Upon walking around to the front of Henry’s shop, however, he found the old cooper standing in the street speaking with another man, who towered over him. This second man, imposing, with a bold hook nose and small pale eyes, Ethan recognized at once: Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf. Spotting Ethan, Henry pointed his way. Greenleaf turned, said something more to the cooper, and strode toward Ethan.
“How can I help you, Sheriff?” Ethan asked, halting where he was and resisting the urge to reach for his blade.
“You could do some of your witchery for me, so that I might put a noose around your neck and rid this city of you for good.”
“And failing that?” Ethan said.
“Hutchinson wants a word with you.”
The sheriff started walking northward toward the center of the city. Ethan had little choice but to follow.
Lieutenant Governor Thomas Hutchinson, chief justice of the province, was the one man in Boston with whom Ethan was even less eager to speak than Greenleaf. Their previous encounters, especially those that occurred back when Ethan was inquiring into the death of Abner Berson’s daughter, had been unpleasant to say the least. Hutchinson was a difficult man tasked with an onerous job: administrating a city and province whose citizens had grown increasingly resentful of their colonial masters.
“Do you know what he wants?” Ethan asked at length, as they made their way through Cornhill.
Greenleaf regarded him briefly but didn’t reply.
The Town House, where Hutchinson and other provincial officials had their offices, was one of the most impressive structures in the city. Constructed of red brick, it had a graceful steeple, fine statues of a lion and unicorn on either side of its gable, and elaborately carved facings around its famous clock. It had long been one of Ethan’s favorite buildings, despite the fact that most every time he entered it and ascended its marble stairway to the second floor, he found himself in some sort of trouble.
Greenleaf led him to the door of Hutchinson’s courtroom and knocked once. At a summons from within they both entered.
Ethan had first met Thomas Hutchinson three years earlier, also in this chamber. The night before their initial encounter, Hutchinson’s home had been destroyed by a mob of Stamp Act agitators. Hutchinson, a tall, slight man, who sat with his back straight and his shoulders thrust back, had not changed much in the intervening years. There were a few more lines on his high forehead and at the corners of his mouth, but otherwise he hadn’t conceded much to age. He had a long, prominent nose, and he wore a powdered wig of curls that framed his face, giving him a slightly feminine aspect. He was dressed in a black suit and white silk shirt and cravat, as he had been the last time they met in these chambers. That summer morning in 1765 it had been clear that the previous night had taken its toll on him. His large dark eyes had been bloodshot, his skin blotchy. He didn’t appear to be in much better spirits on this day.
“Mister Kaille,” he said. “It’s been some time.” He turned his gaze to Greenleaf. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
Greenleaf left them.
“Do you know why I’ve summoned you here?” the lieutenant governor asked.
“I have some idea, yes,” Ethan said. “I would imagine you wish to speak with me of the Graystone and her men.”
Hutchinson regarded him, his lips pursed a bit. “Yes, that’s right,” he said at last. “To be honest, I wish that we might have found some other manner in which to investigate this devilry. But I can see why Mister Brower recommended that we involve you, and I know as well why Governor Bernard agreed, despite his misgivings.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t understand much of what Brower told me about you. But I gather that you’re a witch, and that it was witchcraft that killed General Gage’s men aboard the Graystone.”
Ethan could have throttled Brower for telling Hutchinson that he was a conjurer.
“You have nothing to say?” the lieutenant governor asked.
“No, sir. I can help you find this killer; I may be the one person in Boston who is best equipped to do so. I don’t believe anything else matters.”
Hutchinson’s smile was as thin as a blade. “I admire your confidence, misplaced though it may be. You seem to have misunderstood me, however. Some of the others seem to think as you do. But I find myself agreeing with Sheriff Greenleaf. He believes that far from being the best person to solve these murders, you’re much more likely to be the person who committed them.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ethan said, his stomach tightening. It didn’t surprise him to learn that the sheriff thought him guilty of such a crime, but having Greenleaf believe this was one thing. Having the lieutenant governor and chief justice of the province believe it was quite another. “Why would I have killed those men? And why after doing so would I agree to help investigate their murders?”
“Fine questions. I have no answer for you. And to be honest, I have no time to deal with such puzzles now. In case you hadn’t noticed, Boston is about to welcome over a thousand new residents—all in uniform—with several thousand more on the way.”
“All the more reason to leave the investigation to me, Your Honor, just as Mister Brower and Lieutenant Senhouse intended.”
“Yes,” Hutchinson said. The word itself seemed to taste bitter on his tongue. “It shouldn’t surprise you to hear that I have a different solution in mind.”
He was almost afraid to ask. “What solution is that?”
“You have to understand, I have nothing against you personally. And I have no desire to return to the barbarities of the last century. But it seems to me that those who governed this colony before Governor Bernard and myself were so horrified by events in Salem and Ipswich, and even here in Boston, that they grew complacent over the years. I believe that they—that all of us—have become too tolerant of your kind.”
“Tolerant,” Ethan repeated. “You believe people in Boston are tolerant of conjurers?”
“You’re alive, Mister Kaille. And apparently a number of people know what you are and have known for some time. As I understand it, there are others like you. An African woman who lives on the Neck. An older man on Hillier’s Lane. And others.”
