Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

B ILLY ROSE EARLY THAT MORNING – early by his standards, but then he had a busy day ahead of him. He needed to study the form before he set off for Pontefract.

Once he was dressed, he went downstairs, picked the Yorkshire Post off the mat and strolled into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and made himself a cup of tea before he turned to the sports pages. An hour later, he'd selected three dead certs to make up for last week's surprising losses: Lucky Jim in the six o'clock, 4–1; Dog's Dinner in the seven fifteen, 10–1; and Artic Circle in the seven forty-five, 3–1.

He decided to place fifty pounds on each race and another fifty on an accumulator. If all three won, he would make a killing. Just one win and he'd break even. He checked his watch: not yet time to go to the pub for lunch, so he turned the paper over to see if there was anything going on in the world he ought to know about. When he saw the headline, he broke out into a cold sweat.

M ULTIMILLION-DOLLAR AUCTION STOPPED BY DISCOVERY OF MISSING J EFFERSON LETTER

He read the article first quickly, and then very slowly, aware he would have to make a decision. Did he keep his mouth shut and hope Mr Faulkner wouldn't find out he had been responsible for losing him at least thirty-five million? Or should he let him know he'd written the letter, not Jefferson? If he went down that route, he'd be back in the Scrubs by nightfall.

Billy began walking around the kitchen and changed his mind several times during the next hour, but after considering the odds one more time, he selected the favourite for the Jefferson letter stakes, rather than the police horse ridden by Ross Hogan.

After all, one per cent of thirty-five million would keep him in clover for the rest of his life, even if he did have to spend a few more years in prison before he could hope to enjoy a happy retirement.

He knew he'd seen the name of the hotel buried somewhere in the story, so he began to read the article for a third time, only stopping when he reached the words, he is currently staying at the Park Plaza . With the help of directory enquiries, he eventually found the number and asked the international operator to put him through.

‘Park Plaza Hotel, how may I help you?'

‘I'd like to speak to Mr Booth Watson,' said Mumford, still trembling.

‘You do realize it's four o'clock in the morning in New York,' the receptionist said.

Billy hadn't realized but decided it couldn't wait. ‘I do, but it's an emergency.'

‘And who shall I say is calling, sir?'

‘Billy Mumford.'

Billy could hear the phone ringing in the background, but it was some time before a voice eventually came back on the line. It wasn't Mr Booth Watson, but the receptionist.

‘I'm sorry, sir, but Mr Booth Watson is not available.'

‘Did you tell him it was an emergency?' asked Billy.

‘Yes, I did, sir.'

‘Will you please try again?' said Billy.

‘Mr Booth Watson made it clear,' said the receptionist, ‘if you were to call again, I was not under any circumstances to put you through.'

The line went dead.

‘Well, he can't say I didn't try,' said Billy, who ignored the headline on the front page and returned to the sports pages so he could concentrate on what really mattered.

He put fifty pounds on State Secret to win the last race of the day. It came second.

···

Miles read the article in the New York Times a second time, studying every word of Jefferson's letter, and one in particular that Rosenberg clearly ignored, before he yelled out loud, ‘Gotcha!' One thing was certain: he needed to tell Booth Watson immediately. He checked the clock on his bedside table – five to seven, and wondered if Booth Watson was awake. Not that he gave a damn. He jumped out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and ran out into the corridor.

He banged on his door, waking Booth Watson for a second time that morning. Booth Watson wasn't in any doubt who he would find standing outside in the corridor. He climbed out of bed, and was putting on a dressing gown when the banging began again, if anything even louder.

He walked slowly across the room, removed the chain from its hook, and had only just opened the door when Miles came barging in, a copy of the New York Times under his arm, and announced, ‘They made one big mistake.'

Booth Watson closed the door, took a seat in a comfortable chair and waited to hear what was the one big mistake, while Miles began to march around the room.

‘Let's begin,' said Miles, ‘with the simple fact that we know Jefferson's so-called letter is a forgery.'

‘But we can't tell anyone why we know,' Booth Watson reminded his client.

‘Agreed,' said Miles, ‘but there is someone who can.'

‘Rosenberg?' said Booth Watson.

‘No, I'm convinced the professor knows only too well the letter wasn't written by Thomas Jefferson but has abandoned scholarship for country. However, there's someone else who can prove it's a forgery and his word wouldn't be questioned.'

‘Namely?'

‘Simon Hartley,' said Miles, a note of triumph in his voice. ‘When he sees the letter he'll know immediately it's a fake and will be left with no choice but to admit it.'

‘Why?' demanded Booth Watson.

