Given both had sought Miss Flora, Ephraim couldn’t help but assume a connexion between the two events. He hoped Lofthouse had escaped whatever assassin had come after Tolhurst. He hadn’t the foggiest notion why anyone would seek to take the life of those who sought Miss Flora; he’d asked Miss Flora herself this in his reply to her letter—in the most delicate possible language, of course—but he’d yet to receive a reply.
And so he waited alone in his office day after day for some word from his wards or clerk.
His solitude had some comforts. He had his friend Dr Hitchingham to dine with most evenings. And occasionally during the day, a queer little cloud-grey bird with a fearsome black mask like a highwayman would perch on his windowsill and cock its head when he noticed it.
Ephraim Grigsby had many faults, but he flattered himself that impatience was not among them. He could wait as long as necessary for word from Felix or Lofthouse.
Even if the thought of Lofthouse’s fate gnawed at him.
On one particular October morning, when the first delivery of penny post had failed to bring word from Lofthouse or Felix, Ephraim settled into another lonely day at the office. He brewed a kettle of tea—which Lofthouse had always done, andwhich Lofthouse had helped him drink, but now he brewed and drank alone—and sat down at his desk to glance over theTimesand watch the sparrows flit through the fog. It’d taken him a few weeks to get over the habit of reading aloud certain particularly amusing tidbits, now that he no longer had his clerk to hear them. Today, however, he successfully kept his thoughts in his head rather than letting them slip past his lips to echo throughout the silent office with no one to listen.
Then the ringing of the door-bell shattered the silence.
Ephraim leapt up from his chair. He regretted it quickly, his knees reminding him post-haste they no longer appreciated such rapid motion. Still, he put them through their paces as he scrambled to open the door and peer down the stair-well to the landing below.
A gentleman stood at the bottom of the stair.
Not, Ephraim realised with a sinking heart, Lofthouse or Felix. The gentleman stood far too tall to pass for either—more in line with Tolhurst or Butcher. As he turned his face upward to meet Ephraim’s stare, he revealed a face which couldn’t have seen many days beyond thirty years. And a handsome face, at that. One that bore a sun-kissed brow, dark yet twinkling eyes, a long nose with a noble arch, a jaw strong enough to attract notice even beneath the close-trimmed black beard, and full lips beneath the moustache that wore a smile like sunshine breaking through storm-clouds.
Ephraim’s pulse gave an uncomfortable flutter, as it sometimes did when he arose too quickly from his desk.
“Good morrow, sir!” said the gentleman in a hearty tone. Ephraim couldn’t quite place his accent—a very slight one, with a touch of a burr and a hint of a lilt which defied all efforts to pin it down. The deep bass of his voice thrummed through Ephraim’s own ribs in a manner which made his knees feel weak for reasons beyond rheumatism.
Ephraim put these feelings away into a little locked drawer in his mind, as he always did, and cleared his throat. “Good morning! How may I assist you today, sir?”
“It’s my hope I may rather prove of some assistance to you,” the gentleman replied, mounting the stair two steps at a time and doffing his hat as he did. His cropped black hair tumbled in loose waves from beneath it. “Mr Sven Hull, at your service.”
“Mr Ephraim Grigsby at yours,” Ephraim replied despite his continued bewilderment.
Mr Hull beamed. He looked still more handsome up close than at a distance. “I heard through a friend that your office required the services of a clerk, sir. I should like to volunteer for the post.”
“Oh!” Ephraim hadn’t expected anything at all this morning, but certainly not anything like this. Mr Hull’s strapping frame appeared better suited to sailing a ship or swinging a scythe than clerking. The moment the thoughts occurred to him, Ephraim tried very hard to stop thinking about Mr Hull doing either—for more reasons than he cared to acknowledge—and resolved to think of him as a clerk and nothing more from that moment on.
Mr Hull gazed down at him with more patience than Ephraim deserved. “You do require a clerk, do you not, sir?”
“I do,” Ephraim admitted with some small reluctance. Lofthouse had, after all, given his notice before he vanished. While Ephraim still hoped to hear from him again, he knew he would not return to fulfill the same role. This knowledge did nothing to quash the twinge of disappointment in Ephraim’s heart.
Mr Hull, meanwhile, continued beaming handsomely as he withdrew something from his waistcoat pocket. “I’ve a letter of recommendation, sir—if you care to read it?”
Ephraim accepted the folded letter from Mr Hull’s strong and well-formed hand, which made the note it held appearminiature. The wax seal on the back of the letter bore a crest of oak and holly leaves intertwined across a pair of antlers. This, however, did not strike Ephraim’s nerves quite so hard as the sight of his own name and address on the reverse.
Written in a hand Ephraim had never thought he’d have the good fortune to see again in all his days.
Without a word—without a thought—Ephraim broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter close before his face to read.
Mr Grigsby —
Allow me to apologize for my hasty departure from your employment. Matters progressed in the discovery of Miss Fairfield’s whereabouts in a manner which made it impossible for me to remain in London. I did, however, ask her to write to inform you of her good health and happiness, which I hope she has done by this time. I write now to perform the same courtesy. I am steward to the estate of an eccentric but very kind gentleman and quite content in my position.
I realise I also left you without clerical assistance in the office. This letter will then serve a dual purpose; to whit, to recommend the services of one Mr Sven Hull, its bearer. You will recognize him as rather a tall fellow with a black beard and something of the Scandinavian in his blood. I assure you he is both capable and qualified to perform any duties which you entrusted to my care and keeping whilst in your employ.
Your obedient servant,
Mr Wren Lofthouse
Ephraim looked up from the long-awaited letter to find its bearer wearing a patient smile.
“You’ve met with Lofthouse?” Ephraim blurted. “You’ve seen him?”