Janna. And old Gavin Black. Ethan wasn’t sure what others Hutchinson meant, but he was as certain as he could be that most if not all of them had no more to do with the killing of the Graystone’s soldiers than had Janna or Black.
“You see my point,” Hutchinson said. “There are so many of you now, and any one of you could be responsible for these atrocities.”
“I had nothing to do with the attack on the Graystone. Neither did Janna or Gavin.”
“So you say. But nearly one hundred of His Majesty’s men are dead, and I haven’t the luxury of your certainty. I can’t take the time to find the one witch among you who did this. And since you’re all abominations in the eyes of God, I feel that I would be perfectly justified in purging all of you from the city. I don’t relish the idea of public hangings or burnings, but I’d be a fool if I didn’t also acknowledge that such a display might prove useful as the occupation proceeds.”
“You truly are considering this,” Ethan said.
“Of course I am. This occupation will begin in a matter of days, and I don’t want this inquiry of yours hanging over us indefinitely.”
“I don’t want that either, Your Honor. I assure you it won’t take that long. Give me ten days and I will have your murderer. I swear it.”
Hutchinson shook his head. “Ten days? That’s out of the question. I can give you five.”
“That may not be enough time,” Ethan said.
“Then perhaps I should have the sheriff arrest you and your witch friends straightaway.”
Ethan glared at him. “You do understand that limiting my inquiry in this way makes it more likely to fail.”
“I disagree,” Hutchinson said, the thin smile returning. “I have been a leader of men for a long time, and I’ve learned that demanding results tends to prod
uce results. I have every confidence that if I were to give you a fortnight, you would take a fortnight. I’ve chosen instead to give you five days, and I’m certain that you’ll avail yourself of that time. And if in the end I’m proved wrong…” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Well, we still have my solution, don’t we?”
Hutchinson picked up a piece of parchment from his desk and began to read what was written there. “That is all, Mister Kaille.”
“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, making no effort to mask the bitterness in his tone. He let himself out of the courtroom, closing the door smartly behind him.
Greenleaf still waited for him in the corridor.
“What did he say?” the sheriff asked, his smile telling Ethan that he already had some notion of how the conversation had gone.
“He gave me five days,” Ethan said, striding past him.
Greenleaf’s face fell, making Ethan wonder if he had expected Hutchinson to deal with him even more harshly. It took the sheriff little time to recover, though.
“Well, I suppose you had better get busy then,” he called, his words echoing in the Town House stairway.
Ethan didn’t bother to answer.
Chapter
NINE
Ethan seethed as he left the Town House and set out for the North End.
Hutchinson’s time limit was troubling enough. Ethan hoped that he could find Gant within five days, but he was far from certain of it. More disturbing by far, though, was the lieutenant governor’s apparent eagerness to purge Boston of all its conjurers. With his superstition and his fear of conjurers, he threatened to take Boston, indeed the entire Province of Massachusetts Bay, down a path that had been trodden before, with tragic results. It didn’t matter whether one called Ethan’s kind witches or conjurers; tied to a stake or standing on a hangman’s gallows, they were all mortal souls. Suddenly Ethan was the only man in Boston who could prevent what would amount to a massacre.
He thought about running back to the Fat Spider to warn Janna, and making his way to Hillier’s Lane to tell Gavin Black. Perhaps they could leave Boston, find a safe place to stay until this matter was settled. But what of the other conjurers Hutchinson had mentioned, the ones Ethan didn’t know offhand? Was it fair to warn Janna and Old Black and leave the others to fend for themselves? Better, he decided, to conduct his inquiry as quickly and effectively as possible, and save their lives that way.
The place he had been heading before meeting up with Sheriff Greenleaf—the place he hadn’t been willing to take Mr. Pell—was a run-down tavern in the North End called the Crow’s Nest. It sat just past Mill Creek, at the south end of Paddy’s Alley, near the waterfront.
Kannice made a point of keeping the Dowsing Rod as reputable as possible. She didn’t allow whoring or fighting or any other activities that might attract the notice of the sheriff. The Crow’s Nest, on the other hand, might not have existed had it not been for whores, fights, and the trafficking of stolen and smuggled items. Ethan felt certain that Sheriff Greenleaf knew quite well what went on within its begrimed walls, but that a steady flow of coin convinced the good sheriff to look the other way.
The Nest had been in business since well before Ethan returned to Boston from the Indies, but over the years it had been run by a parade of ill-fated proprietors. One had been killed during a tavern brawl, at least three had been transported to the Caribbean for crimes ranging from theft to battery to murder, and another had disappeared under circumstances that to this day remained a mystery.
The current owner was a small, understandably skittish man named Joseph Duncan. Dunc spoke with a faint Scottish brogue and often rushed his words, making him difficult to understand under the best of circumstances. To make matters worse, he often had a lit pipe clenched between his teeth. He had taken ill during the smallpox epidemic of 1764, which proved even more deadly than the 1761 outbreak, and many assumed that he would meet a fate similar to that of other Crow’s Nest proprietors. But to everyone’s surprise, Dunc survived. His face, though, was ravaged by the disease, leaving his skin pitted and scarred.