‘You clearly haven't read the New York Times this morning, BW, because if you had,' said Miles, handing over his copy, ‘you would have realized that Jefferson couldn't have written the letter that FBI guy read out at the auction.'

Booth Watson took his time reading the article in the New York Times , and although he didn't shout, ‘Gotcha!', a smile appeared on his face. ‘I'll call Special Agent Buchanan and demand a meeting with the bureau's lawyers this morning.'

‘And if he doesn't agree?' said Miles.

‘I'll call the New York Times and explain to the editor the difference between "y" and "i".'

···

Three men were seated on one side of the long oak table, representing the Americans. Two sat on the other side, on behalf of the British. In medieval times, the rivals would have sat on horses, carried lances, and worn helmets displaying feathers revealing their allegiances. In the twenty-first century, they sat in comfortable leather chairs, wore tailored suits, carried fountain pens and sported old school ties. They still faced each other, prepared to do battle, but in this case a battle of words.

One of them raised his visor and said, ‘My name is Casper Shaw. I'm the senior partner of Shaw, Renwick and Kline. I am joined this morning by a partner, Andrew Renwick,' he glanced to his right, ‘who specializes in litigation. We are also assisted by Special Agent Buchanan who represents our clients, the FBI.'

Not for much longer, thought Booth Watson, but kept his counsel.

Shaw looked across at his opponents and waited for them to raise their visors.

‘My name is Booth Watson. I am a Queen's Counsel, and a bencher of Middle Temple. I'm accompanied today by my distinguished client, Mr Miles Faulkner, who I've had the privilege of representing for many years. Mr Faulkner is a leading businessman who is well known throughout the British Isles for his philanthropic work supporting many worthy causes, including the Fitzmolean Museum, to whom he has given several major works over the years, including a Rubens and a Rembrandt. Indeed more recently, he donated a quarter of a million pounds, making it possible for the museum to acquire Jacob Wrestling with the Angel , one of Rembrandt's most iconic works. May I open proceedings by saying how much we appreciate you agreeing to this without prejudice meeting at such short notice, but as we all know a great deal is at stake.'

‘And not just money,' suggested Shaw, re-entering the fray, ‘because on this occasion our firm has the privilege of representing the American government and its legitimate claim to the ownership of an historic document that clearly belonged to the third President of the United States. We are also in possession of a letter written by Thomas Jefferson that proves that the Fair Copy was his by right,' he paused before adding, ‘beyond reasonable doubt, to quote a legal maxim your countryman will be well acquainted with.'

‘Nevertheless,' came back Booth Watson, ‘my client disputes your claim and asserts that the letter is a forgery. I must, therefore, inform you that we will be issuing a writ against your government for the amount of forty million dollars plus expenses in compensation.'

The expression on Special Agent Buchanan's face gave nothing away.

‘We do not dispute the fact,' continued Booth Watson, ‘that the paper on which the letter was written may well have been produced in the late eighteenth century, along with an envelope and a quill pen from that same period. But we maintain that the letter itself is a fiction – a forgery. Nothing more and nothing less, and perhaps, more important, we will supply evidence that even Professor Rosenberg will be unable to refute.'

‘We will, of course, be happy to accept your writ on behalf of our client,' said Shaw, ‘but should the matter come to court, we will defend the action vigorously with the complete confidence that a jury will find in our favour, not least because it will be twelve God-fearing American citizens who are asked to choose between the word of a three-times convicted criminal and the opinion of the nation's leading authority on the constitution.'

Booth Watson accepted the battle lines had been drawn, and the visors were back in place.

‘We acknowledge without question that my client purchased the Declaration from Lady Hartley,' said Booth Watson. ‘In fact, it is proof that Mr Faulkner is the legitimate owner of the Fair Copy. She also gave my client five letters that Thomas Jefferson wrote to her husband's distinguished ancestor, but these were a gift.'

‘It may interest you to know,' interrupted Shaw, ‘that earlier this morning I contacted our Ambassador in London, who confirmed that Lord Hartley, a distinguished member of Her Majesty's Privy Council, had made an appointment to see him for the sole purpose of returning the Declaration to the American people.'

‘But unfortunately for you, that meeting never took place,' came back Booth Watson, ‘so in the end it will be the facts that matter, and the fact is that Lady Hartley sold the Declaration to my client in good faith, proving there can be no dispute that Mr Faulkner is the lawful owner of said document.'

‘But this letter,' said Shaw, holding it up once again, ‘proves beyond question that Lady Hartley did not have the authority to sell your client the Fair Copy.'

Booth Watson took his time opening his Gladstone bag and rummaging around in it, before extracting three copies of Monticello , two of which he handed to Shaw and one to Buchanan. ‘May I suggest you open the Pulitzer Prize-winning book at page 171, where you will find another letter written by Thomas Jefferson, the authenticity of which we accept without question.'

Shaw and Buchanan reluctantly turned to page 171.

‘If you study the words of that particular letter carefully,' continued Booth Watson, ‘you will find that Jefferson spells the name of Franklin not with an "i" but with a "y". This would only be of academic interest had Professor Rosenberg not stated unequivocally that this was the first time Jefferson wrote to Franklin, and the only occasion on which he misspelt Franklin's name; indeed, if you turn the page, you will discover that Benjamin Franklin later chastised his friend for the error, which I would suggest was why a man of his intelligence would never have made the same mistake again. And perhaps more damning,' said Booth Watson, ‘if you read the other five letters that came up for auction yesterday, Jefferson spells the name Franklin with an "i" not a "y", rather proving that he had learnt his lesson.'

Shaw and Buchanan took their time checking both letters, but didn't offer an opinion.

‘And, what's more,' continued Booth Watson, sounding even more confident, ‘I couldn't help noticing that the distinguished professor is not present today.'

‘No,' said Shaw. ‘The professor returned to Princeton last night, unaware that you would be demanding to see us this morning.'

‘So I'm bound to ask,' Booth Watson went on, ‘from whom you obtained the letter.'

‘From a member of the Hartley family is all I'm at liberty to say,' said Shaw.

‘But that's not possible,' Miles blurted out.

‘That's an interesting admission,' said Buchanan, ‘which would rather lead one to believe—'

‘I don't have to remind you,' said Booth Watson, gripping his client's arm, ‘this is a "without prejudice" meeting, and nothing said in this room can be repeated in a court of law.'

‘But if it were to end up in a court of law,' said Shaw, ‘let me assure you Professor Rosenberg will confirm this letter is genuine.'

‘Then it will be his word against mine,' said Faulkner.

‘Let's hope so,' said Shaw.

Buchanan allowed himself a smile before he said, ‘We accept without question that Mr Faulkner purchased a Fair Copy of the Declaration in good faith, and with that in mind, we are willing to reimburse your client the five hundred thousand he paid for the document, as well as any reasonable expenses he may have incurred in the process.'

‘Dream on,' said Miles, unable to remain silent any longer. ‘We will be demanding at least forty million, not to mention unreasonable expenses.'

‘Then we will look forward to seeing you in court, Mr Faulkner,' replied Shaw.

‘And not just me!' said Miles.

Booth Watson quickly rose from his place, grabbed his client and escorted him out of the room, before he could say anything else he would later regret.

Once the door had closed, James Buchanan turned to Shaw and said, ‘We have a problem.'

···

Miles fastened his seat belt, but didn't answer Booth Watson's question until the plane had taken off, unwilling to voice an opinion while they were still on American soil.

‘Did you notice, BW, that when I said "and not just me", Special Agent James Buchanan didn't look surprised,' said Miles.

‘Yes, I did,' said Booth Watson, ‘so you can be sure he'll be on the phone to his friend Chief Superintendent Warwick long before our plane has landed.'

‘Which will give Warwick more than enough time to get in touch with Simon Hartley before we can.'

‘I think you'll find Hartley is like Washington,' said Booth Watson. ‘He cannot tell a lie, and will therefore admit it's a fake.'

‘Then it's game, set and match,' said Miles.

‘Until Hartley asks you what you've done with the original, because it can only be a matter of time before he works out that you must have destroyed it.'

Miles remained silent for some time before he said, ‘Then we may have to cut him in on the deal.'

‘Has it ever crossed your mind, Miles,' said Booth Watson, ‘that Simon Hartley might be someone who can't be bribed?'

‘Every man has his price,' said Faulkner.

···

Ross picked up the phone and wondered who could possibly be calling him in the middle of the night.

‘We have a problem,' said a transatlantic voice Ross recognized immediately.

‘Faulkner and Booth Watson are on their way back from the States,' continued Buchanan, ‘and they have irrefutable proof that will leave Hartley with no choice but to confirm Jefferson's letter is a fake.'

‘Proof?' asked Ross.

‘Your man read page 171 of Monticello , but not page 172. Where he would have found out the difference between a "y" and an "i", a mistake Jefferson didn't make twice.'

‘Mumford is a moron,' said Ross.

‘Agreed, but it doesn't help. So you'll have to get to Hartley before Faulkner does, and try to convince him of the consequences. Because if he doesn't …'

‘You call Trevelyan,' said Ross. ‘And I'll call William.'