Today the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were enshrined at the National Archives in specially built glass cases to provide maximum security and guards who would come running, guns pointed at you, if anyone so much as breathed too heavily on the glass. The light in the Rotunda, where they were kept along with the Bill of Rights was so dim you could barely read what was written, but necessary to preserve the pale, faded ink and keep it from vanishing forever from the paper. I tried to imagine both documents being shoved in someone’s satchel, slung over a shoulder, and brought to Leesburg, probably on horseback.

I frowned at Quinn. “If it wasn’t the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, what did Hobson Banks carry with him that was so precious?”

“Besides the Gilbert Stuart painting that she gave to two men from New York to take with them after Jennings and the others cut it out of the frame, Dolley also managed to get some of the White House silver out. It also says she removed ‘some documents’ but not what they were. Maybe Banks took those things—the silver and the documents,” he said. “If he did, none of it ever found its way back to the White House.”

I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice. “That’s it. That’s got to be what Prescott found. Where Banks hid his precious package.”

“Do you think Prescott left notes or maybe something on a computer about where it is?”

I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or serious.

“If he did, I’ll never have a chance to look around his sanctum sanctorum to find out. Definitely not now with the three Averys under suspicion of murder.”

“You could tell Clay about it. He might try to have a look.”

“Sure, and I could tell him the Tooth Fairy visited me last night. He’d believe that, too. Clay made certain today that I knew he wouldn’t buy Leland’s Madeira—presuming we ever found it—and he’s not about to get involved in whatever Prescott was looking for. He’d probably think it was just another wild goose chase.”

“Point taken.” Quinn shoved his reading glasses up so they were on top of his head. “Your turn. What did you find?”

Here it was. Wait ’til he heard what I’d turned up.

“Francis Bacon’s Vault—if it really existed—is actually more commonly known as Bruton Vault because it is supposedly located in the graveyard of Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg. It’s the oldest church in Virginia and it’s still an actual functioning church, not part of Colonial Williamsburg. My college roommate used to go to services there.”

He nodded, impatient. “What’s in the vault?”