“Perhaps we should go back above,” Geoffrey said, his voice shaking.
“It’s all right,” Senhouse said. “Go on, Mister Kaille.”
“What do you know of spellmaking, sir?”
He thought the man might laugh or scoff or even grow angry and accuse Ethan of mocking him. But Senhouse merely pondered the question before saying, “Very little, to be honest. I have heard of men and women being hanged or burned as witches. I’ve listened to preachers rail against those who would embrace Satan and his dark arts. But I’ve never encountered witchery myself, at least not that I know.”
“I believe you have now, sir,” Ethan said. “I’ve seen others who were killed by spells, and they look very much as these men do. They bear no wounds, they show no sign that anything ailed them before they died. To those who know nothing of conjuring it seems that one moment they were fine, and the next they were dead.”
Again, Senhouse surprised Ethan with his equanimity. “That is an extraordinary theory,” he said, his voice even. “A spell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there any way to prove this? It’s remarkable, of course, that so many should die in such a mysterious way. But can you offer me more than simply the lack of evidence for any other cause?”
Ethan wet his lips, knowing that their conversation was headed just where he didn’t wish it to go. “There are ways to prove that a spell was used. But all of those methods would themselves require conjurings.”
“I see,” the lieutenant said. Ethan heard a note of skepticism in his voice, but at least the man hadn’t yet rejected Ethan’s suggestion out of hand. “You sound as though you know quite a bit about these matters. Why is that?”
“I’ve been a thieftaker for many years now,” Ethan told him, refusing to flinch from the man’s gaze. “I’ve seen many odd and disturbing things in the streets of Boston.”
A small smile flitted across Senhouse’s face and was gone. “Strangely, that’s the first thing you’ve said to me that sounded like a half-truth.”
Geoffrey cleared his throat, but Ethan remained intent on the lieutenant.
“Are you a witch yourself?” Senhouse asked him. “Is that why you understand all of this so well?” When Ethan didn’t answer right away, he added, pointing to the dead soldiers lying around them, “I thought I saw a strange light on these men. A glow—deep yellow, or perhaps orange. Was that your doing?”
Ethan hesitated, searching for some way to steer their conversation in another direction. At last, seeing none, he sighed and said, “I’m a conjurer. That’s what we call ourselves. For obvious reasons, most of us don’t wish to be known as witches. I can cast spells myself, and sometimes I can sense when others have conjured. I felt a spell this morning. It woke me, in fact. It was as powerful a conjuring as I’ve ever felt. And I think that spell is what killed all the men on this ship.”
“You felt it?” Senhouse said. “And you said nothing?”
“Until I boarded this ship, I had no idea what the spell I felt had done. When I sense a conjuring, I can’t tell what kind of power is being used, or who is wielding it. Sometimes, if I’m close to the conjurer, I can tell where it has been cast, but in this case I didn’t even know that much. Had you told me immediately what had happened, I might have hazarded a guess before we reached this ship, but as it was I had no idea.”
Senhouse turned to Geoffrey. “This is why you suggested that we bring him here. Not because he’s a thieftaker, but because he’s a … a conjurer.”
“Yes,” Brower said. “I suspected witchcraft right off.” His gaze slid toward Ethan. “To be perfectly honest, my first thought was that he might have done this.”
Ethan gaped at him. “Thank you, Geoffrey,” he said, with all the sarcasm he could muster.
“I no longer believe you’re responsible. Truly, I don’t,” he added, clearly for Senhouse’s benefit.
“What more can you tell me about this spell?” Senhouse asked, seeming to ignore Brower. “And what was that glow I saw earlier?”
“The glow came from a spell I cast,” Ethan told him. “I wished to determine whether a conjuring had in fact killed these men. And my spell confirmed that this was the case.”
“How?”
Ethan faltered. Explaining conjurings and the workings of power to people with no experience with them was a bit like trying to describe color to someone who had been born blind.
