It took two days to get permission to dig under the staircase at the Red Fox Inn and bring together everyone I thought ought to be present when the site was excavated—Tana Rossi, Josie Wilde, two historians from Colonial Williamsburg and Jamestown, two archeologists from the Smithsonian, Kit, Bobby, and, of course, the entire Avery family.
Clayton Avery had known nothing of Victoria’s involvement with Prescott; he had not even been aware that she found the Jefferson copy of the Declaration of Independence for Prescott since he swore her to secrecy. Then the day of the feijoada Prescott had made it clear he thought she was wrong for Clay. Victoria had visited him in the wine cellar after I left, furious because she believed Prescott owed her in more ways than one. She claimed she didn’t mean to kill him, but once he fell and hit his head, she realized the blow was fatal. So she left by the back entrance, rejoining Clay who hadn’t been aware that she’d been downstairs with Prescott.
Clay was the last to arrive at the Red Fox Inn. He came with Scotty and Alex, who, for once, stood on either side of their father as if they were giving him not only physical support but also badly needed emotional support. I thought he looked awful, still devastated by the knowledge he’d welcomed a viper into the midst of his family, and that his adoring fiancée had been his stepfather’s killer. The rest of the Averys had come separately, including Celia and Jack who, I was glad to see, were welcomed and greeted by the others.
“Maybe there’s hope for that family,” I said under my breath to Quinn.
“I heard Clay is talking to his lawyers about restructuring the Caritas Commitment so they can hang on to the Trib. They want to keep Hawthorne intact for now, but they’ll sell the other homes and donate the art and jewelry and furniture as Prescott and Rose wanted,” he said.
“Well,” Kit said as she came up behind the two of us. “Here we are. I guess all’s well that ends well.”
“Wrong play,” I said and she grinned.
“Lord, what fools these mortals be?”
“Quit while you’re ahead.”
She laughed. “Seriously, you’ve assembled quite a crowd, Luce. I just finished talking to Tana Rossi and the historians from Colonial Williamsburg and Jamestown. Plus I did some research at the Balch Library in Leesburg and found a death record for Hobson Banks. He died in August 1814. The date of death had a question mark beside it but it must have been soon enough after he hid his package here that he never came back to retrieve it.”
“If he left it here,” I said. “I’m nervous as hell. I could be wrong. Or it could be some piece of White House china that Dolley Madison especially loved.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Kit said. “I bet you’re right.”
“Where’s Grant?” I asked her. “He was invited to this.”
“The newsroom. The Trib comes first with him. He sent me to cover the story.” She leaned in closer. “You didn’t hear this from me but Alex is leaving. She wants to move to London and Clay’s fine with that. Scotty’s going take over as publisher and run the place solo. The staff is so pumped we’re ready to light up Trib tower like the Eiffel Tower at night.”
“I’m glad.”
The Inn had been closed for the morning for “a special event” and the Tap Room was once again going to be used as a triage site as it had been during the Civil War to examine anything the two archeologists dressed in hazmat suits found. Opening the heavy metal lid turned out to be a chore that required yet another crowbar, the strength of both men, and about twenty minutes of pulling and tugging before it finally came loose.
One of them shone a flashlight into the opening. “It’s not that deep,” he said, “and there’s something down there.”
I squeezed Quinn’s hand so hard he winced as the archeologist lowered himself into the opening. A moment later he emerged holding a dirty, shapeless lump in both hands as if it were the Holy Grail.
“There’s something inside this sack,” he said. “It feels like papers.”
A few people gasped.
“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Quinn said in my ear, “you were right.”
But was I?
The sack hadn’t been waterproof and Hobson Banks had probably expected to return for it not long after he hid it underneath the Red Fox Inn. Instead it had remained in that small vault for more than two hundred years.
What had I been expecting? A swashbuckling Indiana Jones–like ending to a centuries-old mystery? Proof that Shakespeare was not really the genius the world believed he was? And that Francis Bacon had masterminded the plans for the government of the United States, plans Thomas Jefferson hid in the White House after borrowing Bacon’s ideas to write the Declaration of Independence?
