= Trust and Treachery
  by Peter Friend


The whole family had to meet at the solicitor's office just an hour after Adam's funeral. Clause 26(c) of the Halderson Trust Deed demanded it, and whatever that ridiculous document demanded, it got.

Right after a funeral, before the grave had even been filled in? It seemed disrespectful.

Still, it had been a tedious marriage and Rachel had spent the last three months wishing Adam would hurry up and die. Not that she'd hated her husband -- she wouldn't wish cancer on anyone -- but to be practical, his death meant she'd soon be several million dollars richer.

She hadn't been to the solicitor's office since Adam's great-uncle Benjamin Halderson died three years ago and she'd inherited her own trusteeship and shareholding in the Halderson Trust. The place hadn't changed - it was still dusty and gloomy and reminded her of a funeral home.

The reception area was deserted. Someone pale lurked down a dark corridor, but disappeared when she blinked. A small tarnished brass bell was mounted on the reception desk; she was about to ring it when the elderly Mr Calshaw shuffled into view.

"My personal condolences, dear Mrs Halderson," he greeted her, looking mournful. He'd said exactly the same thing three years ago, although she'd never even met Adam's great-uncle. Mr Calshaw specialised in wills and trusts, so she supposed he greeted every client the same way.

In the conference room, Victoria and Florence Halderson were already waiting. The spinster sisters clucked and twittered and patted her hand, just as they had at the funeral. Rachel was glad she'd gone for the traditional widow's veil so no one could see her smile.

As she'd arranged, Adam's brother Taylor arrived several minutes later. She and Taylor didn't want to be seen together too much just yet.

Dan, Adam's twenty-year-old son from his first marriage, wandered in. Late as always. He'd worn an embarrassingly scruffy suit at the funeral; now he'd changed back into his usual hand-knitted jersey and patched jeans and looked like a tramp.

"Hi, aunties. Hi, Uncle Taylor. Hi, Mum," he beamed.

She winced inside. It was bad enough being stepmother to this bearded tree-hugging bran-munching hippy without him calling her Mum all the time. She was only eleven years older than him, after all.

Victoria and Florence thought the world of him, of course, just as Adam had. The sisters fussed over him now, pretending great enthusiasm as he showed them photos and babbled on about his latest loony scheme -- saving some endangered grey-crested robin. It looked to her like a dead budgie wearing stilts.

Mr Calshaw came in, carrying a thick ribbon-bound sheaf of papers, and everyone sat down. Just as last time, six chairs were set out around the long table, one for Mr Calshaw and one for each of the five trustees, dead or alive. As a non-trustee, Dan was banished to a small battered couch at the back of the room.

On the table in front of each chair was a leather-bound copy of the Halderson Trust Deed -- rather pointless, since everyone in the room had read it dozens of times, but the deed said things must always be done this way and today would be no exception.

"As you are all aware," droned Mr Calshaw, "I have called this meeting in accordance with the conditions of the Halderson Trust Deed of 1903, as set out by your ancestor Bartholemew Everett Halderson. Clauses 26 and 27 control the succession of a trusteeship and shareholding upon the death of any trustee - Adam Bartholemew Halderson in this case.

"Clause 27(j) now requires me to ask whether any person here has knowledge that the deceased did ever commit arson, adultery, divorce, murder or real estate fraud, did ever join any circus or any Communist organisation or the Mormon Church, did ever enter the country of Portugal or any of its colonies, did ever fail to give any Halderson descendant the second Christian name of Bartholemew, did...."

Clause 27(j) always infuriated Rachel. Bartholemew Everett Halderson had been quite mad. What he had against Mormons or the Portuguese, for example, was a mystery to everyone. As was why all the children had to have Bartholemew as their middle name -- even the girls -- that was presumably no more than vanity. Thank God she'd only married into the family, so that clause didn't apply to her.

Mr Calshaw was still reading the same clause three minutes later: "...did attempt or commit suicide, was executed for treason, did die of leprosy or syphilis or tuberculosis or heart attack or murder, or did ever perform on stage in a music hall theatre." He took a well-deserved sip from a water glass.

"Nay," everyone chorused, Florence giggling and trying to sound like a horse. Honestly, the woman was fifty-four -- wouldn't she ever grow up?

