The Forgers (16 page)

“Just curious is all.”

“Well, you remember that scout named Henry Slader? The one you asked me about a while back?”

“Sure,” I said, noncommital.

“I got this from a guy who, after working on him for a while, coughed it up that he had bought it from Slader.”

My first thought was, as might be imagined, Slader forged the pages that constituted a private record, revealing at last Doyle's concerns about the story, its illicitness and strong insights into venal sin, immorality in the first degree. But after I sat down at Atticus's desk, asking “Do you mind?,” and began studying Doyle's words—he was frank in his assessment that the tale was inappropriate for some readers, more sinister than the Sherlockian brand readily permitted—I found myself flummoxed, distressed even. Not so much because if this were authentic it would constitute the holy grail for any scholar interested in pinning down the author's rationale behind suppressing “The Cardboard Box” from
Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes,
would provide convincing written proof of what many critics over the years had been forced to theorize, and that was the simple fact the author got cold feet about the grisly tale of faithlessness and murder he had set down on paper. No, what upset me was that Doyle's handwriting was perfect in every downstroke and pressure point, correct in every lift off of the nib and resetting on the paper. Above all, and far harder to fake, these sentences sounded like no one but the author himself.

“Well,” Atticus asked, impatient. “Tell me. What do you think?”

“How much are they asking?”

He told me the number, in the thirty thousand range.

“Offer twenty and see what happens.”

“But you still haven't told me what you think of the document itself. Is it real?”

“It's real enough. I'm holding it in my hands.”

“Damn it, is it a forgery?”

For the first time ever—not the first time in a long time or the first time in a while—I hadn't a firm, objective answer to my friend's question. If Slader had crafted this, his skills as a forger were nearing mastery, or had fully arrived, I had to admit, and gone were the days of lesser works. If he hadn't, and this was truly an original, Atticus had himself a gold mine here. Either way, fake or not, I was deeply impressed. “If it is, it's the most perfect and interesting forgery I've ever seen. I'll tell you what's more. If I were still in the practice, I would be dying of jealousy over the quality of this work. It is pure as spring water.”

Atticus was understandably frustrated by my assessment, I saw, and because we had been colleagues for so long and I had pulled the wool, in that unfortunate phrase, over his eyes on far more than one occasion, I settled on what to my mind was the truth of the matter. Or, truth enough.

“In my opinion, it's genuine,” I said. “Congratulations, old pal. Looks like you have a lot to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.”

He shook my hand, just a fraction of bemusement or concern or awe in his eye, I couldn't tell which, if any, and without having given it any forethought whatever, I asked, “You remember that remarkable cache of Doyle letters about
The Hound of the Baskervilles
you sold me a while back?”

“How could I forget? You got away with murder on that deal. One of the few things you hung on to when you moved over to Ireland.”

“Well,” I pressed ahead, “with the baby coming and seeing that you have this amazing find, maybe it's time I let it go. You want it back for the same I paid for it?”

I must admit that I myself was taken aback by the audacity of this impromptu idea. What was I thinking? Especially in light of the fact that two sets of these letters existed. But, I quickly reasoned, my set was more valid than Slader's because my forgery was superior. If Slader were ever to bring his on the market, it would be decried as a fake. A fake likely copied from my supposed original. The irony was exquisite.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm not a collector any more. What use is it to me to keep it? Let somebody else enjoy it.”

“I can pay you a little more than you paid me, fair enough?”

“Nope. I'll take back exactly what I gave you and we can call it a day,” I said. “I'll overnight it to you when we're back in Kenmare.”

We shook hands on the deal and returned to the dining room, where our wives and his daughters—both of whom were champing at the bit to go to their respective boyfriends' family homes for dessert—awaited us.

“Big summit back there,” said Meghan. “I hope nothing that will land either of you in trouble.”

“Not him,” Atticus said at the same time I said, “Not him.”

“Well, that's a good start.”

We sat down to our coffee and delicious homemade pies, along with some excellent cognac, before catching the late train back to New York.

