“So if someone was out riding from Ballyclose and didn’t want to return by riding through the village, they’d use that entrance?”
“Yes.”
The tone of the word had Lucifer glancing at Phyllida again. “What are you thinking?” He couldn’t tell from her face.
She drew in a breath. “It must be Cedric after all.”
He looked to his horses. “There are other possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“That it’s not Cedric’s hat, for a start.”
Phyllida held the hat up, turning it around. “Just because I can’t recall seeing him wearing it doesn’t mean it isn’t his. You saw how many hats he has. I didn’t recognize half of them.”
“Equally, just because he has a hat fetish doesn’t mean that one’s his.” Lucifer looked at the hat again. “I really don’t think it is.”
“If I can’t be sure, I can’t see how you can be.”
Lucifer swallowed his explanation of why he didn’t think the hat was Cedric’s—he was, after all, only guessing. After a moment, he said, “Very well, consider this. The murderer, not Cedric, knows that the books in Horatio’s library leave Cedric with a real motive for killing Horatio, which, I admit, is more than we’ve been able to uncover for anyone else. The murderer, however, has another motive—one we have no idea of. Needing to get rid of the hat, he plants it at a place where enough people come past, so that, at some time, it’ll be discovered and all will point to Cedric, not him.”
Phyllida stared at him. “That’s tortuous reasoning. Do you really think anyone actually thinks like that?”
Lucifer shot her a glance. “Our murderer has eluded us multiple times—he’s ruthless, clever, and without compunction. He probably has the sort of mind that works like that all the time.”
“Hmm.” Phyllida looked down at the hat. “Or he could simply be Cedric.”
Lucifer let out a long sigh. “I have serious difficulty casting Cedric in the role. Not because I don’t think he could do it, but because I don’t think he would.”
“I can’t imagine him as a murderer, either, but . . .” Phyllida looked up; her gaze fixed forward. “I think we should go directly to Ballyclose.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.” She brandished the hat. “I cannot bear to go on thinking Cedric might be the murderer, and just not knowing. I want to find out—with this—now.”
“What on earth do you plan to do? Barge in and ask him if the hat’s his?”
Phyllida lifted her chin. “Precisely.”
“Phyllida—”
Lucifer argued, reasonably, then not so reasonably; Phyllida held firm. She wanted the matter settled, one way or another, today. In the end, Lucifer looked at the hat in her lap, then, lips compressed, shook his head and faced forward.
“Very well,” he growled after a tense minute had crawled by. “We’ll go to Ballyclose, and you can do the talking.”
Nose in the air, Phyllida inclined her head, accepting his terms.
They rolled onto the gravel circle before Ballyclose’s front steps half an hour later. A groom came running; Lucifer handed over the reins. He handed Phyllida down; she preceded him up the steps.
The butler smiled and bowed them in. He showed them into the drawing room, then went to confer with his master. He returned a moment later. “Sir Cedric’s in the library, if you would care to join him there, miss. Sir.”
Lucifer gave Phyllida his hand; she rose from the chair she’d only just sunk into. Carrying the hat before her, she led the way to the library. The butler held the door wide; Phyllida swept through. Cedric was seated behind his desk; he smiled and rose. Phyllida swept straight to the desk and plunked the hat down in the middle of Cedric’s blotter.
Cedric stared at it.
Standing poker-straight before the desk, Phyllida almost glared at him. “Is this hat yours, Cedric?”
Startled, Cedric blinked at her. “No.”
“How can you be sure?”
Cedric glanced at Lucifer, who had halted behind Phyllida, then, warily, looked at her again. Moving slowly, he reached for the hat, lifted it, and placed it on his head.
It was Phyllida’s turn to stare. “Oh.”
The hat sat on Cedric’s head, propped high, well above his ears. It was patently too small for him.
All the steel went out of Phyllida; groping for a nearby armchair, she sank into it. Then she covered her eyes with her hands. “Thank God!”
Lucifer closed a hand on her shoulder briefly, then held out his hand to Cedric. “There is a sane explanation.”
“Glad to hear it.” Cedric shook hands, then removed the hat and studied it. “Not but what this does look familiar.”
