A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  He nodded once to Kannice, and followed as she walked to the door.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  “Um, Robert, ma’am,” came the reply. The voice was that of a boy.

  The tension drained from Kannice’s face. Ethan kept his knife poised over his forearm, but when she reached for the key, a question in her eyes, he nodded again.

  She unlocked the door and pulled it open, revealing a boy in torn breeches and a white linen shirt that was far too small for him. He was alone, and he clutched a piece of folded parchment in one hand.

  “I gots a message for Ethan Kaille,” the boy said.

  Ethan sheathed his blade and pushed down his sleeve before advancing into the daylight.

  “I’m Kaille.”

  “In that case, this is for you, I guess.”

  Ethan glanced at Kannice and took the parchment. Unfolding it, he saw written in a neat hand,

  Please come to King’s Chapel at your earliest convenience.

  —T. Pell

  “It’s from Mister Pell,” he told Kannice.

  “Aye,” the boy said, eager. “That’s who gave it to me. The minister at the chapel; the young one. He said you’d give me a bit of coin for my trouble.”

  Kannice looked away, her eyes dancing.

  “Did he?” Ethan asked. “Was this before or after he paid you?”

  “Oh, aft—” The boy clamped his mouth shut, his face coloring.

  “It’s all right, lad,” Ethan said, laughing now. He fished in his pocket for tuppence. “Here you are.”

  “My thanks,” the boy said, beaming as he pocketed the coin. He started to turn away.

  “Wait, boy. Did Mister Pell say anything more?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right. On your way then.”

  The boy hurried away.

  Ethan pulled the door closed once more.

  “I should go without delay. Pell wouldn’t send for me if he hadn’t need.”

  “Of course,” Kannice said. “Come back later?”

  “Gladly.” He kissed her cheek and left the tavern.

  King’s Chapel stood a short distance south of the Dowser, on School Street, just off of Treamount. In order to reach it, Ethan had to walk back past the Orange Tree tavern and the Tyler house with its bright red flag. Daily was out front again, standing watch and looking glum, but unmarked by the distemper. Perhaps Deborah would be reassured.

  Though King’s Chapel was home to one of the oldest and most influential congregations in Boston, it might well have been the city’s least attractive church, at least from without. It had been rebuilt some fifteen years before, its graceful wooden sanctuary enclosed within a new granite exterior. The stone façade was proof against fires, and Boston had seen many in the years since the new exterior was constructed, including the devastating blaze of 1760, which swept through the Cornhill section of the city, destroying hundreds of structures. But the chapel now had a ponderous look that set it apart from the soaring spires and elegant lines of Boston’s other churches. Worse, it remained incomplete, with no spire of its own to lessen the severity of its appearance.

  Ethan entered the churchyard through a gate near the corner of Treamount and School streets, followed a short path to a set of low stone steps, and walked into the chapel through a pair of thick oaken doors, removing his hat as he did. Inside, in marked contrast to the austere stone exterior, the church was as welcoming and handsome as any in the city. Columns, painted in shades of brown and tan, their crowns intricately carved, supported a high vaulted ceiling. Sunlight streamed into the sanctuary through banks of windows two stories high, reflecting off the polished wood of the boxed pews and the wooden floorboards of the central aisle.

  Three men stood in the rounded chancel beyond the church’s altar. One of them was tall and narrow-shouldered, with a sallow complexion and an expression to match. The second was shorter and rounder, with a far more pleasant aspect. Both of these men, Henry Caner, the stouter of the two, who was rector of the chapel, and John Troutbeck, the curate, wore black robes and the stiff white cravats that marked them as ministers. The third man, whom Ethan did not know, was taller than Troutbeck and more rotund than Caner. He wore red breeches and a matching waistcoat, and had bone-white hair that he wore in a long plait.

  Neither of the ministers harbored much affection for Ethan. Both viewed him as a servant of Satan, a witch whose use of magick was offensive to God and themselves. Ethan thought they would have been pleased to see him burned at the stake for his sins. Given the opportunity, they might even have thrust the first torches into his pyre. He expected that their large friend would feel much the same way.

