Percy’s on a repairing lease.”
“Very likely, but their arrival meant that I had to wait until our staff returned from church to give orders for extra rooms, and entertain them and Aunt Huddlesford until Papa and Jonas appeared.”
“And when that happened?”
“I left as soon as I could, but when I reached the Manor, you’d already been taken away.”
“Is this the inn?” Lucifer stopped; Phyllida did, too. The building beside them was a half-timbered structure, worn and a little shabby but still serviceable.
“Yes—the Red Bells.”
“And Juggs is the innkeeper.”
She started walking again. “He gets paid for holding prisoners, so you shouldn’t judge him too harshly.”
He swallowed his response to that. “What happened next?”
“I made sure they’d sent for Papa, then I came to the Bells.” She glanced at his face. “How much do you remember?”
“Not all of it, but enough. You stayed until your father arrived, and then he rode home and was to send the carriage. The next thing I remember clearly was . . .”—he studied her eyes while he replayed his memories—“waking up in the witching hour.”
“Yes, well, that’s really all there was to it.” Looking ahead, she paced on. “You were restless, but your skull was intact—it was all just the pain.”
Lucifer glanced at her. Why hadn’t she taken the opportunity to tell him of her vigil by his bed? He’d put her in a position of being grateful to him; why hadn’t she evened the score?
They strolled past a succession of neat cottages and on around the curving lane. The Manor came into sight.
“Very well,” he said. “I now know your story. I also know that you were in Horatio’s drawing room before I entered, and that you were there after I was hit.”
“You know nothing of the sort.”
He looked smugly superior—she was watching from the corner of her eye.
“You can’t possibly tell it was me from a mere touch.” The glance she flung at him was both irate and uncertain.
“I can. I did. I know it was you.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“Hmm . . . perhaps not. Why not touch me again, just to see if I’m certain?”
She stopped and faced him, latent sparks in her eyes—
“Hoi! Miss Phyllida!”
They swung around. A heavy man in a leather apron and vest was lumbering down the common toward them.
“The blacksmith?”
“Yes—Thompson.”
Thompson approached. His gaze on Lucifer, he nodded respectfully. “Sir.” He nodded at Phyllida, then looked back at Lucifer. “I just wanted to apologize, like, for any bruises you mighta taken when we dumped you in my dray. ‘Course, we thought you was the murderer and you weren’t easy to lift, but I wouldn’t want no hard feelings.”
Lucifer smiled. “None taken. I don’t bruise easily.”
“Well.” Thompson blew out a relieved breath and grinned back. “That’s all right, then. Not but what it was no fit welcome to the village, ‘specially not with a bash on the head an’ all.”
Phyllida inwardly squirmed. She glanced up the lane toward the Manor.
“Has Sir Jasper got any clues as to this murderer, then, sir?”
Her “No” clashed with Lucifer’s “None”—Phyllida nearly outwardly squirmed when she realized the question had not been addressed to her.
With a subtly amused glance, Lucifer added, “Sir Jasper’s investigations are proceeding.”
“Aye, well . . .”
Phyllida waited while Thompson pointed out the forge on the far side of the common and assured Lucifer that he could count on him for any assistance, either in laying the murderer by the heels or with his horses.
With a final nod, Thompson took himself off back over the common.
She stepped out again; Lucifer prowled by her side, his stride an exercise in effortless grace. He murmured, “It seems a peaceful little place.”
“Usually.” She glanced up and found him scanning the common and the church on the crest.
They avoided the duck pond and its vocal
“Very likely, but their arrival meant that I had to wait until our staff returned from church to give orders for extra rooms, and entertain them and Aunt Huddlesford until Papa and Jonas appeared.”
“And when that happened?”
“I left as soon as I could, but when I reached the Manor, you’d already been taken away.”
“Is this the inn?” Lucifer stopped; Phyllida did, too. The building beside them was a half-timbered structure, worn and a little shabby but still serviceable.
“Yes—the Red Bells.”
“And Juggs is the innkeeper.”
She started walking again. “He gets paid for holding prisoners, so you shouldn’t judge him too harshly.”
He swallowed his response to that. “What happened next?”
“I made sure they’d sent for Papa, then I came to the Bells.” She glanced at his face. “How much do you remember?”
“Not all of it, but enough. You stayed until your father arrived, and then he rode home and was to send the carriage. The next thing I remember clearly was . . .”—he studied her eyes while he replayed his memories—“waking up in the witching hour.”
“Yes, well, that’s really all there was to it.” Looking ahead, she paced on. “You were restless, but your skull was intact—it was all just the pain.”
Lucifer glanced at her. Why hadn’t she taken the opportunity to tell him of her vigil by his bed? He’d put her in a position of being grateful to him; why hadn’t she evened the score?
They strolled past a succession of neat cottages and on around the curving lane. The Manor came into sight.
“Very well,” he said. “I now know your story. I also know that you were in Horatio’s drawing room before I entered, and that you were there after I was hit.”
“You know nothing of the sort.”
He looked smugly superior—she was watching from the corner of her eye.
“You can’t possibly tell it was me from a mere touch.” The glance she flung at him was both irate and uncertain.
“I can. I did. I know it was you.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“Hmm . . . perhaps not. Why not touch me again, just to see if I’m certain?”
She stopped and faced him, latent sparks in her eyes—
“Hoi! Miss Phyllida!”
They swung around. A heavy man in a leather apron and vest was lumbering down the common toward them.
“The blacksmith?”
“Yes—Thompson.”
Thompson approached. His gaze on Lucifer, he nodded respectfully. “Sir.” He nodded at Phyllida, then looked back at Lucifer. “I just wanted to apologize, like, for any bruises you mighta taken when we dumped you in my dray. ‘Course, we thought you was the murderer and you weren’t easy to lift, but I wouldn’t want no hard feelings.”
Lucifer smiled. “None taken. I don’t bruise easily.”
“Well.” Thompson blew out a relieved breath and grinned back. “That’s all right, then. Not but what it was no fit welcome to the village, ‘specially not with a bash on the head an’ all.”
Phyllida inwardly squirmed. She glanced up the lane toward the Manor.
“Has Sir Jasper got any clues as to this murderer, then, sir?”
Her “No” clashed with Lucifer’s “None”—Phyllida nearly outwardly squirmed when she realized the question had not been addressed to her.
With a subtly amused glance, Lucifer added, “Sir Jasper’s investigations are proceeding.”
“Aye, well . . .”
Phyllida waited while Thompson pointed out the forge on the far side of the common and assured Lucifer that he could count on him for any assistance, either in laying the murderer by the heels or with his horses.
With a final nod, Thompson took himself off back over the common.
She stepped out again; Lucifer prowled by her side, his stride an exercise in effortless grace. He murmured, “It seems a peaceful little place.”
“Usually.” She glanced up and found him scanning the common and the church on the crest.
They avoided the duck pond and its vocal
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