“Well, find the rest. Mister Kaille, I will look forward to our conversation in the morn. For now I have matters that demand my attention.”
“Yes, of course, sir. Until the morrow. Good night, Geoffrey.” He nodded once to Grant and left the Customs House, glad to be away.
The sky overhead had darkened to indigo, and a few stars had emerged, gleaming like gems in the velvet. The moon, a pale sickle, hung low in the west above a fiery horizon. Despite the cold, it was as lovely a night as Boston had seen in some weeks.
This might have had something to do with the coins that jangled in Ethan’s pocket as he returned to the Dowsing Rod. Kannice would not be pleased with him. Nor would Diver. Mere days before he had stopped working for Theophilus Lillie, they would say, and now he was taking money from Paxton, who was even worse.
Ethan wouldn’t go so far as to say that he didn’t care—Kannice’s opinion meant a great deal to him. But he also couldn’t deny that he was happy to be employed again, no matter who was paying him.
Still, he was not looking forward to telling her why Geoffrey had summoned him.
Diver and Deborah were already at the Dowser when Ethan arrived. He had little choice but to take his ale back to their table. Kannice joined him there as he was still greeting his friends.
“What was that all about?” she asked, a towel draped over her shoulder, strands of auburn hair hanging across her brow.
“The message from Geoffrey, you mean?” Ethan asked, taking his seat.
Her periwinkle eyes narrowed and in that split second it came to him again just how well she knew him. “Of course that’s what I mean. What did he want?”
“He found work for me, and I’m happy to have it.”
“And who is it you’ll be working for this time?” Diver asked, sounding every bit as suspicious as Kannice.
Ethan took a breath, bracing himself for their response. “Charles Paxton.”
“Paxton!” Diver repeated. “You might as well be working for King George himself!”
Ethan lifted his tankard and took a sip. “Given what the king might pay, I could do worse.” He glanced at Deborah, who appeared to be suppressing a grin.
“What are you doing for him?” Kannice asked. Ethan could tell that she was trying to conceal her outrage, and he appreciated the effort.
“I’m not protecting him, if that’s what you’re asking. His home was robbed, and he hired me to retrieve what was taken.” He eyed Diver. “Surely we can agree that any man who’s had his property pinched deserves to get back what’s his, regardless of his political beliefs.”
“I’m not so sure, where Paxton’s concerned,” Diver said. “Really, Ethan. It sometimes seems you go out of your way to work for the most despicable men in Boston.”
“Not out of my way, no. But when they’re offering coin, I don’t avoid them either. You’ll be happy to hear, though, that I asked for more than my usual fee.”
This brought a smile to Diver’s face. “And he agreed?”
“Aye. I’m making about as much as Sephira Pryce would.”
“And why not?” Kannice said. “You’re worth more.”
“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”
“It might.” A coy grin curved her lips. “We might need to discuss the matter further later this evening.”
Ethan held her gaze before asking of Diver, “And you?”
The younger man shrugged. “A cove’s got to work, doesn’t he?”
It was a better ending to the discussion than he had expected, and, later, a nicer conclusion to his evening than he had anticipated.
* * *
Charles Paxton lived on Hutchinson Street perhaps one hundred yards south of Milk Street. His was the only residence on the east side of the lane, and an impressive home it was: a three-story brick structure with colonnades flanking the front entrance. It stood directly across the lane from the rope yard of John Gray and but a short distance from Green’s Barracks, which housed those men of the Twenty-ninth Regiment for whom there was no space at Murray’s Barracks. Indeed, Ethan had forgotten how close to the quarters Paxton lived.
The rope yard, one of several in this part of the city, was a grand enterprise that included a large warehouse, several other buildings including the Gray residence, and an open expanse that ran almost all the way from Cow Lane north to Milk Street.
Ethan arrived at the Paxton estate as the clocks on the nearby meeting houses struck eight bells. Journeymen and apprentices were arriving at the rope yards. Not far off, groups of soldiers congregated in the street, bundled in their red coats, their gazes following the workers.
Ethan felt uneasy as he waited for an answer to his knock on Paxton’s door. The sooner he was inside the house and away from the regulars and workers, the better for all concerned.
He didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and Paxton himself greeted Ethan.
“You’re prompt, Mister Kaille. That bodes well for our association.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paxton asked him into the house and escorted him first to the rear of the house, where stood the broken door and doorjamb. Ethan knelt to examine the damage more closely, but from a mere glance he could see what had happened.
“The thief used his foot to break in the door,” he said, still scrutinizing the shattered wood. “He would have kicked it here…” He pointed. “Beside the door handle. I take it the theft occurred during the day, while you were at the Customs House, and your wife was abroad in the city. I would imagine that your servants were gone as well, shopping for groceries, perhaps.”
When Paxton said nothing, Ethan craned his neck to peer up at him.
“Very well done, Mister Kaille. That is precisely what happened.”
“Yes, sir. No thief would have entered in this way when the house was occupied. It would have made a good deal of noise. I would guess as well that whoever did this had been watching your home for some time, educating himself as to your behavior and that of your wife, as well as those others who live with you.” He stood.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Paxton said. “You would have seen the sort of men who frequent the rope yard across the street from us. No doubt it was one of them.”