Phyllida removed her hands from her face. “Do you know whose it is?”
Cedric grimaced. “Can’t place it this minute, but it’ll come back to me. I usually notice hats.”
Lucifer flicked Phyllida a glance; she met it, but only briefly.
She looked at Cedric. “It’s very important that we find out whose hat that is, Cedric.”
He looked at her, then at Lucifer. “Why?”
They told him.
“The inscriptions,” Lucifer said, having tactfully explained their existence, “did give you an apparent motive for wanting to remove books from Horatio’s library and, potentially, to do away with Horatio.”
Cedric blinked. “Because they might call my paternity into question?”
Phyllida nodded. “And therefore, Pommeroy could claim Sir Bentley’s estate.”
Cedric regarded her for a moment, then coughed and glanced down the room. He lowered his voice. “Actually, that wouldn’t work. Papa worded his will specifically, naming me his principal heir. And as for Pommeroy, while there might be a question over my paternity, there’s absolutely none about his. He’s not Papa’s son.”
“He’s not?” Phyllida looked horrified.
Cedric shook his head. “Not common knowledge, of course. Mama wouldn’t like that.”
“Indeed not.” Phyllida blinked, then dazedly shook her head.
“So, you see, laboring under that misapprehension as we were . . .” Lucifer continued their explanation, omitting nothing. The ridiculous sight of the hat perched on Cedric’s head had effectively removed him from their list of suspects. Cedric took the information that he’d topped the list for some time relatively well. When, cheeks rosy, Phyllida apologized, he waved it aside.
“You had to suspect everyone who wasn’t at church that Sunday. As it is, I can’t account for my time—”
“Perhaps you can’t, but I can.”
Both Lucifer and Phyllida turned. Jocasta Smollet rose from a wing chair facing the windows some way down the room. She’d been sitting, hidden from sight when they’d entered.
Cedric got to his feet. “Jocasta—”
Jocasta smiled at him—it was the most natural expression Lucifer had yet seen on her face. “Don’t fret, Cedric, but I’m not going to stand by and see your reputation sullied even by suspicion purely on account of my brother’s pride. If we’re truly to break free of it, then we may as well start as we mean to go on.”
Coming to stand beside Cedric, Jocasta looked at Phyllida, and at Lucifer, who had also risen. “Cedric,” she said, “was with me that Sunday—the Sunday morning when Horatio was killed.”
The announcement was so unexpected, Phyllida simply stared. Cedric harrumphed, then pulled up a chair for Jocasta. “Here—sit down.”
She did; Cedric and Lucifer resumed their seats.
Jocasta folded her hands in her lap and regarded Lucifer and Phyllida calmly. “Cedric wished to speak with me about our future—Sunday morning, when both Mama and Basil were in church, was the only time that was possible. He rode up shortly after the carriage left for church. The stable lad who took his horse would remember. We met privately, but our housekeeper, Mrs. Swithins, was in the next room and the door was ajar. She can confirm that Cedric was wi
th me for more than an hour. He left just before the carriage returned from church.”
“My dear, if we’re going to tell them that much, then we should tell them the rest.” Cedric turned to Lucifer and Phyllida. “Jocasta and I were close—oh, for many years. But when I asked for her hand eight years ago, Basil would have none of it. He and I have our differences.” Looking down, Cedric shrugged. “Basil wouldn’t hear of us marrying, and, well, I dug in my heels and words were exchanged. And then Mama heard of it and she wasn’t in favor, either, and things fell into a heap. Jocasta and I stopped seeing each other—we’ve avoided each other for years. But then Mama started insisting that I marry”—he glanced at Phyllida—“specifically, that I marry you, my dear. Yet the more time I spent with you, the more I thought of Jocasta. I realized she was the only woman I wanted for my wife.” He looked at Jocasta, then held out a hand; she took it and smiled.
Face alight, Jocasta said, “Cedric tried to talk to Basil last night, but he’s still very set against the marriage.” She glanced at Cedric and squeezed his hand. “But we’ve decided not to waste any more years. Regardless of what Basil and Mama may say—”
“Or my mama, either,” Cedric put in.
