Campbell's Kingdom

CHAPTER FOUR

It was about seven-thirty when we left The Golden Calf. We went out by way of the bar. A little huddle of men were bunched around the stove. Their talk ceased abruptly as we entered and they stared at me dumbly, curiously. James McClellan and Creasy were there and the man with the fur cap and the two who had been playing cards when I first arrived. There were others I had never seen before and a little removed from them was the loutish figure of Max Trevedian staring stupidly into the red glow of the stove. At a table by himself Bladen sat over a glass of beer, the scar more noticeable than ever, his dark eyes fixed on my face.

‘I’m just taking Mr Wetheral down to see Jean,’ Pauline told her husband.

I saw Bladen start and realised suddenly that this was the same Jean he had been so anxious to see when he arrived. James McClellan grunted. The others watched us in silence as we crossed to the door.

Outside it was pitch dark. Not a light showed anywhere. It was warmer than it had been during the afternoon and there was a light wind from the West. We stopped outside the door and in the stillness of the night the only sound was the gentle murmur of water seeping down to the lake. From behind the closed door I heard the murmur of conversation starting up again. ‘I suppose they’re talking about me?’ I said.

‘But of course.’ My companion laughed. ‘What else would they talk about? We have little enough to talk about in the wintertime. They will talk of nothing else for weeks.’.

‘They don’t seem to have liked my grandfather very much,’ I said.

‘Oh, they are bitter, that is all. All the time he was living up there in the Kingdom they had something to hope for. Now he is dead and they have nothing to stand between them and the reality of their lives here. Look at the place.’ She shone her torch out across the snow to the crumbling shape of the shacks on the other side of the street. They looked forlorn and wretched in the brightness of the beam. ‘Do you wonder they are bitter? Come on.’ She took my arm. ‘I will guide you because it is dangerous. This sidewalk has many boards missing. There is no money to repair them, you see. If anything becomes rotten in this town it stays rotten. If you are here till the spring you will see how dreadful this place is. The main street is axle-deep in mud and the whole mountainside seems to be slipping beneath the houses. More and more houses collapse each year when the mud comes. You will see.’

Tell me,’ I said, ‘is Max Trevedian the brother of the man who runs the transport company?’

‘Out. You would never believe it to look at them, would you?’ She gave a little gurgle of laughter. ‘Half brothers, I think. But do not tell them so. That is just gossip, you know. Jimmy says Peter takes after his father and is a real Cornishman, while the younger one, Max, is very German like his mother.’ Her hand tightened on my arm. ‘Be careful here. It is very bad.’ A single rotten plank spanned a gap in the sidewalk. ‘Do you know what my children call Max?’ she added as we stumbled through softening snow to the next safe stretch of the sidewalk. ‘They call him the Moose Man. Have you ever seen a moose?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Only in pictures.’

‘You will see plenty here if you go into the timber, then you will understand how very amusing the name is.’ She flicked her torch towards the pale glimmer of a lighted window ahead. That is where the Miss Garrets live. They are terrible gossips and very old-fashioned. But I like them.’

‘And Jean Lucas — what’s she like?’ I asked.

‘Oh, you will like her. She is very interessante, I think.’ She gave my arm a squeeze. ‘She and I are great friends. We talk in French together.’

‘She speaks French?’ Somehow the idea of an English girl out here in the wilds speaking French seemed absurd.

‘But of course. She is English, but she has some French blood.’

‘What is she doing in Come Lucky?’ I asked. ‘Has she relatives here?’

‘No. I also think it is queer.’ I felt her shrug her shoulders. ‘I do not know. I think perhaps it is because she is not happy. She worked in France during the war. Here we are now.’ She knocked and pushed open the door. ‘Miss Garret,’ she called. ‘It is Pauline. May we come in?’

A door opened and the soft glow of lamplight flooded the small entrance hall. ‘Sure. Come on in.’ Miss Garret was small and dainty, like a piece of Dresden china. She wore a long black velvet dress with a little lace collar and a band of velvet round her neck from which hung a large cameo. To my astonishment she quizzed me through a gold lorgnette as I entered the room. ‘Oh, how nice of you, Pauline,’ she cooed. ‘You’ve brought Mr Wetheral to see us.’

