All About Love (49 page)

“No,” Lucifer said. “We don’t.”

Appleby looked into his face. “Line up along the wall of bookshelves opposite the windows.”

They did. Jonas and Covey helped Mr. Filing into the room. Appleby followed with Sweetie. “Perfect.” He scanned their number. “There’s two of you to a bookcase. I want you to search for a particular book—
Aesop’s Fables
. You’ll need to pull out each book and look inside the cover—some of the covers are fakes. Look at every book.”

They all stared at him.

“Get to it,” he ordered. “Now! I haven’t got all day—Miss Sweet hasn’t got all day.”

They all turned to the bookshelves. Phyllida lifted a hand to a tome and caught Lucifer’s eye. She raised a brow—they, Demon and Flick, Jonas and Covey, all knew
Aesop’s Fables
was in the dining room. With a nod, Lucifer indicated the books. He pulled out the first volume on the top shelf.

Phyllida started on the middle shelf. Beside her, Flick and Demon also started pulling tomes.

After a few minutes of silence, Lucifer glanced over his shoulder. “Why don’t you let Miss Sweet sit down?” He waved at a straight-backed chair closer to the windows. “You’re far enough away from us to still use her as your shield. And if she doesn’t sit down soon, she might faint, which none of us would want.” His gaze had fastened on Sweetie’s wide eyes; he’d emphasized the word “none.”

Appleby heard it. “Indeed. That wouldn’t be at all helpful—not to any of us.” He gauged the distance to the chair, then shuffled Miss Sweet to it. Before he released her, he looked at them. “Keep searching!”

They all turned back to the shelves.

Lucifer continued to pull books out and study them, then return them to the shelf. Phyllida pulled books out and shoved them in; her gaze lingered on Lucifer’s face. She saw him exchange glances with Demon. She followed the exchange back and forth. It was as if they were communicating without words—as if their thoughts in such a situation were obvious, at least to each other.

Phyllida looked at Flick. She, too, had noted the silent communion. She met Phyllida’s gaze and gave a helpless shrug—she didn’t know what they were thinking, either. Flick went back to removing books; Phyllida did the same.

A minute later, Lucifer murmured, “Was this volume of
Aesop’s Fables
the reason you killed Corporal Sherring?”

Despite the fact that he’d murmured, his voice carried through the room. He turned to glance at Appleby; Phyllida did the same.

Appleby’s face was a mask of blank astonishment. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. “How did—“ He broke off. “It hardly matters now.” He paused, but couldn’t stop himself. “How did you learn of it?”

“Hastings saw you do it.” Demon glanced around, then looked back at the shelves.

“He never said anything.”

“Hastings is a decent man.” Again Demon glanced at Appleby. “He couldn’t conceive of the sort of man who would kill his closest friend.”

Appleby stiffened. “Sherring was a
fool
. A provincial nobody with a father rich from trade. They’d bought their way into a title and an estate—and all the luxuries that went with it. I was born better than him, but I would never have had half of what would have been his.”

“So you arranged to even the score?” Like Demon, Lucifer continued to methodically search. The others glanced at them and followed suit.

Having everyone so steadily occupied calmed Appleby. “Yes, in a way. But they showed me how—he and his father. The night before the last battle, letters were brought around. I never had any, of course, so, thinking to be kind, Jerry Sherring read his aloud. His father had filled his library with expensive books and his gallery with valuable paintings.

“His heir, Jerry’s older brother, cared not a fig for anything but hard coin. The old man was in failing health, but, almost on his deathbed, he’d made a fantastic discovery. He’d stumbled on a miniature by an old master. He was sure it was genuine, but wasn’t strong enough to follow it up. He didn’t want his heir to know of it and sell it off cheaply, so he hid it until Jerry, who felt as he did, could return from the war and help him.”

“So he hid the painting in the book?” Lucifer glanced around briefly.

“Yes.” Appleby stood directly behind Sweetie. Although clearly swept back into the past, he was too close to the chair for Lucifer to attempt to overpower him. “It was all there in the letter. The old man even warned Jerry to tell no one of it. Jerry didn’t consider that he’d read the letter to me.”

“He trusted you.”

“He was a fool—he trusted everyone.”

“So he died.”

