennison the next day. Dennison agreed that it was a pretty satisfactory outcome, and then turned to the matter in hand. It ended with agreement that a pilot tour would be included in the next season’s brochure.

Mike had allowed time to see what was happening to his property in Ashton, so asked Dennison’s staff to book him a hire car and a hotel room in the town for that night. That done, he headed north and was warmly greeted by Iris Carter who pressed him to a light meal, which he was happy to accept although her idea of "light" was as gargantuan as before. She and Joel had taken a little time to get used to the conditions in the forest, but now they had settled in, loved the place and would be very sorry to leave. Mike took the hint and assured her that he had not the slightest intention of turning them out. Indeed, he made a mental note to ask Weinberg if he could find a way of giving them legal tenure without raising awkward questions.

Then it occurred to him that he might visit the Hamiltons and ask for news of Josie. As he approached he could hear Bill again splitting logs and had a sense of having slipped back in time, but the reaction now was very different from his original visit. "Michael! Good to see you. Why have you taken so long? Josie’s here - she’ll be delighted." The door was ajar, and Sal was already coming to it when he knocked; "Hello; come right in! I’ll call Josie." In fact the girl herself appeared at that moment, rushed at him, flung her arms round his neck and gave him a real smacker: he began to feel overwhelmed. However, she soon calmed down and took his hand. "I’m so glad you’ve come, Michael. You couldn’t have picked a better time. There’s someone here who particularly wants to meet you."

He wondered who on earth that could be, but more immediately was intrigued by something about her manner, more fundamental than the excitement of her initial greeting, something that he took a little while to pin down but eventually recognised: instead of the previous air of slight melancholy pervading all her quiet moments, there was now a kind of glow about her, a lightness and gaiety he had never noticed before. It was as though an immense weight had been lifted so that her real joyful nature could burst out after years of suppression. She led him to an inner room, where a man with a leg in plaster supported on a stool was sitting reading with his back to the door. "Don, you’ll never guess who’s here" "Who’s that?" As he turned, Mike recognised the scar on his forehead. "Michael," she said. "Come and meet my husband."

© Peter D. Wilson, 2010

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