Glen Allen - The shadow war

"Fire?" asked Wolfe.

"I'm sorry," Seaton said, smiling. "I forget not everyone is as familiar with the family history as most of the folks around here. In the sixties my father decided to donate a portion of our collection to the Library of Congress. But just before those books destined for the library were to be shipped off, there was a terrible fire on the grounds. One of the old gardeners' cottages and a storage shed were completely destroyed, parts of this house were badly damaged, and some of our books were lost. But fortunately not this one."

He looked down at the diary with the undisguised pride of an ardent collector, and added, "It is, after all, one of the most magnificient hoaxes ever produced."

Benjamin was about to say something when Wolfe gently touched his arm.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Morris," Wolfe said carefully. "Dr. Stoltz was a little… vague on that aspect of the story. Could you-"

Seaton smiled, as though he'd heard this before.

"Yes, Edward doesn't like to emphasize that part. Diminishes the glamour. Well, it's quite simple, really. Such a find was of course submitted to the foremost antiquarians of the day. And, while whoever the perpetrators were certainly knew their stuff, after close examination, inconsistencies and flaws were found. Eventually they established that the book couldn't possibly have been written more than a year or two before it was unearthed. It was probably all part of some elaborate joke someone was playing on the Institute, perhaps an attempt to embarrass them. The Institute's principles weren't as… mainstream back then as they are today. There were those who wished to strangle it in the crib, as it were."

"Remarkable," said Wolfe, leaning closer to the glass. "It looks so… well, old."

"As I said, a magnificient deception." Seaton's manner changed, becoming even more condescending. "But after all, think about it. What are the chances a book would survive all those decades, two hundred and fifty years, no matter how well protected, in the earth? Or that it wouldn't have been discovered long before?" He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid, as much as I'd like to be the possessor of something so rare, I must satisfy myself with owning the diary equivalent of the Piltdown Man." And he smiled at his own joke.

Benjamin finally felt calm enough to speak.

"I'm curious," he said. "The forger, what sorts of entries did he create in the diary? Would it be possible to, well," he looked Seaton straight in the eye, "to obtain a printed copy of its contents?"

Seaton's composure didn't waver. "What an odd request," he said, smiling. "I suppose, from when it was studied, we might have something like that. I could look, send it over to Arthur should I find anything."

Benjamin started to speak and Wolfe interrupted him again.

"That would be fine. Most appreciated. Well," Wolfe said, nodding, "we don't want to keep you any longer. I know you have important people coming this afternoon."

Benjamin was still looking very closely at the diary. Suddenly there was a knock at the French doors.

"Come in," Seaton said. The doors slid open and the butler stood there.

"Your first guests for the auction have arrived," he announced.

"Tell them I'll be right there," Seaton said. The butler bowed slightly, turned on his heel, and left.

Seaton turned back to Wolfe. "Well, I hope this information somehow helps your… inquiry, though I'm not certain I see how it can."

Wolfe smiled broadly. "We really don't know, you see. This is all just an attempt to be thorough. It probably can add nothing to what we already know about Dr. Fletcher's death."

"Yes, Arthur told me," said Seaton. "Terrible. I understand he was brilliant."

"Apparently," said Wolfe. He extended his hand, and Seaton shook it. "So, thank you very much for your time and all your help, Mr. Seaton. We've intruded long enough. And I'm sure Arthur will be very grateful."

"Anything we can do for the Foundation," Seaton said, shaking Benjamin's hand. "And very good to meet both of you."

Again Benjamin seemed on the verge of speaking, but before he could Wolfe took him by the arm. "Time to vamoose," he said, smiling, "before we wind up buying a painting we can't afford."

They both nodded to Seaton, and then followed the butler through the foyer and out the front door. They declined the offer of an umbrella from the butler and, after he'd said a curt "Good day" and shut the door, Wolfe and Benjamin made a dash to the car.

Once past the gate, Wolfe carefully pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car, and, with the rain pounding down on the roof of the car, turned sideways to face Benjamin.

"Now… what?" he demanded.

"It's a fake," Benjamin said calmly. "A forgery."

"Yes, of course it is, we know that. Seaton told us it was a hoax."

"You don't understand. I mean, it's a fake hoax."

Wolfe was absolutely silent for a moment. When he finally gathered his breath, he asked, "What on earth does that mean?"

"What it means is, it would only be a real hoax if there were no real diary, right? But there is a real diary."

"How could you possibly know that? Seaton didn't let us examine it closely."

Benjamin smiled, paused, enjoying the fact that for once he was about to surprise Wolfe.

"Because whoever created that one had seen the real diary," he said. "And so have I."

Again Wolfe stared at Benjamin for a moment. The only sound was the rain beating against the car's windows and roof.

"What do you mean," he asked, speaking very slowly, "you've seen the real diary? Why wouldn't you have told me that much sooner?"

"Because I didn't know I'd seen it!" Benjamin answered. He sat back, calmed himself. "At least, I'm fairly certain I have seen it."

"My god, Benjamin, a book that old? How could you not be sure whether you've seen it before or not?"

"Because the book I now believe is the original diary… well, it's not an exact match to the book Seaton showed us. Which is precisely why I think it was the real diary. Look, it's hard to explain. It would be much simpler just to show you. But I need to wait until we're back at the Foundation to be certain. They have a library?"

"An awfully good one," said Wolfe, "for so remote a spot."

"Good," Benjamin said firmly. "Let's get back to the Foundation, so I can be certain."

Wolfe started the car and eased it back onto the road. The rain was letting up slightly, but it was thick enough to make driving on such a narrow and winding road dangerous, and Wolfe devoted his attention to navigating the twists and turns.

After they'd been driving for a few minutes, Benjamin spoke again.

"Oh, and something else. Did you notice that portrait over the mantel?"

"You mean the rather stiff-looking gentleman?" asked Wolfe. "I just assumed he was a Colonial paterfamilias."

"Me, too," said Benjamin. "At first I thought it was a portrait of Gouverneur Morris. Then I realized I'd seen that painting before. It's a portrait of Major General Horatio Lloyd Gates."

"The Newburgh Gates?"

"One and the same," answered Benjamin. "I'd bet my career that painting is based on a sketch done during the war, a sketch I am sure I've seen. It was used as an illustration in a pamphlet he had distributed at Congress, part of his publicity campaign to replace Washington as commander in chief of the Continental Army. But what would a portrait of Gates be doing in the Morris mansion?"

"Ah," sighed Wolfe. "There's no 'X marks the spot' to all this. Not yet, anyway. I said we've been following Fletcher's bread crumbs. Let's keep on the trail and see where it leads. Though these seem dark and tangled woods, indeed."

Benjamin laughed.

"You find that funny?" Wolfe asked, surprised.