Lucifer strolled up the path and around to where they worked on the one wall still standing. They both stopped and nodded, leaning on their tools.
"Miss Phyllida?" Oscar asked.
"She's well. Still resting, but I doubt there'll be any lingering effects."
"Best not be," Thompson growled. "But we've got to find this maniac. Doesn't look like he's about to stop."
"I came up to take a look around." Lucifer looked at the half-collapsed wall. "Do you need a hand?"
"Nah." Thompson turned back to the wall. "We'll have this down soon enough. If we left it standing, sure as the sky is blue, some of the tykes would come up to play, and then we'd have an accident."
He leaned on his crowbar and a burned log split.
Lucifer stepped back. "I'll leave you to it." He glanced around, then walked down the overgrown track toward Dottswood, the way most of the locals had come running yesterday. A little way down, he stopped and turned; eyes narrowed, he surveyed the cottage. If he'd been the murderer…
Two minutes later, he started back up the slope, then cut around, away from the front of the cottage, circling through the overgrown trees and shrubs at its rear.
He found what he'd been certain he would-and just a little more-in a small clearing tucked away behind a stand of rhododendrons run wild. He stared, then hunkered down and looked more closely, hardly daring to believe their luck. Then he stood and went to fetch Thompson.
Thompson came; Oscar followed. The three of them stood behind the rhododendrons and stared down at the clear impression of a horse's hooves-all four of them.
"Ordinary-sized beast, but well set up." Thompson knelt to inspect the indentations. He traced one with a broad fingertip. "Better yet-it's my own work, that is."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." With a grunt, Thompson got to his feet. "I'm the only one hereabouts who uses those particular nails. See the odd-shaped heads?"
Both Lucifer and Oscar looked, and nodded.
"And that left back shoe?" Lucifer asked.
"Gets better'n better, it does. I haven't seen this horse recently, but I'm going to soon, and then we'll have our man." Thompson nodded at the left back hoofprint. "That shoe's going to come off any day."
Lucifer had to wait until later that evening when Sweetie retired and he and Phyllida were finally alone in the library before he could tell her the news.
"Don't mention it to anyone," he warned. "Thompson has customers from beyond Lyme Regis, so it's not possible to search for the horse. We have to wait for the shoe to fall and the animal to be brought in. Only you, me, Thompson, and Oscar know of it-we've agreed to say nothing, so there's no possibility the murderer will realize and take the horse somewhere else."
Phyllida sat in the armchair by the desk, her face, for once, awash with emotions. "Soon, Thompson said?"
"It depends on how often the horse is ridden. If it's ridden every day, Thompson says in less than a week. Ridden less, and it'll be longer, but he doesn't expect that shoe to stay on much above a fortnight."
She considered, then asked, "And it's been the same horse every time?"
"I believe so." Lucifer frowned. "Just to be sure, I'll send Dodswell to look at the latest prints. The others would all have washed away by now."
"I really don't believe we have more than one phantom horseman in the village," Phyllida returned. "He always hides his horse, too, doesn't he?"
"He makes sure it isn't somewhere where a chance passerby would see it. That suggests the horse, too, would identify him, which makes our prospects of catching him at last look good." Lucifer met Phyllida's gaze. "It's ironic. He tried to kill you and succeeded in destroying the one piece of hard evidence we had. But in doing so, he's given us another piece of even better evidence. We might never have traced the hat. It's unlikely we won't trace the horse."
Phyllida blinked. "I didn't think of that."
Lucifer rose and circled the desk. "I think we need to think of that." Halting before Phyllida, he hunkered down so his face was level with hers. "This murderer, whoever he is, has shown himself capable of the most ruthless acts. Murdering Horatio. Trying to kill you." Reaching out, he smoothed her hair, then cupped her face lightly. "We can't take any chances for the next few weeks."
Phyllida looked into his eyes, then smiled. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. "You're right."
Lucifer blinked. His hand remained about her face, stopping her from retreating. He held her gaze. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."
Phyllida's smile softened. "Is that a promise?"
Lucifer studied her eyes, then drew her nearer. "A sworn oath."
Five minutes later, distinctly breathless, she drew back, tried to frown at him, and lifted the book that had fallen, forgotten, in her lap. "We haven't finished these yet." She held the book like a shield between them.
Lucifer glanced at the pile of tomes with inscriptions that Covey had left stacked between the desk and the chair.
"We might have nearly identified Horatio's murderer, but we've yet to find any explanation for why he's so interested in Horatio's books." Phyllida picked up the top volume and slapped it against Lucifer's chest.
He grimaced and took it. "As you say." He rose.
Phyllida looked up at him. "Have you any idea what that item was that Horatio wanted you to look at?"
Lucifer shook his head. "That, too, remains a mystery. It's possible we'll never know what it was Horatio had found."
"Don't give up hope." Phyllida handed him two more books. "Not when there's so many places still left to search for clues."
Smiling, Lucifer returned to the desk. "Speaking of searching, you still haven't discovered that writing desk and the oh-so-important letters."
"I know." Smiling, Phyllida shook her head. "When Mary Anne visited this afternoon, she never mentioned the letters, even when Mrs. Farthingale left us alone. All she could talk about was the fire, and me staying here with you."
"Perspective," Lucifer said, sitting down and opening a book. "It comes to us all."
Phyllida humphed, then settled to deciphering notations.
An hour later, they called a halt. The house was already secured for the night; Dodswell had stuck his head into the library and reported that fact. All they had to do was to turn out the lamps, collect their candles from the table in the hall, and climb the stairs.
They turned along the corridor. All about them was quiet and still. Sweetie had the other back corner room at the end of the other corridor. When they reached the point where they would part, each to their separate rooms, Phyllida halted. She glanced at Lucifer. "You're the experienced one. Your room or mine?"
Lucifer looked into her dark eyes, lit by the candle flame. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her that in this particular arena, the one they were playing in, he was no more experienced than she.
Except, perhaps, that wasn't quite true.
He was a Cynster. He had generations of love matches behind him. These days, love matches abounded all around him. It was something in the blood, something not even he could resist. He'd grown up knowing of no other sort of marriage. It was the only sort that would do for him.
He bent his head and kissed her lightly. "Are you sure?" He breathed the question over her lips, then eased back.
Her hand had fisted on his lapel; she held him near, her eyes locked on his. Then her gaze dropped to his lips. Hers, he noted, curved gently. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm sure."
"Your room, then, for now. We'll have the rest of our lives to enjoy mine."
Chapter 19
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