‘You know my name?’ I said. � ‘Of course.’ She turned to the other occupant of the room. ‘Sarah. Pauline’s brought Mr Wetheral to see us.’ She spoke loudly and her sister darted a rapid, bird-like glance in my direction and looked away again. ‘My sister’s a little deaf. It makes her shy. Now take off your coat, Mr Wetheral, and come and tell us all about your legacy.’

‘Well, actually,’ I said, ‘I came here to see Miss Lucas.’

There’s plenty of time.’ She gave me a tight-lipped, primly coquettish smile. ‘That is one thing about Come Lucky; there is always plenty of time. Right now Jean’s in her room; reading I expect. She reads a great deal, you know. She’s very well educated. But I do think she should get out more in the winter, don’t you, Pauline? I’m always telling her education is all very well, but what’s the use of it here in Come Lucky. Just put your coat over there, Mr Wetheral. No, not on that chair — on the stool. Sarah. Mr Wetheral has come to see Jean.’

The other old lady darted me another quick glance and then got up. ‘I’ll go and fetch her, Ruth.’ She escaped to the door with a quick patter of feet. In appearance she was the image of her sister. But her face was softer, plumper and there was no lorgnette. I gazed round the room. It was fantastic. I was in a little copy of a Victorian drawing-room. An upright piano stood against the wall, the chairs had cross-stitch seats and the back of the armchairs were covered with lace antimacassars. There was even an aspidistra. The whole place, including the occupants with their over-refined speech, was a little period piece in the Canadian wilds.

‘Now, Mr Wetheral, will you sit over there. And you, Pauline — you come and sit by me.’ She had placed me so that she could sit and watch me. ‘So you are Mr Campbell’s grandson.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

She raised her lorgnette and stared at me. ‘You don’t look very strong, Mr Wetheral. Have you been ill?’

‘I’m convalescing.’

‘Oh, and your doctors have said the high mountain air will do you good.’ She nodded as though agreeing with their verdict. ‘I’m so glad to hear that you are not allowing this little backwater of ours to become an industrial centre again. Do you know, Mr Wetheral, they even had the Japanese working up here during the war when they were building the dam. I am sure if you were to permit them to complete it they would now have Chinese labour. It is quite terrible to think what might happen. Opium, you know, and now that they are all communists-’

‘But wouldn’t it be a good thing for Come Lucky?’ I said. ‘It would’ mean new homes here and a road,’

‘That is what Peter Trevedian says. But my sister and I remember what it was like here at the beginning of the war. The homes are all very much in the future. Meanwhile we have to put up with the labour gangs. You have no idea what it was like here when they began working on the dam. We hardly dared to go outside the house. They had cabins built for the men up the valley of course, but the old King Harry saloon was converted into a hospital for them and some of the Japanese were actually billeted in the town. Such horrible little men! They shouldn’t have been allowed outside their camp, but then Peter Trevedian owns most of Come Lucky and he was collecting rent as well as making money out of the sale of land and the operation of the cable hoist. I am so glad, Mr Wetheral, you are not a mercenary man. Everybody here-’

‘I’m surprised my grandfather agreed to the building of a dam,’ I said.

‘Oh, it wasn’t Mr Campbell. It was Peter Trevedian. It’s on his property, you know. I’m sure Luke wouldn’t have done it, not when it meant making a lake of Mr Campbell’s property.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘I’m afraid Peter is a much harder man than his father.’ She leaned forward and tapped me playfully on the arm with her lorgnette. ‘But you are a civilised person, Mr Wetheral, I can see that. You will stand between us and the factories and things they are planning. My sister and I remember when the mines were working here. You have no idea the sort of men who are attracted by gold. They were most uncouth, weren’t they?’ She had turned to Pauline. ‘Oh, of course, you don’t remember, child. Do you know, Mr Wetheral, I remember the days when the street outside was a seething mass of brawling miners. Every other building was a saloon in those days. Really, a girl wasn’t safe. We were never allowed out at night and even in the seclusion of our room we were kept awake by the noise they made.’

Footsteps sounded in the hall and then Jean Lucas entered the room. ‘Mr Wetheral?’ She held out her hand. ‘I’ve been expecting you for some time.’

