Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

M ILES WAS AMONG THE FIRST off the plane. When he emerged in the Arrivals hall, he searched among the names being held up on boards by different drivers, pleased to see FAULKNER was among them.

‘Good morning, sir,' said his driver when Miles pointed at the card and said, ‘That's me.'

‘Are you the gentleman I'm taking to Princeton and then on to New York?'

‘That's right,' said Miles. ‘How long will it take to get to Princeton?'

‘About an hour, sir,' said the driver as he guided his passenger towards the short-term car park.

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‘Are you sure this is the right address?' asked Miles, when the car finally drew up outside a small, isolated cottage on the outskirts of Princeton. He'd seen bigger garages in London.

‘This is the address they gave me,' said the driver.

‘Then you'd better wait,' said Miles. ‘This shouldn't take too long.'

Miles got out of the car, opened the little wicket gate, walked up a short weed-infested path to the house and knocked on the door. He waited so long he began to wonder if anyone was at home, even though he'd made an appointment. He banged louder a second time, and the door was opened almost immediately.

‘Sorry, sorry,' said an unshaven elderly gentleman. He was dressed in an open-neck plaid shirt and baggy corduroy trousers held up by a pair of red braces, while wearing two different-coloured slippers. But there the appearance of age ended, as the sharp penetrating eyes, lined forehead and silver-grey hair suggested this wasn't a man to be trifled with.

‘Good morning, sir,' said Miles.

‘Good morning, young man,' said Rosenberg. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.'

Miles couldn't remember when he'd last been called young man .

He followed the professor into the house and along a dark corridor that displayed several academic citations and lifetime awards, illustrating a long and distinguished career. The professor led his guest into a room that didn't appear to have any walls, just books stacked from floor to ceiling, while others were randomly scattered all over the place, with a few – very few – in neat piles. The old man didn't seem to notice as he took a circuitous route to the only two chairs in the room, which stood in front of a fireplace with ashes waiting to be cleared. He collapsed into one of the chairs, which was already occupied by a large, furry ginger cat who clearly knew her place.

‘Forgive the mess,' he said. ‘It's never been the same since Maud died, and I'm afraid the cleaner only comes once a week.'

When Miles sat down in the other chair, a cloud of dust rose to greet him.

‘May I say from the outset, Mr Faulkner, how flattered I am that you took the trouble to cross the Atlantic to see me.'

‘I've wanted to meet you for some time,' said Miles, who had only recently heard of Saul Rosenberg.

‘So do tell me, how can I assist you?'

‘Perhaps I should begin, sir, by asking you to sign my first edition of your prize-winning book, Monticello , which is among my most treasured possessions and which I have read several times over the years.'

‘I'd be delighted to do so,' said the old man.

Miles bent down, took a book out of his bag that he'd purchased recently , of which he'd only read one particular chapter on the plane. He passed it across to the professor and Rosenberg took his time turning to the title page of a volume that didn't look as if it had been read several times. He squiggled his signature, adding the date before passing it back to his guest.

‘Thank you,' said Miles, ‘I'll treasure it. In return, may I present you with a small memento, written by one of our greatest statesmen, whose alma mater I had the honour of attending.' Miles handed over a black, gold-leafed, leather-bound volume.

‘Churchill's My Early Life ,' said the professor, handling the book with great care. ‘I have a copy, of course,' he added, looking around the room, ‘but not a first edition, and certainly not signed. I'm most grateful.'

‘It's an inadequate gift to thank you for the pleasure you have given me over so many years.'

The professor didn't comment, other than to say, ‘But how can I possibly return such munificence?'

‘I wondered,' ventured Miles, setting about his purpose, ‘if I might be allowed to ask you one or two questions about your life's work?'

‘Yes, of course. Do you have any particular period in mind?'

‘Thomas Jefferson and the Declaration of Independence – as you're considered the leading authority in the field.'

‘I'm flattered, and will do my best to press a tired old brain back into action.'

‘I was fascinated to discover when reading Monticello that you were in no doubt that, in 1776, Jefferson must have written a Fair Copy of the Declaration for Congress to consider before they took the final vote on their future as an independent nation.'