Jocasta inclined her head. “Regardless, we’ve decided to marry.”
Phyllida found she was smiling. She rose; Jocasta rose, too. Phyllida embraced the older woman, touching cheeks. “I’m so pleased for you.”
Jocasta’s smile was a little crooked, but she met Phyllida’s eyes. “Thank you. I know I haven’t been the kindest of souls over the years, but I hope you understand.”
“Of course.” Beaming, Phyllida turned to hug Cedric. “I wish you both joy.”
“Very kind of you, m’dear.” Cedric patted her shoulder. “Well”—he blew out a breath—“at least you’ll know why, if Mama comes screaming to cry on your shoulder.”
Phyllida grinned.
Lucifer shook hands with Cedric and Jocasta, wishing them both well; then he and Phyllida took their leave.
“Well!” Phyllida said as he tooled the carriage down the drive. “Jocasta and Cedric! Whoever would have thought it.”
Lucifer kept his mouth shut.
An instant later, Phyllida sighed. “Basil is going to have an apoplectic fit.” She smiled and leaned back, the murderer’s brown hat, temporarily forgotten, in her lap.
The next day was Sunday. Lucifer strode briskly up the common. An onshore breeze flirted with fleecy clouds in the pale blue sky. The last stragglers were making their way into the church; Lucifer joined them, sliding into a pew at the rear.
Scanning the congregation, he searched for Phyllida. He’d driven her home the previous afternoon; they hadn’t discussed their next meeting. Leaving Dodswell watching the Manor, he’d come to ask her to spend the day with him, looking at books, reading inscriptions, strolling the lawns . . . whatever she wished to do.
He located Sir Jasper. Lady Huddlesford and Frederick sat beside him. Miss Sweet was there, too. He couldn’t see Phyllida. Or Jonas.
The organ swelled; the congregation rose as Mr. Filing and the small band of choristers paraded in. Lucifer hesitated, then left his seat; he made his way as unobtrusively as he could down the aisle to Sir Jasper’s side.
Sir Jasper smiled.
“Phyllida?” Lucifer mouthed.
Sir Jasper leaned close and whispered, “Headache. She’s resting at home.”
Headache. Lucifer drew breath, then nodded and retreated. At the rear of the church, he hovered by the last pew, then turned and quit the church.
Face setting, he strode back down the common even faster than he’d gone up. There was nothing—nothing—to suggest that Phyllida didn’t have a headache. Women did get headaches; they also used the term to excuse other, less mentionable ailments. When he reached the Grange and discovered Phyllida laid down upon her bed, he’d be able to accept her indisposition as truth and the nagging worry rising like a tide in his mind would subside.
Until then, with a killer on the loose, focused on her, his imagination was primed and ready to bolt. Reaching the lane, he broke into a lope.
From the church, it was faster to reach the Grange via the lane. Within minutes, he was turning through the gateposts. Gaining the front porch, he rang the bell, then opened the door and walked in. “Phyllida?”
A door opened; Jonas emerged from the library. He stared at Lucifer, consternation showing through his usual benign mask. “She’s not with you?”
Lucifer opened his mouth; Jonas stopped him with an upraised hand. “I walked Phyllida to the Manor via the wood. I just got back. She said you don’t normally go to church and that you’d be there.”
Lucifer grimaced. “Normally, but today I walked up to the church to meet her.”
Jonas grinned. Lucifer turned back to the door. “I left Dodswell at the Manor, so there’s no harm done.” In the doorway, he paused and looked back. “Did she give any particular reason for wanting to see me?”
Still grinning, Jonas shook his head. “Nothing she wanted to share with me. But she was carrying that brown hat, and her reticule, too, and a parasol. I assumed she wanted you to take her somewhere.”
“Hmm. No doubt I’ll learn where soon enough.” With a nod, Lucifer stepped back through the door and closed it behind him.
Take her somewhere. As he strode around the Grange and into the wood, he tried to imagine where Phyllida had in mind. He’d assumed they were at a temporary standstill with their investigations, that they’d need to consider the question of where next. Presumably Phyllida had already done so and had come up with an answer.