Her manner was direct, her grip firm. She had the assurance of good breeding. In her well-cut tweed suit she brought a breath of the English countryside into the room. I stared down at her, wondering what on earth she was doing buried up here in this Godforsaken town. Her eyes met mine — grey, intelligent eyes.

I think she must have guessed what I was thinking for they had an expression of defiance in them.

‘You knew I’d come?’ I asked.

She nodded slowly. ‘I knew your war record. I didn’t think you’d let him down.’

The room seemed suddenly silent. I could hear the ticking of the clock in its glass case. There seemed nobody there but the two of us. I didn’t say anything more. I stood there, staring down at her face. Her skin was pale and there was a tired droop to her mouth which, because the lips were rather full, gave it a sulky look. There were lines on her forehead and lines of strain At the corners of her eyes. The left cheek and jaw were criss-crossed with scars that showed faintly through the skin. The cast of her features seemed to be a reflection of her real self and as I stared at her I suddenly felt I had to know her.

‘We’ll go into my room, shall we?’ she said.

I was dimly aware of Miss Ruth Garret’s disapproval. Then I was in a room with a log fire blazing on the hearth and bookshelves crowding the walls. It was furnished as a bedsitting-room and though most of the furniture belonged to the house, it had a friendly air. White narcissi bloomed in the light of the oil lamp and filled the room with their scent and on the table beside them was a large photograph of an elderly man in Army uniform.

‘My father,’ she said and by the tone of her voice I knew he was dead. A big brown collie lay like a hearthrug before the fire. He thumped his tail and eyed me without stirring. ‘That’s Moses,’ she said. ‘He belonged to your grandfather. He found him as a pup in the beaver swamps the other side of the lake. Hence the name.’ She glanced at me quickly and then bent to pat the dog. ‘What do you think of my two old ladies?’

‘Are they relatives of yours?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Then why do you live up here?’

‘That’s my business.’ Her voice had suddenly become frozen. ‘There are some cigarettes in the box beside you. Will you pass me one please?’

‘Try an English one for a change,’ I said, producing a packet from my pocket. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have tried to-’

‘There’s no need to apologise.’ Her eyes met mine over the flame of my lighter. ‘It’s just that I know it’s odd and I’m sensitive about it. I imagine you think it was odd of me to live up in the Kingdom with your grandfather during the summer months?’

‘Now that I’ve seen you — yes.’

She gave a quick little laugh. ‘What were you expecting? Something out of Dickens?’

‘Perhaps.’

She turned away and poked at the fire. ‘I believe there are still people in the town who are convinced I’m Stuart’s illegitimate daughter.’ She looked up suddenly and smiled. ‘We call this decrepit bundle of shacks a town, by the way. Would you care for a drink? I’ve got some Scotch here. Only don’t tell my two old dears or I’d get thrown out on to the streets.

Naturally they don’t approve of liquor — at least Ruth doesn’t.’

We sat for a while over our drinks without saying anything. It wasn’t an uneasy silence though. It seemed natural at the time as though we both needed a moment to sort out our impressions of each other. At length she looked across at me with a faintly inquiring expression. The firelight was glowing on her right cheek and, with the scars not visible, I realised with surprise that she looked quite pretty. ‘What did you do after the war?’ She smiled. ‘That’s a very rude question, but you see Stuart was very anxious to know what had happened to you.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘You see, after your mother died he lost touch with home. It was only when I came out here-’ She looked away into the fire. ‘I wrote to friends of mine and I think they got in touch with the War Office. At any rate, they reported that you’d been working in the City before the war and that you’d been a Captain in the R.A.C. out in the Middle East. They couldn’t discover what had happened to you after you were invalided out.’

‘You were very fond of him, weren’t you?’ I asked. She nodded. ‘Enough to hear his voice again in yours. You’ve something of his manner, too, though not his build. He was a very powerful man.’ She suddenly looked across at me. ‘Why did you never write to him or come out and see him? Were you ashamed of him — because he had been to prison?’

‘I didn’t know his address,’ I murmured.

‘You could have found it out.’

