“Could one of them have killed him?”
Lucifer shook his head. “I can’t imagine it.”
“Other collectors? Jealous ones, perhaps?”
Lucifer waved a negative. “Collectors might metaphorically kill for certain items, but few actually do. For most collectors, half the joy is displaying your acquisitions to other collectors. Horatio was highly respected and well liked among the fraternity; his collections were well known. Any item of his unexpectedly surfacing in someone else’s collection would draw immediate attention. As a motive for murder, a known collector wanting to gain a particular piece is unlikely. We can, however, check for missing items, although it will take time. Horatio kept meticulous records.”
Sir Jasper was frowning. “We knew Welham was a collector and dealer, but I, for one, had no notion he was so highly regarded.” He glanced at Phyllida.
She shook her head. “We all knew he had visitors from outside—beyond the local area—but no one here knows much about antiques. We had no idea Horatio held such a prominent place in that sphere.”
“I think,” Lucifer said, “that that was part of the attraction of Colyton. Horatio liked being ‘one of the locals.’ ”
Sir Jasper nodded. “Now you mention it, he became ‘one of us’ very quickly. Hard to believe it’s only been three years. He bought the Manor and rebuilt and refurbished it. He put in that garden—his pride, it was. Used to potter in it for hours—his success turned some of the local ladies green. He always did all he could—went to church every Sunday, helped out in many ways.” Sir Jasper paused, then quietly concluded, “He’ll be missed.”
They sat silently for a moment, then Lucifer asked, “If he always went to church, why was he at home yesterday? I hadn’t sent word I was coming.”
“He was ill,” Phyllida said. “A bad cold. He insisted the others go as usual, and that Covey was not to disappoint his aunt. Mrs. Hemmings said she left him reading upstairs.”
“So”—Sir Jasper shifted in his chair—“let’s recount what happened as we know it. You arrived on a social visit—”
“That’s not quite true—or not all of the truth. I left Horatio’s letter in Somerset, so you’ll have to bear with my paraphrasing, but he specifically asked me to visit because he wanted my opinion on some item he’d discovered. He was obviously excited by it—the impression I received was that it was a wholly unexpected find. The inference was that he personally felt sure the item was authentic, but wanted a second opinion.”
“Any idea what this item was?”
“No. The only thing I can be sure of is that it wasn’t silver or jewelry.”
“But those are your specialties.”
“Yes, but Horatio wrote that if the item was authentic, it might even tempt me to expand my collection beyond silver and jewelry.”
“So it was a desirable piece?”
“My interpretation was that it was desirable and valuable. The fact that Horatio asked me to appraise something not in my area of expertise, when he could easily have invited the opinion of any of the established collectors of whatever type of collectible it is, suggests that the item was one of those finds that no sane collector tells anyone he has until he’s established ownership and perhaps arranged greater security. Horatio might have been old, but he was still very sharp.”
“But he told you—why not others?”
Lucifer met Phyllida’s dark gaze. “Because for various reasons, among them our long friendship, Horatio knew he’d be safe telling me. Indeed, I might be the only one he mentioned the item to at all.”
“Would Covey know of it?”
“Unless his duties have changed, I doubt it. Covey helped Horatio with arrangements and correspondence but was never involved with the actual dealing or assessing.”
Sir Jasper mulled over their words. “So you came here to meet with Horatio and view this new item of his.” He looked at Lucifer, who nodded. “You drove into the village . . . ?”
Lucifer leaned back, his gaze fixed above Phyllida’s head. “I passed no one on the road, nor did I see anyone about. I turned into the drive . . .” Simply and succinctly, he described his movements. “And then someone hit me over the head and I collapsed beside Horatio.”
“You were hit with an old halberd,” Sir Jasper said. “Nasty weapon—you’re lucky not to have died.”
Lucifer lowered his gaze to Phyllida’s calm face. “Indeed.”
“This letter knife Horatio was stabbed with—do you recall it?”
“It was his—Louis Quinze—he’d had it for years.”