When Ethan walked in, Dunc was standing at the bar, perusing a newspaper. He glanced up from the paper, but quickly went back to reading. An instant later, he looked up a second time and pulled the pipe from his mouth.
“You’re not welcome here!” he said, leveling a bony finger at Ethan. “I’ve told you that before.”
Ethan walked to the bar and tossed a half shilling onto the wood. “An ale,” he said to the bartender, a lanky man with large eyes and a crooked nose.
The bartender looked to Dunc, who was still eyeing Ethan.
“I’ll leave when I’ve finished my ale, Dunc,” Ethan said. “Not before. So you might as well tell him to serve me.”
Dunc glared at Ethan for another few seconds before replacing his pipe with a click of his yellow teeth on clay. “Fine,” he said, picking up his newspaper again. “One ale.”
The barkeep took Ethan’s coin and filled a tankard for him.
Ethan sipped his ale and leaned against the bar, eyeing the Scotsman. “I didn’t think you were the kind of man to hold a grudge for so long.”
Dunc continued to read, saying nothing.
“It looks like the repairs went well,” Ethan went on, surveying the tavern. “This place looks as shabby as ever.”
Dunc cast a dark look his way, but promptly turned to the paper once more. He was reading the Gazette, the foremost Whig newspaper in the city.
“You know, it really wasn’t my fault.”
Dunc threw the paper down on the bar. “Wasn’t your fault?” he repeated, spittle flying from the side of his mouth as he tried to talk around the pipe. “You come in here and call Sephira Pryce a liar and a cheat in front of all my patrons! And when her men go after you, you nearly burn the whole place down with what I can only assume was witch—”
Ethan raised a finger just in front of the man’s face, silencing him. “Keep your voice down!”
Dunc continued to glower at him, but for several moments he said nothing more. He puffed hard on his pipe, making the leaf in its bowl glow brightly in the dim tavern, and blew a cloud of sweet smoke from the corner of his mouth.
“What do you want, anyway?” he asked. “I thought you only drank in that tavern your woman owns.”
“I have some questions for you.”
The Scot’s laugh was high and harsh. “Are you fool enough to think I’d help you?” He leaned closer, and when he spoke again it was in a whisper. “Do you have any idea what Miss Pryce would do to me if she found out?”
“I have a fair notion, yes. Especially because this concerns her as well.” Ethan leaned toward the man and dropped his voice. “But do you have any idea what I’ll do to you if you don’t help me?”
Dunc stared back at him.
“She won’t find out,” Ethan said, his voice still low. “You have my word. And despite everything between us, you know what that’s worth.”
The Scot hesitated, nodded.
“Do you want to talk in back?”
Dunc shook his head. “People will see us go back there and they’ll know for sure that I helped you. Better we stay out here. Make it quick.”
“All right. What have you heard from Simon Gant lately?”
Dunc took a step back from him, nearly losing his footing as he did. “Gant? How do you—?” He clamped his mouth shut around the stem of his pipe, the bowl gleaming again. “No!” he said with a hard shake of his head. “I won’t speak of him!”
“Be reasonable, Dunc. You wouldn’t want me to leave here angry.”
“I’ll take my chances with you, Kaille. Better you than—” He shut his mouth again.
“Just tell me when you last saw him.”
Dunc shook his head and reached for his newspaper. Ethan slapped his hand down on the paper, making the smaller man flinch.
“Was it recently, within the last day or two?”
The Scotsman regarded him with wide, fearful
eyes. But after a brief pause he nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Do you think he’s still in the city? Is that why you’re so scared?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Do you know why Sephira might be looking for him?”
“No,” he whispered. “I swear I don’t. But…” He licked his lips. “They didn’t part on the best of terms.”
That much Ethan had gathered for himself.
“Do you have any idea where he—?”
“No more, Ethan. Please.”
Ethan considered pushing him for one last answer, but in the next moment thought better of it. Dunc wasn’t a bad sort, and Ethan had no desire to see him beaten or killed. “All right. But know this. I’ll be watching the Nest. If Gant comes here—whether it’s to meet with someone or sell goods—I’ll learn of it. And if I have to tear this place apart to get at him, that’s what I’ll do. So you should ask yourself whether you’re better off protecting him or helping me.”
Dunc kept his eyes on Ethan, but he reached for the paper once more. This time Ethan let him have it. He drained his ale and left the tavern. He could threaten the man all he wanted; he knew that it wouldn’t change Dunc’s mind. Ethan couldn’t blame him. Had he been in the Scot’s position, he too would have been more afraid of Gant than of himself.
Ethan intended to go to the Dowser next. There had been no time for him to speak with Kannice before leaving the city the previous day, and she would be wondering why she hadn’t seen him last night.
But as he stepped out onto Centre Street he noticed that people were walking toward the shores of the harbor, and that a crowd had gathered down at the water’s edge. He thought he knew already what had drawn the interest of so many, but he followed Centre Street onto Lee’s Wharf to make certain. From the wharf, he had a clear view of the harbor and was able to confirm his suspicions.
Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) Page 12