Mr Calshaw glared at her. "I would remind everyone of Clause 19(e), which allows any trustee to immediately resign should they not agree with any conditions of the trust deed."

"Sorry," mumbled Florence, red-faced. Even she wasn't stupid enough to risk her twenty percent of the trust's million dollar annual profits.

"The trustees' confirmation of the deceased's adherence to the trust deed's conditions is therefore a matter of public record as per Clause 27(m)," Mr Calshaw continued, "and unless repudiated within one calendar month from this date as per Clause 27(p), the deceased's trusteeship and shareholding shall transfer in full to the person deemed eligible under Clause 27(q).

"The trust deed does not require me to read Clause 27(q) aloud" -- there was a sigh of relief since everyone knew it was seven pages long -- "but as previously advised, Adam's trusteeship and shareholding goes to Rachel, in addition to that which she already holds."

"It doesn't seem fair," said Rachel, doing her best not to sound smug. "I already have one share, and that's enough for anyone. Dan deserves it far more, Adam and I agreed." Actually only Adam had thought so, but she had to pretend to like Dan. For a little longer.

"Dan is a fine young man," nodded Mr Calshaw, "but his poor mother had the misfortune to die of a heart attack -- Bartholemew apparently considered heart disease to be a sign of moral laxity, since he included it in Clause 27(j). Sadly, the trust deed is quite inflexible in such matters. Although a most eccentric document in many respects, the courts have repeatedly confirmed its validity, and we are all bound by its constraints."

Indeed. Halderson descendants and their lawyers had been arguing over the deed for most of the last century -- especially in the twenty years since some fortuitous investments in computer technology increased the trust's value a hundredfold.

"Some cash would come in handy," said Dan, brandishing his bird photos again. "Not for myself, of course -- I've rejected the dehumanising capitalist system -- but if the grey-crested robins' breeding rate continues to fall --"

"I'm sure we'd all love to help your grey bobbins," interrupted Rachel, not interested in hearing any more about his stupid birds, "but it may have to wait a few months. Adam's business affairs were quite complex."

"One mustn't rush these things," agreed Mr Calshaw. "Very well, I wish you all a good afternoon. We meet in a month's time for the formal trusteeship and shareholding transfer."

"You look exhausted, Rachel," said Taylor, sounding the perfect concerned brother-in-law. "Today must have been a terrible strain for you. Can I give you a lift home?"

"Thank you, Taylor, you've been a great support," she said with a brave widow's smile, not meeting his eyes in case one of them started giggling.

As they filed out through the gloomy corridors, she caught another glimpse of the pale figure, but again it flitted away when she turned to look.

* * *

Taylor's hand was on her thigh before he'd even started the car.

"Someone might see," she hissed, slapping his hand away.

"But it's not adultery any more. You're a widow now -- unmarried, eligible, free to carry on with anyone you like. Including your dear brother-in-law."

"Not yet," she sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you? If anyone finds out we've been sleeping together for two years, Clause 18 would chuck us both out of the trust instantly -- old Bartholemew was obsessed over adultery. We have to do this slowly. Chaste public appearances together for a month or so, dinners and concerts and the like. Then we fall madly in love and marry before Christmas, telling everyone how much Adam would have approved."

Taylor's smile returned. "Just in time for the annual general meeting, when our combined sixty percent shareholding lets us vote in a new investment strategy, regardless of what old Calshaw or the sisters think. Six months later, the trust will be bankrupt and our fake investment companies will be twenty million dollars richer. Spin in your grave, Bartholemew."

Money always cheered Taylor up, Rachel noticed. That and annoying the rest of the Halderson family. She sympathised on both counts.

He kept his hands to himself the rest of the way home, then helped her inside, offering his strong arm to support her in her widowly grief.

Then they made love on the coffee table. And again on the floor of the master bedroom. He was quite insatiable. Such a change from Adam, whose idea of fun in bed had been a good book -- usually some drivel about poltergeists or seances.

Afterwards, remembering the expensive bottle of wine she'd bought especially, she went to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew.

But stopped in the lounge. There, in Adam's overstuffed armchair, was the same pale figure she'd glimpsed twice at the solicitor's office. Adam himself.

She shrieked and ran to the bedroom. "It's Adam! In the lounge!"

