Thieftaker tc-1

by D. B. Jackson

  He shrugged. She knew well enough what he thought of the agitators. After the attack on Oliver’s house, they had argued about it for two days. But he was thinking once more about that conjuring he had felt. Had there been spells at work in addition to whatever else stirred the mobs to attack?

  Regardless of the answer, Kannice was right: Attacking the homes of William Story and Benjamin Hallowell was one matter. Story, of the Admiralty Court, and Hallowell, the comptroller of the Customs House, were two of the most hated men in all of Boston. But Thomas Hutchinson was lieutenant governor and chief justice of the province. To be sure, he had enemies among those opposed to the Grenville Acts, but he was also one of the most respected leaders in the colony. If these men were right-if Hutchinson’s home had been attacked-it would anger not only the Crown, but many of those the leaders of these demonstrations hoped to draw to their cause.

  “Has anyone been hurt?” Kannice asked, sounding disgusted.

  “Not tha’ we know,” the first man said. “Hutchinson an’ his family have got away, an’ so did th’ other two. Bu’ their homes are wrecked.”

  One of the men behind him suppressed a chuckle and looked sidelong at another. This man laughed, too.

  “All right, you lot,” Kannice said. “You’ve had your say. Now get out.”

  “Bu’ we’re thirsty,” the first man said, sounding aggrieved.

  “Well, you’ll have to find your drink elsewhere.”

  They looked like they might argue, but at that moment Kelf stepped out from behind the bar, and planted himself in the middle of the great room, his massive arms crossed over his chest. The men grumbled among themselves, but shuffled out of the tavern.

  When they had gone, Kelf faced Ethan and Kannice. “Ya think it’s true?”

  “Hallowell’s place is on Hanover Street, isn’t it?” Ethan asked.

  “Yes,” Kannice said. “And I think William Story lives near the Court House.”

  “I heard them,” Ethan said. “There were mobs at both houses.”

  Kelf looked from one of them to the other. “But Hutchinson-he lives in th’ North End, don’ he? Did ya hear anything from there?”

  “It was hard to tell,” Ethan told him. “But if the rest of it’s true…”

  “Then this is, too,” Kannice finished for him. “And there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Chapter Four

  S oon after the men left, Kannice and Ethan went upstairs and immediately fell into each other’s arms, forgetting about Parliament and street mobs for a time. After they made love, though, Ethan made the mistake of asking if Kannice was ready to admit that the Stamp Act agitators were ruffians and fools.

  “The ones who attacked Hutchinson’s house?” she said. “Clearly. But that doesn’t mean all of them are.”

  He should have left it at that. But he didn’t, and they were up half the night arguing about the rioters and what they had done. Kannice, who believed that Parliament had overstepped its authority by enacting the Stamp Act in the first place, blamed the mob for going too far and ransacking the Hutchinson house. But she refused to say categorically that the riots led by Ebenezer Mackintosh and his men were wrong.

  Ethan could hardly contain himself. “So what you’re saying is that they were justified in attacking Andrew Oliver’s property, but not Thomas Hutchinson’s.”

  “Oliver has been made distributor of stamps!” she said, as if that was answer enough.

  “That is what you’re saying then!”

  Kannice raised her chin defiantly. “Yes!”

  “So, you think it acceptable to destroy the property of those who disagree with you! And you’d be fine if people who support the Stamp Act tore the Dowser to the ground!”

  “That’s not what I said!” she shot back. “And you know it! Oliver will be enforcing the Act. What was done to him was unfortunate, but justified. Tonight was different.”

  “There’s no justification for destroying a man’s home,” Ethan said in a low voice. “I don’t care who he is, or what he’s done. If that’s the freedom these men speak of, then I want no part of it.” He rolled over and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

  Ethan could tell that Kannice was watching him, thinking of more to say. But at last she blew out the lone candle burning in the room and lay down beside him. She touched his arm lightly and Ethan reached back to give her hand a quick squeeze. Soon after, he fell asleep.

  When Ethan woke, Kannice was already up. The room was cold, though the bed was still warm where she had lain. She had pulled on a long, plain dress and was plaiting her hair.

  Seeing that he was awake she said, “Good morning. Are you hungry?”

  Ethan nodded and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.

  “Bacon? Bread? Eggs?”

