Chapter 52 51

【Circular Road】 Before dawn, I got up in the big dormitory of the hostel and packed my luggage as quietly as possible.Today is Tuesday, and on Thursday the inheritance will expire; I can no longer stay in Reykjavik.I know my clues are useless: Islaville, who was born in Seydisfjordur.Semensen, nineteen-year-old Charlotte.Derby was on the passenger manifest for the Eskifjordur.But both of these places are in the East Fjords, I would rather look for them than have nothing at all. A young Norwegian snores in my top bunk.I wrapped the letter folder with spare clothes for protection, then squeezed the sleeping bag, books, and toiletries into the backpack, and stuffed the plastic bag of food on top.

I waited a long time at the bus stop outside.The bus finally arrived, and I took a seat by the window. The other passengers were serious commuters, some napping, some reading newspapers.We drove north into the suburbs, past bright red or bright yellow houses with shiny metal roofs.The clouds in the east seem to be burning with the rising sun. I took out "Icelandic Legends" from my schoolbag, opened the front of the book and introduced: □□□ The world in Icelandic Tales is quite complex, with many layers, and the same medium may alternately represent forces of good and evil.The writing style tends to be concise and objective, and rarely explains the reasons for the events.Things just happen; fate is rarely questioned.Personality is usually revealed through behavior rather than through analysis.The relationship between people is very complicated, and the influencing factors include friendship, blood relationship, marriage, and close geographical situation.

Tales have specific themes, especially from competing forces of character, glory, luck, and so on.These ingredients compete to determine the outcome of the story.Characters must constantly face bizarre enemies and be placed at extreme disadvantage.Life is short and full of uncertainty; a man's worth is determined by the glory he strives for.Any contempt for personal or family honor must be met with revenge, whether through killing or money.When people feel insulted, they often resort to deadly violence. Supernatural forces also play an important role.Elements of dreams are frequently present, frequently taking the form of prophetic dreams.The concept of luck is simple, especially as portrayed in The Niall Legend: Everyone is born with a certain amount of good luck.When this luck runs out, man is doomed.

However cunningly arranged, the hero of the saga faces an important question.Do they have the character to overcome adversity, or do they succumb to vices such as greed, jealousy, arrogance, or cowardice? The bus reached the end of the route, and the rest of the passengers got off at the terminus, and I was the only one left.The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror.The car drove through several big bends and stopped in a parking lot.All doors are open. I chose a direction, hoping to find the Ring Road, the main road that circles the island, along the north coast to the East Fjords, and then zigzags back to the south.I pull out my free Reykjavik sightseeing map and look around the northern outskirts of the city, taking my bearings on paper with my old compass.As a result, the circular road I was looking for was just blocked by the glacier tour advertisement of Vatnajökull.

I can't even describe it as despair.I whispered to myself. I folded up the map and searched for the road by instinct.An hour later, I wandered onto a long interchange ramp; I picked a spot near the entrance where I could be seen by distant traffic and where there was room on the wide shoulder for parking.I stood upright, thumbs out, thinking about my gaunt appearance: army surplus overcoat, frayed brown pants, muddy sneakers, an oversized backpack.I've never hitchhiked. The car passed by at forty miles an hour, and the strong wind it brought hit me.I didn't look at those driving faces.A car passes by with red brake lights on.I slung the luggage over my shoulder and rushed up the road.

The first person to drive me was a tall, thin man with cropped hair that was graying around the edges.He called himself a bard, a traditional performer of Icelandic songs, and sang a few bars aloud to prove it to me.His voice was deep and charming. Do you believe it now? believe. The Bard is in charge of fixing malfunctioning credit card machines at all gas stations in the country.He was from Westmanna, one of the islands off the south coast. We drove over green rolling hills.The road twists and turns and climbs to higher ground where moss and ground are covered with soft first snow.There are very few cars on the road.

First snow of the year.he whispered. Bards pass the time singing ballads, big hands gripping the steering wheel.He told me a horror story about a serial killer who gave people a hitchhiker. Maybe you are the killer.He winks at me.But maybe it's me. We stopped at a gas station at the junction of two forked roads.The bard is going in another direction.We went into the convenience store, and he kept asking for a hot dog for me. I said I didn't want to eat it three times before he finally gave up.I was embarrassed by his generosity because it evokes self-pity in me.He asked the man at the counter for a piece of paper, wrote down his phone number, and slid the paper towards me, patting me on the back with his big hand.

