“Okay, it’s not a coincidence. Then what was it? A hint? A clue?”

“Possibly. But not a coincidence. And after everything we’ve seen today, I think what Prescott meant was that sooner or later the truth always comes out. No one can stop it forever. That’s what he was planning to do—finally reveal the truth about those documents, even though, as he told me, there were people who didn’t want anything about them to be known.”

Quinn seemed to consider that for a while. The music changed again. Dean Martin … Winter Wonderland.

Finally he said, “You could be right.”

“Why, thank you.”

He grinned. “So what’s the plan now?”

“Tomorrow I’m meeting a friend of Frankie’s in D.C. at the Folger Shakespeare Library.”

“Do you still need to do that?”

I nodded. “I’m curious whether she believes The Tempest was based on the wreck of the Sea Venture and what she can tell me about it. And even though I don’t have any proof that Sir Francis Bacon might have written some of Shakespeare’s plays, the Folger has a research center available to anyone with new information on him or the plays. Frankie’s friend is in charge of it.”

“Do you need me to come along?”

“You have that deer-in-the-headlights look as if I just asked you to come clothes shopping with me. No, you don’t need to come. Anyway, I’m going to try to have lunch with Kit before my meeting.”

“In Leesburg?”

“In Washington. Things are in such turmoil at the Trib they asked her to work in D.C. She figures she’ll be there until the Sheriff’s Office arrests someone for Prescott’s murder. According to her it’s like being in a European royal court a couple of centuries ago when the king or the queen and some heir apparent were plotting against each other and everyone was trying to figure out who was going to win and what side to be on. She says the place is full of spies and intrigue. It’s making her crazy.”

“I wonder how long that’s going to take.”

“Until she goes crazy?”

“Until Bobby finds out who did it.”

“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to take long at all. I’ll bet Bobby’s already circling the wagons around a suspect.”

“Who?”

I sucked in my breath. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it because of who the most likely possibilities are.”

“It must be hell living at Hawthorne Castle these days.”

“Or working at the Trib,” I said.

He turned onto Mosby’s Highway. Almost home.

“I have an idea,” he said. “We forgot to have lunch and I’m starved. The snow’s tapering off. Why don’t we go to the Inn for dinner?”