He looked again over that representation of the Continental Congress signing the Constitution. And now he realized the scene was meant to refer to John Trumbull's famous Declaration of Independence, though without the famous personages that populated that painting. It was as if the painter had replaced every famous delegate with a figure in the same posture and clothes, but a nondescript Everyman, without features or personality.
Except one.
He leaned in closer again, brought his face to within a few inches of the part of the scene depicting a particular seated delegate. The delegate's right elbow was propped on a small table, and upon that table was what looked like a group of letters. On one of those letters was a wax seal, and set into that seal-unless his eyes were playing tricks on him in the dim light-was that same symbol. Then he looked to the face of the delegate seated at that table.
He felt a chill spread down his back.
He quickly looked over his shoulder, saw that the foyer was empty. But for some reason he took small comfort in being unobserved.
After a last glance at the mural, Benjamin hurried up the staircase to find Wolfe as quickly as possible.
CHAPTER 22
When Benjamin got upstairs to Fletcher's room, he found Wolfe waiting for him there. Wolfe had Fletcher's computer set up on the small table, opened and turned on. There were lines of strange text displayed: words, but also mathematical formulae, lines, and symbols. Wolfe seemed frustrated and testy.
'What are you looking at?' Benjamin asked, seating himself and folding his arms on the books in his lap.
'One of the data files for Fletcher's program,' Wolfe answered. 'But it might as well be Sanskrit for all I can make of it.' He looked at Benjamin. 'I'm sorry,' he said, rubbing his eyes.
'That's all right, we're both tired. What did Arthur say?'
'His first question was, as I expected, very telling. He wanted to know if we'd uncovered any evidence of Fletcher sharing his work with anyone outside the Foundation.'
'And what did you tell him?'
'Well.' Wolfe leaned back in the Chippendale chair, smiling. 'I told him that it was entirely possible Dr. Fletcher had indeed leaked sensitive information to someone outside the Foundation's anointed circle.'
'What?!' Benjamin nearly dropped the books. 'Excuse me, but I was under the impression you didn't want anyone here to know what we were discovering. Not yet anyway.'
Wolfe nodded. 'Then your impression was as perceptive as usual, Benjamin.'
'Then why-'
'I couldn't very well have said everything was hunky-dory with Fletcher's research, as that doesn't square with whatever Arthur already knows that he's not telling us. So I told him just enough of the truth to keep him interested and satisfied. For now.'
'For now?'
'He also said, as I expected, that, what with Edith's fatal encounter, there was simply no way he could keep Dr. Fletcher's death from being investigated by the local police.' He looked intent. 'He's in an absolute panic about how all this will affect that new contract, the one Montrose negotiated. He's afraid to expose the Foundation to too much scrutiny, but equally terrified of being accused of covering up. He's in a very neat dilemma. And,' Wolfe raised a finger for emphasis, 'that's a dilemma I believe we can exploit. Depending, of course,' and he nodded toward the books in Benjamin's lap, 'what you discovered in the library.'
'Oh.' Benjamin looked down at the books. 'I hardly know where to begin.'
Wolfe interrupted him by standing up. 'That sounds as though I'm in for a bit of a lecture.'
He walked over to his briefcase leaning in the corner, opened it, and extracted a half-empty bottle of scotch and two empty glasses. He carried them back to the table, set the glasses down, and half filled both of them with the amber liquid.
'And now,' Wolfe said, sitting back down and crossing his legs, making himself comfortable, 'why don't you begin with your extraordinary claim that Morris's hoax is itself a hoax.'
Benjamin's eyes sparkled. 'I was right. Let me show you what I went to the library for.'
Benjamin opened the books then placed them side by side.
'Here, look,' he said.
Wolfe leaned over so he could read the pages Benjamin was pointing out. On the opposing pages, set next to each other, appeared the following text:
Wolfe spent a few minutes looking over the two passages. Finally, he said, 'They're both from Revelation, yes?'
'Yes, just as Seaton said. Revelations six, verses twelve through seventeen, to be exact.'
Wolfe looked up at him. 'They're almost identical.'
' Almost, ' said Benjamin. 'That one on the right, that's from the King James Bible. It's the phrasing most people recognize. And the one in Seaton's hoax diary.'
'And the other one?' Wolfe asked.
'Ah,' Benjamin said, apparently very pleased with himself. ' That's the Geneva Bible.'
'Geneva Bible?'
'In 1553, when Mary Tudor, who was a devout Catholic, became Queen of England she banned the printing of the Protestant version of the Bible. So two of the leading Protestant scholars of the day, William Whittingham and Anthony Gilby, fled to Europe-to Geneva, actually-and started work on their own Bible. They wanted to produce one free of any 'Catholic taint.' They used original Greek and Hebrew texts to produce their Bible, and it was considered the most accurate translation of its time. And it came to be known as the Geneva Bible.'
'Well and good,' interrupted Wolfe, 'but how does that-'
' And it was the one all good Puritans used. It was tantamount to blasphemy for a Puritan to use the King James Version. Let alone,' and he gave a significant look to Wolfe, 'to quote from it.'
'And the quote in the front of Morris's diary…'
'Is from the King James Version. The Reverend Harlan P. Bainbridge, the most devout of devout Puritans, would certainly not have quoted from King James. He would have used the Geneva. Therefore, he didn't write that epigraph. Therefore, that's not his diary.'
Benjamin sat back, quite pleased with his chain of logic; pleased enough to sip his scotch. And wince.
Wolfe looked askance at Benjamin. 'But we already know Bainbridge didn't write it. Seaton told us this supposed Bainbridge diary was a hoax, so I really don't see-'
Rather than look chagrined, Benjamin smiled even more broadly.
'Because,' he said, 'that quote wasn't in the book I've seen.'
'You've seen? What are you talking about? Where? '
'At the Library of Congress, of course.' Benjamin took another drink, wondered whether he was developing a taste for scotch.
'It was soon after I arrived at the library. They had me down in the 'dungeons,' where they keep stuff that hasn't been cataloged yet. There was a crate with a dozen or so books and manuscripts, all of them old. There was no label on the crate, no identifying cards with the books. Which actually is more common than you'd expect. The library has so much material, there are thousands of documents they haven't properly identified yet.
'Anyway,' Benjamin continued, 'there was one book in that crate, without a cover, that struck me as something that ought to be in the preservation room. And it was clear there had once been a block of lines on that page, an epigraph; but over the years it had worn or been eaten away. The only readable line of text was underneath the quote. And guess what it said?' Benjamin was rather enjoying teasing Wolfe, now that he was the one with the answers.
But Wolfe was up to the question. 'R six-twelve HPB?' he asked.
Benjamin looked a little disappointed, but he recovered quickly. 'Yes, exactly. The attribution was still readable. When the forgers created the fake diary, they tried to make it as similar to the real one as possible. But