Life is never that simple, nor is it black-and-white. The papers had suffered water damage and were mildewed. The ink had run, smearing words and seeping through to other pages, staining them like Rorschach blots. It would take time to dry them out, analyze the handwriting, and test for DNA. Today there would be no answers.
Almost none.
“Wait a minute,” one of the archeologists said, “take a look at this. It was still inside the sack, not with the other documents.”
We crowded around the table. It was a letter, heavily mildewed except for the signature of the correspondent at the bottom of the page. In script as large as the signature on James Madison’s copy of the Declaration Independence, Thomas Jefferson had signed his name with a flourish in his distinctive handwriting.
“Then these documents really did come from the White House,” I said. “Maybe Thomas Jefferson did remove the contents of the Bruton Vault and bring them there for safekeeping.”
Josie glanced over at the historians from Jamestown and Williamsburg. “What did we miss?” she said. “There was no vault.”
“Dust bunnies,” Tana said. “The answer is in the dust bunnies.”
QUINN TOOK ME TO dinner at the Goose Creek Inn that evening. By now what had happened at the Red Fox was all over town. Thelma and the Romeos had outdone themselves in getting the news out.
“Faster than a video gone viral on YouTube,” Quinn said as my phone rang all afternoon.
Hassan gave us a table in the green dining room because he figured we’d want privacy. “I’ll let Dominique know you’re here,” he said.
“Don’t tell anyone else,” Quinn said, half-joking. “We’ll be mobbed.”
But after we sat down he turned serious. “However it turns out, I think whatever is in that package was a hell of a find. Now we just have to wait.”
“Do you really want to find out that Shakespeare didn’t write Shakespeare?” I asked.
“Do you?”
“I guess I want to know the truth. But a lot of people went to a lot of trouble to keep a secret. For centuries.”
“The truth will set you free,” he said.
We had finished dinner and were waiting for the bill when my cousin walked into the dining room holding a tray with two balloon glasses. “Madeira,” she said, setting the tray down. “A twenty-year-old Malmsey. On the house. I had the sommelier go down to the cave to get it. It’s a good Christmas wine. I thought you might enjoy it after everything you’ve been through lately.”
“Can you join us?” I asked.
She smiled and shook her head. “Unfortunately not. One of the chefs called in sick, so I’m in the kitchen tonight. Plus I got a call today from Celia Avery. The Miranda Foundation gala is on and they’ve had a flood of people buying tickets. So I’d better get busy.”
After she left I said to Quinn, “You know, my mother’s Christmas decorations were hidden behind a wall. Prescott’s ‘sanctum sanctorum’ was behind a wall and Thelma’s father’s hiding place for his Prohibition booze was, too.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’ve never really examined every single inch of wall in Leland’s wine cellar.”
“Do you think it could be there?”
“It’s worth a second look,” I said.
“I’ll take the word of someone who figured out where Hobson Banks’s package was.”
“Let’s go home.”
WHEN WE HAD NEARLY given up I found the first loose brick. It didn’t take long to dismantle the rest of the hiding place—the mortar was poor and most of it had turned to pebbles and dust. When Quinn finally shone a flashlight inside, the beam caught a couple of rows of dark, gleaming, dusty bottles.
For a long moment we were both speechless.
“We found it,” I said. “I don’t believe it.”
“Let’s make sure.”
He had to crawl partway into the hole before he could reach one of the bottles. When he reemerged there were cobwebs in his hair and on his clothes.
The label on the dusty bottle was handwritten in old-fashioned spidery penmanship.
For the celebration of the 4th of July 1809 with President James Madison at the United States Capitol
“There are a lot of bottles back there,” Quinn said.
“Worth. A. Fortune.”
“I know.” He looked at me. “What do you want to do? Auction them off? Keep some back?”
“I can’t even think I’m still so stunned.”
He leaned over and kissed me. “I’ll tell you one thing we’re going to do. We’re drinking a bottle at our wedding,” he said. “Okay?”
“Our wedding? And when would that be?” I asked, smiling.
“When would you like it to be?”
I caught my breath. We hadn’t talked about this at all. Until just now.
“May,” I said. “The vineyard is beautiful at that time of year. We can toast our marriage with the Madeira and share it with family and our closest friends.”
“Then we’ll get married in May,” he said and kissed me again.