Mike explained the source of his unexpected wealth and that on certain conditions he was prepared to put a substantial amount of it into the company. 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 or other constraints 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 be made to 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 gradually 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 at least, that it would be inappropriate to take visitors there; whoever had set up the plaque asking for respect towards the dead would probably object to the disturbance of their peace. There would be no harm in simply telling people about it, of course; there would be little chance of finding it without directions.

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. Josie 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 the whole weekend and beyond. He found concentrating on his work particularly difficult on the Tuesday. Arriving next morning 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 some kind of 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 discretely 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 work 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 of his own 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 to 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 again. Why have you taken so long? Josie’s here - she’ll be delighted." Bill went to the door and called "Sal! Josie! Guess who’s here!" From inside there was a call of "Coming!" In fact it was Josie herself who appeared first, did a double take, then rushed at him, flung her arms round his neck and gave him a real smacker. He began to feel overwhelmed, even though Sal’s greeting though equally warm was more sedate. However, Josie 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 I particularly want you to meet."

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 identified: 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."

*****

The call from Joel Carter was the first that Harry Weinberg had received for the best part of a year. There had been a flurry of them in the months after the Carters took up residence in the Garstein house, mostly about details too trivial to worry a less obsessively scrupulous couple, but it had died down and he wondered what aspect of their tenancy had now surfaced to bother them. In fact the subject was a new development altogether.

It seemed that while clearing some space in the outhouse, they had come across a metal deed box carefully sealed against the damp conditions prevalent there. They had wondered what to do about it, as it had evidently been important at some time to someone, but there was no indication of who that might be, of when it had been put there, or of what might be in it. The immediate question was whether to open it themselves or pass it as it stood to - well, to whom? Joel was for breaking the seal in the hope of finding at least some clue to the answers, but Iris, who had perhaps been reading too many crime stories, insisted on first consulting Weinberg. What should they do?

He thought he knew Iris well enough to be sure that she would be satisfied with nothing less than his personal attention, so he checked his diary, arranged a time and confirmed that the marker for their track off the main road was still as he remembered it from his last visit several years earlier. It was a wet and chilly day, so he was pleased to find that the box had been moved into the living area of the house and the stove was going well. Joel apologised for dragging him all the way from Idaho Falls for what might turn out to be nothing of importance, but Iris would have it so; she probably thought there was a severed head in it. "Now, Joel, don’t go making it seem sillier than it is," she objected, but he was closer to the mark than she cared to admit even to herself.

The sealant round the lid was fairly easy to remove, but Weinberg took extra care with that over the keyhole fearing that some might fall in and jam the lock. In fact it came out quite cleanly. Fortunately the key had been attached to a handle with copper wire rather than string or steel that would probably have rotted or rusted away, and although itself superficially corroded it turned not too reluctantly. Inside were two stacks of paper bound with twine, one a pile of manuscript and the other a collection of monochrome photographs and official-looking documents. These were largely in Cyrillic but some in what appeared to be Hebrew. The handwriting of the manuscript was ill-formed and faded but still generally legible, and Iris thought she recognised it as Garstein’s, plausibly enough as it was headed "The house by the Dniepr: a fragment of Jewish life in 19^th century Ukraine, by Jacob Garstein."

"This could be very important historically," Weinberg commented. "There you are, Joel," Iris exclaimed in triumph. "I told you it must be, with so much care taken over it." "So you did," Joel admitted. "What are we going to do with it, then?" "Well, as Garstein didn’t seem to have any living relatives and so far as we know never left a Will, I suppose it must be considered the property of Mr. Crampton. I’ll have to get on to him about it. Meanwhile, am I right in thinking that you’d rather not have it cluttering up the place?" Iris, despite the relief from her apprehensions, was only too pleased to have it taken out of her way.

Back in the office Weinberg had the box put in safe storage, after photocopying some early pages of the manuscript to show in the first instance to Marion, his rather literary wife. She thought them well written and the subject matter interesting, but if an expert opinion was to be sought, then at least a substantial part ought to be transcribed for ease of manipulation as a computer document. Weinberg agreed, but as the task was too big for a volunteer and done professionally would be expensive, Crampton’s approval would clearly be needed.

Told of the situation, Mike agreed readily, feeling that he owed it to Garstein. Michele Grant, Weinberg’s typist, was already fully occupied in the office, but he suggested that she might like to earn a little extra pocket money by transcribing the first few dozen pages at home, say to a point where there seemed to be some kind of natural break in the text. If it proved worth while she might perhaps do the rest in due course, although he couldn’t promise anything about that. As she was saving for a special vacation she jumped at the chance.

It was a few days before she had an opportunity to start, and she had some difficulty with Garstein’s handwriting, so more than a week had passed when she came to Weinberg with a query about it. Another document seemed to have got mixed up with the family history, supposing that was indeed the nature of the earlier part of the manuscript, as there was a complete break in the narrative and a change in the writing. Was she to continue or leave it there?

Weinberg read a paragraph or two of this new section and was alarmed. "Did you actually type up any of this?" "No, I thought I’d better not until you said so." "I think you were right. Maybe the original material continues later on, but for the time being we’d better not assume anything. Nor for that matter say anything about it to anyone else." Fortunately Michele was used to dealing with confidential matters and had a good reputation for discretion. He paid what was owed to her plus a small bonus, and resolved to ask Mike if he had come across any suggestion that Garstein might have been involved with the security services. On reflection he thought it best not to telephone or e-mail, but at the first opportunity wrote in the old-fashioned manner less susceptible to eavesdropping.

The postal service maintained its reputation and it was a few weeks before he received Mike’s terse response by e-mail: "Re letter. Yes."

He was thankful for Michele’s vigilance in recognising the significance of the discontinuity in style and duly commended her; it had evidently avoided the likelihood of serious embarrassment or worse. However, he suspected that the material could still cause trouble if it got into the wrong hands. Rightly or wrongly, he had doubts about the ability of the local police to distinguish adequately between the dangerous and the innocuous portions of Garstein’s manuscript, and was anxious that both should be treated with respect. Who might more appropriately deal with either was not immediately obvious to him, but the former clearly had to take priority. After some searching he found a promising postal address; emphasising that he had read no more of the script than enough to arouse his suspicions, and that he could not therefore be certain of its nature, he sent off a cautiously worded summary of the situation.

There was no reply apart from a formal acknowledgement, but soon afterwards he was visited by two very serious characters anxious to be sure that no one else was aware of the concealed document or would be for the indefinite future, with warnings of dire consequences for any loose talk about it. They took away the whole box, on his insistence leaving a receipt that might just possibly have been slightly better than nothing if questions were asked; after the contents had been sufficiently studied, which might take some considerable time, the portion irrelevant to the authorities (supposing it to be so) would be returned to him.

He did not entirely trust that promise, and so was relieved when several months later a large package came by special delivery from Washington with all but a small portion of Garstein’s papers as they had been found. With the pile was a newspaper cutting on the abrupt dismissal and apparent suicide of a senior government official of whom he had never heard, plus a single hand-written word: "Thanks" - insertions presumably against the spirit if not the letter of standing procedures, but he appreciated the consideration. He thought it best not to mention this development to the Carters.

There remained the question of what to do with the Jewish collection, and on that he was right out of his depth. He obviously needed professional advice, and even where to turn for it would depend on whether he should pursue primarily the literary or historical aspect. Theoretically the Internet should offer some prospect of finding a starting point, but the Jewish Historical Association seemed to be concerned only with history within the USA, while on the literary side the web site of the local university proved thoroughly unhelpful. However, Marion had friends on its staff and wangled an invitation to a lecture to be given by a visiting professor about the impact of immigration on academic life; with luck Weinberg might make some useful informal contacts in the customary social gathering after the event.

