Ashes To Ashes - C.J. Archer Page 0,3

coming to Lichfield.

She called the great, hulking pile of gray stone 'home'. Women were sentimental about these things, and Charlie in particular had a strong emotional streak that influenced her thoughts and actions. She'd quickly developed an attachment to Lichfield, once she settled in. He'd been warned that would happen. He should have listened.

But Charlie was gone, and he doubted the others who lived at Lichfield saw the place as she did. They were practical men. Emotion didn't rule them. They had come to live there, and work for Lincoln, purely for financial gain. It was time to remind them of that, since they seemed to have forgotten it lately. Only the day before, Seth, Gus and Cook had threatened to leave. Mere months ago, none would have dared.

"What did you learn, sir?" Gus asked, as Lincoln alighted from the cabin outside the coach house. "Did he know anything?"

"Nothing useful," Lincoln said.

"Want to tell us what was said over a drink in the library? We won't be long here."

"No." Lincoln strode off. Even with his back to them, he heard the drawn-in breath of frustration from Gus, and Seth's silence was telling. Of all of them, Seth didn't hold back his opinion anymore. It was probably because he believed in his God-given right as a nobleman to rule commoners, even those who'd saved him from getting his face smashed in at an illegal bareknuckle fight and now paid his wages.

Lincoln made his way upstairs and along the corridor, determined to get all the way to his own room this time without stopping. He failed, however, and paused outside Charlie's door. No, not her door, anymore. He rested his hand on the doorknob but didn't twist it. After a moment, he let it go, satisfied that yet again he hadn't succumbed to the temptation to enter. He hadn't been inside since he'd tried to pack her things on the morning she'd left.

That morning was etched into his memory and couldn't be removed, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't forget the wavering pitch of her voice as she'd questioned him, shouted at him, pleaded with him, and finally acquiesced. Nor could he forget the way her eyes changed shape and color with each emotion, and the way her expressive mouth told him what she was really thinking when her words did not. He remembered all too clearly the stab in his gut and the ache in his throat when her tear-soaked face looked up at him as he watched her departure from the tower room—the room she'd reluctantly occupied upon her arrival at Lichfield.

As with all bad memories, the best he could do was to push it to one side, where he didn't stumble over it every moment of every day. Sometimes, that even worked.

Doyle brought in the newspaper, along with Lincoln's breakfast. The man was efficient, professional and unobtrusive, all qualities Lincoln liked in his staff. While Seth, Gus and Cook were reasonably efficient, they lacked the other two attributes. They had also shed most of their reserve in the last few weeks and even dared to speak to Lincoln as if he were their equal, if not their friend. Doyle still feared and respected him. Another reason to like him.

It was still dark, and Lincoln lit the lamp on his desk to spread out the newspaper. Doyle had ironed out the creases, even though Lincoln had told him it was unnecessary. He picked up his teacup, only to set it down again as he read the headline on the front page: CIRCUS STRONG MAN SHOT IN HEAD AS HE SLEPT. Lincoln scanned the article. By the end, he was sure he had another supernatural murder on his hands.

According to the article, after the show at the Olympia ended, the victim had retired to his lodgings for the evening, alone. A gunshot had woken some of the other performers around two AM. When they investigated, they found Brutus dead in his bed. No one had seen the killer leave, and the police had no suspects. The performers claimed the victim was a good man with no enemies. The article went on to describe the feats of strength Brutus displayed in his act. It was the lifting of the brougham clear off the ground that intrigued Lincoln. No man could do that. No normal man, not even a strong one.

But the piece of information that really gave him pause was the name. Brutus was a pseudonym used for the act.