“Or one of the soldiers billeted up the street.”
He could see that Paxton wanted to argue the point; they both knew that he couldn’t. Since the beginning of the occupation, soldiers had been responsible for many thefts throughout the city. They were paid poorly, were too often idle, and had little regard for the city’s inhabitants.
“I suppose that’s possible as well,” Paxton said.
“Did you prepare a list of the stolen items?”
“Yes, of course. Wait here.”
Paxton left through a doorway that led onto a narrow corridor. Ethan glanced at the door again, but really there was little more he could glean from it. Already he knew where this inquiry would take him. Before he was through, he would need to speak with Paxton’s servants and pay a visit to Green’s Barracks.
Paxton soon returned, clutching a piece of parchment. On it were listed nine items, including the necklace, brooch, and watch the commissioner had mentioned the night before. In addition, Mrs. Paxton had lost several gold rings, a pair of bracelets, and an ivory-handled hairbrush.
“Thank you, sir. This will be most helpful. I believe you said last night that these items were taken from your wife’s dressing room?”
“That’s right. Except for the watch, which was taken from my bedroom. I would allow you to see both, but there would be little use in it. We wasted no time cleaning up the mess left by this brute. There is nothing for you to see upstairs, and I don’t wish to disturb my wife. As you might expect, she has been thoroughly unnerved by this ordeal. I would prefer that we not include her in any of our conversations, lest we upset her more.”
“I understand,” Ethan said. “Tell me though, is there anything unusual about the plan of this house?”
“What do
you mean?”
“There’s no delicate way for me to put this, sir. What I mean to ask it this: Would a stranger to your home have an easy time navigating its many rooms, or would he need some prior knowledge in order to find the things he stole?”
Paxton frowned. “I don’t think I like your implication, Mister Kaille.”
“No, sir, I didn’t expect you would. I wish to speak with your servants, if I may. Particularly any young women who might work for you, and might have drawn the interest of one of General Gage’s soldiers.”
Paxton sighed. “That would be Louisa,” he said. “I’m afraid she’s not here at this time. Her parents live in the country and she left yesterday to spend the evening with them; her father, it seems, is elderly and infirm. She will return later today. You can speak with her tomorrow morning, if that suits you.”
“That would be fine, sir.”
“What will you do now?”
Ethan had no chance to answer, for at that moment a conjuring shook the floors and walls of the mansion. He knew it instantly for a finding spell, and he had no doubt that it had been cast to locate him. It rushed toward the house, putting him in mind of an advancing tide, as had Morrison’s spell two days before. It reached him in mere seconds, and was followed immediately by another spell.
This time, as the house rumbled with conjuring power, Uncle Reg appeared between Ethan and Paxton, who was, of course, oblivious.
“Mister Kaille, I asked you a question.”
“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, desperate to leave at once and learn what this newest spell had wrought. “I plan to visit a tavern that is frequented by men who traffic in pilfered goods.”
“You know of such a place?” Paxton asked, sounding indignant. “You should inform the sheriff at once.”
“I would, sir,” Ethan said, “but doing so would be a waste of time. Sheriff Greenleaf is well aware of its existence. If you can show me to the door?”
The customs man scowled. “Yes, all right.”
Paxton led him back through to the front of the house, moving far too slowly for Ethan’s purposes. It was all Ethan could do not to scream at the man to walk faster.
“I’ll return tomorrow, sir,” Ethan said as they reached the door. “Thank you for your time.”
“Wait a minute, Mister Kaille. Do you mean to tell me that visiting this publick house is all you plan to do?”
“No, sir. I plan as well to speak with your servant, and to see if I can find any soldiers or journeymen working at the rope yard who might have lavished their attentions on her. But I intend to start at the tavern, because if I don’t, and your property shows up there and is sold, you’ll never see any of it again.”
“Yes, but—”
“Mister Paxton, I have been a thieftaker for many years now. I wouldn’t visit the Customs House and tell you how to do your job. Please don’t presume to tell me how to conduct my inquiry.”
Paxton’s face shaded to crimson, but he essayed a thin smile. “Yes, very well. Good day, Mister Kaille.”
“Good day, sir.”
Ethan donned his hat and hurried back out to the street, but by the time he was close enough to the rope yard to see what was happening, events had already begun to turn ugly.
A soldier stood near the first of the ropewalks, trading insults with a journeyman as other workers looked on, laughing at each of the journeyman’s barbs. Ethan could not hear all that was said, but he saw that the soldier’s hands were clenched in fists, and that his face was bright red. Even as he shouted something back at the workers and took a step toward them, another man, using a nearby building to remain hidden, snuck up behind the regular and knocked his legs out from under him.
The soldier fell hard on his back, drawing uproarious laughter from the other men. Their mirth, however, was short-lived. A cutlass had slipped from within the soldier’s coat when he went down. The man who had upended him grabbed the weapon and held it up for his fellow workers to see.
“Looks like I’ve got a prize,” he said.