“On the battlefield. He would most likely have died there anyway. I just made sure of it.”

“And then you accompanied his body back to his family, playing the grieving friend.” Lucifer glanced along the shelves. The others remained facing the books, but their searching had slowed; all were following the tale. “So what went wrong?”

“
Everything
—everything that could.” Appleby’s tone turned bitter. “It took two weeks to get free of the army and across the Channel, then all the way up to Scunthorpe. The Sherrings lived beyond that. I arrived to discover the father dead and the brother already in possession.”

“I’m surprised that was a problem.”

“It wasn’t in itself, but the brother’s wife was an unexpected complication.”

“Women often are.”

“Not in that way.” Appleby’s tone was contemptuous. “The damned female was a tightfist, just like the brother. They’d known Jerry would kick up a fuss over selling the father’s collections, so they’d had the dealers around before the old man was cold in his grave. They’d sold the
Aesop’s Fables
.”

Lucifer looked at Appleby. “You’re not going to tell me you’ve been searching through all the collections in England?”

Appleby laughed, but the sound wasn’t humorous. “If necessary, I might even have done that. Nevertheless, as has happened repeatedly in my search for this treasure, hope gleamed in the darkest hour. The brother’s wife had a list of those she’d invited to the sale of the library. Fifteen collectors and dealers. I spun her a tale of wanting to buy some book of Jerry’s as a memento and she gave me the list.” He laughed again, bitterly. “Like everything in my life, that list was a boon and a burden rolled into one.”

Lucifer turned back to the shelves. “The list was alphabetical?”

“Yes!” Appleby’s temper exploded in a threatening hiss. “If I’d started working on it in reverse, I would be a hugely wealthy man today. Instead, I followed the list.”

“That, I assume, accounts for the unexpected demise of Mr. Shelby of Swanscote, near Huddersfield.”

Silence held sway for a long moment, then Appleby said, “You have been busy.” Lucifer said nothing, nor did he turn around. Eventually Appleby continued. “Shelby would have lived if he hadn’t been such a suspicious old coot. He caught me in his library one night. If he’d simply walked in, I’d have been able to slide away—I had an excuse ready. But he stood there and watched me search for some time. After that, I had to kill him.

“I could never let any of them suspect I was searching for anything—that’s why it’s taken me five long years to reach Welham’s library. In every one of the fourteen other cases, I had to find a job, sometimes with the collector, which made life easier, but often in the neighborhood, then learn enough about the collector’s household to know when I could search. I’ve become an expert on reading dealers’ disposal ledgers. That was always the first thing I checked. But none of them has sold that book and the painting hidden in it has never surfaced—you may be sure I kept my ear to the ground over that. I know the book’s here, and the painting’s still inside. You’re going to find it for me—I’m going to have it in my hands tonight.”

There was a feverish intensity in Appleby’s last words that had everyone exchanging glances. With a sigh, Lucifer turned. “If that’s the way it is, then . . . we’ve already finished cataloguing this room. And the library. There’s no copy of
Aesop’s Fables
in either room. False covers, yes, but not the book.”

Appleby considered him through narrowed eyes.

Lucifer waved toward the library. “If you’d like to look at the inventory . . .”

“No, that won’t be necessary, will it?” Appleby’s eyes were slits, but his tone was more confident. “You just want me out of here, don’t you? You’re so damned rich you don’t give a damn about any painting, old master or not.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far, but the painting certainly doesn’t rate against Miss Sweet’s life, which brings us to much the same point.”

Appleby studied Lucifer’s face, then nodded. “Very well. Which room do you suggest we search next?”

“I’d take the dining room next. The back parlor seems to run more to garden, household, and recipe books.”

They’d all stopped searching and turned; Appleby ran his eye along the line. He drew a tight breath. “We’ll move in reverse. I’m going to back out of the door, then I’ll wait in the front hall. I want you to file out, single file still, cross the hall, and go into the dining room.”

Pulling Miss Sweet to her feet, he held her to him and backed out of the door. Everyone followed, trooping silently along. Toward the rear of the line, Phyllida stared at the door, then glanced at the shadowy space behind it and the huge halberd standing there.

“No,” Lucifer whispered. “We don’t need it—all we need to get Sweetie free is that volume of
Aesop’s Fables
.”