The lecture itself was of little interest to him, but he was well practised in feigning attention. Afterwards Marion introduced him to a few members of the department for whom the discovery of the documents was itself a point of mild interest, but no one had any constructive suggestions until the visitor became free and was invited to hear the story. He had a vague recollection from a previous visit thirty or forty years back that someone in the faculty had been working on a similar topic; he thought the name was Margaret Robinson, but was not at all sure, and she had probably retired long since. However, if she could be traced it might be worth talking to her. The Dean of the faculty, who had also joined the group, promised to look up the records and get in touch if anything relevant turned up.

A few days later he phoned Weinberg to say that he had found an entry about a Margaret Robertson (a credible origin for the dubious "Robinson") who seemed to fit the bill. Curiously, her project had been abandoned, or rather she had changed to another completely different, before it had got very far and for reasons that were not given. She had retired about ten years earlier, and it was not known whether she still lived in the area, but the listed address and telephone number might be worth trying.

In fact it turned out that she had moved out of the town, but the present tenants had a forwarding address in Rigby, about fifteen miles away, that might be still valid. In hope but little confidence, Weinberg wrote to it explaining that he understood she had once worked on documents relating to Jewish life in the Ukraine and wondered if she would be willing to advise on how to deal with a cache of similar material that had recently turned up.

There was no reply for about a month, and he thought she must have moved again, or of course might possibly have died. However, she eventually phoned saying she was sorry for the delay, but his letter had revived memories of an especially painful episode that at first she had been unable to face again. She hushed his apologies with the assurance that he couldn’t have been expected to know anything of that, and that now her initial reaction had subsided she would be glad to help if she could; it might even help to exorcise the ghosts. An appointment was made for the following week.

It seemed inappropriate to turn up with the whole box, but he took Garstein’s text so far as it had been transcribed and a sample of what he presumed to be supporting documents; he assumed that Dr. Robertson would be acquainted with at least one or other of the languages. A grey-haired woman answered the door, he asked "Dr. Robertson?", she welcomed him in and told him to call her Madge. In turn, he asked to be called Harry, exceptional familiarity for him, but he could not ignore her request and one-sided formality would be ridiculous. Coffee was offered but declined for the moment.

Weinberg first presented the transcript, which she glanced through, he thought rather casually; then she suddenly stiffened. She asked if he had brought any of the original material, and he presented the text and official documents; she studied them intently, then sighed and sat back in her chair.

"Harry," she said, "if you don’t mind I’m going to tell you a story that I’ve kept quiet for a very long time. It probably wouldn’t matter all that much if it got out now, but I’d rather it didn’t. Can I trust your discretion?" Puzzled, he assured her that she could; as an attorney he often had to exercise it. She nodded, and explained that her story went back about forty years when she was a young post-doc at the university with a rather insecure position in a small ethnographic research group, a position that she could not afford to lose. One of her students was a shy young man called John Smith, often teased about his name’s reputedly appearing in questionable circumstances on hundreds of hotel registers around the land, and distressed by it to the extent that he would have changed the name had the university not insisted that he must stick with the one in its records. With his cohort he used an alias, but she didn’t know it.

His project was based on a package of family documents originally belonging to a grandmother or some relative even further back, and to take his mind off the bullying she would often study them with him in her apartment. One thing led to another until after some months, under a long-dormant statute inherited from the earliest precursors of the university, she was hauled before a disciplinary committee and warned that unless she desisted from conduct incompatible with the student-teacher relationship, her position would have to be seriously re-examined. She thought this especially unfair since many of her male colleagues regarded indulging in such conduct as practically a perk of the job, but having already antagonised several senior members of the faculty in other ways, she saw no choice but to comply; with a wrench, she brought herself to tell John that he would have to find another supervisor. At that he had become violently emotional, decamped altogether from the university and taken his stock of source material with him. No more had since been heard of him despite some half-hearted enquiries by the university authorities that quickly came to a dead end.

"The reason I’m telling you this," said Margaret, "is that these papers seem identical with some of those I was studying so long ago. Are there many more?" "There’s a box so big, full of them - about half of them his text, the rest apparently the supporting documents." "A metal deed box?" "Yes, that’s right." "It sounds like the same collection."

She sat for a while in thought, and Weinberg thought it unwise to disturb it. Eventually she raised her eyes. "Assuming that it really is the same box, and I’m pretty sure that it must be, I’d like to buy it - at least the contents, of course. Would you be willing to sell? My means are limited, remember."

Weinberg explained that the box was not his to sell. For reasons too complicated to recite just then, it appeared to belong by inheritance to an English businessman with interests in Idaho. He would probably be content with any arrangement Weinberg made on his behalf, but Madge might well do better talking to him directly and he was likely to be visiting the area in a month or two; would she be willing to wait for that? "After forty-odd years, I think I can bear another couple of months easily enough. Is he likely to be difficult, do you think?" "Far from it, if I know him." He though it improper to mention his belief that Mike, hearing the story from her, would almost certainly prefer to make a gift of the collection, something that an attorney would be unwise to do on his own initiative. Meanwhile, it seemed safe enough to leave the samples with her.

Informed of this development in outline, Mike allowed an extra day for his next visit. After his business in the city, he had planned to visit his friends in Ashton, and Rigby was conveniently on the way so he took the box with him. Madge, receiving it, was overcome with emotion and almost wept over it; deeply embarrassed he tried to leave, but she recovered her composure and insisted that he couldn’t go without at least taking some light refreshment. To his relief her ideas in that direction were more modest than Iris Carter’s; she had just made one of her special chocolate cream cakes and he must try it. Very good, he pronounced diplomatically, and she pressed another portion on him, but he managed to dissuade her from giving him a third.

Then the delicate question of payment came up and he assured her that he wanted none. He was more than satisfied with finding a good home for Garstein’s - sorry, John’s - family history, especially as it obviously meant so much to her. Was she planning to resume her academic project? If so, he had already authorised Weinberg to have the manuscript transcribed at his expense. Maybe, she said, but it was medically unlikely that she would have time to complete the work or indeed get very far into it. She would however do her best to find where it could most effectively be pursued, in both academic and literary fields.

For herself, she valued the material chiefly as a relic of someone to whom she had once been very close. There had been no contact with him in all the time since that episode, but she had still kept alive some faint hope of somehow meeting again, not that it was likely to get her anywhere beyond making peace between them. Now she learned he was already dead, so that too was impossible this side of her own grave, and what saddened her most of all (absurdly, he might think) was that she didn’t even have any idea where he might have been buried. "I can show you," said Mike quietly, and that is what he did.

*****

Donald Harris had had a bad night, and the morning was not much better. He awoke with a thumping headache, a nasty taste in his mouth and a still nastier feeling of having done something very much worse than just getting drunk the previous night. The nature of it eluded him. What he did remember was a nightmare of finding himself chained in a dark, narrow space with a roof seeming to bear down on him. Perhaps it was a vestige of his horror, many years earlier, on reading a story in which the unfaithful wife of a mediaeval magnate awoke from a swoon to find herself buried alive in a sealed coffin.