“The spell I cast reveals the residue of other conjurings. If there was none—if no other spell had been cast on these soldiers—nothing would have happened.”
“But something did happen,” Senhouse said.
“Yes. My spell revealed the orange glow that you saw. That is the color of the power wielded by whoever killed these men.”
“The color?”
Ethan exhaled. “Every conjurer’s castings have a distinct color.”
“I see. And yours, I take it, isn’t orange.”
He had expected this. “No, Lieutenant, it’s not. Let me show you.”
Ethan pulled out his knife again and cut his arm. He felt self-conscious placing blood on the soldier in front of the other men, but he did not look away from the dead man, and he chose not to respond to the small whimpering sound Geoffrey made. Once more he spoke the reveal conjuring spell he had used earlier, taking care this time to control the flow of power. Uncle Reg appeared beside him, and his spell sang in the wood of the ship, but neither Senhouse nor Geoffrey gave any indication that they had noticed. As before, the orange glow of the killing spell spread from the man’s chest over the rest of his body. But then the russet hue of Ethan’s conjuring spread over the orange.
“Did you see that?” Ethan asked.
Senhouse nodded, staring at the corpse as if in a trance. “Yes, I did,” he said, his voice hushed.
“The orange power is what killed him. That second color—the rust—is the residue of the first revealing spell I cast.”
“I know nothing of this,” Senhouse said, still sounding awed, still staring at the glowing corpse of the regular. “You could be misleading me, using a witch’s tricks to dull my mind.”
“Perhaps I could. But I’m not.” He looked at Geoffrey, his expression hardening. “Mister Brower’s suspicions notwithstanding, I have no reason to lie to you, and no reason to murder all these men. I’m a British subject, the son of a naval officer and once a sailor in His Majesty’s fleet.”
“As I understand it, you’re also a convicted mutineer.”
Ethan bristled. “Yes, sir, I am. And if you think that means I can’t be trusted, take me back to the city, and I’ll leave you to find on your own the conjurer who killed these men.”
Senhouse rubbed his forehead, his eyes closed. “I apologize. That was a foolish thing for me to say.” He looked Ethan in the eye. “We need your help. I’m sure I speak for Mister Brower when I say that without your … your expertise in this area, we’re unlikely to find the person who did this.”
“So, you’re hiring me?”
“We’re asking you to help us,” Geoffrey answered. “And in return, I’ve been authorized to offer you ten pounds. Consider it a bounty on the head of the killer. Find him, and the money is yours.”
Ten pounds was a considerable sum. Even Sephira Pryce might have killed for less.
“All right,” Ethan said. He surveyed the ship once more, the bodies strewn about the hold. Aside from the color of the conjurer’s power, he had little information with which to start. Except, of course, for the conversations he had overheard. Spectacles and Sephira were looking for someone who they believed was on one of the British ships. So, Ethan would look for this man as well.
“To start,” he said, turning back to Senhouse, “I’ll need the name of every man on this ship.”
Chapter
SIX
For several seconds, neither Senhouse nor Geoffrey said a word.
The lieutenant narrowed his eyes, his brow creasing. “Whatever for, Mister Kaille? S
urely you can’t think that one of these men is responsible?”
Ethan wasn’t about to voice his suspicions about Spectacles. Not yet, knowing so little. Sephira Pryce had too many friends among those who served the Crown. If she learned that Ethan suspected her associate of a crime of this magnitude, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.
“Forgive me, Lieutenant,” he said, “but you’ve asked me to inquire into the deaths of these men, and now you need to let me conduct my investigation.”
Senhouse blinked once, obviously taken aback. To his credit, though, he recovered quickly. “Yes, of course. You’re quite right. This way.”
He led Ethan and Brower back to the ladder and up onto the ship’s deck. After the darkness of the hold, the sunlight was blinding, and Ethan had to shield his eyes with an open hand. But he welcomed the cool touch of the autumn breeze and the clean, briny scent of the harbor air.