  Ethan’s sister, Bett, and her husband, Geoffrey Brower, an agent of the Customs Board, were members of the King’s Chapel congregation. They were no more fond of Ethan than were Caner and Troutbeck. Though the same conjuring blood that flowed through Ethan’s veins also flowed through Bett’s, long ago she had eschewed spellmaking in favor of piety. She made every effort to conceal her family history, and to deny that she had a brother here in Boston.

  The one friend Ethan had in King’s Chapel, Trevor Pell, the young minister whose missive had summoned him here, was nowhere to be seen. Ethan wondered if he had been foolish to come, and he thought about leaving the chapel before Caner or Troutbeck noticed him.

  “Is that Mister Kaille?”

  Would that he had thought to leave a minute earlier.

  Mister Caner, who had spoken, was already striding up the aisle in Ethan’s direction. Ethan had no choice but to fix a smile on his lips and walk forward to meet the rector.

  “Well met, reverend sir,” he said.

  “And you, Mister Kaille.” Caner’s mien remained somber, but he had not yet ordered Ethan out of his chapel, which Ethan took as a small victory. He looked back at the altar. “Mister Troutbeck, would you please find Trevor and tell him that Mister Kaille has arrived?”

  Troutbeck scowled, but said, “Yes, reverend sir,” and descended the marble stairway that led to the chapel’s crypts, where Ethan had spent entirely too much time over the past few years. At the same time, the third man walked toward Ethan and the rector with a rolling, lumbering gait.

  “Mister Pell will join us in a moment,” the rector said, facing Ethan once more. “It was his idea to invite you here, so I prefer to wait for him before we speak of these matters.”

  Ethan wasn’t sure what “matters” Reverend Caner referred to, but for the moment he kept his questions to himself.

  “In the meantime,” Mister Caner went on, “I would like you to meet Doctor Silvester Gardiner, who is rector’s warden here at King’s Chapel. Doctor Gardiner, this is Ethan Kaille.”

  Gardiner stared hard at Ethan, his expression so stern beneath his prominent brow that Ethan felt like a schoolboy caught in the glare of a displeased catechist.

  They shook hands, Gardiner’s massive paw seeming to swallow Ethan’s.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Gardiner.”

  “I’m grateful to you for coming,” the man said, his voice far softer and more mild than Ethan had expected.

  “As you might imagine,” Caner said, “Doctor Gardiner takes more than a passing interest in these events.”

  Ethan frowned. “I’m sorry, reverend sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Didn’t Mister Pell tell you?”

  “No. His message requested that I come here at my earliest convenience. It said nothing more.”

  Caner clicked his tongue and glanced at the warden. “I see. Well, I think I would prefer that he was with us for this conversation.”

  “All right,” Ethan said, perplexed.

  They did not have to wait long. The young minister emerged from the crypts with Troutbeck behind him, struggling to keep pace.

  Trevor Pell had not changed at all in the four years Ethan had known him. He was slight, with straight brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a face so youthful that he would
have looked more like an altar boy than a minister if not for the robes and cravat that he also wore.

  He walked with grim purpose, his expression uncharacteristically somber. “Mister Kaille,” he said, stepping past Caner and Gardiner to shake Ethan’s hand. “Thank you for heeding my summons so quickly.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Mister Pell.”

  “Mister Pell,” Caner said, “I thought you intended to tell Mister Kaille what has happened. He knows nothing right now.”

  “Yes, reverend sir,” Pell said. “You impressed upon me the need for discretion. I thought you would prefer that the note I sent to Mister Kaille be as vague as possible.”

  Caner considered this. “I suppose you’re right.” To Ethan he said, “You’ll have to forgive me, Mister Kaille. I have little experience with affairs of this sort. But Mister Pell believes that you can help us, and despite our past differences, I am hopeful that he is correct.”

