Having met the man, Gabriel knew the Reverend Clay was nothing more than a fool out of his depth.
“Do you think Lovelace is in there?” Dalton’s tone held the bitterness of someone who’d spent a decade believing a lie. “That he’s been alive all these years and never bothered to tell us?”
Gabriel wanted to think the worst of Justin Lovelace. Thathe was a liar, a cheat. Cruel. Conniving. What sort of man let his sister identify a body, believing it was him?
Only a desperate one.
“He’s in there.” Whether as friend or foe, only time would tell.
“But why bring her here? Why not somewhere less conspicuous?” Dalton glanced back along the road. “Mrs Hodge died practically on the doorstep.”
“Because clever villains hide in plain sight. This whole business is a case of smoke and mirrors. Clues hidden within clues. The evidence is there, if one knows how to decipher the messages.”
“Olivia’s father led her here for a reason.” Dalton’s hand moved to the sheathed blade at his side as a cart trundled past on the road. “He gave her the key to the mausoleum. Why do that if it’s nothing more than a meeting place?”
Gabriel considered the clues. The cross, a symbol for the church. The message carved into the back, saying the truth lay in poems. The compass pointing west of the mausoleum. All of it led to the rectory.
But something still didn’t fit.
“The answer is in the poem, but we’ve spent hours analysing every line.” Gabriel raked his hand through his hair, tension coiling beneath his skin.
Maybe he was too close. Too emotionally invested.
He thought of those first few days after their wedding, how every moment spent with her fed his obsession. He began reciting lines he could remember, nothing standing out at first, until one made him stop dead in his tracks.
“This crypt, built to entomb the dead,
Is now a prison for a living thought.”
He turned towards the road, the graveyard visible in the distance, his heart thudding. “A prison? Perhaps it’s not a metaphor. Some old churches had hidden tunnels. What if the men gathering at the mausoleum weren’t footpads, but fraternity members, meeting beneath the rectory?”
Dalton eyed the graveyard. “It won’t hurt to look. Our only other option is to knock on the rectory door. And we’ve no idea how many men are inside.”
They followed the road back to the graveyard and entered through the rickety gate. Gabriel stole a glance at Olivia’s cottage, recalling the sharp ache of regret when she’d refused his proposal. He’d ridden away, his heart heavy, yet something had compelled him to turn back.
It was different now. That ache no longer stemmed from uncertainty, but from love. Whatever lay ahead, he knew she felt it too.
Someone had fixed the lock on the mausoleum door. Thankfully, Dalton had brought a ring of skeleton keys and made quick work of the mechanism.
“Is there no end to your talents?” Gabriel teased.
Dalton gave a knowing grin. “My wife often says the same.”
Inside the mausoleum, nothing had changed.
Gabriel removed the lid of the wooden coffin, expecting to find a sack of rotting meat, shocked to find an actual corpse.
“Someone who knew the fraternity’s secrets?” Dalton asked.
“It’s not anyone I recognise.” He quickly replaced the lid and brushed his hands on his trousers, then scanned Dalton’s solid frame. “Let’s hope you’re still a decent pugilist, and married life hasn’t dulled yourfootwork. I need that brute strength to help open these tombs.”
Dalton arched a brow. “After all those late nights reading poetry, are you sure you have the stamina?”
“Take hold of the end, and we’ll move on the count of three.”
They took their positions at either end of the stone coffin. The lid was cold and smooth beneath their fingers.
“Ready?” Gabriel said.