  “Aye,” he said.

  Kannice laughed. “Fine. Don’t take too long getting yourself out of bed. Unlike some people, I have to work today.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She came to the bed, kissed him, and slipped out of the room.

  Ethan lay there for a few minutes more before finally sitting up and reaching for his breeches, which were slung across a chair next to the bed. He had barely gotten them on when the door opened again and Kannice came in, wearing a mild frown.

  “Is everything all right?” Ethan asked.

  “I’m not really sure,” she said. “There’s a man downstairs-no one I’ve ever seen before. He says he’s looking for you.”

  “Lots of people saw me here last night. And it’s no secret that you and I spend a great deal of time together.”

  “I know,” she said, still troubled.

  “What did he look like?” Ethan asked. “What’s he wearing?”

  “He looks harmless enough. Older than I am.” She paused. “Probably older than you are, too. Fine clothes. A silk shirt, linen waistcoat and matching coat and breeches. But he looks too rough to be a merchant or a shop owner.”

  “A servant?”

  “Maybe.”

  He reached for his shirt. “All right. I’ll be down shortly.”

  She nodded and left the room once more. Ethan finished dressing, making certain to strap on his blade. Then he left the room and descended the stairs to the tavern.

  The man stood beside the doorway, his hands in front of him clasping the brim of a black tricorn hat. As Kannice had said, his clothes-the white silk shirt and pale blue ditto suit with its matching coat, waistcoat, and breeches-were of fine quality and fit him well. His hair was silver, but his face was unlined-Ethan wouldn’t have wanted to hazard a guess as to his age. His eyes were pale, and his nose looked like it had been broken at least once. Even before he spoke, Ethan guessed that he was a Scotsman by birth.

  “Yah’re Kaille?” the man asked, as Ethan approached. “Th’ thieftaker?” His brogue was heavy-definitely Scottish.

  “I’m Ethan Kaille. Who are you?”

  “I represen’ a man who wishes t’ hire ya.” He indicated the closest table with an open hand.

  Ethan hesitated, then took a seat. The stranger seated himself across from him.

  “Who is it you represent?”

  “Have ya heard of Abner Berson?”

  Who hasn’t? Ethan wanted to ask. Berson had made a fortune importing and selling hardware and firearms from England. He owned a wharf and warehouses in the North End off Ship Street, and was one of the richest men in Massachusetts. “Everyone’s heard of Mister Berson.”

  “I suppose. Ya wouldna heard that his daughter was killed last night, in th’ middle of all that unpleasantness.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Ethan said, his eyes flicking in Kannice’s direction. She was wiping the bar with a cloth, but he could tell she was listening. “I hope you’ll convey my condolences to Mister Berson and his wife.”

  The man accepted his words with a nod.

  “They had two daughters, didn’t they?”

  “Aye. This was th’ older one. Jennifer.”

  Et
han knew why the man had come, and though he sympathized with the merchant and his family, he needed to make it clear that he couldn’t help them.

  “You understand, sir, that I’m a thieftaker. I recover stolen items for a fee and I deal with those who are guilty of thievery. But I don’t track down murderers.”

  A wry smile touched the stranger’s face. “O’ course ya don’t, Mister Kaille. There’s no profit in it.”

  Ethan bristled. “That’s not-”

  “I mean no offense. Ya have a trade. Ya have t’ make a livin’. I understand. As i’ happens, Mister Berson has need o’ yar talents as a thieftaker. His daughter had on a brooch when she was killed. It was taken. Th’ family wants it back.” He pulled a small pouch from the pocket of his coat and placed it on the table. Ethan heard the muffled clink of coins. “Tha’s ten pounds. More will come t’ ya when ya find that brooch.”

  Ethan’s eyes strayed to the pouch. “And if I happen to find Jennifer’s killer while I’m recovering the brooch…”

  “Obviously, Mister Berson would be most pleased.”

  Ten pounds. And more when he found the brooch. Ethan had to admit that he was tempted. But only the night before he had decided to keep out of sight for a while, to live off the money he had gotten from Ezra Corbett. More to the point, in all the time he had been working as a thieftaker he had tried to avoid taking jobs involving murders. They were far more dangerous, and he could never justify sparing the life of a thief who also killed, which meant that he himself might have to take a life. He had vowed long ago never to do that again.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said, meeting the stranger’s gaze once more.