“Hmm—so that’s not this special item.” Sir Jasper kept his gaze on his boots. “So as things stand, you have no idea who might have killed Welham?”
Phyllida stared into deep blue eyes and prayed her welling panic didn’t show. It hadn’t occurred to her, not until he started recounting his movements, that, in truth, Lucifer held her in the palm of his hand. If he told her father that someone had been there after the murderer had struck, and that he was convinced—no, he knew—that that person was she . . .
Her father would instantly know she’d lied—not by act but by omission. He’d realize her uncharacteristic surrender to a headache last Sunday morning had been a ruse, that it would be easy for her to cut through the wood and reach the Manor without being seen. That she’d known no one else should have been in the house.
What he wouldn’t understand was why—why she’d done it and then so deceitfully kept silent. And that was the one thing she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t yet explain—not until she was released from her oath.
The dark blue gaze never wavered. “No.”
She breathed shallowly and waited, knowing he knew, knowing he was debating whether or not to expose her. To her father, one of the few people whose good opinion mattered to her.
Time slowed. As if from a distance, she heard her father ask the fateful question, the one she’d realized he would eventually ask. “And there’s nothing else bearing on this matter you can tell me?”
Lucifer’s eyes held hers steadily. Giddiness threatened.
It suddenly occurred to her to consider the next step: What if he didn’t tell?
“No.”
She blinked.
He held her gaze for an instant longer, then glanced at her father. “I have no notion who killed Horatio, but, with your permission, I intend to find out.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Her father nodded. “Commendable goal.” He looked up, and frowned.
“Good gracious, Jasper!” Lady Huddlesford swept forward. “You’ve been interrogating Mr. Cynster for quite long enough. His poor head must be aching.”
Lucifer rose, as did Sir Jasper.
“Nonsense, Margaret, we have to sort this matter out.”
“Indeed! I haven’t been so shocked in years. The very thought of a London cutthroat slipping into the village and stabbing Mr. Welham is more than enough to overset me.”
“There’s no reason to think it was someone from London.”
Lady Huddlesford stared at her brother-in-law. “Really, Jasper! This is such a sleepy little place—everyone knows everyone. Of course it must be someone from outside.”
Phyllida sensed her father’s resistance. He doggedly held to the logical approach, which meant that at any second he was going to turn to her and ask if she knew of anyone local with a reason to wish Horatio dead.
She didn’t, but her answer might come close to being a lie. An outright lie. She avoided prevarication on principle, except in pursuit of the greater good. As her gaze touched Mr. Cynster—Lucifer—she acidly wished she’d made no exception. Just look where it had landed her.
First swamped by guilt. Now chin-deep in his debt.
Percy sauntered up to them. Phyllida glanced his way, then let her gaze drift to Lucifer. Percy was unwise to stand beside him; the comparison left Percy looking like a pasty-faced, effeminate weakling. Percy was pasty-faced, but otherwise presentable—it was the competition that
served him so ill.
Her aunt continued to proclaim the impossibility of the murderer being local. Phyllida grasped the moment when she paused for breath. “I must call on Mrs. Hemmings, Papa, to make sure she has all she needs for the wake. I also need to stop at the church and speak with Mr. Filing.”
Her nemesis spoke. “Perhaps I could accompany you, Miss Tallent?”
“Ah . . .” Transfixed by blue eyes that warned her there was no alternative to his company, Phyllida bit back a refusal, couched as a polite reminder about his head.
His lips curved; his gaze remained steady. “I know I promised not to overtax myself, but as I’ll be in your company, there’s surely no risk.”
He’d kept her secret; now she had to pay the price. She inclined her head. “If you wish. A walk in the fresh air might ease your head.”
“An excellent notion.” As Lucifer straightened from bowing to her aunt, her father caught his eye. “Give you a chance to get the lay of the land, heh?”
“Indeed.” The reprobate turned to her, a definite glint in his eyes. He smiled and gestured elegantly. “Lead on, my dear Miss Tallent.”