‘Absolutely no doubt,' repeated the professor. ‘After all, it's been well documented over the years. Indeed, I have proof at hand – if you would be kind enough to turn to page 171 of Monticello , you will find the facsimile of a letter written by Jefferson to Benjamin Franklin in early May 1776, stating unequivocally that, as his clauses had been rejected, he intended to send his Fair Copy to a friend in England to show him that at least he tried and request it should be returned to him in the fullness of time. That individual has never been identified, and search as I might for any clue to his name or whereabouts in other letters, journals or any relevant documents of the period, I have been unable to unearth who Jefferson was referring to when he wrote to "a friend in England". I have collated a shortlist of seven possible candidates,' mused the professor, ‘but it's not a historian's responsibility to hazard a guess.'

Miles could have told him which of the seven it was, but had no intention of enlightening the old man. He satisfied himself with, ‘Do you consider it possible that the Fair Copy could still be out there somewhere?'

‘I suppose it could be languishing in some French chateau or holed up in an English country house, as both Jefferson and Franklin spent many years in London and Paris, making several friends on both sides of the Channel.'

‘You pointed out in your book, sir, that Jefferson's Fair Copy included an important clause on his strongly held views on slavery. You even went so far as to suggest that, had Congress included this clause, the Civil War might have been avoided,' said Miles, trying to prove he'd read the book and not just one chapter.

‘The privilege of hindsight is the historian's most reliable source,' said the professor. ‘However, it's well known that Congress did debate at great length how the new government should deal with the problem of slavery, not least because Jefferson had several slaves himself at the time and, after the death of his wife, lived with a black woman who bore him six children, only four of whom survived. But that didn't stop the great man drafting the clause you refer to, because he felt slavery was an anathema and should be abolished. Sadly, Congress ignored his advice.' The professor leant back, closed his eyes and raised his hands until the tips of his fingers touched as if in prayer. ‘Let us pray my memory does not fail me.

‘ The King has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violating its more sacred rights of life and liberty in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating and carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in their transportation thither, this piratical warfare, the opprobrium of infidel powers, is the warfare of the Christian King of Great Britain, determined to keep open a market where men should be bought and sold, he has prostituted his negative for suppressing every legislative attempt to prohibit or restrain this execrable commerce. '

Professor Rosenberg opened his eyes, lowered his hands and began stroking the cat, who rewarded him with loud purrs.

‘That was worth the trip alone, sir,' said Miles. ‘But can I ask, if the Fair Copy were to be found after all these years, would you be able to authenticate it?'

‘I'm only surprised you need to ask that question,' remonstrated Rosenberg, as if addressing an idle student who hadn't been paying attention. ‘Especially as you say you've read my book several times.'

Miles couldn't remember being admonished in that way since leaving school, but he didn't reply in kind, as he still had several questions he needed answering.

‘And what else is remarkable about that letter?' asked the professor, still not convinced his guest had even read his book.

Faulkner got as near to feeling embarrassed as he was capable of.

‘You will, of course, remember,' said the professor, ‘that it's the only occasion, to my knowledge, when Jefferson misspelt Franklin's name, with a "y" and not an "i" – a mistake, as far as I'm aware, he never made again. But then, as you will find if you turn the page, and read on, Franklin, curmudgeonly old character that he was, severely reprimanded his friend for making the mistake.'

Miles felt equally chastised but was determined to plough on. ‘Dare I ask, sir, if the Fair Copy were to be unearthed, how much do you think it would fetch on the open market?'

The scowl returned to the professor's lips, while the lines on his forehead became even more pronounced. ‘I fear, Mr Faulkner, I'm not best qualified to answer that particular question as I'm a historian, not an economist. However, I think one can safely say it's quite simply priceless. Not least because if it were to come on the market, the government would, in my opinion, be left with no choice but to outbid any rivals for what is, quite literally, a unique piece of American history.'

Miles tried to hide his excitement before saying, ‘One final question, sir, before I leave, as I have already taken up too much of your time.'

He looked across to see that the old man had dozed off and was quietly snoring. Miles got up from his chair, crept out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

The old man opened his eyes and waited until he heard the front door close before he began to stroke the cat.

‘You know, Martha,' he said, ‘I don't trust that man.'

The cat arched its back.

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Miles climbed into the back of the car, well satisfied with his meeting. After all, Rosenberg had made it clear that he would recognize the Fair Copy when he saw it, and his seal of approval would be more than enough to convince any sceptics, which could only add millions to its value.

Miles would have happily paid Rosenberg a hundred thousand dollars to authenticate the document, but as the professor pointed out, he was a historian not an economist, so a copy of Winston Churchill's memoirs had proved to be more than enough.