  “What’s happened?” Ethan asked, eyeing the men.

  The warden answered. “This church and its congregation have been the victims of a foul crime.”

  “More than one, actually,” Pell said. “Over the past several nights, the sanctity of the King’s Chapel Burying Ground has been violated.”

  “Resurrectionists?” Ethan asked.

  Pell nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  The practice of stealing cadavers from graves had been common in England for some time. Schools of medicine and private physicians alike needed bodies with which to study anatomy and practice dissections. At the same time, most churches prohibited any desecration of the dead, even if done in the name of science. As a result, a rather profitable market in corpses, particularly bones, had established itself outside the bounds of the law. In recent years, so-called resurrectionists—grave robbers who spirited away the bodies of the dead—had brought their grisly work to the American colonies. And with schools of medicine having been recently established in Philadelphia and New York, and likely to be founded in other cities as well, the demand for cadavers would only increase.

  Ethan had heard as well of conjurers using bones for spells the way he used blood. Bones were said to be every bit as effective, and they eliminated the need for a spellmaker to cut himself. He also knew that Tarijanna Windcatcher, a conjurer who owned a tavern on Boston’s Neck, sold ground bone in her tavern, along with oils, herbs, and minerals that were said to enhance the power of conjurings. Most of the bone Janna sold came from animals rather than people, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she had vials of both. And there were those who trafficked in gruesome goods regardless of whether they could cast spells. A market for bone had thrived for years in this city, and thieves looked for profit where they could, caring not a whit for the sensibilities of others, even in matters of death and the sanctity of a grave.

  “Members of our congregation deserve to know that their loved ones can lie undisturbed in their graves,” Caner said. “They should not have to fear that the poor souls will be profaned by rogues and craven thieves.”

  “Of course, reverend sir. I understand completely.”

  “We wish to engage your services, Mister Kaille. We want you to find the villains who have been desecrating these graves. You will, of course, have our full cooperation. Whatever you need, Doctor Gardiner and Mister Pell will see to it. You have my word on that. In return, we are prepared to pay you five pounds. As I understand it, we would pay you some of that now, and—”

  “No,” Ethan said. “I’ll do what I can to help you, but I won’t take your money.”

  Pell shook his head. “Ethan—”

  “I’ll not take payment from a house of God. Besides, if all you say is true, this is a dark business; no one should profit from it.”

  Mister Caner blinked, but said nothing.

  Pell glanced sidelong at the rector before saying, “Thank you.”

  Ethan faced Caner again. “I’ll do my best to find those responsible, reverend sir.” A small grin tugged at his lips. “And in deference to you, I’ll also do my best to…” His eyes flicked toward Gardiner. “To use conventional means to the extent possible.”

  That, of all things, brought a smile to Reverend Caner’s face. “You’re most kind, Mister Kaille. I was reluctant to hire you, as you might imagine. But Trevor insisted you were the right person for this task. I see now that he was right. When can you begin?”

  “Immediately. If one of you would be so kind as to show me the disturbed graves.”

  The rector nodded. “Yes, of course. Silvester? Trevor?”

  Gardiner gestured toward the chapel entrance. Ethan bid good day to Caner and Troutbeck, and allowed the warden and the young minister to lead him out into the sunshine.

  It had been cool when Ethan left the Dowsing Rod a short while before, and dew had lain heavy on the lawns along Treamount Street. But the sun now hung higher in the morning sky, and already the air was turning uncomfortably warm. This promised to be another sweltering day.

  Gardiner led Pell and Ethan around the side of the chapel to the old burying ground at the north end of the churchyard. As they approached the jumble of tombstones, Ethan spotted a man squatting in the shade over what appeared to be a disturbed gravesite.

  “That’s James Thomson,” Gardiner said before Ethan could ask. “He’s our sexton.”