Nothing more recent offered a clue to it. True, he had been chained at times, when there were particular reasons for it, but on the whole he had been treated fairly well throughout his years of captivity. The pressure had been mental, not physical. The worst moment had been the last, when the hideout was stormed and one stray bullet creased his forehead while another smashed a bone in his leg. He neither knew nor cared which side either of them had come from. He had been lucky; all but one of his kidnappers had been killed and so had two of the rescue party.

Heaving himself out of bed, he had second thoughts about the luck. The throbbing in his head deepened to such a pounding that he was forced to freeze until it subsided. Then he gingerly moved to the bathroom, splashed some water in his face and rinsed out his mouth. After that he felt strong enough to face some sort of breakfast. Real solids were out of the question, but he might manage a soft-boiled egg, and he hoped his wife would have some coffee ready for him; they had ceased to share a room when his thrashing about had made sleep impossible for her. However, she was not in the kitchen, so he filled the kettle and set it to boil while he tried to remember where the coffee was kept.

Then he found the note, a single sheet in an erratic hand with a smear of what looked like blood. "Dearest Don, I’m sorry, but I can’t take any more. Last night you really terrified me. Please, for your own sake as much as mine, get help before you do something completely unforgivable. I desperately want to come back to you, but I daren’t until you’ve recovered your real self. Please, please remember that you still have all my love, Josie."

So that was that. He’d really done it this time. What he had actually done he could not remember, but the trace of blood was ominous. The worst of it was that he could hardly feel surprised, except that she had put up for so long with his treatment of her. Whether he could brace himself to seek help was another matter. The shame of his degradation was too great to confess, and knowing that countless others were in exactly the same position was no help at all. What he suddenly realised he could do, and did immediately, was to search out every drop of alcohol in the apartment and pour it down the sink before he could change his mind. It was quickly done as most of the bottles and cans were already empty.

He could not remember what day it was and to find out had to switch on the radio, at very low volume. It turned out to be Sunday, so at least he was not expected at work.

How had he got into this disgusting state? He had not been an habitual drunkard. Of course in the early weeks after his release he had been in hospital and it would not have been possible even if he had fancied a binge. Afterwards there were other constraints. Josie had had to give up their earlier marital home years before, when it became obvious that the kidnappers were not going to let him go in a hurry. Her apartment in West Yellowstone (merely a couple of rooms rented from a friend) was unsuitable for his convalescence, so they had stayed for a while with the Hamiltons in Ashton. There he might have had the odd drink with Bill, but Sal would have made sure that it stayed within reasonable bounds. The trouble started when he was at last medically cleared to go back to work at the Idaho National Laboratory and they found a place in Idaho Falls. Josie felt obliged to continue with her job in the tourist agency but stayed with him when she could. Even so, he was alone for much of the time.

Reporting to Jim Monaghan on the first day back after the enforced five-year absence seemed very strange. "Welcome back, Don. We’ve missed you. How do you feel now?" "Pretty well, Jim, thank you, considering. And how’s everyone here?" "Well, as you’ve probably heard, there’ve been quite a lot of changes while you were away. The whole focus of the lab has altered. It’s all renewable energy, clean-up and waste management now. Your old project was chopped the year before last, I’m afraid." "I see. So where do I fit in now?"

Jim scratched his head. "That’s the problem. There’s nothing that really follows on from what you were doing before." There was a pause, and Donald began to fear a suggestion of early retirement on medical grounds. They were unlikely simply to sack him, at least while his ordeal was still fairly fresh in the public mind, but that mind tends to change like the wind and in the longer term his position looked none too secure. However, Jim had a more positive step in view, and his problem was how to present it in an attractive manner.

"Well, the big problems are still waste management and weapon proliferation. To some extent they come together in the issue of plutonium-contaminated waste. Of course no terrorist in his right mind would consider it as a source of weapon material, but you can’t tell that to some of the Greens, and in any case it’s an embarrassment in its own right. So there’s a scheme to collect the stuff from the various sites, separate out the combustible part - paper tissues, protective clothing and so on - incinerate it and extract the plute from the residue. That’s a chemical job, of course, but there’s a good deal of engineering involved as well." "In what way?" "Firstly in containing the dust from the incinerator, but that’s a specialised field in its own right. Where you might fit in is improving the remote-handling equipment. We’re long past the stage where simply shoving stuff in and out of glove boxes was acceptable, and in any case some of it needs shielding. That makes maintenance difficult, and of course if equipment breaks down, it becomes waste itself and adds to the problem, so for that reason alone apart from any others, extreme reliability is essential. It’s quite a challenge. How do you fancy helping to tackle it?"

"What’s the alternative?" "Frankly, I haven’t thought of one." "So it’s that or nothing, then." "I wouldn’t say that. There’s bound to be some engineering work to be done in almost any area, but it’s liable to be bits and pieces, and most of the projects are fully staffed already. I doubt if you’d find them much more appealing, anyway."

Donald accepted what seemed to be inevitable with the best grace he could, and asked who was running the project. "Chris Bradshaw - I think you know him." "Yes, but didn’t you say it was a chemical job? He’s a physicist." "That’s right, but he’s always said that chemistry is only a branch of physics, and he was quite happy to take it on." This lack of professionalism was worrying, and Donald’s anxieties increased over the following week as he got to know the rest of the team, clearly the has-beens of the department. The whole job looked suspiciously like a cosmetic exercise to avoid the need for compulsory redundancies. He became increasingly depressed, and once in Josie’s absence he had an extra drink to cheer himself up. It didn’t work, so he had another, and so on.

That was the start of the problem. He still managed to stay more or less sober during the week, but more and more often, Josie coming south when her days off fell at the weekend found him truly drunk. Her attempts to persuade him away from the booze only angered him, the more so since he knew she was right, and anger led to violence. It was mild at first, just thrusting her away from him too forcefully as she tried to coax him back to sanity, but it gradually became more serious until the night of the disastrous assault. He had no recollection of what form it had taken, and perhaps that was merciful.

The shock of her leaving and forcing him to recognise the gravity of his condition sobered him up, and he still had just enough will-power to sustain his resolution, though it was a very close thing. It became a little easier with time, and to take his mind off his loss he took a more active interest in his work. It might have begun as a non-job, but he found he could make it into something substantial.

There was a further reason for working late. His neighbour, a mildly attractive divorcee in her early forties, had started bringing him portions of pies or cakes "because I’m sure you don’t look after yourself properly." He was cautiously grateful, but when after some weeks she noticeably smartened herself up and hinted that if he needed comforts of another kind she might not be unduly reluctant, he took fright and from then on made a point of being otherwise occupied in the evenings.

That problem eased when she found a more pliable prospect, but by then he had reached a critical point in his project and for his own satisfaction needed to put the time in. Monaghan noticed and asked how it was going. "Pretty well, Jim. I think we could have a preliminary design ready in a month or two." "That’s good, because in the autumn there’s an IAEA seminar with a section on the subject, and it would boost the section’s profile if you presented a paper there." "But surely it should be Chris doing that?"

Monaghan agreed in principle, but strictly between the two of them thought that Donald would make a better job of it. Chris would of course be nominally the senior author, and in any case would have to write up the chemical side of the process, while Monaghan would take responsibility for smoothing any ruffled feathers. In the event, Chris’s technical contribution turned out to be minimal so it was obvious that Donald should be the presenter, saving a good deal of embarrassment. Meanwhile Donald had to produce the bulk of the paper. He could in theory write it at work, but with frequent interruptions there he found it easier at home. That at least gave him a convincing reason for avoiding convivial occasions that might trigger a relapse into his former trouble. He wondered if Josie might return and perhaps accompany him to Vienna, but she had changed her telephone number and Sal Hamilton flatly refused to tell him the new one without being fully satisfied that there would be no relapse. In case Josie’s resolve weakened, she would not even forward letters.