The soldier got to his feet, moving stiffly. He glowered at the men, but there were five of them, and he was alone and now unarmed. With a last dark look at the workers, he retreated toward the barracks.
After what he had seen at the Richardson house days before, Ethan knew better than to think that this was the end of the confrontation. He was not at all surprised when he felt another conjuring.
“Did that come from me?” he asked Uncle Reg.
The ghost nodded.
Ethan pursued the soldier, hoping that he might be able to dissuade the man from trying to avenge himself on the workers. But as he drew near, the soldier turned and pointed a trembling finger at him.
“You stay away from me!”
Ethan held up hid hands. “I’m not one of them, and I’m not trying to harm you.”
“It’s not me who’ll come to harm! I’ll have my sword back, and I’ll have satisfaction! You’ll see!”
“No good can come of this,” Ethan said.
But the soldier dismissed him with a wave of his hand and ran on to the barracks.
Ethan stared after him, and then turned back toward Paxton’s mansion and the journeymen. The laborers had returned to their work, though as Ethan reached them, they were still laughing and talking about how foolish the regular had looked as he fell.
“End this now,” Ethan called to the men. “Return his cutlass and have nothing more to do with them.”
The man who had taken the soldier’s sword regarded Ethan with scorn, as Ethan had known he would. Why would these men want to end the conflict when they had gotten the better of its first skirmish? Another of the men called to his companions and pointed in the direction of the barracks. The other men gazed that way and fell silent.
Ethan didn’t have to look to know what they saw, but still he turned. The soldier was striding down the center of the street, leading nine uniformed men, all of them carrying clubs.
The workers took shelter in the rope yard warehouse. Upon reaching the entrance to Gray’s enterprise, the soldiers followed them inside.
“Damn!” Ethan started toward the building, then stopped himself, unsure of how to proceed. “What should I do?” he asked Reg.
The ghost lifted an arm and pointed northward, away from the warehouse.
“I should go to the barracks?”
Reg shook his head and pointed a second time, more emphatically.
“You’re saying I should leave.”
Reg nodded.
“But I’m responsible. The spells that started this came from me.”
Again the ghost nodded, lifting his arm once more.
“You think they’ll continue to fight until I’m gone.”
The ghost offered no reply. He simply stared at Ethan, waiting.
Ethan knew that Reg was probably right, although he knew as well that there were spells he could use to keep the men from killing one another. The question was, how many times could he cast a sleep spell or some other sort of protective conjuring in front of others before someone decided to have him hanged for a witch? He had been lucky two days before on Long Wharf, and before that on the night of Chris Seider’s funeral. He couldn’t expect to be so fortunate forever.
He heard shouts coming from within the warehouse, and he watched as several more journeymen entered the building, all of them carrying woldring sticks, which they used to wind rope, but which would serve as cudgels as well. He had not felt another spell for several minutes, but apparently one wasn’t needed; like a fire burning bright, this fight needed no more kindling.
Chapter
THIRTEEN
With one last glance at the warehouse, Ethan left Hutchinson Street, choosing to circle the base of Fort Hill rather than risk passing too close to Green’s Barracks. He scanned the harbor and wharves as he walked, but his search for Nate Ramsey’s ship proved as fruitless this morning as it had every time before.
Willing to try anything to keep the
unseen conjurer from using him in this way, Ethan stopped on a stretch of empty road between the South Battery and Milk Street and pulled his pouch of mullein from the pocket of his coat.
“Tegimen ex verbasco evocatum,” he said. Warding, conjured from mullein. The spell hummed in the street, a declaration to his enemy.
Ethan didn’t know if the spell would work as he intended, but he had to make the attempt. If he could protect himself and those around him, he would have a better chance of finding whoever it was who had been casting these spells.
Shielded by his conjuring, Ethan continued on to the North End and what might have been the most disreputable tavern in all of Boston. The Crow’s Nest sat at the southern extreme of Paddy’s Alley, near the waterfront. Where Kannice did all she could to keep the Dowsing Rod free of fights, whoring, and other questionable behavior, the Crow’s Nest seemed to exist for those things. It was run-down and filthy. The ale served there was swill; Ethan had never dared taste the food. He wasn’t entirely sure that the place served any. But for those who trafficked in stolen goods—and thus, for thieftakers attempting to recover those items—the Nest might well have been the most important establishment in the city.
In the ten years since Ethan’s return to Boston from the plantation in the Caribbean where he labored as a prisoner, the Crow’s Nest had seen a succession of ill-starred proprietors. Some had died; others had been transported to the Caribbean for crimes they might or might not have committed. The current owner, Joseph Duncan, was a slight, excitable Scotsman who had barely survived a bout with small pox back in 1764. His face was pitted and scarred from the distemper.
When Ethan entered the tavern, Dunc was standing at the bar, reading a newspaper, and, as always, puffing on a tobacco pipe and sending clouds of sweet smoke into the rafters.
Seeing Ethan, he turned his back on the door and raised the paper so that it hid his face.
Ethan took off his hat and his gloves and stepped to the bar, planting himself beside the man. He slid a half shilling onto the worn wood.
“An ale,” he said to the barkeep.
The man dropped the coin into the till and filled a tankard.
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