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.
He was cursing beneath his breath; he felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. After the serenity outside, finding Horatio like this seemed obscene-a nightmare he knew there'd be no waking from. Deadening loss engulfed him; his earlier anticipation lay like bitter ashes on his tongue. Pressing his lips tight, he drew in a deep breath-
He wasn't alone.
In the instant he sensed it, he heard a sound. Then came a clunk and a scuffle behind him.
He sprang to his feet, gripping the letter knife-
A heavy weight crashed down on his skull.
It hurt like hell.
He lay slumped on the floor. He must have gone down like a sack of bricks, but he couldn't remember the impact. He had no idea whether he'd lost consciousness and only just regained it, or whether he'd only just reached the floor. Exerting every last ounce of his will, he cracked open his lids. Horatio's face swam into-and out of-focus. Closing his eyes, he bit back a groan. With luck, the murderer would think he was insensate. He almost was. The black tide of unconsciousness surged and dragged, trying to suck him under. Grimly, he resisted its pull.
The letter knife was still in his fist, but his right arm was trapped beneath his body. He couldn't move. His body felt like a lead weight he was trapped within; he couldn't defend himself. He should have checked the room first, but the sight of Horatio, lying there still bleeding… damn!
He waited, oddly detached, wondering if the murderer would stop to finish him off or just flee. He hadn't heard anyone leave, but he wasn't sure he could hear at all.
How long had he been lying there?
From behind the door, Phyllida Tallent stared wide-eyed at the gentleman now stretched lifeless beside Horatio Weiham's body. A squeak of dismay escaped her-the ridiculous sound prodded her into action. Dragging in a breath, she stepped forward, bent, and wrapped both hands around the pole of the halberd now lying across the fallen man.
Bracing, she counted to three, then hauled. The heavy head of the halberd rose. She staggered, boots shuffling as she fought to swing the unwieldy weapon aside.
She hadn't meant it to fall.
Having only just walked in and discovered Horatio's body, she hadn't been thinking at all clearly when the stranger's footsteps had sounded on the gravel outside. She'd panicked, thinking him the murderer returning to remove the body. With all the village in church, she couldn't imagine who else it could have been.
He'd called a "Hello," but so might a murderer checking to see if anyone else had come upon the scene. She'd frantically searched for a hiding place, but the long drawing room was lined with bookcases-the only gap that would have hidden her from the door had been too far away for her to reach in time. Desperate, she'd secreted herself in the only available spot-in the shadows behind the open door, between the frame and the last bookshelf, squeezing in alongside the halberd.
The hiding place had served, but once she'd realized from his actions and his muttered expletives that this man was no murderer, and after she'd debated the wisdom of showing herself-the daughter of the local magistrate and quite old enough to know better than to slip into other peoples' houses dressed in breeches to search for still other peoples' misplaced personal belongings-once she'd got past all that and realized that this was murder and she'd gone to step forward to make herself known, her shoulder had nudged the halberd.
Its descent had been inexorable.
She'd grabbed it and fought vainly to halt it or deflect it; in the end, all she'd been able to do was twist it enough so that the heavy blade had not struck the man's head. If it had, he'd have died. As it was, the hemisphere at the side of the iron axe-head had connected with a sickening thud.
With the halberd finally angled to the side, she lowered it to the floor. Only then did she realize she'd been repeating a breathless litany: Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!
Wiping her palms on her breeches, sick to her stomach, she looked at her innocent victim. The sound of the halberd connecting with his skull echoed in her ears. It hadn't helped that he'd chosen that precise moment to leap to his feet. He'd come up propelled like a spring, only to meet the halberd going down.
He'd hit the floor with a sickening thud, too. He hadn't moved since.