A gravel drive skirted the nearer side of the house, eventually leading to a stable set back against more trees. The drive was separated from a shrubbery by an expanse of lawn punctuated here and there by ancient shade trees. Somewhat overgrown, the shrubbery extended almost to where the curricle stood; a glimpse of water beyond suggested an ornamental lake.
Colyton Manor looked what it was, a prosperous gentleman's residence. It was the home of Horatio Welham-the reason Lucifer had chosen Colyton as his temporary bolt-hole.
Horatio's letter had reached him three days ago. An old friend and his mentor in all matters pertaining to collecting, Horatio had invited him to visit at Colyton at his earliest convenience. With the grande dames turning their sights on him, convenient had been immediately-he'd grasped the excuse to disappear from the social whirl.
At one time he had haunted Horatio's house in the Lake District, but although he and Horatio had remained as close as ever, over the three years since Horatio had moved to Devon, they'd met only at collectors' gatherings around the country and in London; this was his first visit to Colyton.
The blacks shook their heads; their
harness clinked. Straightening, gathering the reins, Lucifer was conscious of a welling impatience-to see Horatio again, to clasp his hand, to spend time in his erudite company. Coloring that anticipation was Horatio's reason for asking him to visit-a request for his opinion on an item that, in Horatio's words, might tempt even him to extend his collection beyond his preferred categories of silver and jewelry. He'd spent the drive from Somerset speculating on what the item was, but had reached no conclusion.
He'd learn soon enough. Clicking the reins, he set the blacks in motion. Turning smartly in between the tall gateposts, he drew the curricle up by the side of the house with the usual crunching and stamping of hooves.
No one came running.
He listened-and heard nothing but the sounds of birds and insects.
Then he remembered it was Sunday; Horatio and all his household would be at church. Glancing up the common, he verified that the church door stood ajar. He looked at the Manor's front door-it, too, stood partially open. Someone, it appeared, was home.
Tying off the reins, he jumped down and strode along the gravel path to the portico. Ablaze with summer blooms, the garden caught and held his gaze. The sight teased some long-buried memory. Pausing before the portico, he struggled to pin it down.
This was Martha's garden.
Martha was Horatio's late wife; she'd been the anchor around which the Lake District household had revolved. Martha had loved gardening, striving through all weathers to create glorious displays-just like this. Lucifer studied the plantings. The layout was similar to the garden in the Lake District. But Martha had been dead for three years.
Outside of his mother and aunts, Lucifer had felt closer to Martha than any other older woman-she'd occupied a special place in his life. He'd often listened to her lectures, whereas to his mother he'd been deaf. Martha had not been related-it had always been easier to hear the truth from her lips. It was Martha's death that had lessened his enthusiasm for visiting Horatio at home. Too many memories; too acute a sense of shared loss.
Seeing Martha's garden here felt odd, like a hand on his sleeve when there was no one there. He frowned-he could almost hear Martha whispering in her soft, gentle voice.
Abruptly turning, he entered the portico. The front door was half open; he pushed it wide. The hall was empty.
"Hello! Is anyone about?"
No response. All he could hear was the summer buzz outside. He stepped over the threshold and paused. The house was cool, quiet, still… waiting. Frowning more definitely, he strode forward, bootheels clacking on black-and-white tiles. He headed for the first door on the right. It stood open, pushed wide.
He smelled blood before he reached the door. After Waterloo, it was one scent he'd never mistake. The hairs at his nape lifted; he slowed.
At his back, the sun glowed bright and warm-the cold quiet of the house intensified. It drew him on.
He halted in the doorway, his gaze drawn down to the body sprawled a few feet inside the room.
His skin turned cold. After an instant's hiatus, he forced his gaze to travel the old, lined face, the straggly white hair covered by a tasseled cap. In a long white nightshirt with a knitted shawl wound around heavy shoulders, twisted onto his back with one arm outflung, bare feet poking out toward the door, the dead man looked as if he might be asleep, here in his drawing room surrounded by his antique tomes.
But he wasn't asleep-he hadn't even collapsed. Blood still seeped from a small cut on his left side, directly beneath his heart.
Lucifer dragged in a breath. "Horatio!"
On his knees, he searched for a pulse at wrist and throat, and found none. Hand on Horatio's chest, he felt a lingering warmth; slight color still graced the old man's cheeks. Mind reeling, Lucifer sat back on his heels.
Horatio had been murdered-minutes ago.
He felt numb, detached; some part of his brain continued cataloguing facts, like the experienced cavalry officer he'd once been.
The single killing stroke had been an upward thrust into the heart-like a bayonet wound. Not much blood, just a little… oddly little. Frowning, he checked. There was more blood beneath the body. Horatio had been turned onto his back later-originally he'd fallen facedown. Catching a glimpse of gilt under the shawl, Lucifer searched with fingers that shook-and drew out a long, thin letter knife.
His fingers curled around the ornate hilt. He scanned the immediate area but could see no sign of any struggle. The rug wasn't rumpled; the table between the body and the rug appeared correctly aligned in its normal place.
The numbness was wearing off. Emotions welled; Lucifer's senses flickered, then flared to life.