"Perhaps you should visit the Manor this afternoon and check the downstairs rooms."
She glanced up, then nodded. "It would be a relief to solve at least one mystery."
"As for the question of who murdered Horatio-tell me what happened from the time you walked into the front hall to the time you left the Manor."
"I already told you."
"Humor me. There could be something, some little thing, that you'll remember this time."
Laying the clippers in the basket, she turned. She recounted her movements as they strolled to the arbor at the end of the garden.
"So reaching for the hat was the very last thing you did?" He handed her to the stone seat in the arbor.
"Yes. I thought it was yours."
"Mine?" He sat bes
ide her. "My coats are either black or dark blue. What would I be doing with a brown hat?"
"I didn't know your sartorial preferences at the time." She paused, holding tight to her calm, looking at the roses nodding in the heat rather than at him. "Anyway, I went back in the afternoon to arrange about your horses. I thought I would fetch the hat for you. I asked Bristleford. He was certain there'd been no hat in the drawing room when they found Horatio's body."
"And mine."
She inclined her head. "And yours."
She waited for him to say something about how he'd come to be a "body." Instead, he sat silently for some minutes, then said, "It has to be the hat. The murderer must be convinced you'll recognize it."
"But I haven't. That ought to be obvious by now."
"True, so he must think you will recognize it-that you'll suddenly remember. Which means-" He stopped.
She looked at him. "Means what?"
He met her gaze. "That it's someone you've seen often, in that hat."
"So"-she drew a tight breath-"definitely no stranger."
"It's someone you know."
The words hung in the air between them, chill despite the heat. Phyllida held herself rigidly upright and fought the sudden urge to take refuge in his arms. The seat was short; he'd stretched one arm along its back, behind her shoulders. His chest was temptingly near. The impulse to lean into him, to press her shoulder to his chest, to feel his arms close about her, waxed strong.
She knew what it felt like to be held in his arms. It felt safe. But… she wasn't the clingy sort.
She was about to look away, to switch her gaze to the safe subject of the garden, when he shifted. His arm left the seat back and curled about her shoulders; his other hand tipped up her face. His lips were on hers before she knew it, and then she was kissing him back.
When he raised his head, she frowned at him. "What was that for?" She wriggled upright.
Lucifer released her. He searched for a light answer; only the truth filled his mind. "Reassurance. You looked frightened."
She gazed into his eyes, then lightly shivered and looked away. "I am frightened-a little."
"A little frightened is wise, but the murderer is not going to have you, too."
She slanted him a glance. "You sound very sure."
"I am."
"Why?"