He knew where he would like to take her, but that didn’t require either parasol or reticule. She didn’t normally carry either when visiting the Manor.
He lengthened his stride. A few paces later, he started to jog. The path through the wood was too uneven to risk a flat-out run. The tide of impending panic hadn’t receded in the least—it was welling even higher.
He did run through the kitchen garden, slowing only once inside the house. Dodswell met him in the front hall.
One look at his face, and the tide rushed in.
“Thank Gawd.” Dodswell held out a note. “Miss Phyllida was here looking for you.”
“I’ve been looking for her.” Lucifer unfolded the note. Another note contained within it fell into his hands. Phyllida had written:
—our tweeny brought this up just before I was to leave for church—she said she answered a tap on the back door and found it on the step. As you will see from the note, it appears we might at last have found Horatio’s murderer, or at least someone who knows to whom the brown hat belongs. Molly is Lady Fortemain’s seamstress. I intended asking you to accompany me to the rendezvous, however, that was not to be, and Jonas had already left before I realized you weren’t here, and I didn’t wish to take Dodswell and leave the Manor unguarded. If I haven’t returned by the time you come back from church, perhaps you can meet me there, or on the way back. P.
A postscript containing a set of directions followed. Lucifer turned his attention to the other note, the one Phyllida had received. “Miss Tallent” was inscribed on the front in an obviously feminine hand. He opened the note. It read:
Dear Miss Tallent,
As you know, I work at Ballyclose, and I heard as how you was asking after who owned a certain brown hat. I know of a gentleman who has lost a brown hat, but I am not sure as it would be right to say who he is, not unless I am sure it is his hat.
I dont want it known, not by anyone, especially not this gentleman, that I am talking to you. I dont get much time away, but I can slip away from the house on Sunday while they are all off at church. If you want me to look at the hat you have and see if it is the one I am thinking of, then if you meet me at the old Drayton cottage during Sunday service, I will try to help you.
Yrs respectfully, Molly
The note looked genuine. The words were carefully inked; it was easy to imagine a seamstress laborin
g over its composition.
Lucifer waited for his panic to recede. It didn’t. Some primitive part of him was on full alert, prodding like some diabolical demon with a fiery prong for him to move—fast. His body was tensed, tight with the need to fly into action.
He swore and juggled the notes.
Was it intuition that urged that she wasn’t safe, that she was, in fact, walking into danger? Or was it instinct, elemental, primal, that insisted she was not truly safe except when in his care?
Or was it simply panic, the black fear that, at any time she was out of his sight, she might be taken from him?
He thrust the questions aside and tried to make sense of Phyllida’s directions. The old Drayton cottage stood some way north of the fields bordering the lane to Dottswood and Highgate. He’d heard it described as abandoned. While his logical mind reiterated that all would be well, that the murderer could not know that Phyllida was out walking alone that way, even his logical mind had to admit the Drayton cottage sounded an odd rendezvous for some woman walking from Ballyclose to suggest.
Who knew what went on in the minds of women?
His own words uttered earlier in relation to Phyllida. He thrust the notes into his pocket. “I’ll follow Miss Tallent.”
Dodswell nodded. “Aye. I’ll wait here and keep an eye out.”
The way was clear to the point where the narrow ridge lane met the village lane. Thereafter, Lucifer checked Phyllida’s instructions frequently as he strode along walking paths, over fields, across stiles, past copses. The sun rode the sky and beat down on his shoulders. It would have been a pleasant walk if he hadn’t been so tense, if he hadn’t been striding so fast.
Rounding a copse, he paused to consult Phyllida’s note. The breeze shifted—he smelled smoke.
Head up, he sniffed—and caught the scent again. He glanced at the note, then stuffed it into his pocket and started to run.
He had one more field to cross; the abandoned cottage supposedly lay in a clearing beyond. He broke through the hedge and ran full tilt through the knee-high crops. Trees screened what lay ahead, but the smoke was more definite on the breeze. He vaulted the gate and plunged into the trees. A greedy crackling reached his ears.