I started to read the paragraph through again, but the type blurred, merging into a picture of a man standing in the dock at the Old Bailey accused of swindling the public by floating a company to drill for oil that didn’t exist and then absconding with the capital. He had been arrested boarding the Majestic at Southampton. The other director, Paul Morton, had got clean away. The bulk of the company’s funds had vanished. That was the story as I knew it. And then I thought of myself as a kid at that wretched school, jeered at because I had no football boots and my clothes were threadbare and because my grandfather was a thief. I had never thought of sticking up for him. I had accepted his guilt as I had accepted our utter poverty. They were part of the conditions of my life. And now … I stared down at the cutting, trying to adjust my mind to a new conception of him. He had gone back. That was the incredible thing. He had gone back as though he were convinced… I looked up at the lawyer. ‘He really believed there was oil up there,’ I said.
‘Just a will-o’-the-wisp.’ Fothergill gave me a dry smile. ‘The matter is covered by Mr Acheson in his letter. I think you can be satisfied that Mr Campbell’s beliefs were entirely erroneous and that the executors’ opinion that the property in itself has no value is a true statement of the situation. Now, here is the deed of sale. You will see that at the moment details as to price and date of take-over have not been inserted. These are still matters for negotiation, but if you will sign both copies …’
‘I don’t think I’ll sell,’ I said. I needed time to think this out, to adjust myself to this new view of my grandfather.
‘But, Mr Wetheral. Really — in a matter of this sort we must be guided by the people on the spot. If Mr Acheson advises-’
‘I can’t make a decision now,’ I said. ‘You must give me time to consider.’
‘You cannot expect this company to wait indefinitely for your answer. Mr Acheson was most pressing. That is why I undertook to locate you myself. Every day’s delay-’
‘There’s already been a delay of four months,’ I said. ‘Another few days shouldn’t make much difference.’
‘Perhaps not. I must remind you, however,’ he went on in a patient voice, ‘that it is only the fact that the largest creditor was Mr Campbell’s friend that has saved the company from bankruptcy long ago. It is your duty as Mr Campbell’s heir to consider this gentleman.’
‘I won’t be stampeded,’ I said irritably.
He glanced round the room in a bewildered manner. I think he found it difficult to reconcile my reluctance to sell with the drabness of my surroundings. He got to his feet. ‘I will leave these documents with you, Mr Wetheral. I think when you have had time to consider them-’ He snapped the lock of his empty brief case. ‘Here is my card. I shall be in my office between nine and ten in the morning. Perhaps you will telephone me then, or better still come in and see me.’
‘I’ll let you know what I decide,’ I said and took him down to the front door.
Then I hurried eagerly back to my room. I wanted to read the personal letter attached to the will. It was addressed in a bold, upright, rather childish hand. I slit the envelope. Inside was a single sheet: it was very direct and simple. No words were wasted. It was the letter of a man who had lived a lot of his life alone out in the wilds.
‘Campbell’s Kingdom,’ Come Lucky, B.C. 15th March, 1947 For my grandson
To be attached to my will Dear Bruce,
It is possible you may recall our one meeting, since the circumstances were peculiar. With your mother’s death I became entirely cut off from you, but in the last few weeks I have been able to obtain some information concerning your progress and your military record in the recent conflict. This leads me to believe that there is enough of the Campbell in you for me to hand on to you the aims, hopes and obligations that through age and misfortune I have been unable to fulfil.
I imagine that you are fully informed of the circumstances of my imprisonment. However, in any case you should have attributed your mother’s belief in my innocence to filial loyalty, here is the testimony of a man who, when you receive this letter, will be dead:
I, Stuart Macaulay Campbell, swear before God and on His Holy Book that everything I did and said in connection with the flotation of an oil company in London known as the Rocky Mountain Oil Exploration Company was done and said in all good faith and that every word of that section of the prospectus dealing with the oil possibilities in the territory now commonly known as ‘Campbell’s Kingdom’ was true to the best of my knowledge and belief, based on more than twelve years in the Turner Valley Field and neighbouring territories. And may the Lord condemn me to everlasting fires of Hell if this testimony be false.
Signed: Stuart Macaulay Campbell.
After my release I returned to Canada to prove what I knew to be true. With the help of kind friends I formed the Campbell Oil Exploration Company. All my shares in this I leave to you, together with the territory in which my bones will rest. If you are the man I hope you are, you will accept this challenge, so that I may rest in peace and my life be justified in the end. May the Good Lord guide you and keep you in this task and may success, denied to me by the frailty of old age, attend your efforts.
Your Humbled and Grateful Grandfather Stuart Macaulay Campbell
P.S. The diary of my efforts to prove the existence of oil up here you will find with my Bible. S.M.C.
I put the letter down and sat staring at the wall, picturing this strange, God-fearing man alone in that log cabin high in the Rocky Mountains, isolated by winter snow, carefully penning this letter to his unknown grandson. I could see him sitting alone at some rudely-made table, his Bible beside him, wrestling with the unaccustomed task of putting thoughts into words.
I read it through again, more slowly. Every word carried weight — and his honesty and simplicity shone through it like a clean wind out of the high mountains.
I had a feeling of guilt at having accepted so readily the verdict of the courts, at never having troubled to discover what he had done on leaving prison. And suddenly I found myself kneeling on the floor, swearing before a God whom I had scarcely troubled to get to know in the whole of my thirty-six years that whatever remained to me of life I would dedicate to the legacy my grandfather had left me.
As I rose to my feet I realised that I was no longer afraid, no longer alone. I had a purpose and an urgency.
The other papers which Fothergill had left me seemed prosaic and dull after reading what my grandfather had written. There was the will, couched in legal terms and signed ‘this Fifteenth day of March, Nineteen hundred and forty-seven.’ It bequeathed ‘to my grandson, Bruce Campbell Wetheral, sometime Captain in the Royal Armoured Corps, all my property and effects, together with such debts, obligations and hopes as I shall have at the time of my death’ and it appointed Messrs Donald McCrae and Acheson, solicitors, as executors. There was a letter from them explaining the hydro-electric project and attached to it was a deed of sale for my signature. ‘There is no question of obtaining a better offer. Indeed, you must agree that we have been fortunate in promoting the company’s interest in the particular area included in your legacy and we feel sure that you will appreciate the urgency of your signature to the attached deed of sale if your legacy is to have any value and if the. debts and obligations referred to in your grandfather’s will are to be met. Please deliver the signed deed to Mr Fothergill, of Anstey, Fothergill and Anstey, who represent us in London.’
Every line of their letter took it for granted that I should agree to sell. I tossed it back on the table and as I did so, I caught sight of the newspaper cutting lying on the floor where I had dropped it. I picked it up and continued reading where I had left off: