Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

M ILES WOKE WHEN C ONCORDE DRIFTED through a block of dense black clouds that seemed to have taken permanent residence above Heathrow. He leant across the aisle and said to his lawyer, ‘We don't have a moment to waste, BW. As soon as we land, I'll ask Collins to drive us to Bucklebury in the hope we can get to Hartley before Warwick does.'

‘I wouldn't bet on it,' said Booth Watson, but didn't add that he wished Miles had kept his mouth shut.

‘Hartley won't be able to deny the letter is a fake,' said Miles, ‘and once he does the FBI will have no choice but to settle.' He paused, looked across at his lawyer and said, ‘For at least forty million.'

‘Amen to that,' said Booth Watson, ‘although it's possible Hartley may not fall in with your plans quite so conveniently.'

‘Until I remind him that his mother sold me a fake Constable for half a million, because he won't want that to become public.'

‘When he'll undoubtedly remind you that his mother gave you six letters and not five,' said Booth Watson, which silenced Miles for a moment.

Booth Watson looked out of the cabin window when Miles asked him the one question he'd been dreading. ‘Who do you think forged the Jefferson letter in the first place?'

‘The FBI's dirty tricks department,' said Booth Watson, delivering a well-prepared response, now painfully aware why Billy Mumford had woken him in the middle of the night. ‘With the whole exercise orchestrated by Special Agent Buchanan,' he added for good measure.

‘I suppose that's right,' said Miles, as the wheels of the aircraft touched the ground and the plane's engines were thrust violently into reverse, before Concorde proceeded slowly towards its specially allocated gate on the far side of the airport.

Miles had unfastened his seat belt long before the warning sign had been switched off. He liked to be the last person to board a plane, and the first to disembark. He had left his seat and was already standing at the front of the line when the cabin door was pulled open.

‘Not a moment to waste,' said Faulkner, before he'd even stepped onto the aircraft steps. Booth Watson tried to keep up with his client as he headed for customs at a speed he wasn't accustomed to. By the time Booth Watson reached the car, out of breath, Miles was sitting in the back impatiently waiting for him.

‘Let's get moving,' Faulkner barked at Collins, even before his lawyer had closed the door.

‘Home, sir?' asked Collins.

‘No,' said Faulkner. ‘Old Vicarage, Bucklebury.'

···

William and Trevelyan were speeding along the motorway just as Concorde touched down at Heathrow. They had spent the last couple of hours going over their script word for word, aware they might be facing one insurmountable problem, which Trevelyan had expressed with Foreign Office clarity. ‘If Hartley is as honest as his father …'

When Danny drew up outside the Old Vicarage, it only took one knock on the front door before Mrs Hartley appeared. Once they had introduced themselves, Hannah led her two guests through to the library where Simon was seated at his desk. The recent removal of his beard made him appear pale and wan, though Trevelyan was pleased to see he'd put on a few pounds since he'd last seen him at the airport. Simon pushed himself up from his chair unsteadily, and welcomed them both before inviting them to join him around the fire.

Moments later, Mrs Hartley reappeared carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits, which she placed on the table between them.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see us at such short notice,' said William as he sat down. ‘We wouldn't have given you so little warning if it hadn't been urgent.'

Hartley's sharp eyes remained fixed on William, but he didn't express an opinion.

‘Let me begin by asking you,' continued William, ‘if you have come across someone called Miles Faulkner, or a lawyer by the name of Booth Watson.'

‘Only what my dear mother has told me about them and what I've read in The Guardian . Their arts correspondent reported in detail what took place at the auction in New York a couple of days ago, which rather suggested neither of them could be trusted. Of course, I was delighted to discover the letter sent to my ancestor in 1787 was authenticated by no less a figure than Professor Rosenberg. I assume that means the Fair Copy of the Declaration will end up in the Library of Congress, as my late father always intended.'

William and Trevelyan exchanged glances.

‘While Professor Rosenberg's opinion is greatly respected,' said William, ‘there is only one person who can verify that the letter is authentic, and that, sir, is you.'

‘And if you were able to,' added Trevelyan, ‘the Fair Copy of the Declaration will undoubtedly end up in the Library of Congress as your father intended.'

‘Then I'll need to see the letter,' said Hartley.

Trevelyan opened his briefcase and removed a single sheet of paper. He handed it across to Hartley before he said, ‘This is, of course, a copy of the letter, which Special Agent Buchanan sent to the Foreign Office overnight. The original remains in New York in the safekeeping of the FBI.'

Simon took his time reading the letter while William and Trevelyan waited anxiously for his opinion. After a second reading, Simon handed the letter back to Trevelyan and said, ‘I'm sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but this is not the letter Thomas Jefferson sent to David Hartley in 1787. In fact, it's a forgery – a damned good forgery, but nevertheless a forgery.'

‘How can you be so certain?' asked William, fairly sure he knew what Hartley's response would be.

‘In the letter I know and remember well, Franklin was spelled correctly with an "i" and not a "y",' said their host, with a finality that didn't brook discussion.

‘So if you were subpoenaed to appear in court …' began William.

‘I would be left with no choice but to tell the truth, Chief Superintendent.'

‘And if we were to tell you, Mr Hartley,' said William, ‘that it was Mr Faulkner who destroyed the original letter, with the sole purpose of making a fortune, without giving a damn about the reputation of your family, would that make any difference?'

Hartley's demeanour did not change. ‘No, it would not,' he said firmly, ‘despicable though that is.'

‘Or that it was Faulkner who arranged to have Avril Dubois murdered, and then bribed the prison governor to make sure you suffered the same fate?'

‘Something I already knew,' said Simon. ‘However it doesn't alter anything, not least because I took advantage of the Governor's greed, and deducted one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a better cause.'

‘Do you not feel, Mr Hartley, that you could tell a white lie given the circumstances?' suggested Mr Trevelyan.

‘There's no such thing as a white lie, Mr Trevelyan.'

William knew when he was beaten, even though Trevelyan battled on for a little longer, pointing out that Professor Rosenberg had managed to ignore the ‘y'.

‘While I sympathize with your cause, Mr Trevelyan, I must remind you that the truth doesn't come in different shades of convenience to suit the individual, or even the country, concerned.'

Eventually Trevelyan gave up, but not until his coffee had gone cold. He left, reflecting that the Foreign Office would have to advise Mr Shaw and Special Agent Buchanan to settle with Faulkner, as they could not hope to win should Hartley be called as a witness.

William also accepted that the CPS didn't have enough evidence to arrest Faulkner as an accessory in the murder of Avril Dubois, so there would be nothing to stop him appearing as a witness when the case came to court. They left the Old Vicarage empty-handed.

They had only covered a couple of miles on their way back to London when Danny interrupted their conversation, ‘Straight ahead of you, sir.'

William looked up to see a Rolls-Royce heading towards them and, as they passed, he observed Faulkner and Booth Watson sitting in the back, deep in conversation.

···

The Rolls-Royce drew up outside the Old Vicarage a few minutes later.

Simon was checking the Stock Exchange prices in the Financial Times when he heard the front doorbell ring. He wondered if the Chief Superintendent and Mr Trevelyan had returned to make a further attempt to convince him he should change his mind.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and Hannah reappeared. ‘A Mr Faulkner and a Mr Booth Watson are asking to see you. Something to do with the family Constable.'

‘Please show them in, my darling,' said Simon, ‘and I'll need my cheque book.'

Simon pushed himself up as the two men entered the room. Once they had introduced themselves, he offered them both a seat, but not by the fire. Moments later, Hannah reappeared carrying a second tray of coffee and biscuits. She was trying to recall where she'd seen the older of the two men. She poured them both a cup of coffee before departing, and then she remembered.