Donald felt overwhelmed and doubted whether he could remember a fraction of it, so he asked Chris to write out the main points for him. Then there was the little matter of travel to Vienna, a long journey taking the best part of twenty hours however he did it, and complicated by the large difference in time zones. Moreover, although the city was better served by air than it had been a decade or so earlier, at least two changes would be needed. Even setting off at the crack of dawn and with good connections, he would arrive well into the following morning.

He was inclined to make light of this, but found himself more weary on arrival than he had expected, his luggage was heavier than intended and his leg had started playing up enough to justify taking a cab to the hotel. He had pain-killers but through an oversight they were in the hold baggage, and the discomfort had made sleep practically impossible during the flight, so he dosed himself and spent the afternoon in bed.

Fortunately his paper was scheduled for a session on the second day of the seminar, so there was a reasonable chance by then of recovering fairly well from the journey. Of the first day he could afterwards remember very little, apart from the Brazilian delegate’s apologising for appearing in extremely informal attire as his luggage had been sent in error to Venice. The next day there was a further delay when it was sent on from there to Vientiane. Donald never heard whether it had eventually reached its owner. He was reminded of the story about a very aggressive passenger at Heathrow who had given hell to a check-in clerk, moving the one behind to commiserate with her when his turn came and ask where the unpleasant character was going: "Washington - but his luggage is going to Tokyo." He wondered what Senhor Dias could have done to deserve a double misdirection.

By the time Donald was due to present his own paper he was feeling more fully awake, and to his great relief put in what even he thought to have been a tolerably professional performance. It aroused a good deal of interest, so much that discussion had to be cut short for the sake of the following speaker. However, at lunch time while he was collecting cutlery, one of the delegates whose question had not been accommodated approached, introduced himself as Neil Ainsworth and asked if he might join Donald.

Eating hampers serious conversation, so it was purely casual during the meal. Afterwards Ainsworth explained that he was interested in the INL scheme but puzzled by one aspect of it: what was the form of plutonium in the residues they were to treat? "Mostly oxide, I expect." "And you’re going to leach it out just with nitric acid?" "That’s right." "But plute oxide’s practically insoluble in nitric acid." "What? Are you sure? I mean, I’m no chemist, but plutonium is an actinide, isn’t it?" "Of course." "And actinides behave like lanthanides, and their oxides dissolve easily enough, don’t they" "Yes, but (if you’ll pardon the anthropomorphism) the early actinides don’t seem to know all that. They behave chemically just as though they were continuing an ordinary long series - uranium very much like tungsten, for instance. Lanthanide behaviour doesn’t kick in until you get to americium, and plute oxide behaves more like silica. I’m afraid you might as well try getting nitric acid to dissolve sand."

Donald was not going to give in too easily. "Just a minute, though. In other plants the oxide is dissolved in nitric acid, isn’t it?" "Yes, but they add fluoride as a catalyst. And to stop the fluoride from dissolving your equipment you have to add aluminium. If you do that, by the time you’ve finished you’re almost back where you started, only the plute’s mixed up with a mass of aluminium instead of the general muck, which I suppose is some improvement." "Hmm. That’s a bit of a poser. Thanks for pointing it out. I’ll have to discuss it with my colleagues when I get back." "Good luck with it; I’d like to hear how you get on. Here’s my card."

So much for Chris’s "chemistry only a branch of physics," Donald thought. He must have a serious talk with him about getting a real chemist in on the project. At least he’d been spared the humiliation of being challenged on so basic a point within the meeting, but thinking with horror of what might so easily have happened he got more and more irritated as the afternoon session wore on. Adding to his distraction, his leg was hurting rather badly again and he realised he had better have it checked when he got back home in case something was seriously wrong.

At that point two last-minute passengers arrived, arguing vehemently in Italian. One of them was gesticulating wildly, not looking where he was going; he tripped and stumbled into Donald, catching him not only with his shoulder but with a heavy briefcase behind the knee. The impact threw him forward, the injured leg refused to take his weight and he tottered over the edge of the platform. The train was too close for him to get out of its way.

*****

Mike Crampton was relaxing after a more than usually busy day, not expecting any interruption, and the ringing of the telephone startled him. He took a few seconds to collect his thoughts and answer it. "Michael, this is Sal." "Who? Sorry, I was napping." "Sal Hamilton, in Ashton." "Oh, Sal, hello, it’s good to hear from you." "I’m not sure you’ll think so when you hear what it’s about."

She explained that Josie’s husband had had a fatal accident while attending a meeting in Vienna, and that Josie herself was required to go and identify the body as no one there had known him well enough. In any case she would have to make the usual administrative and logistic arrangements. Donald had been travelling on duty so his department would take care of the costs, and had offered to provide an escort, but Josie knew none of the people there and in the circumstances would very much rather have a friend with her. Sal would have gone herself, only Bill had a particularly nasty dose of flu and she couldn’t leave him; she realised that it was a huge imposition, but was it at all possible that Mike might step into the breach?

He didn’t need to think about it; of course he would. The implications could be worked out later. Sal explained that on the provisional plans they had made, Josie would arrive at Heathrow about ten o’clock the following Tuesday; could he meet her there? Mike checked his diary and confirmed that he could. That flight would just miss the last connection arriving at a reasonable hour, and she would already be tired after a night on the plane, so intended to stay overnight in London and travel onward the next day. A nine-fifty departure looked reasonably convenient.

It was too late to do any more about it that evening, but the next day Mike first made sure that his deputy Terry Hankins was willing and able to stand in for him over the time he was likely to be away, so that no more difficult substitution was necessary. That settled, he called back to Sal and the arrangements were quickly agreed. With some apprehension he wondered how he would react to meeting Josie again. It was a long time since learning that she was already married had put paid to some notions he had been cherishing on his own behalf, but the thought was not entirely extinguished. He still felt a flutter as she emerged from Arrivals, and was disturbed to see how she had aged since their last meeting, still more by her uncharacteristically emotional greeting.

Rather than stay overnight near the airport, he had booked rooms at a more agreeable hotel used by his travel company. She was very quiet during the drive, tired no doubt, and he was not surprised when she retired for the afternoon as she couldn’t face lunch. He took the opportunity to study a German phrase book picked up at the airport. However, by evening she was sufficiently restored to dine with him, and to Mike’s relief her composure seemed fully restored. Afterwards she gave him a heavily censored account of events since Donald’s discharge from hospital. Nevertheless she excused herself early and Mike called Terry to check on any problems that might have arisen in his absence, fortunately nothing needing his own attention. After that he went back to the phrase book, but he was tired himself and found it hard going.

In the morning Josie was fairly well recovered, very fortunately as an early start was needed, but she dozed again during the flight and Mike thought it best not to disturb her when lunch was offered. There was another time zone to cross, though nothing compared with the difference from the western USA. Despite his instant willingness to accompany her, having never visited Vienna he had wondered how he would cope, and been reassured to find that before setting out she had followed advice to inform the US embassy of her plans so that she could be met on arrival.