You should get a ride here.Call me if you get into trouble. The city of Akureyri is located on the north coast of Iceland, almost halfway between Reykjavik and the Eastfjords.I arrived after dusk, in a young woman's station wagon, and we drove along a narrow bay with black water, the dim lights of the city reflected below.She drove me to the youth hostel.Although I wanted to continue driving, I guess no driver would dare to give a lift at night. Akureyri has 6,000 inhabitants, but the city doesn't feel that big.A bearded counter clerk sits behind a youth hostel counter, turning the knobs of an old color TV.I put my passport on the counter and asked him for a bed.

Did you come by bus? I hitchhike. He looked surprised, then dropped a room key on the counter. There is only you here. I asked him if he could make a collect call.He put a rotary telephone on the table.He was halfway through the TV and stared back at me when I asked the operator if I could get a call to England.The secretary at Downing & Hooper immediately recognized my voice and referred me to Pitcherd. The elusive Mr. Campbell.Pitcherd said: You're an enigma.Even Jeffrey can't explain what you're doing in Iceland. She has been here.I know she has been here. IMHO.Pitcherd sighed.You can't be sure.Your brooch proves nothing.Have you found any other evidence?

There is no certainty. Mr. Campbell, you only have two days left.And I don't see the brooch, or anything in Iceland, having anything to do with any of this to prove the relationship between you and Ms. Soames/Anderson. This all falls under the same question.I can only follow along. Sure, but there's no way you can unravel it all on Thursday.Therefore, we have some special arrangements.Do you remember that I cannot give you details of the Worthingham Trust unless necessary.But I am now able to reveal to you that the standard of evidence required to obtain an estate is, well, more flexible than you think.Anyway, we might be able to refer to what you've found so far.