Phyllida frowned, but shuffled past the halberd and out of the room.

As they filed into the dining room with the big table in the center and bookcases all around, Appleby waved the ladies to one side and the men to the other. Phyllida hesitated; Lucifer squeezed her fingers, then let her go. His last words ringing in her mind, she made for the bookcase by the corner window. Ironic that in this house of bookcases, the one that housed the vital volume was the one Appleby had passed most often, the one by the window with the faulty latch. Phyllida started searching along the shelves; Flick searched the bookcase beside her.

Appleby retreated to a corner of the room, pulling a chair from the table and pushing Sweetie onto it. He had a wall of bookcases at his back, the door at some distance, and Mrs. Hemmings was the closest person—no threat.

Once they were all settled, Lucifer asked, in a mildly conversational tone, “How did Horatio die?”

“It was an accident. I never meant to kill him. I didn’t even know he was in the house. I didn’t hear him come downstairs and along the hall—his feet were bare, so there was no sound. He was suddenly there, in the doorway, asking what the devil I was doing. He’d seen me searching. I rose and walked toward him. He was a fair size and in reasonable health—I didn’t think I could strangle him. He stood there and watched me come. Then I saw the letter knife on the table.” He paused, then said, “It’s surprisingly easy if you know how.”

“Why did you try to kill Phyllida?” Sir Jasper turned, frowning, then forced himself to continue searching.

“Miss Tallent?” There was laughter in Appleby’s voice. “That was such a farce, with her stumbling on the body and then Cynster coming in and the halberd falling. I was so strung up I nearly laughed aloud. I saw her notice the hat, but then she bolted. When I left the house, hat and identity still concealed, I knew that no matter what happened, no matter what hurdles appeared, I was meant, in the end, to have that painting. I’d be able to live like I was meant to live—in reasonable comfort, like a gentleman.”

“So why go after Phyllida?” Jonas asked.

“She came back for the hat.”

Phyllida turned to stare at Appleby. He smiled, tightly. “I was in the hall when you asked Bristleford about the hat. You hadn’t forgotten it—you weren’t going to forget it.”

“But I didn’t know whose it was.”

“I could hardly rely on your faulty memory continuing faulty. You’d seen me often enough wearing the wretched thing—it was the only hat I had. Of course, with Cynster here to fill your eyes and your mind, you were distracted enough not to remember, but you might have at any time.”

Lucifer caught Phyllida’s eye and frowned—she shut her lips on the information that she’d never noticed Appleby enough to remember his hat. She turned back to the bookshelves.

“I’d got rid of the hat immediately, of course. I stuffed it in a hedge at the back of Ballyclose. Later, I got to thinking, so I went back to find it and burn it, but it was gone. I assumed some tramp had taken it. I thought I was safe, or would be once I ensured Miss Tallent didn’t remember whose hat it was.”

“So you tried to shoot her.”

“Yes.” Appleby’s voice tensed. “Then I tried to strangle her. All that did was make Cynster keep a closer watch on her, but I hoped it was also frightening her enough to keep her from remembering me. I tried to get at her again during the Ballyclose ball—I suspected she might search Cedric’s hats. My plan didn’t work, but then . . . she got me to walk out onto the terrace and around the corner with her, asking after Cedric . . . I could hardly believe my luck. I almost strangled her and hid the body in the bushes, but people might have seen us leave the ballroom together. Then Cynster arrived. I had to watch her walk away again.”

Phyllida glanced, briefly, at Lucifer.

“Then she found the hat. Worse, she took it to Cedric. If I didn’t act immediately, I’d be found out. So I wrote the note from Molly, knocked Phyllida out, and set the fire.

“The hat burned, Phyllida didn’t.” Appleby’s tone was terse. “I gave up trying to kill her. At least the hat was gone—she had no proof to connect me with anything. But you’d put locks on this house, and there was still the possibility that suspicion would turn my way. I obviously had to act boldly and decisively to bring my search to a rapid and successful conclusion. The fete gave me the perfect opportunity. So here we are.”

After a moment, Lucifer said, “You meant to take a hostage.”

“Of course. It was the only way to get the job done—too risky to search a shelf or two at a time. I want that volume of
Aesop’s Fables
in my hands before nightfall.”