Colin Drysburgh of the Citizen Services department was used to this sort of thing and duly sympathetic to Josie in her bereavement. He knew something of Donald’s kidnap and was interested when she introduced Mike as an old friend who had been indirectly involved in the rescue; if he suspected that there was any more than friendship in the association he kept it to himself. The arrangement was to visit the police headquarters the following morning, but he was unsure whether she would be required to stay longer after the unpleasant task of confirming Donald’s identity. Much would depend her ideas for a funeral, and there was another possible complication that for the moment he left unexplained.

The hotel where they were to stay, the same as Donald had used, was quite close to the Embassy and on the same street. The car dropped them there, and he would call for them the following morning when they were to see the police officer in charge of the investigation. Mike was surprised. "Investigation? I thought it was a straightforward accident." It probably was, Drysburgh thought, as the explanation given by the man who caused it was so ridiculous it must be true, but there might be a charge of manslaughter, or if a motive could be found even murder. "What was the explanation?" "I daren’t tell you. My wife nearly had hysterics when she heard it. We don’t wasn’t to make an exhibition of ourselves in the street."

With time to spare after unpacking and a rest, Mike thought some distraction advisable and suggested that they could hardly visit Vienna without seeing at least some of the sights. The Stephansplatz was within easy walking distance and that was an obvious place to start. Josie was impressed by the cathedral and after walking slowly round inside was suddenly moved to ask if it would be utterly absurd to light a candle. Mike thought not, and added his own, a gesture that she clearly appreciated.

After that she suddenly realised she was hungry, not surprisingly after missing lunch. Drysburgh had mentioned a particular restaurant as famous for its Viener schnitzel, but it was evidently full with a queue already waiting, so they went on to the end of the alley and found another that looked promising. Having to go down rather steep stairs to the cellar dining area amused Josie, but she liked the alcove to which they were directed and enjoyed the meal.

The next morning Drysburgh took them to police headquarters by the long way round the Ring. "You may as well see something of our best buildings while you’re here." "Our buildings?" queried Mike. "Well, we tend to think of ourselves as honorary citizens." On arrival Drysburgh stated their business and they were ushered in to see Hauptmann Strasser, whose name immediately made Mike think of "Casablanca", but there was nothing of the Nazi about this Strasser. He offered his deepest sympathy to Josie and apologised for the need to subject her to this ordeal, which she assured him she understood to be necessary however unpleasant. A female officer would accompany them to the morgue. Mike was welcome to go too if he wished, or he could wait for their return. "Oh, we’re coming back, are we?" "Yes, there’s a little further business. Nothing to worry about." Mike asked Drysburgh if this was the complication to which he had alluded, and he nodded.

The officer, Anneliese Schmidt, was a motherly type and Josie was glad of her presence: despite the best efforts of the mortuary attendants, the body was in a distressing condition not entirely concealed beneath the covers. Fortunately the face had been spared further disfigurement, and there was no doubt about the identity. Thinking of what their relationship had been, and how it might perhaps have been recovered had she shown more fortitude, she could not completely restrain her tears, and a woman’s sympathetic company was very welcome.

Back in Strasser’s office, he asked what Josie wanted to be done about the funeral, as there were two possibilities: the body might be repatriated intact, though that would involve certain formalities and of course be expensive at several thousand dollars, or it could be cremated and the ashes shipped to a suitable address in the USA. Drysburgh, asked his opinion, said it was up to Josie but quite apart from the matter of cost, local cremation would be by far the more practical course. She immediately saw the point and agreed. The procedure would take some days to set up; would she stay for the service, or return? She would have to think about that.

Meanwhile there was one other thing: Professor Bertolucci, whose blundering had caused the accident, was not after all to be charged with any offence. Investigations so far had found no suggestion of premeditated malice nor any cause for it, and it would be regrettable to risk an international incident by pursuing a distinguished Italian academic unnecessarily. He would be allowed to leave as soon as he wished, but hearing that Josie had come was anxious to offer his apologies in person; would she be willing to accept them?

Josie wondered what Mike thought. "Well, it’s bound to be embarrassing, but the poor sod must be in agonies of remorse and it might help. You could notch up a credit or two with the recording angel if you agreed." So they met, and it was quite as embarrassing as Mike had expected. Bertolucci overwhelmed Josie with abject apologies, but she took it well, and her assurance of having no hard feelings produced some of the desired effect. Mike however wondered what actually had happened.

"Ah, Signor, it is so absurd that I can hardly believe it myself. I was engrossed in an argument with Dr. Antonelli, we were getting rather heated, and to my sorrow I failed to notice Signor Harris standing there. I tripped over something, stumbled against him and he seemed to lose his balance. For some reason he could not recover it and fell off the edge of the platform." Josie told him that Donald’s injured leg had probably not regained its full strength and might have given way under him, and Bertolucci nodded: that must be it. It was some slight relief to his conscience.

"But what were you arguing about, to get so excited?" Mike asked. Remembering Drysbergh’s wife, Josie reprovingly dug him in the ribs, and indeed Bertolucci had his head in his hands, muttering incomprehensibly. "What? I didn’t catch it": "I am so sorry, I am desolate that my clumsiness caused such a terrible accident over so trifling a subject." "What subject?" "Mike, it doesn’t matter, don’t push it," Josie interrupted, but Bertolucci continued, perhaps anxious to get it off his chest. "We were disputing ... whether Pavarotti or Domingo was the greater singer."

Josie stared in astonishment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter that indeed threatened to become hysterical until Anneliese took her in hand. Had it been an Italian opera, that would have been the cue for a mad scene. Meanwhile, Mike somehow managed to keep a straight face and to ease the tension shook hands with the bemused Bertolucci, who accepted the gesture gratefully. When Josie had recovered her composure she too offered her hand which instead he kissed effusively.

By that time she had decided that she could not in conscience take more time away from her work, and asked if it would be fitting for Drysburgh to represent her at the cremation. He would gladly do that and arrange for the ashes to be sent to her; she thought the Hamiltons’ address the most suitable. Austrian regulations would require a certificate that a cemetery had a burial plot for the urn, but that was not to say she must use it if she had other ideas, as indeed she had. For the present she kept them to herself.

*****

Neil Ainsworth made his statement to the police. He had been talking to Dr. Harris and standing beside him at the time the Italians approached. Out of the corner of his eye he had been vaguely aware of Bertolucci and Antomelli but took no particular notice, as he was more concerned to see where would be the best place to board the approaching train. Consequently he had not realised the danger until Dr. Harris cannoned into him and then off the platform. He had no reason to suppose that it might have been anything but a tragic accident, nor had anyone else so far as he had heard.

The following morning’s session of the seminar opened with a minute’s silence in respect for Dr. Harris, then got down to the scheduled business. Neil’s heart was not really in it, and his mind returned to his last words with Harris. The flaw in the INL plan would probably be noticed before there was any commitment of material resources, but then it ought to have been spotted long before and had not. To be on the safe side he would write to the co-author listed in the programme. It might be tactful to append his thoughts to a note of condolence.

There was no immediate response but five weeks later he received an e-mail from Jim Monaghan thanking him for his thoughtfulness, acknowledging that the difficulty he raised had previously been overlooked, expressing interest in Ainsworth’s suggested solution to it, and offering him a consultancy on the project. Neil was astonished that no American chemist had been called in rather than a foreigner, but supposed that maybe there were issues of internal politics or "face" involved. In any case he was coming up to retirement and not disposed to look this particular gift horse too closely in the mouth, so he replied that he was interested, and with very little difficulty an acceptable contract was soon agreed.