Taylor stared at her, half-smiling as if waiting for the punch line of a joke.

She dragged him down the hallway and into the lounge. Empty.

"It was Adam. He was a ghost. I saw him. I did, I really did."

Taylor hugged her. "You're just tired. Big day and all that. A good night's sleep and you'll feel much better."

"Yes. Suppose you're right. You go back to bed. I'll get that corkscrew; now I really need a drink."

After rummaging through the kitchen drawers, she found the corkscrew and turned to leave. And there was Adam again. She squealed, but forced herself not to run.

He was a ghost, that was undeniable. She considered herself a sensible woman. She'd never believed a word of that spiritualist mumbo-jumbo Adam had been so infatuated with. Nevertheless, there he was in front of her. A real ghost, not some idiot painted white or draped in a sheet. She could see right through him, to where Taylor peered wide-eyed around the doorway.

Adam spoke. At least, his mouth moved, but no sound came out. He gestured at her, waving his arms like a deranged mime artist.

"What? What is it?" she asked.

He gestured again. Putting something in his mouth -- yes, that was clear enough -- but all the head wobbling and pointing meant nothing to her. He'd always been useless at charades, an absolute embarrassment at party games.

"I don't know what you mean."

His shoulders drooped. Then he held up one finger and waved it in a complicated pattern. Ah -- he was spelling out a word in mid-air.

"Pills?" she guessed on his third attempt.

He nodded and wrote again.

"Poison?"

Another nod.

"Your pills were poisoned? You were murdered? By whom?"

He wrote 'Celia' in the air. Celia? The name rang a bell, but where from?

"My poor darling," she told him. "I'll call the police. Justice will be done, I promise you."

He smiled, blew a kiss at her, then faded from sight.

"What the hell was that about?" asked Taylor, emerging from behind the door.

She shrugged. "I know, I know, I couldn't believe my eyes at first either. A lost soul, doomed to wander the earth until his murder is avenged -- precisely the sort of melodramatic rubbish he was always reading about. He's probably half-enjoying the situation."

"Not that," spluttered Taylor. "You called him 'darling'."

She threw the corkscrew at him. "What was I supposed to say? 'Go away, I'm busy screwing your brother'? This is serious."

He looked puzzled. "A bit creepy, having a ghost wandering around, but --"

"Idiot! Remember Clause 27(j)? I only get Adam's trust share because he died of nice natural cancer. If he really was murdered, it will go to... um...."

Neither of them knew for sure. She flicked through her filing cabinet and found a dog-eared photocopy of the trust deed. She checked it. Taylor checked it. The clause wording was quite clear -- if Adam was murdered, his trusteeship and shareholding went to Dan.

"Of course!" said Taylor, looking pleased with himself. "It was Dan! He murdered Adam so that he'd inherit Adam's share and save his endangered birdies."

"Don't be ridiculous. What's Dan going to do -- tell the world that he murdered his own father and then ask to inherit his shareholding? Anyway, you know Dan -- he's such a wimp, he wouldn't kill a spider. The murderer must have been this Celia, whoever she is."

"No one else knows about it. Can't we just sort of...hush it up?" suggested Taylor.

"Hush it up? How do you hush up a ghost? If we ignore him, he'll float around haunting everyone we know until someone else goes to the police. Then they'll dig up his corpse, prove he was poisoned, and Dan gets the trust share. Is that what you want? We need to nip this thing in the bud, and soon. Go home. Now."

"What? Why?"

"I can't risk Adam catching us together."

"You're sure he didn't know about us anyway?"

"He was the most unobservant man on the planet. I once dyed my hair blonde and he took a week to notice. But even he'll suspect something if he finds us in bed together. Go home; call me tomorrow. I need to think about this."

* * *

She woke at two the next morning, having remembered who Celia was. In the study were the condolence cards from the funeral, collected so that she could send out thank you notes. Amongst them, she found the one inscribed: 'Rest in Peace. Celia, from Room 8.' Room 8? The room number at the private hospital, perhaps -- Adam had been in Room 5. Yes, he'd mentioned a Celia once or twice, now she came to think of it.

Well, this Celia deserved more than a thank-you note. A personal visit, yes. A grieving widow calling on her dear husband's companions in the ward where he'd died -- no one would find anything strange in that.

