firm and tan and confident. But by his receding hairline, the wrinkles in his neck above the tight, button-down shirt collar, even the way he stood, with one hand in his trouser pocket, they could tell he was more likely in his late forties.
He was exceptionally well dressed in a dark and very subtly pin-striped suit, coal-black alligator shoes, banded tie, and pale blue shirt. His tanned face was clean shaven, his light brown, medium-length hair immaculately groomed. In some superficial ways he reminded Benjamin of George Montrose. But there was none of the sense of bright celebrity here that Benjamin had felt with Montrose. This man didn't invite attention, though he was probably used to receiving it; rather, Benjamin suspected that he would prefer to be the quiet observer in any group of people. It occurred to Benjamin that he was the silent hawk to Montrose's loud peacock.
'I'm Seaton Morris,' the man said.
He took a step into the room, turned, and pulled the two French doors closed with an almost inaudible thud. Then he turned again and walked toward them-or strode might be a more accurate description. His clothes, manner, style, the apparently permanent and friendly slight smile on his face-everything about Seaton Morris exuded confidence and precision.
He shook first Wolfe's hand, then Benjamin's. Then he turned to Wolfe and said, 'I believe what the young man is trying to tell you is that this one piece of furniture is as important, at least historically, as many of the rare books in this room.'
'Winslow made furniture for the 'who's who' of America's patriots,' explained Benjamin. 'Including this secretary, whose first owner, if I'm correct, was-'
'Alexander Hamilton,' finished Seaton. 'In fact, it was built to his specifications, during the Revolution. So it has a number of unique features. Here, let me show you.'
Seaton stepped closer to the secretary and lowered the small writing table, then reached into the exposed recess.
'This little compartment that would typically hold an inkwell is in fact a detachable box, which you remove by pressing on a hidden spring.' He gently pressed his thumb against a concealed button, and the compartment popped out an inch. 'Now, if you look inside,' and Benjamin and Wolfe leaned down to gaze into the revealed space, 'you'll see several additional small boxes, all attached by a chain, which can be used to store special… correspondences.' Seaton replaced the box, pointed to the secretary's side panels. 'And those panels slide open, for other papers of a sensitive nature.'
'Ingenious,' said Wolfe. 'The perfect desk for someone writing seditious letters.'
'Of course, the secretary was acquired from Mr. Hamilton's estate after his death. But this house saw its share of just such clandestine activity,' said Seaton.
'You see that fireplace?' He pointed toward the large, tile-bordered fireplace in the wall to their right. 'At one time, there was a crawl space inside it, accessed by tilting the brick wall that forms its back on a hidden pivot, which led to a concealed room. Just like in those terrible novels of haunted mansions. But also perfect for hiding attendees of illegal meetings quickly, should there come an unexpected knock on the door. And upstairs,' he pointed to the ceiling, 'you would discover that not all the rooms seem to be on the same level, what with many risers and steps where they don't seem strictly necessary.'
'More secret spaces?' asked Wolfe.
Seaton nodded. 'And there's a closet in the master bedroom. Move a particular pane of the paneling aside, and you find a ladder that leads down, behind that chimney, into the secret room. And a door in the room leading outside-though from the outside it appears to be an alcove for a statue.'
'A statue of whom, I wonder,' said Wolfe.
Seaton smiled. 'At the time the house was built, I believe it was Socrates. Now it's a very bad imitation of Rockefeller's Aphrodite. But it hasn't roused nearly the controversy here it did for him in 1905.'
Seaton pointed to the chairs and couch in front of the fireplace. 'Here, please gentlemen, sit down.'
Even as Seaton invited them to take seats, the downpour that had been holding back outside let go. There was a series of terrific flashes of lightning and, a few seconds later, peals of thunder. Rain came lashing against the panes of the tall bay window, washing down in waves across the glass.
'Looks like you got here just before the deluge,' said Seaton. Again, he motioned toward the chairs and couch set before the fireplace.