As it happened another three months passed before his first visit to INL and introduction to Chris Bradshaw, who struck him as an agreeable character but not one he would have expected to be chosen as head of such a project. Still, that was none of his business. He was shown the engineering test rig and expressed due admiration, then at a team meeting presented his objections to the original process scheme, the way he proposed to overcome them, and the kind of design extensions that would be needed to accommodate it. The technology involved was familiar and he foresaw no need for much research. On the other hand he had known two instances where over-confidence in existing knowledge had almost led to disaster, so he recommended at least some confirmatory studies on a small scale, then inactive trials with a full-sized mock-up of the plant as it was intended to be. Bradshaaw thanked him; there were a few questions, not particularly demanding, and that appeared to be that for the time being. Money for jam, he thought.

Afterwards Bradshaw thanked him again for his presentation and suggested a further visit during the pilot runs, to which Ainsworth agreed in principle; definite arrangements could be made nearer the time if it still seemed appropriate. It also occurred to him to mention that he had been talking to Harris at the time of the accident, and if there were any family living locally he would rather like to offer personal condolences; they might be pleased to hear how well his paper had been received.

Bradshaw explained that there was a widow, but he understood her to have been estranged for some time. Still, absence might have made the heart grow fonder; he had some telephone numbers and would make enquiries during the lunch break. It turned out that she was actually at the marital home in Idaho Falls and would be glad to see him. What time was his flight? A little after five. No problem; a car was arranged.

Josie told him that it was lucky he had come just then as she happened to be closing the lease on the apartment; lucky for her, she meant, as she did want to know how Don had seemed. Pretty fit, Ainsworth thought, apart from the problem with his leg, which of course he hadn’t known at the time. No signs of the alcoholism that had blighted the marriage? None at all that he could see. Josie sighed and said she wished she had known; she had wanted all along to return to Don in due course, but had had no contact since running out in fear for her life. He must have shown extraordinary determination to recover so successfully. However, that was water under the bridge. At least she was glad that he had regained his self-respect.

In a lighter vein she wondered if Neil had visited the area before. He hadn’t, so she suggested that if he came again, he should allow time for a quick tour of the area. She worked for the tourist agency, and if the timing was suitable and other commitments permitted, would be glad to show him around. He thought that a very good idea.

It became reality the following spring when as expected he was invited to witness the pilot-scale trials of his process, which to his relief yielded no unpleasant surprises. He had arranged that Josie would collect him from his hotel the morning after his business was complete. On the way north they naturally had to stop briefly in Ashton, where Sal Hamilton welcomed him warmly: Bill was out, but expected back soon. Josie had told Neil about the relationship with them, but while she was out of the room he commented on something that had puzzled him: although she was relatively young and so had been her husband, there was no sign of parents or in-laws. Sal said it was a rather delicate matter, but there could be no harm in his knowing.

Josie was actually the daughter of Sal’s sister, who had gone off on a European tour, got involved with a rather loose bunch there, and after her return found herself pregnant. She had lost touch with the father; the only clue to his identity was a group photograph which Sal showed to Neil and as she said, named no one. It was a difficult birth and Yvonne died soon afterwards, so the Hamiltons had brought Josie up practically as their own. As for Donald, he had quarrelled with his parents over breaking away from a very strict religious sect in which they had positions of authority, and when they realised that he was to marry a "child of sin" it was the last straw for them: they disowned him completely and there had been no further communication. For all practical purposes they might as well be dead.

Neil took a second look at the photograph. It was the usual kind of holiday snap with people posing self-consciously in front of Sacré-Cœur de Paris, but there was something more, something about the group itself that stirred a memory. He asked which of the figures was Yvonne, and Sal pointed it out. Peering more closely at those beside her, he was convinced. "You won’t believe this, but that’s my brother!" "What? It can’t be!" "I’m sure of it. I thought this photo looked familiar, and that’s why; he had another print of it, and I particularly remember the silly hat he was wearing. I believe he still has it - about the only relic of his misspent youth that his wife’s let him keep. And now I think of it, he did say that he’d been rather fond of that girl but lost her address when his wallet was stolen."

Sal called for Josie, and Neil signalled her not to speak for a moment. "Josie, do you mind my asking? What’s your blood group?" "Not at all, B rhesus positive, but why?" "That pretty well settles it." "Settles what?" Sal’s excitement burst out irresistibly: "Josie, we’ve found your father!" "What? Not you, Neil, is it?" "No, and just as well or my wife would have something to say about it. It’s my brother Dennis. Wait till I get home and tell him; he’ll be tickled pink."

"So will Bill when he comes in," said Sal. "But are you sure about your brother? Not all - er - mature gentlemen are pleased when youthful indiscretions come home to roost." "Don’t worry, he’ll be delighted. He and Molly have always wanted children but never managed it." "Dennis, maybe, but will Molly take that view, do you think?" "Oh, she wasn’t around then. She knows there were a few wild oats before they met. Since then he’s strictly honoured the ‘forsaking all others’ bit - I don’t think he’d dare do otherwise - and she’s satisfied with that."

Sal hoped he was right but rather doubted it. However, that was someone else’s worry. Hers was to prepare the lunch for which the visitors would obviously have to stay after Neil’s astonishing discovery, so she excused herself and bustled around the kitchen. Bill, returning, caught her at it and wondered what was going on. "You’ll never guess." "No, of course I shan’t unless you give me a clue." "Josie’s here." "I know that. It’s her car outside. Very nice to see her again, of course, but what’s so special this time?" "It’s who’s with her. Of all people, her father’s brother." "Don’t talk nonsense, we’ve no idea who the father was." "We have now. Josie’s taking around an acquaintance of Donald’s who recognised his brother on that old photo of Yvonne’s." "I dare say he did, but I seem to remember that getting a woman with child usually takes a bit more involvement than appearing in the same photograph. Just as well, too."

Sal told him not to be silly, of course there was more to it than that; for a start he had the right blood group, one of the less common types. "That only means it’s not impossible. You’d need a DNA test to establish paternity." "Well, maybe it will come to that, but there’s an easier way. Send him a copy of the photograph and ask whether he’d bedded that girl." "Now why didn’t you say that in the first place?" "Because I’ve only just thought of it."

As it happened, the same thought had also occurred to Neil, who had taken what he hoped would turn out to be a tolerable reproduction with his own camera, probably not as good as a direct scan but with any luck sufficient for the purpose.

It was fortunate that he and Josie had allowed more than sufficient time for this leg of the journey, as over lunch the Hamiltons naturally wanted to know everything he could tell them about Dennis and his family and it stretched well into the afternoon. After they left, Josie commented that it would seem odd to start calling Neil "Uncle" rather than "Mr. Ainsworth" and he suggested that perhaps she had better not, at least for the time being. Even if confirmed to be true, it might arouse unworthy suspicions when they had to stay at the same hotel. That night, of course, she spent in her own apartment, but joined Neil for dinner. It reminded her of the time she had needed to beg a ride from Ashton with Mike, and wondered what he was doing now. Then she recalled a later occasion when he had solved another difficulty for her and she had asked in jest if he was going to make a habit of getting her out of holes. He had casually replied "If she would let him," and she wondered whether he had really meant it. Counting the business in Vienna, there had been three occasions now. For some reason the question had begun to seem rather significant.

The next day, stopping at Jenny Lake, she was again reminded of Mike and told Neil of his looking for the burial place there. He thought it might be interesting to see the spot, but she had no directions and remembered that it might be rather difficult to find. She mentioned that it was another Englishman who had told her the story, and suddenly realised that she was probably half English herself, a thought that had not previously registered. Perhaps she ought to look further into that side of her ancestry if the opportunity offered when she next escorted a tour there, supposing that the unconventional arrangement by which she occasionally did so were to continue.