Rachel was wide awake now. She paced up and down for a time, thinking, then ran to the bedroom closet. Beneath Adam's clothes was the small suitcase of his personal belongings she'd brought back from the hospital.

She wasn't sure what she was looking for -- a clue, evidence of some kind, it could be anything. She found it in his dressing gown pocket...a bottle of capsules, dated a week before he'd died.

They were the same medication he'd been taking when he'd first become ill - she recognised the drug name, even if she couldn't pronounce it - but why were they in the pocket of a dressing gown he hadn't worn during his final month of life? She tipped the bottle out into her hand. Fine lines of white powder trickled over her palm from several capsules. They'd been tampered with; that was obvious enough even to her untrained eyes.

There was a chill breath of air, and she looked up and saw Adam.

"Celia swapped your capsules for these ones?"

He nodded, ghostly tears in his eyes.

She thought fast. The next step was risky, quite risky, but she needed to be sure.

"Don't be upset, darling, but I can't tell the police. They won't believe me for a moment -- look, my own fingerprints are on the bottle now. But there is another way...I will avenge your death, I promise. And once justice has prevailed, you'll be released, won't you? You'll automatically shoot off to... um... heaven, and never come back?"

To her relief, he nodded, not seeming to suspect anything, then faded into the wall.

She went back to bed with a faint smile on her lips. Everything was still going to work out fine.

Taylor's phone call woke her at nine. "Well? What are we going to do? Call in an exorcist?" he demanded, sounding flustered.

"We will do nothing. You'll do whatever grieving brothers are supposed to do on the day after a funeral -- mow the lawns or prune the roses or something, I don't know. I will dress in respectable black and go visiting a dear friend of the family. By tonight, Adam's ghost will be gone and our plans will be back on track. I'll call you. Bye."

* * *

The nurses were delighted to see her, touched by her kind gift of flowers. Yes, there was a Celia in Room 8. The poor dear was sinking fast -- had only a week or so to live, the doctors thought. Yes, she and Adam had spent a lot of time talking. Both heavily into all that spiritualism stuff -- well, it takes all sorts, doesn't it. They'd become quite good friends, although they'd argued terribly just a few days before Adam had passed away. They'd never made up, and then of course it was too late. Very sad, yes. Celia had been most upset, had insisted on sending the flowers and card to his funeral -- had wanted to attend herself, but that was quite out of the question in her condition, of course.

"Thank you, you've been most helpful," Rachel said. "I know it's not visiting hours yet, but would anyone mind if I spend a few moments with her while I'm here?"

No, no one would mind in the slightest.

Celia turned out to be a frail young woman, probably once quite pretty. But the nurses hadn't exaggerated her condition -- her gaunt face was barely visible beneath tubes and wires, and three tall racks of medical equipment blinked green lights and hummed beside her bed.

Celia looked up and smiled. "Rachel? You're Rachel Halderson, aren't you? Adam described you perfectly. It's so nice to meet you at last." Her voice was weak but clear.

"He spoke of you several times," said Rachel. "We really should have met sooner, but -- well, as you can imagine, what with the funeral arrangements and now sorting out Adam's business affairs...."

"Yes, he mentioned your family trust. That Bartholemew sounded unbearable. Not that... not that any of us are perfect." Celia sighed and stared at her bedclothes.

Just the opening Rachel wanted. "You two had some argument, I believe, a week or so ago. Adam seemed quite upset."

"More than just an argument. I...I'm a terrible person, Rachel, an evil person. I don't deserve...no, I can't tell you to your face. You'll know soon enough anyway. There's a chaplain who visits on Thursday afternoons; I'm going to tell him everything. I don't have long to live, you know. After I'm gone, the truth can be told. You'll never forgive me and I don't blame you. I'm sorry, Rachel, I did so want to meet you but not like this. You're going to walk out of here hating me and I can't even tell you why."

"Not at all," said Rachel. "I know exactly why. And I forgive you."

Celia gave a puzzled smile, and hardly struggled at all when Rachel put the pillow over her face and held it down. It's what she wanted, Rachel told herself, what she deserved. This way, everybody gets what they want.

Celia went limp and one of the machines started beeping. Rachel glared at it, searching for a power switch. She found it and the beeping stopped, but two other machines had started flashing red lights.

