He picked up his brief case and fumbled nervously at the straps as he perched himself on the edge of the chair opposite me. ‘We are acting for the firm of Donald McCrae and Acheson of Calgary in this matter. They are the solicitors appointed under your grandfather’s will. Since you only met him once it will possibly be of no great concern to you that he is dead. What does concern you, however, is that you are the sole legatee under his will.’ He placed a document on the table between us. That is a copy of the will, together with a sealed letter written by your grandfather and addressed to you. The original of the will is held by the solicitors in Calgary. They also hold all the documents, share certificates and so on relating to the Campbell Oil Exploration Company, together with contracts, leases, agreements, etcetera, and all the books of the company. You now control this company, but it is virtually moribund. However, it owns territory in the Rocky Mountains and Donald McCrae and Acheson advise disposal of this asset and the winding up of the company.’ He burrowed in his brief case again and came up with another document. ‘Now, here is a deed of sale for the territory referred to…’
I stared at him, hearing his voice droning and remembering only how I had hated my grandfather, how all my childhood had been made miserable by that big, raw-boned Scot with the violent blue eyes and close-cropped grey hair who had sat beside my mother in that taxi and whom I had only seen that once.
‘You’re sure my grandfather went back to Canada?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Yes, yes, quite sure. He formed this company there in 1926.’
That was the year after he came out of prison. ‘This company,’ I said. ‘Was a man called Paul Morton involved in it with him?’
The solicitor paused in what he was saying, an expression of mild irritation on his face. He glanced through the sheaf of documents on the table. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The other two directors were Roger Fergus and Luke Trevedian. Fergus was one of the big men in the Turner Valley field and Trevedian owned a gold mine. Now, as I was saying, the shares in this company are worthless. The only working capital it seems to have had was advanced by Fergus and the only work it has carried out appears to have been financed by him, the money being advanced on mortgage. This included a survey-’
‘Do you mean my grandfather was broke when he returned to Canada?’
‘It would seem so.’ Fothergill peered at the documents and then nodded. ‘Yes, I should say that was definitely the case.’
I leaned back, staring at the lamp, trying to adjust myself to a sudden and entirely new conception of my grandfather. ‘How did he die?’ I asked.
‘How?’ Again the solicitor glanced through the papers on the table. ‘It says here that he died of cold.’
‘Of cold?’
‘Yes. He was living alone high up in the Rockies. Now, as regards the company; it does not seem likely that the shares are marketable and-’
‘He must have been a very old man.’ I was thinking that my mother had been thirty-two when she had died in 1927.
‘He was seventy-nine. Now, this land that is owned by the company. Your representatives in Calgary inform me that they have been fortunate enough to find a purchaser. In fact, they have an offer-’ He stopped and the polished skin of his forehead puckered in an impatient frown. ‘You’re not listening to me, Mr Wetheral.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just wondering what an old man of seventy-nine was doing living alone in the Rocky Mountains.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Very natural. Let me see now. It’s all in Mr Acheson’s letter. Ah, here we are — apparently he became a little queer as he grew old. His belief that there was oil up in this territory in the mountains had become an obsession with him. From 1930 onwards he lived up there in a log cabin by himself, hardly ever coming down into the towns. It was there that he was found by a late hunting party. That was on the 22nd of November, last year.’ He placed the letter on the table beside me. ‘I will leave that with you and you can read it at your leisure. There is also a cutting from a local paper. Now, about this land. There is apparently some scheme for damming the valley and utilising the waters for a hydro-electric project. One of the mining companies…’
I sat back and closed my eyes. So he had gone back. That was the thing that stuck in my mind. He had really believed there was oil there.
‘Please, Mr Wetheral, I must ask for your attention. This is important. Most important.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured. I was trying to remember every detail of that one meeting, but it was blurred. I could remember the prison gates, the battered leather suitcase he had carried, the brass headlamps of the taxi — but not a word of the conversation between him and my mother. I looked across at the little lawyer. ‘You were saying something about a hydroelectric scheme.’
‘We must have your signature to this document at once. The matter is most urgent. The company con cerned apparently has alternative sources of power which if we delay much longer may render your properly valueless. As I say, your solicitors in Calgary regard the terms as generous and advise immediate acceptance. When all debts have been paid and the company wound up they estimate that the estate will be worth some nine or ten thousand dollars.’
‘How long will all this take?’ I asked.
‘Donald McCrae and Acheson are very businesslike people. We have had dealings with them on several occasions.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I think we can expect to prove probate in say about six months’ time if this deal goes through as smoothly as they anticipate.’
‘Six months!’ I laughed. That’s just six months too long, Mr Fothergill.’
‘How do you mean? I assure you we will do everything possible to expedite proceedings and you can rest assured-’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘but in six months-’ I stopped. Why should I bother to explain?
I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to think it out clearly. The money wasn’t any use to me. I’d nobody to leave it to. ‘I’m not sure that I want to sell,’ I said, almost unconsciously voicing my thoughts.
I opened my eyes and saw that he was looking at me with astonishment. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, Mr Wetheral. The executors inform us that the land itself is quite worthless. As I’ve already told you, it lies at over 7,000 feet in a most inaccessible area of the Rockies. The greater part of the year it is buried in snow…’
‘Can I see that newspaper cutting?’ I asked him.
He handed it across to me. It was from the Calgary Tribune and datelined — Jasper, 4th December: All those who made the pilgrimage up Thunder Creek to Campbell’s Kingdom will mourn the loss of a friend. Stuart Campbell, one of the old-timers of Turner Valley and the man who coined the phrase There’s oil in the Rocky Mountains,’ is dead. His body was found by a late hunting party headed by the Jasper packer, Johnnie Car-stairs. It was lying stretched out on the floor of his log cabin, the eyrie he built for himself 7,000 feet up in the Rockies just east of the famous Cariboo area.
Campbell was a great character. He will be remembered affectionately by the hunters, miners and loggers, as well as the tourists, who visited him in his mountain kingdom and listened to his stories of the oilfields and heard him make the surrounding peaks ring with the skirl of his pipes. Even those who lost money in his ill-starred Rocky Mountain Oil Exploration Company and declared him a swindler and worse cannot but render the homage of admiration to a man who was so convinced he was right that he dedicated the last twenty-six years of his life to trying to prove it…