Neil was astonished that she was prepared to leave it to such a chance; if the apparent relationship were indeed verified, would she not wish to visit her father immediately? She was reluctant to admit that the fare would be a larger slice of her resources than she could reasonably afford, but Neil sensed the difficulty and suggested that if it was inconvenient to spend so much time away from her work, Dennis would probably want to visit her. Before leaving her for his flight, he promised to prod his brother in that direction.

Back home his wife was duly astonished by the discovery and as eager as he was to confirm it. They made an early opportunity to visit Dennis, ostensibly for Neil to give an account of his tour, but that was soon out of the way and Joan then guided the conversation towards old times. Did Dennis by any chance still have that photograph of a group posing in front of Sacré-Cœur? No, it had been lost or discarded years before, but why did she ask? Neil explained that on his travels he had come across what he thought might be another print of the same shot and would like to see whether he was right or not; he had brought along a copy of it and would Dennis like to check?

Dennis looked carefully at it and a slow smile spread across his face. "My word, those were good times." "So it is the same photo, then?" "Yes, definitely. What an extraordinary coincidence. How on earth did you find it?" Despite his assurance to Josie of his confidence in Molly’s likely attitude, Neil ducked the question until she went to make more coffee, then told of his visit to the Hamiltons. Did Dennis by any chance remember the name of the girl next to him in the group? Sadly, no, but "Hamilton" didn’t ring any bells. Might it have been Yvonne Lake? A moment’s thought, then "Yes! I do believe it was. My word, that takes me back. She was something really special, and no mistake." "Special enough to - er - economise on rent for the night?" "Well, yes, quite a few nights as it happened, but don’t tell Molly that. Actually she took a hell of a lot of persuading at first, not her usual style at all." "I didn’t know you could be so persuasive." "I wasn’t always the timid hen-pecked husband, you know. But what’s the point of all this?" "Just the small matter that the guide I had on that trip is her daughter, and evidently yours too."

This revelation left Dennis stunned, and Molly returning with the coffee wondered what had happened. Dennis feebly waved at Neil to explain. "Well, that is a bombshell," was all her comment, which Neil thought decidedly inadequate in the circumstances, especially considering the casual tone in which it was uttered. He was not aware that in view of various snippets that had come her way from time to time, Molly had long harboured suspicions of what might have gone on in Dennis’s bachelor days, and if anything was rather pleased that something tangible had at last turned up. The only fly in the ointment was that it seemed to indicate her infertility rather than Dennis’s as the cause of their childlessness; she had tacitly assumed otherwise. "What’s she like, Neil?" "I thought her delightful. A credit to you, Dennis." "Probably more nurture than nature," Molly remarked a little sharply.

"Is she married?" she added as an afterthought. "She was, but her husband was killed in an accident about eighteen months ago. I was talking to him at the time, and that was the reason for my visits to the States - or rather, the subject matter was the reason." "Any children?" "No." A pity, Molly thought. Even step-grandchildren would be better than none. But then, if the girl was really as attractive as Neil seemed to think ... "Neil, do you have a photograph of her?" "There may be one or two in the camera." "Well, will you let us have prints if there are?" "Of course."

"Dennis, we must invite her over," she commanded. "What? Oh, yes, my dear." Neil pointed out that there might be some obstacle: he wasn’t sure whether it was pressure of work, the cost of the fare or some other reason, but she had not seemed particularly eager to make such a visit. "She’s probably worried about the reception she might get from a step-mother," Molly suggested, and Neil agreed perhaps a shade too readily that that might be true. She glared at him. "As for the fare, we can pay it, can’t we, Dennis?" "I suppose so." "Don’t sound so enthusiastic!" "Sorry, dear, I still can’t get used to the idea." "Of booking flights?" "No, of course not. Of having a daughter after all these years."

Neil pointed out that it didn’t have to be Josie making the crossing; Dennis, with or without Molly, could visit her. "All very well for you, Neil. You get your fare paid, and I suppose business class. For us it would mean either spending a fortune or going all that way in a peculiarly fiendish form of torture." "Isn’t it worth a fortune?" Molly demanded. "Well, if absolutely necessary, I suppose." "Come on, she’s your daughter, not mine. I shouldn’t be having to nag you into it." To put an end to this line of argument, Neil offered to tell Josie that she would be very welcome to come if the opportunity were to arise before her now more-than-putative father was in a position to visit her.

*****

The firm for which Josie sometimes escorted European tours had linked up with Dennison’s, in which Mike Crampton had an interest, so it was natural to use one of his coaches for the British section, and in view of their known friendship to put her in charge of it. For one of the trips Terry Hankins had been the driver, and on the next after the discovery of her parentage she was glad to see him again; knowing that he was closer than most to Mike, she felt free to ask how he was. "Well, and pretty busy, but he asked me to say that he can probably get away for dinner with you if you can spare the time." "I think I can do that." She snatched a moment to call Mike and tell him so.

He arrived with a box of the English chocolates for which she had previously confessed a penchant, and over the meal she told him her news, in particular how the question of her father’s identity had been resolved. "I hadn’t realised that there was any question, but now it’s been answered, are you going to see him?" "I’m not sure. I got a call from Neil to say that I’d be welcome, which was reasonable enough as he was the one I knew, but I’d have expected his brother to confirm it personally. I can’t help feeling that for some reason he isn’t too keen. There isn’t time on this trip, anyway." "Do you want to, eventually?" "Of course, as a matter of curiosity. I can’t pretend there’s any emotional bond." "Not to be expected when you haven’t even met. How did you get on with Neil?" "Fine. I thought it very kind of him to go out of his way, quite unprompted, to tell me about meeting Donald and being with him at the time of the accident. Sal and Bill liked him, too." "That’s certainly a good recommendation. Hmm. I wonder ..." "What?" "Would it help if I had a word with him and asked if he knew what the problem might be? If it’s hurtful he might be more willing to tell me than you directly." "I’m not sure. But it’s worth trying, if you wouldn’t mind." "Of course I shouldn’t."

It was a few days before he could make that call. He then introduced himself as a friend of Josie, who had told him about the discovery of her parentage. "Not by any chance the friend who escorted her to Vienna?" "Oh, so you know about that. Yes, that’s right. Anyway, I was talking to her the other day about the possibility of her visiting her father. She had your message that she’d be welcome, but was surprised that none had come from him and felt it suggested that he was rather reluctant. Do you happen to know what the position really is?"

Neil in fact was just as puzzled himself. He had been quite sure that Dennis and Molly would be delighted by the discovery, and was taken aback by finding himself if not completely mistaken, then at least some distance from the mark. Mike wondered if it might be Molly raising objections, but Neil was fairly sure it was Dennis himself. "There is one possibility (don’t let this go any further, I shouldn’t really be telling tales out of school), but I’ve lately had an impression that he’s getting a bit tight-fisted in his old age. He demurred about the cost of visiting Josie in the States, and I know for a fact that he can afford it easily enough. I can’t help wondering if he’s afraid she’ll make some claim on his pocket." "Ah, that would make sense. Not that I think she’s likely to do anything of the sort. But perhaps it would be best to hang fire until the situation becomes clearer." "I think maybe you’re right. But I’m glad we’ve had this talk. Let me know of any developments, and I’ll come back to you if the occasion arises."

