Her hair lay like mahogany silk, sleek and undisturbed-no wound. He imagined the way her bonnet would sit, then touched his fingers to her hair. Grit, very fine, came away on the pads of his fingers. He sniffed them. Powder-the bullet had come that close.

He looked back at the field. The path didn't run directly across but angled away toward the river. "Did you hear anything? Glimpse anyone?"

"No, but…" She lifted her head. "I ran. Silly, I know, but I just did."

Running might have saved her life. He said nothing, just drew a breath and held it until his violent reaction faded. She'd been walking this way; the only possible place of concealment was a copse on the far side of the field.

"I'll walk with you to the Grange."

The glance she shot him said she felt she should protest. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, she inclined her head and acquiesced.

Sir Jasper was out when they reached the Grange. Lucifer delivered Phyllida into Gladys's hands, making sure, despite Phyllida's dismissive remarks, that Gladys understood that her mistress had had a severe shock.

He left with Phyllida glaring at him; he didn't care. She was safe.

He strode back to the Manor via the wood, and was pleased to find Dodswell had arrived with the rest of his horses. Dodswell had paced the string well; they had enough in reserve to go for a quick gallop.

Taking Dodswell with him, he rode back to the copse. Dismounting at the edge of the field, they tethered their mounts while he told Doswell what they were looking for.

They found it close by one side of the copse, the side screened from the walking track.

"Just the one horse." Dodswell examined the hoofprints in the rain-softened earth. "Nice, clean front shoes."

Lucifer stared at the ground farther back. "I can't find any impressions of the back hooves."

"Nan. That turf there's too thick, more's the pity."

Grimly, Lucifer nodded at the hoofprints they had found. "What do you make of them?"

"Decently looked-after horse, fresh shoes, no nicks or cracks, well-filed hooves."

"A gentleman's horse."

"A horse from a gentleman's stable, anyway." Dodswell studied Lucifer's face. "Why are we interested?"

Briefly, Lucifer told him of the horse that had stood at the back of the Manor's shrubbery. Told him who had a hole in her bonnet. He didn't tell him why.

"Wasn't no hunter. What would they be shooting at? No quail or skeet yet, and they'd be too far from the wood for pigeons. Rabbits won't be out at present." Grim-faced, Dodswell scanned the area. "Nothing here to shoot at."

Only one female given to solitary walks and addicted to doing good deeds by a regular schedule. Lucifer looked at the hoofprints and tried to ease the tension in his shoulders. "Let's get back. We've learned all we can here."

Bristleford was waiting when he walked into the front hall.

"Mr. Coombe has called, sir. I put him in the library."

"Thank you, Bristleford." Lucifer walked straight to the library door and opened it. Silas Coombe jumped back from one of the bookshelves, his hand raised. Lucifer would have wagered Horatio's entire collection that Coombe had been fingering the gold-encrusted spines. Face impassive, he nodded, shut the door, and stalked to the desk. "Gold leaf doesn't wear all that well-but then, you'd know that, wouldn't you."

He arched a brow at Coombe, who drew himself up and tugged at his waistcoat; its black-and-white horizontal stripes made him appear more rotund than he was.

"Oh, quite. Quite! I was just admiring the tooling." He approached the desk.

Waving him to a chair, Lucifer sank into the one behind the desk. "Now-to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Coombe sat, making a great show of settling his coattails. Then he looked at Lucifer. "Naturally, I feel Horatio's loss keenly. I daresay I'm one of the few hereabouts who truly appreciated his greatness."

A wave indicated the room about them; Lucifer was left in no doubt that in Coombe's eyes, Horatio's greatness had resided in his possessions. Coombe's gaze drifted along the shelves. "It must be quite puzzling to you that someone would spend his life gathering all these musty tomes. Such a fantastic number of them."

Lucifer kept his expression impassive. He'd told only Sir Jasper and Phyllida of his interest in collecting; clearly, neither had talked.

"Now, it may seem odd to you, but I've an interest in books myself, as you might have heard around the village. I'm viewed as quite the eccentric because of it, y'know."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, oh, yes. Now, to come to my point, I realize you'll want to be rid of these-doubtless you'll start clearing them soon. They take up such a great space. All through the ground floor and even, I daresay, abovestairs?"