The three of them moved to the chairs, Benjamin and Wolfe taking their seats on the silk-covered couch, and Seaton sitting in the rightmost wingback chair. 'Can I get you anything to drink?' he asked. 'Coffee? Bloody Mary? Mimosa?'
'Well… no thank you,' said Wolfe, catching a look of surprise from Benjamin.
'This house may date to the Puritans,' said Seaton, smiling broadly, 'but believe me, we dispensed with their prohibitions a long time ago.'
Wolfe leaned back and fixed Seaton with what Benjamin recognized as one of his supercilious stares.
'Just how old is this house, Mr. Morris?' he asked.
'Well.' Seaton leaned back, looked about as though taking in the room for the first time. 'Actually, it's not the site of the first Morris estate. As I imagine Arthur has told you, that distinction belongs to the Foundation. The manse, as I believe they call it?' Wolfe nodded. 'That was the original ancestral hall of the Morris family.'
Benjamin leaned forward. 'But wasn't that Henry Coddington's estate first?'
Seaton laughed. If Benjamin's comment had discomfited him, he didn't reveal it.
'Yes, that's right. Poor old Coddington put his eggs in the wrong basket, I'm afraid. And paid the price. His entire estate was awarded to Gouverneur Morris in recognition of all his work on behalf of the new American nation.'
'Then how-?' began Wolfe.
'Did we wind up in here?' finished Seaton. 'There was a great deal of millennial activity after the war. You know the sort of thing, utopian societies, eager to expand on the ideal of the new America; or in some cases I suppose convinced it wasn't ideal enough. Anyway, one of Gouverneur's daughters-Rebecca Morris-became involved with one of them. It was called New Cairo, or New Egypt, something exotic like that. When she died, childless, she bequeathed the property and everything on it to the group, and so it passed out of the family holdings, and we were forced into this more… humble abode. The old manse has had a great many incarnations since then, as I'm sure Arthur informed you.' Seaton smiled. 'But you're not here for the family history lecture, are you. What you're interested in is over there.'
He rose and walked to one of the display cases in the middle of the room, and Benjamin and Wolfe followed him. He led them to the middle of the case.
'The Bainbridge diary,' he said, softly touching the rounded dome of glass.
Beneath his hand and a thick layer of glass, and supported on a wooden bookstand, was a book a little over a foot high and perhaps almost as wide. Open as it was, the cover wasn't visible.
What was visible was the first page of the book. Its edges were blackened with age, and the paper appeared to have been damaged in spots by damp and mold. Age had also faded some of the black ink lettering on the page, which was written in a careful, flowing script.
As Benjamin and Wolfe gazed down at it, Seaton asked, 'Do you know the story?'
Benjamin started to nod, but Wolfe said rather abruptly, 'No, not all of it. Would you mind?'
'Not at all,' Seaton said. 'It's fascinating.'
'The Foundation, and before that the Coddington Estate, stands on the grounds of what was, in the 1600s, something called the Bainbridge Plantation. It was one of those religious communities-from what I've been told, Harlan Bainbridge, the founder, was something of a fanatic, a thorn in the side of the other Puritans. So, like Moses-or I guess Brigham Young and his Mormons-Harlan led his followers out into the wilderness. Back then, that was anything west of Deerfield, I guess. And they built a compound. It was extraordinary, really. But then the entire camp was wiped out by Indians-'
'In 1675,' interrupted Benjamin. 'By Wampanoags.' He was looking at Seaton, not the diary. 'Or so the story goes.'
Seaton returned the look. 'Yes,' he said. 'Exactly. It was tragic. Not a soul survived.'
Seaton looked back down at the diary. 'Anyway, after the Indian 'troubles' were settled, Coddington built his estate there-apparently he had provided some sort of financial support to Bainbridge's group, and the deed was in his name. He built the main house that's still there, what they call the manse, and the family lived there for a
