He'd seen her briefly in the hall as they'd all prepared to depart; she'd given no indication of having any burning information to convey to him.

He hadn't imagined that moment on the terrace. She'd been about to entrust him with the truth. Something had happened to change her mind, yet she hadn't retreated from trusting him. He tried to imagine what could hold enough power to prevent a woman like her from doing something he was increasingly sure she felt she should. She wanted to tell him, but… What was it that had stopped her?

The question went round and round in his mind but found no ready answer.

Chard appeared before them. They'd driven straight through Axminster and made for the larger town.

Phyllida straightened as they passed the first houses. "There's three stables here. Perhaps we should start at the one furthest north?"

They did. No gentleman had hired a horse on the Saturday or Sunday in question. No unknown gentleman had stayed at the inn. They drove back into the town. The other two stables were off the main street. After receiving negative answers at the Blue Dragon, they left the curricle there, the blacks resting, and strolled to the Black Swan.

"Nah!" The innkeeper shook his head. "We got two nags, but there's rarely much call for 'em. Later in summer, p'r'aps, but right now we haven't hired a horse to any gen'leman for months."

In answer to their second question, he opened his eyes wide. "Ain't seen any gen'leman-nought but the locals-not for weeks."

As they stepped outside, Phyllida murmured, "We don't get many visitors down here."

"Which means any visitor would have been noted." Taking her arm, Lucifer turned her toward the Dragon. "I think we can conclude no visitor used Chard as a base."

They strolled along; Phyllida halted when they reached the Dragon. "This hasn't taken us long. If we drive back and check at Axminster, and then drive down to Axmouth and check there, then if no one's seen any unknown gentleman about… well, it really leaves few options."

"Honiton, perhaps."

"Perhaps. But why would anyone come from that direction?"

"I understand the tendency to imagine any nefarious wrongdoers essay forth from London. That isn't, however, necessarily true."

"Is it likely the person who killed Horatio came from Honiton or Exeter-from somewhere to the west?"

Lucifer fell silent. Phyllida watched him. "Well?"

He refocused. "I was trying to recall if any collectors, or anyone connected with collecting, lived out that way."

"And?"

"I'd have to agree that if the murderer rode in from beyond the village last Sunday, then they probably came from the east. Nevertheless, we'll need to check Honiton, but we can do that some other day." Looking up, he saw a dapper little man hurrying across the street, flourishing a piece of paper to attract their attention. "Who's this?"

Phyllida turned. "Mr. Curtiss-he's the merchant the Colyton Import Company deals with."

Mr. Curtiss reached them; he nodded politely to Lucifer, then beamed at Phyllida. "Miss Tallent-well met! I wanted to send this"-he held out a letter-"to Mr. Filing. My customers have been very pleased with the quality of goods Mr. Filing's company provides. So rare to find quality one can rely on. I've decided to increase our order. With word getting around, I'm sure I can sell more. If I could presume-I know you assist Mr. Filing-could you see this missive reaches him?"

Smiling serenely, Phyllida took the letter. "Of course, Mr. Filing will be thrilled." She tucked the letter into her reticule.

Mr. Curtiss bowed. "A pleasure, my dear. Do convey my best wishes to Sir Jasper."

"I will, indeed."

With a nod to Lucifer, Mr. Curtiss, still beaming, withdrew.

"Mr. Filing's company?" Lucifer asked as they entered the Dragon's courtyard and headed for the curricle.

Phyllida unfurled her parasol. "Of course. No mere female could operate an import company."

Lucifer smiled. "Naturally not."

He handed her into the curricle. Minutes later, they were bowling back toward Axminster. "Tell me-just so I don't inadvertently cause a problem. Am I right in assuming no one other than those involved knows of your involvement in the Company?"

"Of course not. There's no reason for others to know. In fact, not all of the men know-most think Filing runs it and I'm just his amanuensis. I'm not sure how much Papa understands…"

He could imagine. She was the linchpin, the person around whom all else revolved, yet she preferred anonymity. Her tone, subtly amused, said as much.

Her role, however, extended much further than the company. He'd been in Colyton only a few days, yet he'd lost count of the times he'd seen someone-man, woman, even child-approach Phyllida with some request.

