Phyllida stood, drawing Felicity with her. She'd seen the yawn and caught the earlier, fleeting reference, too. "Indeed. A good night's sleep all around, then we can start first thing in the morning." She smiled at Felicity. "Come, I'll introduce you to Mrs. Hemmings and show you your room."
They all met the next morning at the breakfast table. Rested and refreshed, Flick-she insisted everyone call her that-was agog to hear their tale. Demon, relieved of his own anxiety, was similiarly eager. Lucifer and Phyllida started their story over the teacups, then continued when they adjourned to the library. Concisely, they described incident after incident; Demon interrupted with a question here and there. Flick sat and simply stared.
"How atrocious!" she declared when they'd concluded their tale. "That's monstrous-leaving you to die in a burning cottage!"
Phyllida agreed.
Lucifer looked at Demon. "So what's the news from London?"
"First of all, your neighbors are exceedingly law-abiding souls-Montague gave them all a clean bill of health. No debts, no peculiar past histories, nothing. All he found on Appleby was that he's the illegitimate son of a minor peer-old Croxton, now deceased. His papa was not fond, but did educate him and pave the way into the army. Infantry-you were right about that."
"So," Lucifer concluded, "Appleby is an impoverished ex-infantryman with an education sufficient to allow him to serve as a gentleman's amanuensis."
"Yes, but there's more. Appleby was the only one on your list who'd served in any capacity, so I had a relatively easy time. I tracked down his regiment-he saw action at Waterloo." Demon glanced at Lucifer. "He was with the Ninth. I managed to locate his immediate superior, a Captain Hastings. That's where things got interesting. I had to all but drink Hastings under the table to wring the nightmare from him, but it transpires that Hastings suspects that Appleby committed murder on the battlefield."
"Murder during a battle?" Flick frowned. "Can that happen?"
Lucifer nodded. "If you shoot someone on your own side deliberately."
Phyllida shivered. "How horrible."
"Indeed," Demon concurred. "During one particular cavalry charge-" He glanced at Phyllida and Flick. "The cavalry often charge from the flank, across the infantry's line of sight-the infantry usually put up their pieces during the charge. Most would use the time to clean and reload. Well, during this one charge, Hastings was standing almost directly behind Appleby. He swears Appleby drew a line on one of our own. He believes he saw Appleby shoot and one of the guardsmen fall, but… it was midmorning, and that was a hellish day. By the end of it, so many were dead and we all had our own nightmares. Hastings wasn't sure enough to make any immediate charge, but he'd seen enough to check who the fallen man was.
"It turned out to be Appleby's best friend. They'd even shared a tent the previous night. Although wounded himself, Appleby had gone out and retrieved the body and was, to all appearances, deeply cut up. Hastings concluded that Appleby had merely been using his sight to keep a steadier eye on his friend through the charge. That's what he told himself. That's what he still tells himself, but when his tongue is loosened by good brandy, the truth tumbles out. Hastings still believes in his heart that he saw Appleby kill his best friend, Corporal Sherring." Demon looked at Lucifer. "Incidentally, Hastings said Appleby was an excellent shot with a musket."
"So"-Lucifer looked at Phyllida-"it could be Appleby."
"But is it?" Demon asked. "All we have is an unprovable possibility that Appleby has killed in cold blood before. We haven't anything to tie him to Horatio or his collection."
"And that," Lucifer acknowledged, "is the rub."
The entire matter hinged on the mysterious volume the murderer thought was buried in Horatio's collection. Demon and Flick joined the party searching through Horatio's tomes.
After an hour, Flick stepped back from the bookcase she was working through. "Why are we doing this?" She turned to Lucifer. "Whoever it is, they've presumably been searching every Sunday for months. But if they knew which book they were searching for, and presumably they must, then it wouldn't take that long to find it."
"Unfortunately, it would." Lucifer strolled along the shelves, then stopped and pulled out an innocuous-looking volume. He showed it to Flick. "Brent's Roman Legions. Nice binding, worth a few guineas, but nothing to get excited over." Then he slid the entire cover free. "In reality, however, this is a first edition of Cruickshank's Treatise of the Powers, worth a small fortune."
"Oh." Flick studied the cover and the book it had concealed. "Are there many like that in here?"
"Every few shelves and sometimes more often." Phyllida reached for the next book on her shelf.
"Many collectors use fake covers to hide their most precious works." Lucifer returned the priceless volume to its protective cover. "So in order to search Horatio's collection, every book would need to be checked."
They
went back to checking.
After lunch, Lucifer and Demon, at their ladies' behest, walked up to the forge to confer with Thompson. No horse with a loose shoe had yet been brought in. As they ambled back down the lane, Lucifer slid a glance at Demon. "I have to say I'm surprised you agreed to bring Flick into this-I assume she's in an interesting condition?"
"Yes." Demon's proud grin was exceedingly brief. "But the damned woman wouldn't be left behind. She insists she's perfectly well and refuses to be cosseted. It's as much as a warm bed's worth to argue too hard. And, of course, Honoria supported her."
"Honoria?"
"Honoria, who is so damned pregnant, Devil has all but lost his ducal authority. He bowed to her decree that Flick was perfectly well enough to travel down here-he even urged me to bring her! Not, of course, because he thought it was a good idea, but because he didn't want Honoria upset!"
"Good God! Is that what I've got to look forward to?"
"Unless you're thinking of a platonic relationship-and I can't believe you are-yes, and that's the least of what's in store. Judging by the state Vane's presently in, it only gets worse."