“Not so fast. There’s more to the story before what’s in it ended up in Williamsburg.” Before I get to the things you’re going to think are completely off the wall.

He let out a noisy sigh, making sure I knew he wasn’t happy.

“I’m telling this my way,” I said. “In the proper order.”

“All right, do it your way. Knock yourself out.”

I made a face at him. “Supposedly,” I said emphasizing the word, “a man named Henry Blount, who was a relative of Sir Francis Bacon, brought certain documents from England to the Jamestown Settlement in 1653. Or it could have been 1635. Either way, the cache of documents was kept secret and when Blount got to Virginia he buried them under the Jamestown church. He also changed his name to Nathaniel Bacon. Later he became known as Nathaniel Bacon the Elder.”

“Because his son was Nathaniel Bacon the Younger?”

“Not exactly. The younger Nathaniel Bacon was his nephew, not his son, and he was called Nathaniel Bacon the Rebel. The rebellious Bacon burned Jamestown to the ground in 1676.”

“Not a nice guy. Do I need to write this down?”

“No, and don’t be snippy.”

“I’m never snippy. Want a cognac?”

“I’d love a cognac.”

He got up and went into the dining room where we kept a collection of liquors and spirits. When he returned, he handed me my snifter and I held it in my hands to warm the alcohol.

“I’m sorry. I’m giving you a hard time,” he said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “But the story gets even more complicated.”

“You mean the plot thickens?”

“More like turns to mud.”

He sat down on the couch and propped his sock feet up on the coffee table. “So what happened?”

“At some point the documents are moved to Williamsburg,” I said. “It could have been because the James River was going to flood and it probably had something to do with plans to move the capital of Virginia from Jamestown to Williamsburg. Other Vault-believers say Bacon’s Rebellion was a cover to move the documents out of Jamestown. Whatever the real reason was, no one disputes that they were moved to a large vault built under the tower of the first Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg.”

“There’s more than one church?”

“They rebuilt it, and when they did, they moved it. Not far—just a few yards away. It’s still on Duke of Gloucester Street, the main street in Williamsburg.”

Quinn sipped his cognac. “So what, exactly, are these secret documents?”

“This is the muddy part.”

“Why am I not surprised?”