Josie had given him her itinerary and hotel telephone numbers, but she was not immediately available so he left a message for her to call when convenient. When she did so he told her simply that Neil had noticed there did seem to be some problem with Dennis but he didn’t know what it was, and it was probably best to wait a while rather than force the issue. She agreed, and then said there was something else in which she would like his help; was he likely to be visiting Ashton or in that area fairly soon? As it happened the attorney who was dealing with his property there had raised an issue that would need his personal attention, while Dennison also wanted to discuss some business arrangements, and it would be sensible to deal with all three matters on the one visit. Josie was due for a couple of weeks’ leave in the following month, and when he checked, that time seemed to suit everyone else well enough. They arranged to meet at the Hamilton’s place.

The first call however was on Harry Weinberg, who explained that the problem was with the resident caretakers of the house, or rather with their scruples. Iris Carter had been in hospital for a few days, and to make things easier for her, Joel had taken upon himself some minor structural alterations. "But you know how hyper-conscientious she is. When she found out she was furious - said he shouldn’t have done anything of the sort without permission. Strictly true, of course, but when she told me about it I assured her that you would have no objection at all; I hope that was right." "Absolutely. As far as I’m concerned they can improve it in any way they like. They’re the ones living there." "That’s how I understood it. Unfortunately, even that didn’t satisfy her, and she had to have your personal approval. I pointed out that she could hardly expect you to come five thousand miles or whatever it is just to ease her mind, and at least she saw the sense in that, but insisted that if you were coming anyway you should go and see what had been done. Nothing I could say would shift her from that." "Don’t worry, there’s no problem. I’m going that way in any case. I’ve friends to visit in the town, and I’d like to see the Carters again. I’ve neglected them for too long."

The business with Dennison took a little longer. He introduced Mike to a proposed additional partner, Jerry Shaw, who presented his ideas for developing the business. They seemed soundly based, but chiefly affected the American side of it and as far as Mike could see would make no difficulties for his, so he was quite happy for them to arrange things between themselves. Wishing them luck, he set off for Ashton.

Carter’s modifications to the house amounted to an extended porch with steps up to it on one side and a ramp for a wheelchair on the other, just in case of need. To Mike it seemed well conceived and soundly constructed, and in Iris’s presence he congratulated Joel on his handiwork. With their anxieties soothed on that score, he suggested that in case a similar situation should arise in the future, he could provide them with a formal written authorisation to do whatever they liked. Iris thought that too sweeping, and he should add a condition that except in case of emergency, he or his agent should approve a sketch and description of the work to be done before it was started. He thought it paradoxical that it was she who insisted on limiting their discretion, but if that was the way she wanted it, why should he complain?

It was agreed that he would draft the document and bring it for them all to sign the following morning. He also had a friend who had heard quite a lot about the house and the story behind it; would they mind if she came along to see it? Not at all, they would be delighted, and perhaps they could stay for lunch? That would probably not be convenient, as there was something to be done that might take more than just the afternoon, but a light mid-morning snack might be appreciated. Mike stressed the "light" but on past experience was still fairly sure that afterwards, lunch would be superfluous if not unthinkable.

The Hamiltons had a warm welcome for him but Josie hadn’t arrived yet, and Mike asked if they knew what it was that needed his help. It meant going north again and was likely to take all day, but beyond that they had no idea. He told them about the odd behaviour of Josie’s father and the conclusion he had reached with Neil about it, and they too thought it best not to push the matter too hard. The news must after all have been a severe shock to Dennis, however well it might turn out in time.

Josie arrived soon afterwards and told him of her ideas: She would like to see the place near Jenny Lake where the clue to Donald’s kidnappers had been found, but would need his help to find it. Her request went further: if he thought it permissible, she wanted to bury Donald’s ashes along with those of the family group already there. Mike could see no objection; from the account he had read of those burials, and what he had seen himself, no one had ever needed to ask permission before depositing the ashes, and their presence was simply accepted with reverence. One more could hardly cause any offence.

Next day they set off with a spade stowed behind the front seats. First they had to call on the Carters, only a slight detour from the main road. The spread that Iris had prepared confirmed his suspicions, but he said nothing and resolved to make a real attempt at doing it justice. Being warned, Josie had limited her breakfast to a glass of orange juice. At the introduction he was amused to notice significant glances between the Carters; all right, if that was what they were thinking, he’d had similar thoughts himself.

It was no surprise when Iris asked if she was the young lady for whom Mrs. Hamilton had asked, it must have been three or four years back, whether he was a suitable person to give a ride to her home town. Yes, and he thanked her for providing a favourable character reference; as they probably gathered, she had been very agreeable company on that trip. He then produced the document they had discussed, it was duly signed and Josie witnessed the signatures, to Iris’s evident relief. Then of course she had to show Josie round the house, proudly pointing out all the little touches that she and Joel had added since Mr. Crampton had so kindly allowed them to use it.

Meanwhile, Joel rather hesitantly asked Mike - although of course it was a personal matter and none of his business - whether there were any developments in view between him and Josie. Nothing at present, he said, although there was no telling about the future. Then he realised why Joel had seemed a shade apprehensive, and reassured him that whatever happened, nothing at all was likely to affect the arrangement they had about the house.

Getting away from them took some time; it was ages since they had seen him and they hoped it would not be so long until the next time. However, Mike eventually pointed out that they had a long way to go and must get on. Joel gave him a wink and a thumbs-up as they left. They had a good run up to West Yellowstone where Josie collected the urn from her apartment, then they headed off through the National Park and beyond towards Jenny Lake. Evening was approaching, but the sun still shone, bringing out the glory of the fall colours. By the time they reached the viewing point it was almost dropping behind the Tetons, touching the clouds with gold: it promised a fine display, but Mike was concerned about finding the way if darkness should fall. He did have a little difficulty in identifying the right path through the trees, since as on previous occasions the vegetation had changed since the last visit. Approaching the clearing, they were puzzled by a curious sound which proved to come from an elderly woman’s clipping the grass around the little pillar in the centre. Something about her seemed familiar, and when she stood up he realised why. After her first surprise she asked had she not seen him before? In fact, had he not been with the army party that had been digging there for something a year or two before?

He confirmed it, explained their present purpose and asked if she had any objections. "None at all, the more the merrier, as they say. In fact if you’ll tell me the name I’ll get our Jack to carve a little stone for it." "We really don’t want to put him all that trouble." "Oh, it’s no trouble, he’ll love doing it. Keep him out of mischief for a little while, anyway. Just leave a marker on the spot. I’ll be back tomorrow, but the stone will take a bit longer." "It’s really very good of you, Mrs ...?" "Scattergood, Audrey Scattergood." "Well, you’ve obviously been scattering a fair amount of good here." She beamed, and then thought of something else: "Have you seen that nice Captain Martin lately?" He was afraid not, but saw no reason to elaborate, promising to pass on her good wishes if the opportunity arose. "Well, I can’t do any more tonight. I’ll be off now." "Good night, and thank you."

The hole was quickly dug, Josie placed the urn and Mike smoothed out the earth above it. Josie took his hand and stood with bowed head for a few minutes. A few tears fell. Then she straightened up, breathed deeply, and five years seemed to have dropped away. "Mike, do you remember, that time in Blenheim Park, when I asked if you were going to make a habit of getting me out of difficult situations?" "Yes, very well. Why do you ask?" "Because I think, at last, that I’m about ready to let you."

© Peter D. Wilson, 2010

Peter D. Wilson asserts his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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