Tying off the reins, he jumped down and strode along the gravel path to the portico. Ablaze with summer blooms, the garden caught and held his gaze. The sight teased some long-buried memory. Pausing before the portico, he struggled to pin it down.

This was Martha's garden.

Martha was Horatio's late wife; she'd been the anchor around which the Lake District household had revolved. Martha had loved gardening, striving through all weathers to create glorious displays-just like this. Lucifer studied the plantings. The layout was similar to the garden in the Lake District. But Martha had been dead for three years.

Outside of his mother and aunts, Lucifer had felt closer to Martha than any other older woman-she'd occupied a special place in his life. He'd often listened to her lectures, whereas to his mother he'd been deaf. Martha had not been related-it had always been easier to hear the truth from her lips. It was Martha's death that had lessened his enthusiasm for visiting Horatio at home. Too many memories; too acute a sense of shared loss.

Seeing Martha's garden here felt odd, like a hand on his sleeve when there was no one there. He frowned-he could almost hear Martha whispering in her soft, gentle voice.

Abruptly turning, he entered the portico. The front door was half open; he pushed it wide. The hall was empty.

"Hello! Is anyone about?"

No response. All he could hear was the summer buzz outside. He stepped over the threshold and paused. The house was cool, quiet, still… waiting. Frowning more definitely, he strode forward, bootheels clacking on black-and-white tiles. He headed for the first door on the right. It stood open, pushed wide.

He smelled blood before he reached the door. After Waterloo, it was one scent he'd never mistake. The hairs at his nape lifted; he slowed.