She opened the first letter, from the constabulary of Liverpool. It was brief, the writing little more than chicken scratch.
We’ve no record of any Hogwoods leaving the Merseyside or registering for emigration, but he could have done so at a port city.
She sighed. It was the best she was going to get—few migrants bothered with paperwork, and Mr. Hogwood of all people would hardly wish to leave a paper trail.
Setting the letter aside, she opened the second, from the warden of Lancaster Castle.
Miss Larkin,
I remember Silas Hogwood, but I pulled up his records to be sure. He was imprisoned here, yes, but passed away on June 14 by an unknown cause. He was still healthy, from what I could tell. Quite peculiar.
My apologies if this news brings any distress.
Formally Yours,
Benjamin Canterbury
Hulda stared at the letter, not quite comprehending. She read it again, but the words blurred together, so she sat on her trunk and adjusted her glasses before reading it through a third time, top to bottom. Turned the paper over just in case there was something on the back, then read it again.
Distress . . . yes, it was distressing. How could a healthy man pass away in a prison, where he would have been routinely monitored, without anyone having a clue as to why? Granted, prisons weren’t the most sanitary dwellings . . .
She licked her lips. The letter drooped in her limp grip.
This means he couldn’t have been in Portsmouth, she reminded herself. But the information didn’t relieve her, only worried her.
Had the warden seen Mr. Hogwood’s body with his own eyes? Did they realize what a powerful magic user he was? Perhaps he’d lost many of his spells after those corpses were destroyed . . .
She attempted to quash her unreasonable concerns and take solace that the horrible wizard was gone. And yet, despite the assurance in her hands, those concerns burned bright as a bonfire feasting on her bones.
Chapter 23
October 1, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Hulda had followed up with the warden the following day, desperate for more information. Nearly a week later, she received his response. This time it was a simple telegram reading, I’m afraid I cannot disclose more information.
The missive irked her. Was it truly an issue of privacy, for a man who had been publicly decried, or were his records missing information? All this fuss over a dead man, she told herself, yet every time she reasoned herself to stability, a loose thought would send her spiraling into doubt again.
She had seen him. She swore she had seen him! But why would the prison cover up the release of a repeat murderer? Or the escape of one?
The only thing that gave her some comfort was Mr. Fernsby’s admonition that she was safe here. And she was. It seemed incredulous that Mr. Hogwood would somehow fake his death, slip out of a high-security prison, and immigrate to America, only to break into BIKER, find her records, and sail all the way out to Blaugdone Island for revenge.
Mr. Fernsby had also been occupied, to the point where Hulda was only seeing him at meals, save for yesterday, when he took a long walk across the island, mumbling to himself as he left the house. He spent almost all his time lucubrating in his office. Had taken dinner there twice. Hulda wondered at it, but it wasn’t her place to pry, nor to interrupt. Still, she’d lingered by the door a time or two, listening, and heard nothing within. She’d thought to ask him about A Pauper in the Making, which she had taken the initiative to purchase, but with her mind so taken up with the possibilities of Mr. Hogwood, she’d yet to start it.
When Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux were occupied with their own tasks and Mr. Fernsby was not around to banter, Hulda quickly got bored. She still had not found the second source of magic and was ready to tear apart the foundation with teeth and nails, if only to occupy her mind with something other than Silas Hogwood.
After Mr. Fernsby took dinner in his office for the third time, Hulda volunteered to see to retrieving his tray, telling Miss Taylor she could retire early. Shadows waved to her as she passed through the hallway; Hulda waved back, and the house rumbled in pleasure. She rapped at the closed office door with her first and second knuckle.
“Come,” Mr. Fernsby’s voice issued from within.
Pressing open the door, Hulda suppressed a sigh at the sight before her. Papers and pencil shavings scattered across the floor, ink smears on the desk, open books by the chair. His dinner tray rested precariously on the corner of the desk. Miss Taylor had cleared out other dishes, but Mr. Fernsby must have shooed away her efforts to do more.
“I’m here for your tray,” she offered.