they did in tragick form reape the Smallpox this winter laste as great as that of 1634.
– Unto you I commit theese papers, and so do I here note on this day of Our Lord, March 15th, Sixteen Hundred and Sixty-Six.
Your Trusted Nephew
The Right Reverend Harlan P. Bainbridge
At Bainbridge Plantation, his sign
How typical of the Puritans, Benjamin mused, to assume a smallpox epidemic was a punishment visited upon the Natives by a Christian God offended by their pagan forms of worship; when in fact the smallpox, Benjamin knew, had come from infected blankets given to those Natives by those same 'righteous' settlers. Also typical was Harlan's portrayal of himself as a latter-day Moses leading his small congregation to the Promised Land. How frustrating it must have been for him to discover that the Wampanoags thought the land had already been promised to them.
The journal continued with entries about further communiques between Harlan and his aunt, most reporting the slow-but-steady progress as Harlan's group established the Bainbridge Plantation and began to work toward Harlan's utopian goal. His father had noted, for instance, that Harlan's group was one of the first in the region to actually sign treaties with the Natives and to begin bartering with them on a regular basis.
The second full Bainbridge letter was the last one he'd ever written, penned sometime before the plantation's destruction. Above this letter, his father had written Fears sabotage-from C.E.P.? Benjamin had never deciphered what his father had meant by that abbreviation. Thomas had all sorts of shorthand symbols he employed in his notes, working always to be more efficient, but he kept no glossary or index of them. He shook his head in frustration at his father's unique obsessions and read on: Honor'd Aunte- -Despite all the Perfidies practiced upon us by those who beare the marke of Puramis as Satan beares the Trident forke, The Lord has ordained that we shoulde establishe the Commandments of Piety and Efficiencie in all acts stemming frome and displaieing their respecte for God and His selfe-made workes, which, in their echo of our Creater, canne be not but sensicall, propere, and prosperous.
– The heathens may worshipe their god 'neath any randome sycamore, but a Christian knows Nature to be a chapel, which conceals not the ugly face of Death, but the abundante manifestations of a Supreme God, in whose Bosom we freely place our Truste and Fate; and we suffere not to be disheartened nor dissuaded from our Course by those who hide in Shadow and sow Feare on all Mankinde…
[rest of the letter missing]
And that was it. While there were still many entries about the Puritans and their growing success in the New World, Benjamin knew there was nothing further about Bainbridge, either pater or fils. But as he was closing the journal he noticed, for the first time, a single, very faint mark in the margin next to the word Puramis. It looked partially erased. Leaning down so his face almost touched the paper, he saw that it was a small triangle, with what might have been a single dot in its center.
It might have been another of his father's shorthand codes, but Benjamin couldn't remember ever having seen this one anywhere else in his notes.
It was then a knock came at his door. He looked at the clock on the table-almost an hour had passed while he was reading his father's journal. Before he could say anything, the door opened and Wolfe entered. He was wearing an immaculate white dinner jacket.
'Chop chop,' he said. 'We're wanted for dinner.'
'Dinner? Uh, why don't you go on without me. I'm a little busy here. And I haven't changed…'
'You're fine. Hurry, we don't want to miss the cocktail hour. I'll wait in the hall.'
Benjamin went into the small bathroom, splashed some water onto his face, combed his hair and straightened his tie, then went back into the bedroom. He found his shoes where he'd tossed them next to the bed, put them on.
As he bent down to tie his shoes, he saw something under the bed. He squatted down and reached, slid it out from under the bed with two fingers.
It was a yellow piece of paper with blue lines-a page from a small legal pad, folded in the middle. He was about to open it when Wolfe shouted from the hallway.
'Benjamin! I hear the ice clinking!'
Benjamin threw the paper, still folded, on the bedside table, switched the lamp off, and left.
CHAPTER 10
The dozen or more round tables in the dining room had been set with white tablecloths, gardenia centerpieces, candles, and white china. At the head of the room the massive antique table was covered with a deep red tablecloth. The crystal chandeliers were aglow, there was a modest fire in the fireplace, and light reflected from the gilt-edged mirror over the fireplace and the deep brown walnut wainscoting.
'Eureka,' said Wolfe, ignoring the elegance of their surroundings. He guided Benjamin to a bar on one side of the hall, somewhat forcefully elbowing his way to its edge. He handed Benjamin a drink, something amber.
Benjamin took a sip, winced. 'Scotch again?'
'Yes,' said Wolfe, looking about the room. 'Because you liked it so much last night.'
Benjamin surveyed the room, noticed the 'grandees' table at the front. He saw Arthur Terrill there, and on his left Edith Gadenhower. On Arthur's right was an extremely well-tanned gentleman with thick, shining, impeccably styled silver hair.
'Who's that?' Benjamin asked, pointing.
Wolfe turned, looked, chuckled. 'Ah. That particularly well-preserved monument is George 'Former' Montrose.'
'Former?'
'Former secretary of state, former chief of staff, former director of the CIA… From what I understand, he's a genial idiot, but with first-class connections. Montrose is the Foundation's front man for this new contract.'
'Contract? You mean that 'paycheck' you mentioned in Arthur's office?'
Wolfe didn't seem to hear him. He was scanning the room as it filled with people, everyone standing around sipping their cocktails and chatting before dinner began.
Suddenly Wolfe started out through the crowd, saying to Benjamin, 'Let's try this direction, shall we.'
Stepping between the chairs and groups of people-Wolfe nodded to one or two but kept Benjamin moving forward-they arrived at a mismatched couple: a very tall woman and a very short man.
Benjamin couldn't help but stare at the woman. She was a striking blonde with her hair up in a French twist and dressed formally in a low-cut black evening dress. She smiled when she saw Wolfe, as though she knew him; her smile was brilliant, cool, enticing-almost fierce. Benjamin hardly noticed the man she was with.
'Dr. Gudrun Soderbergh,' Wolfe said, making introductions, 'this is Benjamin Wainwright.' She nodded at him as she raised a cocktail-something clear and with ice-to her lips. She kept her eyes on Benjamin even as she drank, and Benjamin had to pull his gaze from her as Wolfe continued the introductions.
'And here we have Dr. Edward Stoltz.' He indicated the short, very well-dressed man in his midfifties with black hair and a small, well-trimmed mustache. Stoltz nodded and said, 'Greetings.'
Benjamin gave Wolfe a quizzical look.
'Yes, I called them,' Wolfe said. 'I thought we might save some time.'
'So, Benjamin,' said Gudrun, 'you're Mr. Wolfe's protege?'
'Not at all, Dr. Soderbergh,' Wolfe replied for him. 'Dr. Wainwright is a gentleman and scholar in his own right. I've merely commandeered his talents for the duration.'
'The duration of what?' asked Dr. Stoltz. He was drinking a cocktail in a frosted glass with sprig of mint in it.
'Their investigation, of course,' said Gudrun. 'Of Jeremy's unfortunate demise. Isn't that why you asked us to dine with you?'
'Well, that and the stellar company,' said Wolfe. He saluted Gudrun with his empty cocktail glass-which he immediately held up, looking to catch a waiter's eye for a refill. 'You see, I believe you were among the last people