Not surprisingly, on the ride down the darkened coast I obsessed over the documents I had seen in Atticus's study. Meghan nodded off, her head resting heavily against my shoulder, while I shut my eyes in order to visualize, with what memory was left to me in my middling years, Slader's—or, rather, Doyle's—diary. It was an exceptional find, if a find it was, and promised to fill in an intriguing lacuna in the Conan Doyle biography. I admired the thing, false or true, real or not.

Was it fair of me to think the document could be a forgery, albeit one of preeminent execution, solely because of its source? Probably so. Was it wrong of me to declare it the real article because it betrayed not a single flaw that I could see in the brief time I had to examine it, and thus provided me with nothing to point to as evidence of fakery? Probably not. This was a gnarly problem, one that left me perched on a very uncomfortable fence.

It takes a lot of truth to tell a lie. Truth must surround the pulsing heart of any lie for it to be convincing, believable. A pack of lies, like a house made from a pack of cards, will never remain standing. But a gracefully designed construction built on both visible and underlying truths had every chance of passing muster, of passing the test of time. As I used to do, Henry Slader might well be covering up his forgeries by handling legitimate works, first offering one and then the other to his clients, in a slow-motion sleight of hand. A wise way to proceed if less profitable. I realized I should have asked Atticus about provenance, just to see if he might not trip up and give me information I could use to cobble together the birthplace of this material. But, at the end of the day, I understood that provenance was every inch as moldable as the document itself. Give me a few hours and I will provide letters of authentication that might easily lift the questionable into the bright, hard light of sterling repute. History is subjective. History is alterable. History is, finally, little more than modeling clay in a very warm room.

One other matter perturbed me beyond my failure to be dead certain about my friend's documents. I had to admit to myself—since no one else would understand, with the possible preposterous exception of Slader—that I felt, how to put it, left out. Irrelevant. Here was my nemesis, actively engaged in a world with which I had always felt such an affinity, even in the darkest days when its populace temporarily exiled and loathed me. Now I was on the sidelines, a reluctant observer who was, as time passed, likely losing dexterity, muscle memory, and a thousand little refinements necessary to the art. Yes, I reminded myself, this was my choice. A good and sane choice at that. The magnificent woman asleep on my shoulder, in whose womb rested what society would view as my most meaningful creative accomplishment, was my guiding star. Any move other than to go with her to Kenmare would have been suicidal. And ridding myself of the Baskerville archive only underscored my determination to get out and stay out of the business, childish moments of feeling irrelevant aside. To continue to hang on to my last great forgery would have been like an alcoholic keeping a bottle of Dom Perignon in an otherwise empty wine cellar. What was more, I perversely liked the idea of sticking it to Slader, not that he would necessarily ever know. It was in many ways Slader's forgery, misattributed to Meghan's brother, that contributed to Adam Diehl's wrongful death. Best be rid of the hexed pages, especially in light of the fact that I knew Atticus would be safe selling them.

As the train pulled in to Penn Station, I gently woke up Meghan, feeling better, as if I had somehow dodged an existential bullet. I recalled the cautionary phrase popular in the world of recovering addicts—be careful of people, places, and things. Thanksgiving afternoon had confronted me with all three relapse triggers. I was grateful to push them aside.

Much as I wished otherwise, there was no avoiding a visit to Adam's grave. Feeling self-assured and as full of life as I'd ever seen her, Meghan proposed another field trip as well. “I can't believe in all these years I've never seen your parents' house in Irvington.”

“It's been a long time since I've seen it myself. For all I know, it's gone through more than one set of owners and looks completely different from the days I lived there as a kid.”

“One way to find out,” she said. “Plus, aren't your parents buried near there? I think it would be lovely to go pay our respects before we head back overseas.”

I have no idea why I hesitated. Her desire to visit my childhood upstate house and the cemetery that quartered my parents' remains was entirely thoughtful and typical of Meghan.

“If you prefer not, I'll totally understand—”

“No, no. It's very much the right thing to do.”

