Ridge turned to the stepladder, an ancient thing with paintspatters and worn treads that looked like it had been used by the originalcontractors building the house and abandoned by them because they didn’t trustit anymore.
“You told me you could probably still feel the Major on those sabers. What I called you out here for, I’dlike you to learn that feel fromthings he handled a lot, the sabers and his pistols and the old ledgers, andtell us if his signature on another document is real or forged. From what youtold me, what I’ve heard from other sources, a good wizard can do this evenafter a hundred years?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. It’s a lot easier for things he handledoften, particularly in stress. Like in combat, those sabers. For one-timethings like a signed document, a contract or a will, it depends on whether hefelt his physical signature was important. How much of his personality was tiedto it, whether he cared. He’d leave more trace if he happened to be sad orangry than if he was bored, for example. And what kind of person he was. Somepeople leave strong memories in the world. Others barely touch it.”
The assembled multitude swapped glances, nodding or grinningor shaking their heads. First Lawyer was one of the head-shakers, more in ruethan negation. “I’d say Major Ridge would be one of the strong memories. Ourfirm handled his affairs. The last partner from those days retired fifty yearsago, and there are still tales . . .”
One of the women spoke up, that brunette. “Which is the politeway of saying that everyone hated the old bastard, and only swallowed his shitbecause he was rich enough to buy this whole county if he wanted. To hell withnot speaking ill of the dead. He treated business as a cavalry raid and hisfamily like the floor of a horse-stall.”
That got her a few lifted eyebrows, but no argument.
The younger lawyer climbed up on the rickety stepladder andunhooked one saber from the stonework, handing the old weapon down to hissenior partner. They both wore gloves, proving that they either worried aboutleaving fingerprints on a possible weapon in a future crime or that they didn’twant to disturb earlier evidence. You make the call. Then we adjourned to theoffice behind that fireplace, the Major’s lair.
They’d set the scene already — that hidden safe door swungopen, two antique percussion revolvers and a stack of ledgers sitting on thepolished oak of the worktable, flanked by a folded faded document and a blacktin box. I recognized the box, had seen it in the wine cellar when we pokedaround all those cases and crates of booze. I think they used to call them deedboxes, about the size of a shoebox with a locking lid. Older Lawyer set thesaber on the table, next to the pistols.
Ridge waved a hand at the tableau. “See what you can pick upfrom the stuff we know he handled. The ledgers, particularly the older ones,nobody has opened them in half a century. I’m not sure about the saber. Some ofus kids used to sneak in and try to play with that. I nearly broke my neck onetime, climbing the stonework to get to it and falling off.”
I stepped over to the table and let my hands wander throughthe air over this and that. They gave off vibrations, yes, a buzz stronger thanI’d expect after a century or more — mixed feelings on the saber hilt but thecommon theme strongest, something unsettling about the pistols. I stopped andstudied them with physical eyes. Green corrosion on copper percussion caps,ancient dead mold on whatever grease sealed the cast lead bullets into eachloaded chamber . . .
“You might want to unload those pistols. Carefully. Maybe havea gunsmith do it. Black powder turns unstable with age, and those mercury capsare worse. You could set them off, just handling them.”
Ridge twitched at that. Maybe he liked to play Clint Eastwoodwith his Great-Grandpappy’s guns.
Even the ledgers gave the same strong buzz, clear of anyconfusion this time. It came across too strong for normal people. “I wonder ifyour old major was a hidden wizard. Could have been what kept him alive, takingthat sword away from a Rebel trooper.”
I got mixed messages from the folded paper. I glanced aquestion at Ridge and got nods from him and Elder Lawyer. I unfolded it, theancient pages crackling and the folds stiff with the years. Last Will andTestament, etc, date back in the 1930s, multiple pages as boring as the Bible’sbegats and begats, each sheet with a set of initials and date. Typewritten, nobig thrills there, but the final page bore the old man’s signature. I felt himthere, fainter, as if this was a bit of routine or no particular importance.Which seemed strange, given the nature of the document.
Witnesses had signed below him, of course, with faint,different feels to both of them, and a date had been entered below those instill another hand that didn’t leave any feeling behind at all. Whoever wrotethat didn’t invest any personality in it.
“Feels genuine.”
Nods all around. Elder Lawyer appropriated the will andrefolded it, tucking it into another envelope.
“Mr. Patterson, Major Ridge was a very strong-willed andopinionated old man. Or old bastard, depending on who you asked and when. Thisis the latest will of his that was ever found, after his death.”
I considered that. “Latest?”
“Latest. The Major was a valued client of our firm. In his oldage, he changed his will with distressing frequency, depending on who hadoffended him or pleased him most recently. At one time, he requested and paidfor the drafting of five different wills in the space of four weeks. All ofthem were signed and witnessed, fully legal and binding. According to our records,that document was not the last in a long series. And of course, by now all thewitnesses are dead.”
I looked around the room, judging faces, picking