Senhouse strode to the stern and into the captain’s quarters. Ethan followed the lieutenant back as far as the doorway to the quarters, but faltered there. It had been more than twenty years since last he served on a ship, but still the old habits of a sailor remained deeply ingrained. A common seaman didn’t simply walk uninvited into a captain’s quarters.
Geoffrey, who as far as Ethan knew had never served in the navy, had no such reservations, and walked into Ethan from behind.
“Pardon me,” Brower said, flustered.
Senhouse looked back at them and waved Ethan into the cabin. “It’s all right, Mister Kaille,” he said, with an understanding nod.
Ethan entered, though doing so still felt odd. The air was sour in here as it had been below, the faint hint of stale sweat and rancid food lingering beneath the bitter smell of spermaceti candles.
The man lying on the bed in the far corner of the cabin looked to be no older than Ethan. He had long brown hair that he wore in a plait. A powdered wig sat on a small writing desk bolted to the wall just beside the bed. Because the Graystone was too small to be a rated ship, her commander had not been a captain, but rather a lower-ranked naval officer—perhaps another lieutenant. Senhouse might well have been friends with the man.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Ethan said, his voice sounding loud in the small space. “Who was he?”
Senhouse stared at the body. “His name was Jacob Waite. He was also a lieutenant. He received this posting only last month. You would have thought they had named him fleet commander, he was so pleased.” After a few seconds more, he looked away and seemed to force himself into motion. Crossing to the desk he said, “The manifest should be in here somewhere.”
He began to search the papers on the commander’s desk. When he found nothing there, he knelt down to open the sea chest beside it. Finally he stood again, looking puzzled.
“That’s strange,” he said. “There should be a manifest here.”
“Maybe the purser had it,” Ethan suggested.
“Yes, maybe he did.”
They left the captain’s cabin and went back below to the wardroom, where the ship’s other officers slept. The wardroom was somewhat larger than the captain’s cabin, but more cramped. Six hammocks lined the walls, with small chests beneath each. Four of the hammocks held the bodies of dead sailors.
“That’s Amos Porter,” Senhouse said, pointing to one of the men. “He was first mate. Another lieutenant.” Another friend. Senhouse didn’t have to say this; Ethan heard it in his tone.
“And this was the purser,” Senhouse said, turning to the hammock just to the left of the wardroom door. “Peter Logan.” Senhouse stooped and picked up a sheaf of paper off the floor. “Here it is,” he said.
“He had it out?” Ethan said, joining Senhouse beside the hammock.
“So it would seem.” The lieutenant handed the manifest to Ethan.
Ethan glanced through its pages. In addition to the names and ranks of soldiers, crew, and naval officers, the manifest also listed items of cargo, noted the date and time of the Graystone’s departure from Halifax as well as where these men had previously been posted, and recorded every encounter with other vessels along the route from Acadia to Boston.
“May I take this with me?” Ethan asked.
Senhouse winced. “I don’t have the authority to say you can. You’re welcome to remain on board and look at it here, but I’d have to ask Captain Gell before I allow you to remove it from the Graystone.”
“Gell?”
Senhouse walked out of the wardroom; Ethan and Geoffrey followed.
“He commands the Launceston and thus the fleet,” Senhouse said, as they climbed back above decks. “I can speak to him on your behalf. I need to return to the ship anyway. And in the meantime, you’re free to remain here and begin your investigation. I’m sure Mister Brower will be glad to stay with you and assist in any way he can.”
Ethan had seen plenty of corpses in his day. He had witnessed killings and on more than one occasion he himself had killed. Still, the idea of remaining aboard the Graystone, its hold and decks crowded with the dead, didn’t appeal to him at all. On the other hand, Geoffrey appeared terrified at the prospect, which made it a little easier for Ethan to bear.
“That will be fine,” he said. “I’m sure Geoffrey will be most helpful.”
Brower opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again without saying a word, seeming to understand that this was not a duty he had any chance of avoiding. “Yes, of course,” he said at last.