‘I–I just didn’t think about him,’ I said. ‘I only met him once. That was all. When I was nine years old.’

‘When he’d just come out of prison.’

‘Yes.’

‘And so you decided you’d forget all about him. Because he’d done five years for — for something he didn’t do.’

‘How was I to know he didn’t do it?’ I cried, jolted by her attitude out of any pretence that he’d meant nothing in my life. ‘If you want to know, I hated him.’

Her eyes widened. ‘But why?’

‘Because of what he did to my life.’

‘What he did?’

‘Oh, he didn’t mean to hurt us. Listen. My father died when I was only a few months old. After the war my mother got a job as a nurse. She worked at several hospitals in London and then, when I was nine, we moved to Croydon and she became matron at a boarding school. That was for my benefit so that I could get a good education. Then my grandfather came out of prison. I think there was a paragraph in one of the papers about our meeting him. At any rate, the headmaster learned that my mother was his daughter and he fired her. He let me remain on at the school out of charity. My mother’s health broke down then. Nursing became too much for her and she went to work in a clothing factory in the East End of London.’

‘And what about you?’

‘I stayed on at the school until-’ I lit another cigarette. I’d never told anybody about this before. ‘There was some money missing. The boys didn’t like me — I didn’t wear the right sort of clothes or have the right sort of background. They believed that I’d taken it and they concocted evidence to fit their beliefs. There was a case. The headmaster produced the information that my grandfather had been to prison. I think he was anxious to get rid of me. I was sent to a reform school. A few months later my mother died. So you see, I hadn’t much affection for my grandfather.’

She looked at me sadly. ‘It never occurred to you that he also might have been wrongly convicted?’

‘No, it never occurred to me.’

She sighed. ‘It’s strange because you meant a lot to him. You were his only relative. He was an old man when he died, old and tired. Oh, he kept up a front when Johnnie and people brought visitors. But deep down he was tired. He’d lost heart and he needed help.’

‘Then why didn’t he write to me?’ ”Pride, I guess. He wasn’t the type to cry for help when he was in a spot.’ She stared at me, frowning slightly. ‘Would you have come if he’d written to you, if you’d known he was innocent?’

‘I–I don’t know,’ I said.

‘But you came when you heard he was dead. Why? Because you thought there might be oil here?’

The trace of bitterness in her voice brought me to my feet. ‘Why I came is my own business,’ I said harshly. ‘If you want to know my plan was to live up there.’

‘Live there.’ She stared at me. ‘All the year round?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whatever for?’

I turned and stared angrily at her. ‘I’ve my own reasons, the same as you have for living in this dump.’

She shifted her gaze to the fire. ‘Touchee,’ she said softly. ‘I only wanted to know-’ She hesitated and then got to her feet. ‘I’ve some things here that belong to you.’ She went over to an ottoman and brought out a cardboard box tied with ribbon. ‘I couldn’t bring any more, but these things I know he wanted you to have.’ She placed the box on a table near me. As she straightened up she said, There’s a question you still haven’t answered. What did you do after the war?’

‘Just drifted,’ I said.

‘Did you go back to the City?’

‘Yes.’ I was thinking of the grimy brick building in Queen Victoria Street, of the long room with the typists and adding machines and the little frosted-glass cubicles that had served as offices. She made it sound so damned important.

She hesitated, her hand still on the box. ‘You said your plan was to live up in the Kingdom?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, but that was before I came to Come Lucky.’

‘You’ve changed your mind then?’

‘I didn’t know there was a half-completed dam up there.’

‘I see. So now you’re going to sell out and go back to England?’

I laughed. The sound was harsh in that pleasant little room, but it gave vent to my feelings. ‘It’s not as easy as that. I’ve rather burned my boats. You see, I’ve emigrated.’

‘You’ve-’ She stared at me, the thin line of her eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘You’re a queer person,’ she said slowly. ‘There’s something about you I don’t quite understand.’ She spoke more to herself than to me. I watched her as she went back to her seat by the fire and sat there, gazing into the flames. At length her eyes came round to my face. ‘What’s made you change your mind?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘When you came here you’d already turned down Henry Fergus’s offer for the Kingdom.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

‘Gossip.’ She laughed a trifle nervously. ‘You can’t keep anything secret in this place.’ She turned and faced me squarely. ‘Why have you changed your mind?’

