The address led to an abandoned counting house near the river. Its front windows were boarded, but a side door showed fresh scratches around the lock.
Inside, dust covered everything except a narrow path leading upstairs.
Samuel Avery and two trusted men searched room by room while Lydia Ashcombe waited in the carriage with Peter Wells. On the second floor they found a locked office containing old crates, ruined account books, and one wall that sounded hollow when struck.
Behind loose boards sat a narrow compartment.
The full ledger was not there.
Something else was.
They found clothing belonging to missing witnesses, envelopes addressed but never mailed, and receipts for transportation to plantations in three states. The room had been used to sort people and documents before moving them elsewhere.
At the bottom of one crate lay an object Samuel Avery immediately recognized from Lydia Ashcombe's description: the clasp from her original traveling case.
She had been held there.
Then one of the men called from the hallway.
Someone had entered downstairs.
The visitors were not police.
They carried no lanterns and moved as if they already knew the building.
The locked room contained no dramatic treasure at first glance. It held papers, clothing, receipts, and objects too ordinary to frighten anyone. Only when arranged beside what they already knew did the room become a map of the conspiracy. One item pointed toward a truth none of them had expected. Somewhere beyond the windows, hooves moved on the road and then faded into distance. No one trusted coincidence anymore, not after seeing how carefully the deception had been built. The woman watched every face now, measuring fear, loyalty, and the small signs of betrayal. Still the road ahead held questions that none of them could answer before morning came again.