She took him to the Manor by way of the lane through the village; it was too dangerous to walk through the woods with a predator, especially one in whose power she now was. Her father, of course, had no idea—he was impressed with the fiend, she could tell.
As she walked through the sunshine with him prowling beside her, she grudgingly admitted that if he hadn’t been such a threat to her, she might have been impressed, too. He felt just as he ought to about Horatio. But being managed was a novel experience for her, one she didn’t like. However, he hadn’t done the unforgivable and given her the ultimate ultimatum—that either she tell him the whole truth, or he would tell her father she’d been in Horatio’s drawing room. She was therefore willing to humor him.
She glanced at him. His dark hair shone mahogany brown in the sun. “You forgot your hat.”
“I rarely wear one.”
So much for that. She walked on. The village proper lay just ahead.
Lucifer looked at her; her bonnet shielded her face from his view. “I think”—he waited until she glanced up at him—“that, given we’ve formed an alliance of sorts, you’d better tell me what happened after I was discovered.”
She studied his eyes, then faced forward. “You were discovered by Hemmings, Horatio’s gardener. Mrs. Hemmings, the housekeeper, went upstairs, imagining Horatio to be there. Hemmings went into the drawing room to lay the fire. He raised the alarm and Bristleford, Horatio’s butler, sent for Juggs and Thompson.”
“To take me, as the murderer, into custody?”
Her bonnet bobbed. “Bristleford was overset—he thought you were the murderer. There’s a cell beneath the inn where prisoners are held awaiting transportation to the assizes. Thompson’s the blacksmith—they used his dray to shift you.”
“And where were you?”
She glanced swiftly at him, then away. A full minute passed before she said, “I was laid upon my bed with a sick headache—that was why I hadn’t gone to church.”
When she said no more, he prompted her. “You appeared in the cell insisting I wasn’t the murderer.”
“I didn’t know whether you remembered.”
“I remember. How did you come to be there?”
“I often borrowed books of poetry from Horatio. I recovered from my headache and thought I’d fetch a new volume. But just as I reached our front door, Aunt Huddlesford’s carriage drew up. I’d forgotten she was arriving that morning, but all the arrangements were already in place—or so I thought.”
The irritation in that last reached Lucifer clearly. “But . . . ?”
“Percy and Frederick—I wasn’t expecting them. They don’t usually favor us with their gracious presence.”
“I’d wager Percy’s on a repairing lease.”
“Very likely, but their arrival meant that I had to wait until our staff returned from church to give orders for extra rooms, and entertain them and Aunt Huddlesford until Papa and Jonas appeared.”
“And when that happened?”
“I left as soon as I could, but when I reached the Manor, you’d already been taken away.”
“Is this the inn?” Lucifer stopped; Phyllida did, too. The building beside them was a half-timbered structure, worn and a little shabby but still serviceable.
“Yes—the Red Bells.”
“And Juggs is the innkeeper.”
She started walking again. “He gets paid for holding prisoners, so you shouldn’t judge him too harshly.”
He swallowed his response to that. “What happened next?”
“I made sure they’d sent for Papa, then I came to the Bells.” She glanced at his face. “How much do you remember?”
“Not all of it, but enough. You stayed until your father arrived, and then he rode home and was to send the carriage. The next thing I remember clearly was . . .”—he studied her eyes while he replayed his memories—“waking up in the witching hour.”
“Yes, well, that’s really all there was to it.” Looking ahead, she paced on. “You were restless, but your skull was intact—it was all just the pain.”
Lucifer glanced at her. Why hadn’t she taken the opportunity to tell him of her vigil by his bed? He’d put her in a position of being grateful to him; why hadn’t she evened the score?
They strolled past a succession of neat cottages and on around the curving lane. The Manor came into sight.
“Very well,” he said. “I now know your story. I also know that you were in Horatio’s drawing room before I entered, and that you were there after I was hit.”
“You know nothing of the sort.”
He looked smugly superior—she was watching from the corner of her eye.