“I can give you only so much time on the ship,” Senhouse said. “Before long, we need to gather the dead. In this sun they’re going to … well, they won’t keep for long.”
“Yes, of course,” Ethan said, squinting against the glare as he surveyed the deck again. “What will you do with them all?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t know. Usually we would give them burials at sea, but we can’t dump them all in the harbor. And I can’t imagine John—Captain Gell—will want to transport so many corpses into Boston.”
“Castle William, then,” Ethan said.
Senhouse considered this, gazing across the water toward the fortress. “Yes, perhaps. That’s an excellent idea. I’ll pass it along to the captain.”
He moved to the port gunwale, pulled out a white handkerchief, and waved it over his head several times. Returning it to his pocket, he faced Ethan and Geoffrey once more.
“We can’t keep you from speaking of what you’ve seen today. You’ve agreed to help us, and I have no doubt that before this is over you’ll take your inquiry into the city. You’ll have every opportunity to tell others what has happened. I beseech you not to tell anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to know. Word of this … this massacre could spread panic through the populace. And it could embolden those who seek to undermine the authority of the Crown.”
“I’m not sure that Ethan cares about that, Lieutenant.”
Ethan bristled.
Senhouse’s face fell. “Oh. I just assumed that since you…” He faced Ethan again. “Are you—?”
“Am I what?” Ethan asked, casting a dark look Geoffrey’s way. For someone who had all but forced Ethan to involve himself in this matter, Brower seemed awfully quick to cast doubts on his trustworthiness. He had spent too much time listening to Ethan’s sister cast aspersions on his character. “A rabble-rouser?” Ethan suggested. “A Son of Liberty?” He shook his head. “No, I’m not. But more importantly, for all intents and purposes, you’ve hired me, and that buys you not only my skills as a thieftaker, but also my discretion.”
Senhouse’s expression brightened. “Thank you.”
No one spoke again until a faint cry of “Ahoy, the Graystone!” reached them.
Senhouse looked back over his shoulder. “Ahoy!” he called back. “My transport is coming,” he told Ethan and Brower. “I’ll climb down and meet them; fewer questions that way. Until later, gentlemen.”
The lieutenant swung himself over the gunwale and began to climb back down the ratlines. When he had vanished
from view, Ethan cast another glare at Geoffrey and started away, manifest in hand.
According to the papers, the Graystone left Halifax with a complement of fourteen crewmen, seventy-four regulars, and four army officers, plus the six naval officers and Lieutenant Waite. One regular had died, apparently of a fever, and had been buried at sea. That had left a total of ninety-eight men aboard the vessel.
Ethan paused and looked around once more. Two officers lay on the deck, and the other four were still in their quarters. The commander was accounted for.
“Geoffrey, would you mind counting the crew members?”
Geoffrey had settled himself on a barrel, his back against the foremast. “What? Count them? What for?”
“I would like to be able to account for every man who’s supposed to be here.”
Ethan felt certain that Geoffrey would refuse, but he heaved a sigh and stood. “Very well.”
“Thank you. Just the crewmen. I’ll count the regulars.”
Geoffrey scowled, but walked across the deck to the cluster of dead crewmen at the stern.
Ethan began to count the regulars.
“There are six of them,” Geoffrey called.
Ethan didn’t bother looking back at him. “There should be more below.”
“You want me to go back down there?”
At that Ethan did turn.
Geoffrey sighed again, sounding more like a spoiled boy than a customs agent. “All right,” he said, and climbed down into the hold.
With Geoffrey gone, Ethan turned once more to the soldiers. He walked the length of the deck on the starboard side and back the other way on the port side. All told he counted twenty-four regulars and one army officer.
As he started toward the hatch leading down to the hold, Geoffrey emerged once more, looking pale, his face covered with a fine sheen of sweat.
“There were eight more down there. That makes fourteen total.”
“That matches what’s on the manifest,” Ethan said.
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