Glen Allen - The shadow war

Before he rang the front door chimes, Wolfe turned to Benjamin.

"Let's be a little circumspect about what we're here to see," he said. "Seaton knows we're interested in the Bainbridge diary, but there's no reason to focus primarily on just that." He smiled, and once again Benjamin noticed the trace of a certain craftiness in his smile, as though Wolfe was rehearsing his role for Seaton Morris. "In other words, we know it's important, but Mr. Morris doesn't need to. Understand?"

Benjamin smiled, nodded.

The door before them was a massive, dark-wood, Gothic portal, book-ended by two enormous urn-shaped flowerpots, which conflicted with the otherwise Colonial architecture of the house. They pressed the bell and, after a two-minute wait, were admitted by a small, thin, and absolutely stone-faced butler.

Before Wolfe could utter a word, the butler said, "Mr. Morris is momentarily engaged. If you would kindly wait in the library?" He indicated a room through sliding French doors left of the enormous foyer.

The Morris library was a cross between a typical library from a country estate and a museum. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases, walnut wainscoting between them; a wallpaper with a Zuber Cie Chinese design above that; a tall bay window in the center of the wall opposite the French doors; the wingback chairs, couch, and coffee table neatly arranged before a large marble fireplace, above which was a portrait of an elderly gentleman in Colonial garb… all suggested the mix of intimate comfort and grand display one expected in such a well-pedigreed house. The furniture was an impressive, if eclectic, assemblage of bright, silk-upholstered Chippendale chairs and dark, Sheraton Federal-style tables, with the requisite Hepplewhite bird's-eye maple grandfather clock standing guard in one corner.

But the real treasure of the room was obviously not its furnishings. Displayed in several long cases set in the middle of the room, with several others along one wall, that treasure was proudly displayed beneath the transparent protection of curving glass.

Books. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of books. Everything from enormous volumes in heavy leather bindings to small pamphlets and broadsheets to woodcuts and engravings set in tiny frames or displayed simply, unadorned, as if lying about on their printer's desk; all of them arranged with apparent care-and a certain pride of ownership.

Wolfe went to one of the cases containing over a dozen leather-bound books and began walking slowly along its length, studying the pages to which they were opened.

"My god," he said. "Benjamin, look at this. Here's an illustrated Bible, dated 1751. And a copy of Newton's Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica! And here's one for you, Institutio Christianae Religionis, by one John Calvin. Collected Sermons of Richard Clyfton, whoever he is. And Magnalia Christi Americana, by Cotton Mather himself. Ha! And it's cheek by jowl with a first edition of Paradise Lost…"

Wolfe turned around, saw that Benjamin wasn't behind him, but instead had crossed the room and was standing in front of a mahogany secretary. Wolfe walked over and stood beside him.

"Did you hear me?" he said. He pointed back toward the display case. "There's Newton's Principia Mathematica over there, in perfect condition. And god knows what else." He noticed Benjamin didn't seem to be listening to him. He looked at the piece of furniture Benjamin was studying.

"What's so interesting about this bookcase?" he asked with some irritation.

"Secretary," Benjamin corrected. He was looking intently at a small brass plate set above the glass window of the right-hand door.

"All right," sighed Wolfe. "What's so damn interesting about this secretary?"

"Look at the name," said Benjamin, pointing to the brass plate.

Wolfe read it out loud. "I. Winslow." He looked back to Benjamin. "And what is so extraordinary about Mr. Winslow's… secretary?"

"It's one of a kind," said a voice behind them.

They turned and saw a man standing in the open doorway. His face was that of a man in his late twenties, 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."