  Marking their approach, Thomson straightened, and Ethan realized that he, like Gardiner, was uncommonly tall; he was also spear thin. Everything about him appeared stretched out, as if he had somehow survived years of torture on the rack. His limbs were spiderlike, his neck overlong and thrust forward at an odd angle. His steel-gray hair was tied back in a plait, and his face was weathered and lined. He wore a dark blue waistcoat over a white linen shirt that was stained dark with sweat under the arms.

  Despite his awkward appearance, he came to greet them with long, loping strides that were almost graceful.

  “Good day, Mister Pell,” he said, in a rough voice. “Doctor Gardiner.”

  “Good morning, James,” Pell said.

  “This our witch?” the sexton asked, turning to Ethan.

  Ethan glanced at Pell, who stared at the ground, his lips pursed. Ethan had the feeling the young minister was doing everything in his power to keep from laughing. Gardiner glowered at them all.

  “Aye,” Ethan said, proffering a hand. “I’m your witch.”

  Thomson gripped his hand firmly and nodded, oblivious of having given offense. “Glad you’re here,” he said, and returned to the disturbed site. He squatted once more and pointed down into the grave. “It’s grim work they did,” he said. “Not seen anything like it in all my years here.”

  As soon as Ethan, Pell, and Gardiner joined him graveside, they were assailed by the smell of decay. Pell gave a soft grunt and turned away, covering his nose and mouth with an open hand. Gardiner retreated in haste, a look of disgust on his fleshy features. Ethan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his face.

  “They weren’t gentle about it,” Gardiner said, from a few paces away. “Seemed in a bit of a hurry, if you ask me.”

  Ethan had to agree with the warden. Dirt had been hastily shoveled aside, and the coffin had been splintered, most likely by an axe. Through the broken wood, Ethan could see that the linen burial cloth had been cut open and pulled away from the corpse, exposing clothing and part of the neck and chest.

  “They didn’t steal the entire body?” Ethan asked of the sexton, who seemed unaffected by the stench.

  “No. They took the head, and the right hand off of each. It’s strange, isn’t it?”

  “Aye,” Ethan said.

  “Not only that, but they also took an article of clothing from each grave, or at least a piece of something.” He pointed down into the grave. “This one was wearing a cravat, and that’s gone.”

  “Have you ever heard of other resurrectionists doing that?” Ethan asked.

  The sexton shook his head. “No, but then again,
I’ve not heard much of anything about their kind. And I would have been content to keep it that way.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Ethan said. “I gather that the family has already been here.”

  “No, why would you think that?”

  “Well,” Ethan said, “I didn’t expect that you could remember so clearly what the man was wearing when he was buried.”

  “He only went in the ground nine or ten days ago.” Thomson swept his arm in a wide arc, encompassing more than half a dozen graves, all of which appeared to have been desecrated. “Every one of these sites was dug in the last four months or so.”

  “Do you mean to say that every grave that’s been robbed is a new one?”

  “Aye. And that’s not all.”

  Thomson climbed down into the grave and unbuttoned the soiled linen shirt in which the corpse had been buried. On the left side of the dead man’s chest, carved into the rotting skin over his heart was an odd symbol: a triangle, its apex pointing toward the man’s chin, with three straight lines cutting across the shape from the left edge to converge at the bottom right corner.

  “What is that?” Ethan whispered.

  “I was hoping you would know,” the sexton said. “Come with me.”

  He covered up the chest of the cadaver and nimbly climbed out of the grave. He straightened and strode to another grave, which lay perhaps twenty yards from the first. Ethan followed, noting as he reached this second site that the gravestone was somewhat thicker than others nearby, and had more ornate carvings around the edges. The family name Rowan was engraved on the stone. Below etched in smaller letters, were the words “Abigail, Devoted Wife and Loving Mother, b. 23 September 1701, d. 28 May 1769.”

  “Abigail Rowan,” Ethan whispered. “I remember hearing of her death. Her husband is a man of some repute.”

  “Aye,” Thomson said, keeping his voice low, and looking back at Pell and Gardiner, who lingered near the first grave. “Rich men usually are.” He lowered himself into this grave, as well.