“Is that who owns the journal now?” Jake asks, already eager to get the journal safely back into her hands. “This Harvey Lomax III?”
“The slipcase, yes. The book, however, remains the property of our firm. Though we’ve reached an understanding with Mr. Lomax that if certain eventualities occur, he’ll be fairly compensated for providing this important piece of the puzzle.”
“Those ‘eventualities’ of yours still seem like a long shot to me,” Jake says skeptically, “even with the slipcase.”
“Well, here’s where it gets really interesting: Officially, in the spring of 1935, around the same time Harvey Lomax Sr. went missing, R.J. Holt’s infant daughter was kidnapped from his estate by your great-uncle, Everett Greenwood, a known vagrant and criminal who claimed to be a veteran of the First World War, although there’s zero record of his service. After an unsuccessful plot to milk Holt for the ransom money, and with the authorities closing in—this was all established in court—Everett holed up with the child right here on his brother Harris’s private island, in this very cabin. And after a firefight with Mountie officers—hence the bullets—he was captured, and subsequently admitted to disposing of the infant somewhere in this forest, a crime for which he would serve a thirty-eight-year prison sentence.”
“Charming,” Jake says. “No wonder the Cathedral never puts the island’s history on its brochures. But you said ‘officially.’ What about unofficially?”
“On closer examination, the whole story gets iffy. R.J. Holt was a known philanderer, and we can find no confirmation he ever had a child with his lawful wife. After further digging, my people found that a woman named Euphemia Baxter did work as a cleaner in one of Holt’s banks. We believe that Ms. Baxter had an affair with Holt, and that once she became pregnant, they made a deal for him to adopt her child. Yet there are no hospital records of the birth, and shortly after, Ms. Baxter’s body was found in the woods near the Holt estate. The cause of death was listed as suicide, except there was no formal investigation—because of Holt’s far-reaching influence, is our guess.”
Tears blur Jake’s eyes. For some reason, the news of Euphemia’s possible suicide hits her like an axe. She’d seemed so hopeful while writing her final journal entry. So alive and dedicated to her future.
“Coincidentally,” Silas goes on, oblivious to the story’s emotional impact on Jake, “she died the very same year that your grandmother, Willow Greenwood, was born to your great-grandfather Harris and an unnamed washwoman at one of his remote logging camps. Given his rumoured, and quite probable, homosexuality, I had my team pull Willow Greenwood’s birth certificate, and they discovered it contains many characteristics of a forgery, including a different typeface and paper stock than all others printed in British Columbia during that year. Leading us to suspect that the child was not Harris Greenwood’s at all, but the Holt infant your great-uncle Everett kidnapped and confessed to having disposed of in the woods. We believe that the child was adopted secretly by Harris Greenwood, who, to keep up appearances, claimed it was born to a washwoman who’d died during labour while in his employ.”
“Then why the hell would Everett Greenwood say he killed the child and spend forty years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit?”
“Our only theory is that because Everett was reportedly illiterate and seriously shell-shocked, his wealthy brother—who was, by all accounts, as shrewd as he was ruthless—wanted a child to carry on his legacy, and duped his simple-minded brother into fetching him one.”
“What you’re saying is that my noble Greenwood ancestors were hobos, forest-destroyers, eco-terrorists, slave traders, and kidnappers—but not child murderers. That’s great, Silas. I feel so much better now that I have a ‘story to tell,’ as you put it.”
“It all matters more than you think, Jake. If this theory proves true, and your grandmother Willow Greenwood was the biological daughter of R.J. Holt—whether she arose from a lawful relationship or not—it means we could reasonably establish your own consanguinity with the Holt family tree. You see, R.J. Holt was predeceased by his spouse and siblings, and was survived by no immediate family. A genealogical search conducted at the time of his death found no viable heirs, and his intestate estate has since been held in a trust controlled by the province of New Brunswick.”
“So?” she says with mounting impatience.
“So all we have to do is file a legal challenge attesting your ancestral relationship to the decedent,” he says. “We’ll need to prove this connection to a judge, of course, but with the journal and slipcase united and entered together as evidence, we’ll have a more than robust case. Once you are established as the estate’s beneficiary, a number of related dividends and trusts, which have been accruing interest in Crown accounts for years, would flow to you. Your debt will be a thing of the past, Jake. You’ll be free.”
Suddenly, her great-grandfather’s cabin feels oppressively small and a slight pain has begun to pulse behind her eyes. “I’m still getting used to the idea of even having a family,” she says, rising from the sofa. “And now you’re hitting me with all this. It’s a bit much, Silas. I need to go for a walk to clear my head.”
“If it worked,” he says, standing beside her and clasping her hand, “along with unimaginable wealth, you’d also gain a controlling interest in Holtcorp, which has been rudderless for years. Of course we expect the board will put up a fight, but even they will agree that a strong leadership presence could only enhance the company’s long-term stability. Plus, your educational qualifications are stellar, and your name alone will lend Holtcorp’s many eco-entertainment assets an added air of authenticity. You could do so much more than pay off your debt, Jake. Greenwood Island would be yours to do with as you please. Perhaps you could even save it.”
“From what?” she asks suspiciously. She doubts Knut alerted management to the fungus in his final rant, or that they would have believed him if he had. In the days since his banishment, Jake has been covertly applying an antifungal solution she prepared to the afflicted trees each afternoon during her tours, even though there’s been little sign of improvement.
“From further exploitation,” Silas says. “From the Pilgrims. From the Withering. From people like me. You could make things more equitable for everyone. Set up a proper laboratory. You could do research again. I know how much this place matters to you, Jake. Just think how much more it will mean to you once it’s yours.”
“But what if this plan fails and we’re denied our claim? I doubt Holtcorp will keep me on here after I’ve made a gambit like that. I’ll be banished.”
“I do this for a living, Jake,” Silas says, taking both her hands in his and fixing her with wide, imploring eyes. “And, like you, I’m good at what I do.”
“I’ll consider it,” she says, dropping his hands and heading for the door.
“What’s to consider?” he says, following her. “Do you know how much of the world Holtcorp controls? Its last valuation was two trillion. That’s tourism, security and firefighting services, solar, mining, desalination, resource development, and even asthma medication. You don’t need to play the noble, selfless scientist anymore. Not with wealth like that on the table.”