I thought none of my evidence was going to work. It cannot withstand scrutiny in court.However, it was the trustees, not the will, that managed the Worthingham assets.We call this mechanism a semi-secret trust.Since wills are largely public records, such semi-secret trusts were actually quite common in Mr Worthingham's day.Suppose a man wanted to leave money to his mistress or illegitimate child, he would put the property in a trust in his will, and the trust would distribute the assets according to the oral or written secret trust content.In this case, Mr. Walsingham made a will, designating most of the assets to be managed by Tang Ning, and also instructed that the assets should be distributed according to a secret trust document.That's the document that mentions Soames|Ms. Anderson.No doubt she was mentioned in the will.And we call it semi-secret, because everyone knows that there is a trust, but no one knows the terms of the trust. I don't understand. What this means for you is simple.It is up to the administrator of the trust to decide whether to admit evidence, not the probate court.I have spoken to other trust administrators who are they?How is it possible to be alive? I'm afraid I can't tell you who they are.What I can say, though, is that the trust document allows for a choice of heirs, just as I succeed Peter.Like Tangning.The point is, if you go back to London tomorrow, the trust administrator will agree to evaluate the evidence you have gathered and use that to make a decision. You said none of that evidence was good enough.Now you say yes again? What I'm saying is, Pitcher corrects, and maybe there's something that can be agreed upon. I raise the volume.So why didn't you speak up in the first place?All this time you've been saying that everything I'm doing is wrong.But you were the one who asked me to track down Eleanor's letter, and I just came here after investigating all the way.For two months, you said that I was going astray, but suddenly Mr Campbell.Pitcher interjected.At the time I could only tell you what I was allowed to say.As for the criteria for assessing evidence, I never suggested that any criteria existed.I just encourage you to look for evidence that the trust administrator might find compelling.But you never found it.Now that the trust administrator is ready to consider your eligibility, time is of the essence of any evidence you find.The possible heirs are already there, they're just not willing to hand over their assets.In fact, they are already very tolerant, and I think you should be grateful. Pitcher took a deep breath.His tone softened. More important is what I tell you now.You must go back to London.We can arrange your itinerary and book a meeting time for you.I can't promise any results.What I can guarantee is that if you are still in Iceland on Thursday, the conditions of the inheritance will lapse and you will not get a dime. There was a long silence on the phone.On the other side of the counter, the clerk turned the knob on the TV.I covered my face with one hand, and spoke almost in a breathy voice: I do not care. What? I don't care about that money. You do not care.Pitcherd repeated my words slowly.are you sure?Do you know how you will feel ten years from now, or forty years from now?Honestly, I don't know if you are mature enough to make such a decision.I don't mean to lecture you, Mr. Campbell.But you're only twenty-three and you want to give up What does it matter to you who gets that money?You are just a lawyer! I think it matters.It's not just about money.Just look at the facts. Pitcher exhaled forcefully.His voice grew louder. Fact one, Ashley.Washingham died alone on Mount Everest at the age of twenty-nine.Fact Two, Mr. Worthingham left nearly all of his property to Ms. Soames-Anderson, a woman whom he had not seen for seven years.Fact three.Ms. Soames/Anderson never showed up to claim her estate.Fact four.Your grandmother never went to claim the inheritance, neither did your mother.Fact five.The law firm learned of your connection to Ms. Soames/Anderson from a letter, just less than three months before the end of the eighty-year trust.What does all this mean to you? too crazy.It doesn't make any sense at all. You are wrong, Mr. Campbell.It makes perfect sense.Do you think these improbable things don't bother me?Of course it bothers me, and so does Jeffrey, and anyone who has been exposed to the Worthingham case is.But that's what makes sense.Maybe I'm old and unhinged, but it's obvious to me It's all random.Just a mess. certainly not.Pitcher retorted.All signs point to you.The more I know, the more sure I am.Maybe we shouldn't say Ashley.Worthingham died because of that money, or it separated him from Ms. Soames-Anderson, or your grandmother and mother were hurt by it.But in my opinion, they all suffer from something, and only you can benefit from it.Just think I'm an emotional old fool, but I can't bear to watch you give up like this just to satisfy some crazy theory at the end of Europe.It's not fair to you.It's certainly not fair to them either. I shook my head and wrapped my fingers around the phone cord. I can't go back.I'm about to You may be close to a clue."But I don't think it's what you expected," Pitcherd said. We all fell silent.In the end Pitcherd said that Kahn would wait for my news until tomorrow morning at the latest.I returned the phone to the desk clerk. How far is it from here to the Eastfjords? Eastfjords?What are you doing there? go swimming. He didn't smile. It is two hundred and sixty kilometers to Egilsstadir. As night fell, I cooked pasta in the hotel kitchen, wrapping a scarf twice around my neck to keep me warm.I ate at the table by myself, rolling up noodles with a fork and looking out the window into the darkness. Does Pitchard know everything, even what I haven't found?Could it be that he designed it all?Because I don't know anyone else in a position to fake the whole thing, though I can't think of a reason why Pitcherd would.Who else was involved in this deception Miri, Desmarais, Corinne, everyone I met in Europe?Do Ashley and Yin Mozhen really exist?I was lucky enough to find those letters.Or has it always been there, just waiting for someone who really wants to discover it? I have to decide tonight.There is a small airport in Akureyri, and if the firm can afford my travel expenses, I can fly to Reykjavik and then fly back to London.Or else I'll continue east tomorrow and reach the Eastfjords in a few hours.But even if I find more evidence, it will be too late to go to London and miss the legacy. I grabbed my coat and camera and walked into the downtown area, where the sidewalk businesses were closed.I thought of the small town of Picardy, where the shops and cafes were closed, but Miri would describe what those places looked like inside.I said how cold and lonely these towns were, and Miri threw her cigarettes down the gutter. ∮ You are here for this.Not for the lights of the Boulevard Saint-Germain.This is what you want. Yeah? Everyone can go to Paris.But it's just you and me. I'm in a busy part of Akureyri, standing in the middle of an empty road.In the drizzle, I heard the distant echo of music and followed the sound to a small bar with only one window, covered with condensation fog.I took a few pictures on the sidewalk, but didn't go inside.On the way back to the hotel, those lights reappeared in the eastern sky, swaying like ribbons in the breeze, blue-green now red, changing shape faster and faster. My room was cold and empty.The dial on the heater stopped at zero.If I turn the plastic knob, the room warms up in ten minutes.But I didn't do that.I got into my sleeping bag, turned on the headlamp, and lay down with a letter from Inmogen.In the corner of the letter paper, I saw some stars.