The books he'd found misaligned in the drawing room-now he thought of it, they'd been tight in the shelf. They couldn't have accidentally slid forward.
Now Silas Coombe was requesting first dibs on Horatio's books. Could Coombe be the murderer?
Lucifer looked down at the pile of correspondence he'd stacked on the blotter. He had other questions, too, at present equally unanswerable.
What was it Horatio had wanted him to appraise?
And where on earth was it?
Late that evening, he stood looking out from his bedchamber window, watching the moonlight play over the common. He'd spent half the afternoon searching the house in the hope that something, some piece, would strike him as unfamiliar and unique enough to have been Horatio's mystery item. He'd learned the extent of his inheritance, but was no nearer to solving the mystery.
The house was a treasure trove, understated in its magnificence. Every piece had a history, had a value greater than its functional worth. Yet, as was common with many great collectors, Horatio's best items were used as they'd been designed to be used, not hidden away. So where was his mystery item? In fall view? Or hidden away in some other item designed to provide a hiding place?
That was a possibility. Lucifer made a mental note to check.
Identifying the mystery item-possibly the reason Horatio had been killed-was only one of his problems. The most pressing, the most critical, was learning why some man, riding a horse that might well have been the same horse that had waited in the shrubbery while Horatio was killed, had attempted to kill Phyllida.
Lucifer rotated his shoulders, trying to ease the knots that had been there since late afternoon, when he'd gone back to the Grange to speak with Sir Jasper.
And Phyllida, of course, but she hadn't been there.
Not in the library, not in the drawing room, not lying on her bed prostrate with shock. The damned woman had ordered out the carriage and gone to visit some other deserving soul. At least she hadn't walked.
Of course, she'd been the first to Sir Jasper with the story-her version had stressed that it had been some misguided hunter; she had clearly downplayed her fright.
He'd tried to correct those impressions, but had been severely handicapped by two things. First, as Sir Jasper did not know of Phyllida's presence in Horatio's drawing room, he therefore had no reason to suppose Horatio's killer would have any interest in her. Without telling Sir Jasper all, without exposing Phyllida, there was no point making the connection between the horses, and without that, his ability to invest the situation with suitable gravity was severely compromised.
The second obstacle was the fact that Sir Jasper had been well trained to accept everything his daughter told him, at least about herself. With all that against him, shaking Sir Jasper out of his complacency and into a sufficiently protective frame of mind had been beyond him. All he'd managed was to convey his own deep unease over the shooting, and over Phyllida's safety in general.
Sir Jasper had smiled too knowingly and assured him that Phyllida could take care of herself.
Not against a murderer. He'd held the words back, but only just.
He'd stridden back through the wood in something perilously close to a temper; the emotion had converted to a nagging disquiet by the time he'd reached the Manor.
Gazing out at the moonlit common, he felt decidedly grim. Tomorrow, he'd find her-
A figure crossed the lane and started up the common.
Lucifer stared. He knew what he was seeing, but his brain refused to take it in. "Damnation! What in Hades does she think she's doing?"
Swinging on his heel, he went to get an answer.
She was standing on the side porch, ledger in hand, when he reached the church.
Phyllida saw him emerge from the shadows, large, dark, and menacing, like a god not at all pleased with a disciple. She lifted her chin and fixed him with a warning glance; Mr. Filing stood beside her.
"Mr. Cynster!" Filing shut his ledger.
"It's all right," she reassured him. "Mr. Cynster knows all about the Company and how we operate."
"Oh, well, then." Reopening his ledger, Filing smiled at Lucifer. "It's quite a little enterprise."
"So I understand." Lucifer didn't return the curate's smile. He stalked past Filing, circled her, and halted on her other side, hands on his hips, doing an excellent imitation of a disapproving deity. "What are you doing?"
He'd bent his head so his words fell by her ear in an angry rumble. She didn't look up. "I'm checking the goods against the bill of lading-see?" She demonstrated as Hugey lumbered up with a box. "Put that to the left of the Mellows' sarcophagus."
Hugey nodded circumspectly to the looming menace beside her and headed into the church.