Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(39)

“As you should.”

Hulda nodded. “On that errand, I did want to see if BIKER had any information on Whimbrel House not included in the initial file.”

Her employer’s lips pulled into a frown. She stood and paced to the window. “I’m afraid not—that was everything I could easily pull when the news came in. But I could have Sadie check the library downstairs, just to be sure.”

“I don’t mind checking it myself. I would like to return to the island tonight.”

Myra waved her permission. “Is that all? You could have sent a note, Hulda.” A slight smile curled her lips. “Always so thorough. That’s what makes you invaluable.”

Hulda bit back a smile of her own. “A few other matters.” Another deep breath. “That is, we’ve only hired a single staff member, thus far—”

“How is Miss Taylor faring?”

“Quite well. She’s a good find.”

Myra rubbed her chin. “Indeed. She has quite the story, if you ever care to ask her.”

“I will have to do that.”

“I might as well tell you while I’m thinking of it—that request you sent in for a cook? She already hired out and is on her way to Connecticut.”

“Of course she is.” Hulda removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’ll ask Miss Steverus for some other leads.” She reached for her bag handle to occupy her hands, then recalled she’d discarded it. “While I’ll see through the exorcism, Mr. Fernsby has also requested that I stay on longer. He is unaccustomed to staff and believes my leaving would be jarring. If there is nothing in BIKER’s queue, an extension would be relatively harmless.”

Myra raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Not an uncommon request. What are your thoughts on Mr. Fernsby?”

“He is an interesting character,” she answered truthfully. “A little eccentric at times, but friendly. He manages stress well. He has a creative mind that often gets caught up in his stories. He’s also a clutterbug.”

Myra laughed. “I’m sure that has been a challenge for you.”

Hulda paused, thinking again of the tram and the alleyway. Why would I not concern myself with you?

“But he is kind,” she amended, voice softer. Her stiffness dissipated a little. “And considerate.”

Myra paced to the desk, gripping the back of the chair and leaning her weight on it. “That is good. You are, of course, welcome to stay until I’ve an assignment for you elsewhere.”

Hulda nodded. “That would benefit the client.”

Drumming her fingers on the chair back, Myra asked, “Anything else? You swept in here like a storm.”

“I . . .” Hulda fidgeted. Seized an empty chair and brought it over. Sat. Myra followed her lead and sat as well. “I have a problem. Or I might have a problem.”

Concerned, Myra leaned forward. “What?”

Hulda appreciated being given the time to put it into her own words, knowing very well that Myra could simply pluck memories of the incident from her mind. “I . . . that is, in Portsmouth just two hours ago . . . I believe I saw Silas Hogwood.”

Myra reeled, paling. “Silas Hogwood?” Her mouth worked. “From Gorse End?”

Clasping her hands together, Hulda said, “Yes.”

Myra leaned against her backrest and folded her arms. She deliberated for several seconds. “That’s just not possible. Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be with two eyes.” She explained where she had been, where he had been, what he had been wearing.

Myra pinched her lips together. Leaned forward. Took up her pencil and began rapping its blunt end against the desk. “May I?”

Nodding, Hulda pulled up the image as crisply as she could. Although she didn’t feel Myra’s intrusion into her thoughts, she knew she was there, seeing what Hulda had seen. Myra sighed, marking her retreat.

“Mr. Fernsby is not a bad-looking fellow,” she commented.

Hulda’s face warmed. “Myra, really!”

The woman responded with an uneasy smile, blinking rapidly—a common side effect for psychometry was the dulling of other senses. All magic had countereffects, though most people had so little magic in their blood, they were rarely severe. “They do look similar, I’ll give you that,” Myra agreed. “But I don’t think it was Mr. Hogwood.”

“Truly?” Hulda knit her fingers. “Even his manner of dress—”

“You haven’t seen him for eleven years,” she pressed, gentle. “Mr. Hogwood is locked away. And even if he got out, what would he be doing in Rhode Island, of all places?”

Hulda sank into her chair. “I have told myself that very thing.” She knew Mr. Hogwood reasonably well; after all, she’d been in his employ for two years, back when she was a full-time housekeeper. One learned a lot about a person by being their housekeeper. She knew he was terribly tidy. He was kind to those close to him but didn’t like meeting new people. He’d kept entire wings of the house to himself because he savored privacy . . . and not just to hide the malevolent crimes he was committing. He was certainly a man set in his ways, and his ways were set in England. Never in all her time knowing him had he even hinted at a desire to leave home.

She offered a sympathetic nod. “Sleep on it. Seeing a fellow who favors him in appearance must have been a shock to the system. Those were . . . unfortunate times, and you were caught in the middle of them. Such memories can’t ever truly be put to rest.”