He was . . . messy.
Mr. Fernsby had moved from a small apartment to Whimbrel House, so he did not yet possess enough belongings to fill its rooms.
And yet.
Hulda was making rounds with her dowsing rods, stethoscope, and other tools, trying to get to the heart of the home’s magical source. She’d brought a feather duster along as well; efficiency was a godly gift.
In his office, Mr. Fernsby had multiple pens and pencils strewn about, as though every time he set one writing implement down, he retrieved another instead of picking up the first. The floor was littered with half-filled papers, some crumpled, some flat, others in between. Worse, his dinner plate was sitting next to the notebooks, and there was still food on it.
Frowning, Hulda picked up the plate and carried it downstairs. Where she found his breakfast dishes had not quite made it to the sink, his fork was on the floor, and the eggs were not put away.
And the most atrocious of them all, she later discovered, was that Mr. Fernsby did not make his bed.
She stared at the disheveled monstrosity in his room, blankets askew, pillows flat, one forgotten on the floor. For goodness’s sake, she understood the library being a mess, the house was what the house was. But this was ghastly. Expected from aristocracy, yes, but this was the United States, and Mr. Fernsby was not accustomed to staff. He had no excuses.
She blanched. What if he doesn’t wash his sheets?
Tucking her tools away, she marched downstairs, excusing herself outside for some fresh air and a rejuvenation of her sanity. She walked the perimeter of the house with her dowsing rods, finding little of interest, then listened to the foundation and corner posts. “I don’t think you’re built of magicked materials,” she said to the house, which did not respond. She made a note in her ledger and determined she might as well conduct a full inspection of the exterior while outside. Walking around the house, Hulda noted panels and buttresses, then examined the structure again from farther out, taking notes on the shingles and shutters. She hadn’t previously noticed the house had a weather vane. Perhaps that was something to investigate . . . though climbing up there would be a challenge in and of itself. Her dresses were not made for such adventure, and she did not own a pair of trousers.
Next she studied the windows, listening to them with her stethoscope and testing them with dowsing rods. She took her time because she didn’t want to perform the task twice. Indeed, by the time she had finished her inspection, the sun was beginning to sink.
Mr. Fernsby was writing by candlelight in his office when she returned indoors. She desperately wanted a long and thorough bath, but for decency’s sake, she would wait until after he had turned in for the night.
His door was open, and he must have heard her, for his fingers stilled and he turned in his chair. “Ah! Hulda, I have a question for you.”
Masking a frown, Hulda stepped into the room and said, “Mrs. Larkin, if you please.”
“Right! My apologies.” A flash of embarrassment swept his face, which was quickly replaced with nonchalance. “I want your opinion on something I’m writing.”
Hands on hips, she retorted, “I am not an expert on—”
“Everyone reads, do they not?” he interrupted. “You see, I’m writing an adventure story, taking place in New York. My protagonist is a young woman named Elise Downs, and she’s a Scottish immigrant—though I might change that. Either way, she’s just arrived in the city for the reading of a will, only to find the address for her lodgings is wrong. Then she witnesses a murder in a nearby alley.”
Hulda stiffened. “Good heavens.”
“Excellent response.” He grinned, and something about the motion—or perhaps it was the candlelight—made his eyes look green. “But I have a quandary. I would think any sensible woman would run, and Elise needs to be sensible to be likable. But I also need her to see the timepiece one of the murderers has on his person, so I think she should go in and try to save the bloke . . . What do you think?”
She frowned. “I think I would not be venturing into alleyways on my own in the dark. I assume it’s dark.”
“I don’t think murderers function as well in the day.”
Pushing her glasses up her nose, she said, “I must confess that I don’t read much in the way of fiction. I won’t be a great help to you.”
Mr. Fernsby reeled back. “What? Who doesn’t read fiction? What else is there to read?”
“Receipt books, histories, the newspaper—”