‘You will be aware, Mr Hartley,' said Booth Watson, ‘that your mother sold my client a painting, which she claimed was a Constable, for five hundred thousand pounds, but turned out to have been painted by one of his pupils.' Booth Watson chose his next words carefully. ‘Of course, as you were abroad at the time, it's possible you were not aware of this.'

‘My mother informed me as soon as I returned,' said Simon, picking up the cheque book Hannah had left on the tray, ‘and I'm only too happy to repay the full amount,' he added, making out a cheque for ￡500,000. ‘But, in return, I will expect you to return not only the painting, but also Jefferson's Fair Copy of the Declaration, which my father had intended to hand over to the American Ambassador. He sadly passed away before the meeting could take place, as I suspect you are both well aware.'

Faulkner smiled at Simon. ‘Don't let's be too hasty, old chap,' he said. ‘After all, we're both men of the world, and the last thing I'd want to do is embarrass your mother.'

‘I can assure you, Mr Faulkner, it would take a lot more than that to embarrass my mother.'

‘Nevertheless,' said Booth Watson, ‘there is another matter we need to discuss.'

‘And what might that be, Mr Booth Watson?'

Booth Watson bent down, unfastened his Gladstone bag and extracted a single sheet of paper, which he handed across to Simon.

‘You will be aware that this letter, like the Constable, is a forgery,' said Booth Watson, ‘but we need you to confirm that is the case.'

Faulkner offered him the same insincere smile, as he tore the proffered cheque in half.

Simon studied the forgery for a second time that morning, but his thoughts were elsewhere. First with Avril Dubois, who would still be alive if it were not for this man, then with Hani Khalil and Prince Ahmed, whose only interest was another five per cent, and finally to a prison Governor who thought he'd poisoned him and got away with it. He glanced at the photo of his father on his desk and decided he would have agreed, on this rare occasion, that like Rosenberg had suggested it was acceptable to lie for your country.

He looked up at the two men seated in front of him. ‘I know you'll both be pleased to hear,' said Simon, handing back the letter, ‘that I can confirm this is indeed a copy of the letter that Thomas Jefferson wrote to David Hartley MP in 1787, which has been in the family archives for over two hundred years.'

‘But if you look more carefully, Mr Hartley,' said Booth Watson, removing his glasses, ‘you will see that Franklin's name is spelled with a "y" and not an "i", so perhaps you'd like to reconsider.'

‘No, I wouldn't, thank you,' said Simon, ‘because if it isn't the letter my mother gave to Mr Faulkner, he must still be in possession of the original, unless, of course, he's destroyed it?'

Neither man responded.

‘And as you are a QC, Mr Booth Watson, I don't have to remind you, that it is your legal duty to disclose to the court should you become aware that your client was responsible for destroying material that is relevant to a case in which you are acting on his behalf.'

Booth Watson didn't need to be reminded that Hartley had studied law at university.

‘Name your price,' said Faulkner, before Booth Watson could respond.

‘Can one put a price on a young woman's life?' asked Simon.

‘She was a common prostitute,' said Faulkner, ‘and what's more, you know the letter is a fake.'

‘Only three people can be sure of that,' said Simon, ‘and all three of them are in this room. And I feel sure if you had any other way of proving this was a forgery, you wouldn't be here.' He paused for a moment before he rose from his place, picked up the two pieces of the cheque and said, ‘I do hope you enjoy the Constable, Mr Faulkner, even though, like you, it's a fake.'

Booth Watson rose from his place and turned to leave without shaking hands with Hartley. He didn't need to be told that the jury had delivered their verdict. Faulkner remained in his seat, his insincere smile turning into a vicious glare as he uttered several obscenities that Simon wouldn't be repeating to his mother. Although he clenched his fist, he finally stood up and left the room.

When the door closed, Simon sat back down at his desk and once again looked at the photo of his father, who was smiling.