“You can’t possibly tell it was me from a mere touch.” The glance she flung at him was both irate and uncertain.
“I can. I did. I know it was you.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“Hmm . . . perhaps not. Why not touch me again, just to see if I’m certain?”
She stopped and faced him, latent sparks in her eyes—
“Hoi! Miss Phyllida!”
They swung around. A heavy man in a leather apron and vest was lumbering down the common toward them.
“The blacksmith?”
“Yes—Thompson.”
Thompson approached. His gaze on Lucifer, he nodded respectfully. “Sir.” He nodded at Phyllida, then looked back at Lucifer. “I just wanted to apologize, like, for any bruises you mighta taken when we dumped you in my dray. ‘Course, we thought you was the murderer and you weren’t easy to lift, but I wouldn’t want no hard feelings.”
Lucifer smiled. “None taken. I don’t bruise easily.”
“Well.” Thompson blew out a relieved breath and grinned back. “That’s all right, then. Not but what it was no fit welcome to the village, ‘specially not with a bash on the head an’ all.”
Phyllida inwardly squirmed. She glanced up the lane toward the Manor.
“Has Sir Jasper got any clues as to this murderer, then, sir?”
Her “No” clashed with Lucifer’s “None”—Phyllida nearly outwardly squirmed when she realized the question had not been addressed to her.
With a subtly amused glance, Lucifer added, “Sir Jasper’s investigations are proceeding.”
“Aye, well . . .”
Phyllida waited while Thompson pointed out the forge on the far side of the common and assured Lucifer that he could count on him for any assistance, either in laying the murderer by the heels or with his horses.
With a final nod, Thompson took himself off back over the common.
She stepped out again; Lucifer prowled by her side, his stride an exercise in effortless grace. He murmured, “It seems a peaceful little place.”
“Usually.” She glanced up and found him scanning the common and the church on the crest.
They avoided the duck pon
d and its vocal inhabitants and reached the Manor’s gate. She opened it and stepped through; Lucifer had to duck the trailing fingers of wisteria hanging from the framing arch. She led the way around the small fountain. Gaining the porch, she realized he’d fallen behind. Looking back, she saw him studying a bed of burgeoning peonies. His gaze moved on to a bed of roses and lavender; then he glanced up, saw her waiting, and lengthened his stride.
He joined her on the porch, but glanced back at the garden.
“What is it?”
He looked at her, his expression closed, his eyes screened. “Who did the garden?”
“Papa told you—Horatio. Well”—she glanced at the beds—“Hemmings helped, of course, but Horatio’s was always the guiding hand.” She studied his face. “Why?”
He looked at the garden. “When they lived in the Lake District, Martha did the garden—it was hers, totally. I would have sworn Horatio wouldn’t have known a hollyhock from a nettle.”
Phyllida considered the garden with new eyes. “All the time he was here he was most particular about the garden.”
After a moment, Lucifer turned; she noted his closed face. Swinging around, she led the way inside.
The house was silent; they walked quietly forward, halting level with the open drawing room door. Horatio’s coffin rested on the table just beyond the spot where they—yes, they—had found his body. For a moment, they both simply looked, then Phyllida led the way in.
A yard from the coffin, she stopped. It suddenly required effort to breathe. Long fingers touched hers; instinctively, she clung. His hand closed about hers, warm and alive. He stepped forward to stand beside her. She felt his gaze on her face. Without looking at him, she nodded. Side by side, they stepped to the polished wooden box.
For long moments, they stood gazing down. Phyllida drew comfort from the peaceful expression that had settled on Horatio’s face. It had been there when she’d found him, as if his departure from this world, although violent and unexpected, had been a release. Perhaps there truly was a Heaven.
She’d liked him, approved of him, and was sad that he was gone. She could say good-bye and let him go, but the manner of his going was not something she could let be. He’d been murdered in the village she’d virtually managed for twelve years; that she’d been the one to find him, already gone and beyond her help, had only increased her outrage.