He'd never seen her turn anyone down.

The impulse to watch over people, to be actively involved, doing, helping, was one he understood. In his case, it derived from noblesse oblige-part learned, part inherited, part instinctive. Phyllida's impulse was, he suspected, wholly instinctive. Wholly giving. He was, however, getting the distinct impression that the village took her-and her help-for granted. "How long have you been ruling the roost at the Grange?"

The glance she slanted him was sharp. "Since my mother died."

Twelve years? No wonder her influence was so pervasive. She waited, but he said nothing more, content to drive through the sunshine with her beside him. And to consider…

Her impulse to help him would lead her to tell him whatever she knew soon enough. She was too intelligent to hold back information that would allow a killer to run loose; he accepted that she did not know the murderer's identity. She had a clue, nothing more; the best way forward was to continue his inquiries and keep her closely involved. Ironically, the less he learned, the more she'd feel compelled to resolve whatever matter was preventing her from being open with him, and to tell him all she knew.

That was how to proceed on that front. For the rest, now that he'd committed to residing in Colyton…

He had a house-one too large for just him. It was a family house-a family was what it needed. That was what Horatio would have envisioned. He certainly hadn't envisioned a family, not before he'd come to Colyton. But now he was here, and Horatio was gone, but the Manor still stood along with its garden.

The outlying houses of Axminster appeared-a welcome distraction. They were thorough in their inquiries, but, as they'd assumed, no gentleman visitor had ridden through or driven through Axminster on Sunday morning.

"'Cept for you." The grizzled veteran slouching outside the small inn eyed him suspiciously.

Lucifer grinned. "Quite. I drove through that morning. But you're sure no one else was before me?"

A quick shake of the head. "Don't get that many carriages or horsemen going south of a Sunday. I'da noticed. And I was here from first light."

Lucifer nodded and tossed him a coin. The man caught it deftly and bowed to them both.

Phyllida led the way back to the curricle. "Where now?" he asked as he lifted her up.

"South. To the coast."

She directed him down a road; a mile or so south, a river came into view, winding along to their right.

"Is that the Axe?" When she nodded, he asked, "Are those my fields on the other side?"

"Not yet, but a little further and they will be."

They rattled through the early afternoon, the lush green of the river valley about them. The sun was screened by light clouds; it was warm but not hot. The first intimation that the coast was near was a cool breeze. They rounded a curve-at a crossroads before them stood an old inn.

Phyllida pointed to the left. "That's the road to Lyme Regis. If anyone came past from Lyme on Sunday morning, the children would have noticed."

"Children?"

A tribe ranging in age from about twelve to two, mostly girls. He left the questioning to Phyllida, content to lean against a stone wall and watch.

The innkeeper's wife had looked out at the sound of their wheels on the cobbles. She recognized Phyllida and came forward, beaming, wiping her hands on her apron. Without waiting for assistance, Phyllida jumped down. In seconds, she and the woman were discussing what sounded like the recipe for some poultice.

The innkeeper stuck his head out; Lucifer waved him away, tied the blacks to the rail, then settled to observe.

Laughing, Phyllida gestured to an opening in the worn stone wall. The woman nodded and smiled; together, she and Phyllida strolled through. Lucifer trailed after them. Stopping in the gap, he leaned against the wall.

Beyond lay the remnants of a garden, stunted by the sea breeze whipping across the open fields. A vociferous crowd gathered around Phyllida, greeting her shrilly; she laughed, patted heads, tweaked braids. Then she sat on a stone bench in the sun and the children pressed around her.

He couldn't hear what she asked, how they answered. He didn't bother trying to hear. Instead, he drank in the sight of Phyllida with the children like fairies surrounding their queen, all eager for her blessing.

She gave it unstintingly with smiles, laughter, and an effortless understanding. With sincere interest and a deep caring. It glowed-in her eyes, like an aura all about her. The children, the woman, basked and drew it in; Phyllida simply gave.

He was sure she didn't realize-she certainly didn't realize how much he could see.

Finally, after much teasing, she stood and the children, made to mind by their mother, let her go. She strolled toward him, still smiling softly, her gaze on the path. As she neared, she looked up. He kept his expression impassive. "Did they see anyone?"