A quick glance out the door confirmed that no one was in sight. She dropped the pillow behind the bed. Celia looked peaceful, almost happy.

"I suppose I should be grateful to you," Rachel whispered. "At least you got rid of Adam for me." She softly closed the door behind her and strode down the corridor to the stairwell. There were no shouts, no alarms, no running footsteps. She'd nearly reached her car before the security guard stopped her.

* * *

She told the police that there must be some mistake, she knew nothing about Celia's death. They showed her the videotape from the surveillance camera in the equipment rack next to Celia's bed. Celia had insisted on the camera's installation a few weeks ago, saying it would make her feel safer, and the hospital had grudgingly agreed. Ironic really -- the tape showed her death in excruciating detail, Rachel had to admit.

It wasn't real murder, she told them. Celia had only a few days to live anyway. It's still murder, they said.

She told them she was in shock from discovering Adam's murder. She told them about the poisoned capsules, but that just made things worse. They pointed out that hospital patients are given medication one dose at a time, never a whole bottle. The capsules were tested and turned out to be ordinary vitamins. They even accused her of faking the bottle label.

She tried to get Taylor to back up at least some of her story, but he insisted he hadn't seen her or spoken to her since dropping her home after the funeral. An affair -- what affair? Too late, she realised he had no intention of losing his trust share, let alone being implicated in a murder.

And no one at all believed her when she started talking about ghosts.

The trial was quite a public scandal. There were calls to reintroduce the death penalty. The jury took less than an hour to find her guilty.

* * *

Afterwards, she lay in her cell, staring at the concrete wall and wondering where she'd gone wrong. The wall shimmered, and there was Adam. Beside him, holding his hand, was Celia. They were smiling.

"Actually, we ghosts can talk just fine," said Adam, "but we thought the silent writing in the air and all that would be more dramatic. And I lied about being murdered, of course.

"You and Taylor weren't the only ones having an affair -- Celia and I had fallen in love in hospital. Still, I must say our affair was more platonic than yours. We were both in wheelchairs when we met."

"Even kissing was difficult," Celia smiled. "Our oxygen tubes kept getting in the way."

Adam nodded. "We knew we had to make the best of what little time we had left. I'd overheard enough of your late night phone calls to Taylor to know what the two of you were up to. The sex didn't worry me particularly - you hadn't given me a genuine kiss in years -- but there was no way I was going to let you defraud the trust."

"So I faked the label on the bottle and put a few squashed vitamin capsules inside it. And I whined piteously until they agreed to install a surveillance camera," said Celia. "Adam was going downhill fast. We made sure to have a good loud screaming match that everyone would hear. I called him some dreadful things, I must say."

"The yelling itself nearly killed me," laughed Adam. "Two days later, I really was dead. A perfectly natural death. Then it was time for my amateur dramatics."

"You framed me!" shouted Rachel.

"Did we?" asked Celia. "You murdered me, remember? All for the sake of your fraud scheme, not because you cared about Adam's 'murder' in the slightest. I admit I didn't mind dying -- I was in terrible pain and wanted to rejoin Adam as soon as possible -- but nevertheless, you still murdered me. Now you can rot in jail."

"But why? Why do all this to me?" Rachel was in tears.

"Read the trust deed again," said Adam. "I've died a natural death and you've been convicted of murder, so Dan gets both our shares. I just spoke to him. He's going to start a bird sanctuary. And the Halderson Trust is safe.

"Goodbye, Rachel. Celia and I have eternity to look forward to together. I hope your time in jail is just as miserable as the loveless marriage you gave me."

And they faded back through the concrete.

"You framed me," she screamed. "You framed me!" She kicked the blank wall, pounded it until her fists bled, until the guards came and held her down. "They framed me," she told them, weeping. "Doesn't anyone believe me?"


PETER FRIEND has sold fiction to Aurealis, Interzone and Aboriginal Science Fiction magazines, the New Zealand anthologies Rutherford's Dreams and Antipodean Tales, two Magic The Gathering anthologies, and numerous magazines and newspapers. His stories have twice won the Paul John Statham Memorial Fantasy and Science Fiction writing competition. In real life, he's a computer analyst, but hopes to one day become a full-time living art treasure.

Copyright (c) 2001 Peter Friend