Lucifer pretended not to hear the question.

"Yes, well." Coombe shifted, tugging at his coat. "That's where I believe I could help you."

He sat back and said nothing more. Lucifer was forced to ask, "How?"

Coombe leaned forward like a well-rehearsed puppet. "Oh, I couldn't take them all, of course! Dear me, no! But I would like to add just a few of Horatio's books to my collection." He brightened. "In memorium, you might say. I'm sure Horatio would have wanted it that way."

Smiling, Coombe sat back again. "I'll just come and take a look at the books as you're packing them-I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"You won't." Lucifer tried to imagine Coombe with a knife in his hand. The picture wasn't convincing. If there was any man in the village liable to swoon at the sight of blood, he would have bet it was Coombe. Still, he hadn't been in church last Sunday. "I haven't thought about selling the books, but if I do, I'll probably call in an agent from London."

A frown creased Coombe's brow. "I hope that you'll agree, when the time comes, to grant me first refusal?"

Lucifer shrugged. "I'll have to see how things fall out. Some agents may not take the commission if they believe the juiciest plums have already been picked."

"Well, my word!" Coombe puffed like an agitated hen. "I must say, I think Horatio would have wanted me to have some of his gems."

"Is that so?" His dry tone had Coombe deflating. He held the man's gaze. "Unfortunately for you, Horatio is no longer here. I am." He rose and tugged the bellpull, then looked at Coombe. "If there's nothing else, I've a considerable amount of business awaiting my attention."

The door opened; Lucifer glanced up. "Ah, Bristleford-Mr. Coombe is leaving."

Coombe got to his feet, face mottling. But he drew himself up and bowed from the waist. "Good day, sir."

Lucifer inclined his head.

As Coombe neared the door, Lucifer signaled to Bristleford; Bristleford almost imperceptibly nodded, then ushered Coombe out and shut the door.

Lucifer was sorting correspondence when Bristleford returned.

"You wanted something, sir?"

"Send Covey to me."

"At once, sir."

Covey slipped into the room some minutes later. Lucifer sat back. "I've a job for you, Covey."

"Yes, sir?" Covey stopped before the desk, hands clasped before him.

Lucifer glanced at the bookshelves. "I want you to take a complete inventory of all Horatio's books."

"All of them?" Covey looked at the long, high bookshelves.

"Start in the drawing room, then in here, then in the other rooms. For every book I want the title, publisher, and date of publication, and I want you to check for inscriptions or page notes. If you find any notations, set those books aside and show them to me at the end of each day."

Covey squared his shoulders. "Indeed, sir." He was transparently pleased to be following orders again. "Shall I use a ledger for the list?"

Lucifer nodded. Collecting a fresh ledger and a pencil from a chest, Covey headed for the drawing room. Lucifer watched the door close; he sat back-leather squeaked.

The books he'd found misaligned in the drawing room-now he thought of it, they'd been tight in the shelf. They couldn't have accidentally slid forward.

Now Silas Coombe was requesting first dibs on Horatio's books. Could Coombe be the murderer?

Lucifer looked down at the pile of correspondence he'd stacked on the blotter. He had other questions, too, at present equally unanswerable.

What was it Horatio had wanted him to appraise?

And where on earth was it?

Late that evening, he stood looking out from his bedchamber window, watching the moonlight play over the common. He'd spent half the afternoon searching the house in the hope that something, some piece, would strike him as unfamiliar and unique enough to have been Horatio's mystery item. He'd learned the extent of his inheritance, but was no nearer to solving the mystery.

The house was a treasure trove, understated in its magnificence. Every piece had a history, had a value greater than its functional worth. Yet, as was common with many great collectors, Horatio's best items were used as they'd been designed to be used, not hidden away. So where was his mystery item? In fall view? Or hidden away in some other item designed to provide a hiding place?

That was a possibility. Lucifer made a mental note to check.

Identifying the mystery item-possibly the reason Horatio had been killed-was only one of his problems. The most pressing, the most critical, was learning why some man, riding a horse that might well have been the same horse that had waited in the shrubbery while Horatio was killed, had attempted to kill Phyllida.