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The last bundle lay open on the long table in Bowland’s factor’s room, and James Rutherford could see from the way his solicitor sifted the papers that nothing in it would help them. The man had not yet sighed, but his fingers moved slowly, as though turning over bad news rather than evidence.

“Nothing?” James asked.

“Nothing that matters.” The solicitor straightened the edge of the packet. “We have searched every box at Bowland, the public records, and the offices of every lawyer your father is known to have employed. No deed has come to light.”

James walked to the window. The Vale of Gala lay quiet beyond it, and he did not want to look at the papers again. “I know the rights were bought. He told me so more than once.”

“And I believe you. The teind is the old Scottish tithe, the right to draw income from the land. If your father purchased the teind rights, this claim should fail. But the court will not accept your memory of his words.”

“Then I must ride to Edinburgh and buy off a debt that is not owed.” James turned from the window. “How much do they claim?”

The solicitor named a sum that would not ruin Bowland, but would strip it of ready money and force the sale of good stock. He said, “I am bound to advise you plainly. Your father probably did purchase the teinds. Probable is not proof.”

James said nothing for a moment. He was proud of Bowland, and he had spent six weeks hunting through family papers, public records, and lawyers’ offices until his patience had worn thin. The household had kept receipts for every bridle and bucket, but not the one document that could end the matter. “I will leave at first light. I will negotiate the least damaging settlement I can.”

His solicitor began to gather the papers. “I will follow with the best figures I can prepare.”

James went to bed angry, not at the law but at the careless filing of the dead. He fell asleep still arranging and rearranging what he would say in Edinburgh.

In the dream he sat in his father’s old bookroom, and his father was there as a man at the end of a long day, with one hand resting on the desk.

“You look like a man paying arrears,” his father said.

“I am about to,” James said. He heard his own voice without surprise. “The family claims the teinds of Bowland have gone unpaid for years. I know you purchased the rights, but there is no deed anywhere, and every proper search has failed.”

His father nodded. “You are right. I purchased those teinds. The papers are not at Bowland, and they are not with any lawyer I usually employed. They remain with Mr. Ainslie, a writer—an attorney—retired at Inveresk near Edinburgh.”

“Why him? We have no record of him.”

“I used him for that single transaction. Discretion was required. I did not want the price known until the matter was closed.” His father’s expression remained practical. “He may be very old now and may have forgotten the business. Remind him of one detail.”

James waited.

His father allowed himself a small, dry smile. “When I paid his account, I had only a Portuguese gold piece. Neither of us could find the correct change. After some useless searching, we went to a tavern and drank the remaining balance. He may have forgotten the legal work, but he will remember the drink.”

James opened his mouth to ask what any of this could mean, but the question would not form. He woke with the name Inveresk, the name Ainslie, and the Portugal piece fixed in his mind.

By midmorning James turned off the Edinburgh road and rode across country toward Inveresk. He told himself the detour cost little, and if the dream proved nonsense he would only arrive later with the same bad terms to offer.

Mr. Ainslie’s house was small and orderly, with a flagged path and a door polished by use. The old man received him with perfect courtesy. He was tidy in his person, his collar close at the neck.

“Mr. Ainslie,” James said, “I am James Rutherford of Bowland. I have come to ask whether you ever acted for my father in the purchase of the teind rights of Bowland.”

Ainslie frowned. “I remember Mr. Rutherford. A very capable man. But no, I am certain I never did business for him. You must have been misdirected.”

James tried two or three ordinary details. He named the noble family. He described the old teind claim. He mentioned his father’s wish for a private negotiation. None of it produced recognition. Ainslie shook his head politely, but with the firmness of a man who trusted his ledger books.

James hesitated, then said, “My father believed you might recall being paid in a Portuguese gold piece.”

Ainslie stopped him before he could finish. His face opened. “A Portuguese piece. Yes. We could not find change. The coin was worth more than my account, and we walked down to the tavern rather than continue the search.” He laughed once, softly. “We drank the difference, or near enough. I remember now. The teinds. I drew the conveyance.”

He led James into a back room where the oldest professional papers stood packed in boxes. They opened several bundles that were tied with tape and labelled in faded ink. James’s optimism thinned as each packet proved to concern some stranger’s marriage or heritable property. Ainslie worked methodically, but showed no uncertainty now.

Then Ainslie drew out a flat packet marked with a single name: Rutherford. For a moment James did not want to open it. He cut the tape himself and lifted the top sheet. The paper was dry but sound. In the careful legal hand of the deed, his father’s purchase of the teind rights of Bowland was set down in full, with a receipt and three supporting documents.

“Thank God,” James said, though he did not feel that he had been praying.

He rode on to Edinburgh with the packet inside his coat. His solicitor met him at their rooms, expecting an offer of compromise. James laid the papers on the table without speaking. The solicitor opened the packet with a doubtful expression, then checked the date, the parties, and the signature three times.

“Where did you find these?” he asked.

“Mr. Ainslie,” James said. “A retired writer at Inveresk. My father retained him for the single transaction.”

The solicitor asked how he had found a man whose name appeared in none of their records. James allowed himself a thin smile. “My father remembered an old account more clearly than anyone living did.”

The papers went before the opposing lawyers the next morning. They examined the deed and supporting papers in silence, and by afternoon the claim had failed. There was no triumphant speech. The claim against Bowland was simply withdrawn, and James kept both the estate and the money he had believed was never owed.

That night he stood at the window of his Edinburgh rooms with the recovered deed in his hand. He thought of a Portuguese gold coin worth more than the fee it paid, of two men unable to find change, and of the balance that had been poured out in a tavern. It had not seemed like a document then. It had only seemed like an evening, but it had lasted years.

This story is based on a true account included in Andrew Lang’s The Book of Dreams and Ghosts. You can read the original account in the free Project Gutenberg edition. And if you are interested in fresh and modern content about dreams that came true, you can find them in my book “Dreams That Wake You Up”, a collection of real dreams and real outcomes, directly from my clients, printed with their consent.

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