Neither of them spoke. There was no need.
She shifted slightly, lifting a hand to push the hair from her face, and then stilled. “Gabriel. Good heavens. Look.”
He followed her gaze to the high panel above the bed.
A sky full of swallows stretched across the wood, painted in looping arcs, wings extended, frozen in flight, like they’d been waiting for someone to find them.
“It’s not wallpaper.”
“No. What made you search this room?”
She didn’t answer at once. Instead, she pressed a last kiss to his mouth, then eased off his lap, smoothing her skirts as she stood.
He handed her the clean handkerchief from his pocket and tucked himself away.
“This is west. Swallows are a sign of luck, and this room overlooks a bank of white heather. You can see Wynbury Hall from here. And Mrs Boswell said your mother used to stand at the window for hours.”
“I should have known where to look?”
But he’d fought to suppress every echo from the past.
“How could you? There must be thousands of items spread across two hundred rooms.” She gestured for his hand. “Help me onto the bed.”
She knelt on the bed, craning her neck for a better view of the painted canopy. “Five panels make up one mural. The detail is remarkable. Every feather, every wing. But …” Her brow furrowed. “That one’s different.”
Gabriel knelt beside her, the mattress giving beneath his weight.
She pointed. “One swallow’s flying the wrong way.”
He saw it, near the centre panel. All the others looped westward, but one turned east, its wings angled sharply, as if caught in a crosswind. Just beneath it, the edge of one panel sat ever so slightly askew.
Olivia reached up, fingertips testing the seam. “This one’s loose.”
The panel shifted beneath her touch, sliding back with a faint scrape. Behind it, nestled in the hollow, lay a flat bundle, wrapped in waxed linen and tied with a faded blue ribbon.
Dust drifted as she eased it free.
She looked down at it, then at him, eyes wide, her excitement barely contained. “I think we’ve found it. We’ve found the evidence.”
They sat together on the bed. He watched as she untied the ribbon and peeled back the linen. Inside were letters, documents, receipts for bribes paid. A note from her father—a simple apology, and a message to look forward, never back.
She dashed tears from her cheeks. “This proves Mrs Culpepper is involved. She wrote to my father, instructing him to—” She stopped abruptly, the colour draining from her face.
“What is it?”
“Mrs Culpepper answered to someone else.”
She handed him a letter.
The blood roared in his ears as he read the name.
A cold fury had him gritting his teeth. “Daventry needs to see this. We need to take it to him now.”
Two days later
Daventry was waiting on the corner of the street when Gabriel arrived. He stood alone, though his men were stationed at key points along the row in case the traitor bolted.
The sun shone, the city bustled, but someone’s world was about to come crashing down around them.
