Page 69 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

“Who will answer me? No. And any more inquiries on my part will only bring Mr.Adey’s focus back to me.”

“We did nothing wrong, Hulda.”

“Perhaps not.” Her heart sank. “But our silence says otherwise.” Grip on the lantern tightening, she added, “I should have spoken up from the beginning. Myra ...” Emotion leaked into her voice. “I fear she’s abandoned us.”

He took both her shoulders in his hands and waited until she met his eyes. “This is her mess, not ours. It will pass. We’ll figure out our end of things soon enough. You’ll take over BIKER, if Walker has any sense to him, and we’ll move on from this.” His thumbs rubbed her sleeves. “Silas died in a British jail in June.”

Hulda nodded, only somewhat comforted. “I need to know he’s really gone,” she whispered.

Merritt pulled her into an embrace. “Then I’ll prove it. I promise.”

Chapter 16

November 19, 1846, Marshfield, Massachusetts

The journey back to Boston stretched long and tense. After returning Hulda safely to the Bright Bay Hotel, Merritt stayed at a small inn on the south end of Boston before heading back to Marshfield in the morning. A few inquiries led him to the home of the constable, who was away.

“Do you know where I might find him?” Merritt asked a petite blonde woman with frizzy hair. He presumed her to be the man’s wife.

“He usually walks about the city in the morning,” she explained, the slightest Irish lilt to her voice. “Takes the horse down Main and then up the little path between the book collector and the Bennets’ home—that is, it’s a little lodge with pink stone.” She adjusted her shawl, then self-consciously touched her hair. “In case anyone needs him. He might check up on the volunteers.”

“His watchmen?”

She nodded. “And then he comes down Webster. I think if you take that route backward—around the town counterclockwise—you’ll run into him. We’ve a painted gelding he takes out, and he wears the blue jacket and hat, even though it’s big on him.” She blushed. “Haven’t had a moment to unpick the stitches and fit it better to him.”

Merritt nodded. “Thank you for your help.” As he was about to step off the narrow stone porch, however, what the woman had said niggled at him. “Haven’t had a chance to tailor his coat?”

She nodded. “Just with the littles.” As if on cue, a baby cried from within the house. “We’re still getting settled.”

“Settled.”

She nodded. When Merritt held her gaze, she added, “Only been here a fortnight.”

Chest tightening, Merritt said, “Only a fortnight? Ma’am, was he not in office on October 15?” That was the night it happened—the abduction, the fight, the death.

She blinked. “Oh, no. That was Constable Harold. He retired and moved to North Carolina. Quite suddenly, they tell me. We were in Duxbury before, and my brother heard about it—so we came over to fill the spot.”

Merritt knew he was gaping at the woman, perhaps making her feel uncomfortable, but he couldn’t help it. His mind was slow to digest the information.The man is called in to take care of Silas Hogwood, then suddenly retires and moves several states away?

Myra, is this your doing?

He caught himself marveling at the reach of the woman’s influence and had to shake himself back to the present. “Um, do you know where in North Carolina he might have gone?” Merritt tried. Could he manage a trip so far south?

The woman shook her head. “Afraid not.”

Dead end. Merritt massaged his hands. “Thank you for your time ... That is, do you know the names of the volunteers? Any who would have been volunteering in October?”

“October? Um.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, Mr.Wade. Spencer Wade. He works at the sawmill, just there.” She stepped out of the house, ignoring the wailing babe within, and pointed down the road. “You can’t miss it. Might have seen it on your way in.”

He had. “Thank you.”

She nodded, then stepped inside, seeming relieved to end their strange conversation.

Merritt stepped back onto the street, mulling about the information.Would it have hurt to give us a rundown of what you did, Myra?A wagon passed by, so Merritt hopped onto the back of it to the sawmill, the driver unaware until he hopped off and got a skeptical glance. Inside the sawmill, he asked after Spencer Wade, and a boy sorting tools pointed to a man who looked to be in his late forties working on a log. Merritt came close enough to be seen, but waited patiently until the bloke stepped away from his work.

“Who are you?” Wade asked before Merritt could get a word out, brushing callused hands together to remove sawdust.

“Adam Smith.” Merritt extended his hand, and the man shook it. Best not to involve his true self unless absolutely necessary. “I have a few questions regarding an incident that happened about a month ago.”

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