“You're sure,” she asked, which made me wonder what kind of look I had on my face.

“I'm all for it,” I told her.

Montauk was first on the agenda. Meghan and I discussed whether or not it would be useful for us to try to meet with Detective Pollock.

“Makes sense,” I said, having known for days this was inescapable.

“On the other hand, what could he tell us that we don't already know. Maybe we should make the visit just a family affair and not stir up bad memories.”

“Myself, I wouldn't be sure what more to ask him, at this point,” I offered.

“You're right,” said Meghan, with conviction. “He knows where we are if he needs to reach us. Let's pay our respects to Adam, walk the beach a little, and get back to the city.”

We rented a car for the weekend after Thanksgiving and drove out to Montauk after breakfast at the hotel. How to describe Adam's grave as having a “lived-in look” without sounding insensitive or glib? Obviously, these words never left my mouth, but unfortunately they were what came to mind as we approached the leaf-strewn, very slightly sunken plot. Someone had placed roses at the base of the headstone. They were very defunct now, and blossoms that appeared to have been pink once were now a brownish copper color. Meghan removed them and laid a dozen fresh white ones where they had been.

“I wonder who?” she whispered before starting tearlessly to weep.

“Could be anybody,” I said softly, kneeling down next to her and placing my palm at the center of her softly heaving back. “Good Samaritan, I guess.”

Together we hand-collected a couple of fistfuls of leaves strewn on the grass, stuffed them in the plastic bag we'd used to carry the fresh bouquet, and returned to the car. Meghan said that on Monday before we caught our flight back she wanted to call the cemetery folks and ask if Adam's grave could be regularly tended in our absence. “It should be better taken care of. I'll happily pay whatever fee they charge.”

Seeing that her deep frustration over the open-endedness of the murder investigation manifested itself in dissatisfaction with the cemetery management—in fact, the graveyard was, overall, handsome, tidy, and not at all disrespectful toward its necropolites—I kept quiet. Our walk on the beach was brisk and I could tell that Meghan's thoughts were every bit as stormy as the clouds that were piling up, nor'easter-like, along the purple horizon. It was rare that my wife ever stayed for long in a black mood. Whenever she was low, I had learned over the years, it was best to leave her to her own thoughts. She had ways of working through issues that I knew I would never comprehend, nor was it useful to try to push the wave faster toward shore. At lunch, while a light rain commenced, Meghan's usual demeanor returned. Over a couple of down-home lobster rolls, she did pose one disconcerting question, though.

“Who do you think that was back by the shore?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I said, setting down my roll on the paper plate.

“You didn't see him? Guy about your height, maybe a bit taller. Really short hair, pale, on the thin side?”

“What about him?”

“I'm surprised. You're usually the observant one,” she said. “No, I'm just saying he seemed to be watching us, or you. I thought you might be friends.”

I took a sip of water and glanced around the room to see if my friend had followed us here while he was at it. “Sorry, but I didn't notice him. I was more concerned about you, if you want to know the truth. Anyway, if he was a friend he'd have come over to say hello.”

“Maybe he thought you were famous,” she teased. “Lot of famous types out here on the East End, actors and financiers and the like.”

“Famous is just about the last thing in this world I would want to be. Maybe you got all this wrong and he was staring at my beautiful wife. That's a far more likely scenario.”

On the drive back in, I found myself wishing I had seen Slader, if Slader it was. My inclination would have been to toss caution to the wind, walk over to the man, and give him a piece of my mind. Fortunately, that opportunity didn't arise, as I could only believe that by provoking him I would bring further trouble upon myself. But how did he know we were here? Had Atticus inadvertently mentioned that I looked over his Conan Doyle materials at Thanksgiving and so tipped him of
f
? It wouldn't have been a difficult stretch to guess that Meghan and I might visit Adam's grave, and with patience and nothing better to do I suppose he might have gotten some perverse pleasure in staking me out. To what end, I had no idea. More and more, the man seemed unhinged.