‘I haven’t yet,’ I told her.

No, but you’re going to.’ She waited for a moment and when I didn’t say anything she said, ‘I suppose Peter has been getting at you. And the old men …’ There was anger and contempt in her voice. ‘I suppose they’ve tried to tell you that you’re under an obligation to make good some of their losses?’

She seemed to expect some sort of reply so I said, ‘Well, I suppose from their point of view I am being a little unreasonable.’

‘Unreasonable! Was it Stuart’s fault they went oil-crazy and bought up half the mountain peaks around here regardless of the geological possibilities just because he reported a big oil seep at the head of Thunder Creek.’ She leaned suddenly forward. ‘Do you think they helped him when things went wrong? When he was on trial in England for fraud they swore affidavits that he was a liar and a cheat. And when he came back here they hounded him up into the Kingdom so that all the last years of his life were spent in solitude and hardship. When Luke Trevedian died Stuart hadn’t a friend in Come Lucky. You owe the people here nothing. Nothing.’ She paused for breath. The fierceness of her tone had had something personal in it and I found myself unconsciously toying with the idea that she might after all be the old man’s natural child. ‘Now you’re here,’ she added in a quieter tone, ‘don’t believe everything people tell you. Please. Check everything for yourself.’

She spoke as though I had all the time in the world. I passed my hand wearily across my eyes. ‘Am I to take it that you believe my grandfather was right?’

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes. It was impossible to live with him for any length of time and not believe him. He had tremendous faith — in himself and in other people, and in God. He wouldn’t understand that some people-’ She stopped, her mouth suddenly a tight, hard line. ‘I met many fine men — during the war. But he was one of the finest…’ Her voice died and she stared into the flames. ‘I want him to be proved right.’ Her hand had tightened on her jaw. ‘I want desperately for the world to know that he wasn’t a crank, that he believed everything he said and that it was the truth.’

‘But what about this survey?’ I said. ‘I understand it proved conclusively that there was no oil in the Kingdom.’

‘Of course it did. Do you think Henry Fergus would have agreed to postpone his plans for a whole season without ensuring that the results proved what he wanted them to prove? I tried to warn Stuart. But he was getting old. He couldn’t believe he wouldn’t get a straight deal from his old friend Roger Fergus. He couldn’t understand that Roger Fergus was an old man, too — that it was his son, Henry, who really controlled his affairs. And Henry has all the meanness of a man who has taken over wealth that someone else has made for him.’ She looked across at me. ‘Before you do anything, go and talk to Boy Bladen. He’s here in Come Lucky now. Ask him what he thinks of that report.’

‘But-’ I stared at her. ‘I’ve already spoken to Bladen. He agrees with it.’

Tie does not.’ Her eyes were wide. ‘Ever since he saw the results of the first charge he’s been as enthusiastic as your grandfather. It just isn’t true that he agrees with the report.’

‘Well, that’s what he told me, and scarcely two hours ago.’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said. ‘He’s coming to see me this evening. There’s something behind this. I’ll send him straight over to see you when he leaves here.’

I was suddenly remembering the expression of violent anger on Bladen’s face as he had pushed past me on the steps of Trevedian’s office. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Perhaps if you have a talk with him-’

There was a knock at the door and Miss Ruth Garret entered with a tray. ‘I’ve brought you some tea, dear.’ Her sharp, inquisitive eyes seemed to miss nothing.

‘That’s very kind of you.’ Jean Lucas got up and took the tray. ‘Is Pauline still here?’ ‘ ‘Yes, she’s waiting for Mr Wetheral.’

‘We won’t be long.’

Miss Garret stood there uncertainly for a moment, her eyes fixed on the box on the table beside me. Then she turned reluctantly and left us. ‘Poor old thing,’ Jean said. ‘She just loves to know everything. Once they went as far as Prince George and saw the river steamers and the trains. That was thirty years ago and I don’t think they’ve been out of Come Lucky since.’ She glanced at the box beside me. ‘You’d better have a look at the things I brought down for you. It may help you to learn something about your grandfather.

