Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

‘No, I haven’t.’ For the life of me I couldn’t see where this talk was leading, but if Mrs Atherton was interested in history then I was a ring-tailed lemur.

‘You wouldn’t think it, but I’m really a shy person,’ she said. She was dead right — I wouldn’t think it. ‘I wouldn’t want to join the society by myself. I mean — a novice among all those really experienced people. But if someone would join with me to give me some support, that would be different.’

‘And you want me to join the historical society?’

‘They tell me Fort Farrell has a very interesting history. Did you know it was founded by a Lieutenant Farrell way back in... oh... way back? And he was helped by a man called Trinavant, and the Trinavant family really built up this town.’

‘Is that so?’ I said drily.

‘It’s a pity about the Trinavants,’ she said casually. ‘The whole family was wiped out not very long ago. Isn’t it a pity that a family that built a whole town should disappear like that?’

Again there was a ‘twang’ in my mind and this time the warning bell nearly deafened me. Mrs Atherton was the first person who had broached the subject of the Trinavants of her own free will; all the others had had to be nudged into it. I thought back over what she had said earlier and realized she had tried to warn me off in a not very subtle way, and she had brought up the subject of uranium. I had conned the construction men up at the dam into thinking I was looking for uranium.

I said, ‘Surely the whole family wasn’t wiped out. Isn’t there a Miss Clare Trinavant?’

She seemed put out. ‘I believe there is,’ she said curtly. ‘But I hear she’s not a real Trinavant.’

‘Did you know the Trinavants?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly — too eagerly. ‘I knew John Trinavant very well.’

I decided to disappoint her, and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Atherton. I don’t think I’m interested in local history. I’m strictly a technical man and it’s not my line.’ I smiled. ‘It might be different if I were going to put my roots down in Fort Farrell — then I might work up an interest — but I’m a nomad, you know; I keep on the move.’

She looked at me uncertainly. ‘Then you’re not staying in Fort Farrell long?’

‘That depends on what I find,’ I said. ‘From what you tell me I may not find much. I’m grateful to you for that information, negative though it is.’

She seemed at a loss. ‘Then you won’t join the historical society?’ she said in a small voice. ‘You’re not interested in Lieutenant Farrell and the Trinavants and... er... the others who made this place?’

‘What possible interest could I have?’ I asked heartily.

She stood up. ‘Of course. I understand. I should have known better than to ask. Well, Mr Boyd; anything you want you just ask me and I’ll try to help you.’

‘Where will I contact you?’ I asked blandly.

‘Oh... er... the desk clerk at the Matterson House will know where to find me.’

‘I’m sure I shall be calling on your help,’ I said, and picked up the fur coat which was draped over a chair. I helped her into the coat and caught sight of an envelope on the mantel. It was addressed to me.

I opened it and found a one-line message from McDougall: COME TO THE APARTMENT AS SOON AS YOU GET IN. MAC.

I said, ‘You’ll need some help in getting your car on the road, Mrs Atherton. I’ll get my truck and give you a push.’

She smiled. ‘It seems that you are helping me more than I am helping you, Mr Boyd.’ She swayed on the teetering high heels of her boots and momentarily pressed against me.

I grinned at her. ‘Just being neighbourly, Mrs Atherton; just being neighbourly.’

I pulled up in front of the darkened Recorder office and saw lights in the upstairs apartment, and got a hell of a surprise when I walked in.

Clare Trinavant was sitting in the big chair facing the door, and the apartment was in a shambles with the contents of cupboards and drawers littering the floor. McDougall turned as I opened the door and stood holding a pile of shirts.

Clare looked at me with no expression. ‘Hello, Boyd.’

I smiled at her. ‘Welcome home, Trinavant.’ I was surprised how glad I was to see her.

‘Mac tells me I have an apology to make to you,’ she said.

I frowned. ‘I don’t know what you have to apologize about.’

‘I said some pretty hard things about you when you left Fort Farrell. I have just learned they were unjustified; that Howard Matterson and Jimmy Waystrand combined to cook up a bastardly story. I’m sorry about that.’

I shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter to me. I’m sorry it happened for your sake.’

She smiled crookedly. ‘You mean my reputation? I have no reputation in Fort Farrell. I’m the odd woman who goes abroad and digs up pots and would rather mix with the dirty Arabs than good Christian folk.’

I looked at the mess on the floor. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘I’ve been canned,’ said McDougall matter-of-factly. ‘Jimson paid me off this afternoon and told me to get out of the apartment before morning. I’d like the use of the Land-Rover.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about this, Mac.’

‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘You must have stung old Bull where it hurts.’

I looked at Clare. ‘What brings you back? I was about to write you.’

A gamine grin came to her face. ‘Do you remember the story you once told me? About the man who sent a cable to a dozen of his friends: “Fly, all is discovered”?’ She nodded towards Mac and dug into the pocket of her tweed skirt. ‘A pseudo-Scotsman called Hamish McDougall can also write an intriguing cable.’ She unfolded a paper, and read, “IF YOU VALUE YOUR PEACE OF MIND COME BACK QUICKLY”. What do you think of that for an attention-getter?’

‘It brought you back pretty fast,’ I said. ‘But it wasn’t my idea.’

‘I know. Mac told me. I was in London, doing some reading in the British Museum. Mac knew where to get me. I took the first flight out.’ She waved her hand. ‘Sit down, Bob. We’ve got some serious talking to do.’

As I pulled up a chair, Mac said, ‘I told her about you, son.’

‘Everything?’

He nodded. ‘She had to know. I reckon she had a right to know. John Trinavant was her nearest kin — and you were in the Cadillac when he died.’

I didn’t like that very much. I had told Mac the story in confidence and I didn’t like the idea of having it spread around. It wasn’t the kind of life-story that a lot of people would understand.

Clare watched the expression on my face. ‘Don’t worry; it will go no further. I’ve made that very clear to Mac. Now, first of all — what were you going to write me about?’

‘About the lumber on your land in the north Kinoxi Valley. Do you know how much it’s worth?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it much,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not interested in lumber. All I know is that Matterson isn’t going to make a cent on it.’

I said, ‘I checked with your Mr Waystrand. I’d made an estimate and he confirmed it, or rather, he told me I was way out. If you don’t cut those trees you’ll lose five million bucks.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Five million dollars!’ she breathed. ‘Why, that’s impossible.’

‘What’s impossible about it?’ asked Mac. ‘It’s a total cut, Clare; every tree. Look, Bob told me a couple of things so I checked on the statistics. A normal Forestry Service controlled cutting operation is mighty selective. Only half of one per cent of the usable lumber is taken and that runs to about five thousand dollars a square mile. The Kinoxi is being stripped to the ground, like they used to do back at the turn of the century. Bob’s right.’