I took the box on my knees, slipped the ribbon off and lifted the lid. Inside everything had been carefully wrapped in tissue paper. There were faded photographs and medals from the first war. A little silver tobacco jar carried the outline of an oil rig on the lid and inside the inscription: To Stuart Campbell from the Management of the Excelsior Oil Company of Turner Valley on his leaving to form his own company — April 8, 1912. Good luck, Stuart! The first of the signatures was Roger Fergus. There were several other personal oddments, including a mining diploma.

As I laid them out on the table beside me, I said, ‘When did he give you these?’ I was thinking he must have known he was going to die.

‘He didn’t give them to me. I brought them down myself. I knew what he wanted you to have. I suppose I should have sent them on to you, but I didn’t know your address and somehow I was convinced you’d come here yourself.’

‘You went up after his death?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘By the hoist?’

‘No, the hoist wasn’t working then.’

‘But-’ I was trying to reconcile this quiet rather tense girl with the journey up those mountain slopes to the cleft of Solomon’s Judgment. ‘Do you mean to say you went up there on your own?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘There’s an old Indian trail. It’s only a day’s journey each way. I just wanted to be sure that everything was all right.’

But when I saw Johnnie Carstairs in Jasper he said the snows had started and he had great difficulty in getting his party down.’

‘Yes, I know. But afterwards the chinook started blowing and when the snows had gone I decided to go up. I’m afraid I could only bring some of the lighter things. But you’ll find a lot of rock specimens at the bottom. He was very anxious always that you should have those. They were evidence in support of his case.’

‘Is his Bible here by any chance?’ I asked, starting to remove the specimens which were also wrapped in tissue paper.

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘He said there would be some papers with it.’ I pulled it out and removed the tissue paper. It was about a quarter the size of an old-fashioned family Bible, bound in leather and held by a leather tab and a gilt hasp. ‘Have you got the key?’ I asked her.

‘No. He carried it on a little silver chain round his neck.’ She was staring into the fire again. ‘There was a signet ring and a gold watch and chain you should have had, too. But they buried him just as he was.’ She got up slowly and brought me a pair of scissors. ‘You’ll have to cut it.’

I slit the leather above the hasp and opened the book. It seemed in a way sacrilegious, for I was opening it to find papers whereas the owner had always been opening it in order to read. But there were no papers. I riffled through the pages. A single sheet of notepaper fell out. I stared at it, wondering where the progress report had got to. And then the contents of the note riveted my attention:

The Kingdom, 20th November, Dear Bruce, When you read this the Kingdom will be yours. I shall not last the winter. And I have no longer the energy or the will to fight for my beliefs.

This day I have received the results of Bladen’s survey. The chart shows a quite unbelievable jumble of rock strata below the surface. I have it before me as I write together with the consultant’s report…

I stared at the paragraph and read it through again. Then I looked across at Jean.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I thought he died without knowing the results of that survey?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Yes. I was so glad. I don’t think he understood what a seismographic survey was exactly, but he knew the oil companies could be convinced if the survey were successful and in view of Boy’s reaction he was very optimistic that at last-’

‘He knew the result,’ I said.

‘But that’s impossible. Johnnie was the last person up there — except for me.’

‘Well, listen to this,’ I said. ‘This day I have received the results of Bladen’s survey.’ ‘But-’ She was staring at me, her eyes wide. ‘When was it written?’ She held out her hand. ‘Let me see.’

‘It was written on the 20th November,’ I said. ‘Johnnie Carstairs found him on the 22nd.’ I passed her the sheet of paper.

She stared at it unbelievingly. ‘It is clear, therefore — ’ her voice trembled as she read — ‘that in the upheaval which raised these mountains, as might be expected, such disturbance of the rock strata occurred as to make the possibility of oiltraps, either strati-graphical or in the form of anticlines, quite out of the question.’ Her voice died away and she stared at the paper which trembled violently in her hands. ‘Oh, my God!’ she breathed. Her hands clenched suddenly. ‘How could they be so cruel?’ She turned on me, her face suddenly older and stronger in the violence of her feeling. ‘What an incredible, beastly way to kill a man — to kill him through his hopes. If they’d stuck a knife into him-’ She turned away struggling to get control of herself. ‘Here.’ She thrust the letter out to me. ‘Read the rest of it, will you. I can’t.’

I took the crumpled sheet and spread it out:

… so finally I have to face the fact that I can do no more. You may regard this as the obstinacy of a cranky old man set in his beliefs. I only ask you to remember that I have been studying rock strata all my life and I absolutely refuse to believe that the very broken nature of the strata below the Kingdom as shown by this survey can be correct. You have only to look at the fault at the head of Thunder Creek to know this to be true. Further, though I cannot vouch for there being oil, I do know there was oil here in 1911 when the big slide occurred. The trap that held that oil must have shown on the chart if this survey were accurate. I fear there are things moving that I do not understand living alone here in my kingdom.

My final and urgent request to you is that you somehow find the money to test my beliefs by drilling, which is the only sure method. Do this before they complete the dam and drown the Kingdom for ever.

I pray God you will accept the mantle of my beliefs and wear it to the damnation of my enemies. God keep you, and if I am wrong know that I shall be suffering the torments of the Damned for I shall have wasted half of the life God gave me.

Affectionately and with Great Hopes of You Stuart Campbell.

My hands dropped to my knees and I sat staring at the fire, seeing in my mind the old man writing that last pitiful plea, knowing that there were people down in the valley who hated him enough to climb through a snow storm to give him the bad news before winter closed in on him. ‘I’d like to get my hands on the man that took that report up to him.’ My voice grated harshly on the silence of the room.

‘If they’d killed him with their own hands,’ Jean whispered, ‘they couldn’t have done it more cruelly.’

‘Who hated him that much?’

‘Oh, George Riley, the Trevedians, the McClellans, Daniel Smith, the Hutterite, Ed Schiffer — everybody who’d lost money.’ She turned to me suddenly. ‘You’ve got to prove him right. He had such faith in you.’

I leaned back and stared at the fire. That was all very well, but it meant drilling. It meant time and money, and I hadn’t much of either. ‘I’ll see what Bladen has to say.’

She nodded and then rose slowly to her feet. ‘You must go now. He’ll be here shortly and I don’t want him to meet you before I’ve talked to him. Besides-’ She hesitated. ‘He has fits of moodiness that I don’t think you’d understand, and I want you to like him.’

I had also got to my feet and I wondered what was coming. She was staring down at her nails, her fingers interlocked. Suddenly she raised her head. ‘I think perhaps I’d better tell you something about him, just in case other people start talking to you first. Boy is the only son of the Canadian actor, Basil Bladen. His mother was a full-blooded Iroquois. The Iroquois, by the way are one of the few Indian tribes that have been absorbed into the white man’s world without ill effects. But it still didn’t work out. This was some time ago, mind you. I think it would be different now. They were idyllically happy, but Basil Bladen began to find parts difficult to get, particularly in the States where he had been very well known. It was the usual story: he took to drink. He became a dipsomaniac. His resting periods became longer and longer and eventually he couldn’t even get parts in Canada. When they were flat broke he shot his wife and then himself.’ She paused. ‘Boy was thirteen at the time.’

‘Who brought him up?’ I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Life, I guess. He’s been everything — gold prospector, trapper, Hudson’s Bay Company trader. Then he took to flying. He became one of the best bush fliers in the North Western Territories. Maybe that was the Indian in him. He could find his way anywhere. Then the war came and he was shot down in flames over Germany. That’s where he got the scar and the burned hands. He had a year.in a prison camp and when he came back to Canada he found he couldn’t fly any more. His eyesight was bad and he’d lost his nerve.’ She looked up at me and added, ‘I wanted you to know about him so that-’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘He’s a queer mixture of daring, poetry and utter, wretched silence. He’s full of childish enthusiasm one minute and then suddenly it’s gone and he’s silent and moody and goes off on his own.’ She gave a quick laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’ve made him sound very odd indeed. But he’s one of the nicest men …’ She turned towards the door. ‘Pauline will be getting tired of waiting.’

She took me back to the Victorian drawing-room and the two old ladies. A few minutes later I was walking through wet snow in the dark, dismal street of Come Lucky.