  “If it’s a matter o’ more money…”

  Ethan shook his head. “It’s not. I don’t work murders.” He stood. “Please thank Mister Berson for his offer.”

  “He asked for ya specifically,” the man said quickly. “And he doesna like bein’ refused. Ya might wan’ t’ consider if Abner Berson is someone ya want as an enemy.”

  It wasn’t the threat that stopped him. He had heard far worse in his years as a thieftaker in this city. But the other part… He asked for you specifically.

  “Why would he want me?” Ethan asked.

  The man shrugged; the expression on his face didn’t change at all. “It’s no’ my place t’ ask. But he did.”

  Now that he thought about it, Ethan realized that this should have been his first question. He usually worked for men of middling means-merchants like Corbett, craftsmen like Henry, for whom he had recovered a valuable set of tools before taking the room above his cooperage. Men as wealthy as Berson didn’t come to him. They went to Sephira Pryce. Pryce was better known; she was as wealthy and influential as they were. If word got around Boston that Berson had come to Ethan instead of going to the Empress of the South End, as many called Pryce, both Ethan and the merchant could expect visits from her and her toughs-never an appealing prospect.

  Kannice would have told Ethan that this was all the more reason to send the silver-haired stranger away, to follow through on his plan to avoid the streets for a time. But that had never been his way.

  “Have you approached Sephira Pryce about this?” he asked.

  For the first time, Berson’s man seemed unnerved. His face paled, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “No,” he said. “Mister Berson sent me here.”

  “Has he had dealings with Miss Pryce in the past?”

  “It’s no’ my place t’ say,” the man said. He seemed unsettled by the question. “Mister Berson sent me here.”

  “You already said that.”

  “An’ will ya accept his offer?” He shifted in his chair, then straightened, regaining some measure of his composure. “Most men o’ yar… station would leap at th’ chance t’ work for Mister Berson.”

  “Most men of my station wouldn’t be offered the opportunity.”

  “Ya make my point for me, Mister Kaille.”

  “Right, but what I’m wondering…” He stopped in midsentence, staring at the man.

  “Yes?”

  Of course. It came to him in a rush, along with his memory of the conjuring he had felt the night before. He should have understood immediately. If he was going to risk angering Pryce, he couldn’t afford to be this slow-witted.

  “All right,” Ethan said. “I’ll do it.”

  The stranger looked genuinely surprised. “Ya will?”

  “Aye. I’ll need a description of the brooch and some information about Mister Berson’s daughter-where she was killed, and exactly when; where she had been, and where she was going. If possible I’d like to see her corpse.”

  He had expected that this would trouble the man, but the stranger merely nodded, as if he had expected Ethan to request as much. What did it say about the streets of Boston that a merchant’s man should be more disturbed by the mention of Sephira Pryce than by the dead body of his employer’s daughter?

  “She’s a’ King’s Chapel,” the man said, “downstairs in th’ crypt.”

  “The crypt? She’s already been buried?”

  “No. Tha’s where her body was taken. She’s t’ be buried on th’ grounds there.”

  Naturally. The King’s Chapel Burying Ground was the oldest cemetery in Boston, and the only one a man like Abner Berson would have deemed appropriate for the interment of his child.

  “Mister Caner, the rector there, knows yah’re comin’,” the man went on. “Once yah’ve seen her, yah’re t’ come t’ th’ Bersons’ home.”

  “All right,” Ethan said, although he was already having second thoughts. He had his reasons for taking the job, but he had also had his reasons for refusing at first. Perhaps the stranger read the doubt in Ethan’s eyes, because he stood, put on his hat, and strode to the tavern entrance, as if determined to leave the Dowser before Ethan could change his mind. He paused by the door and looked back at Ethan.

  “Until later, Mister Kaille,” he said, and left.

  For several moments Ethan sat staring at the door, wrestling with the urge to run after the stranger and give him back Berson’s money. At last, knowing that by now he had waited too long, he reached for the pouch, which still sat on the table. He held it in his palm, enjoying the weight of it, the soft jangling of the coins. Then he stood and slipped it into his pocket.

  Turning toward the bar, he froze. Kannice was watching him, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed in a thin line.

  He walked over to her. “You have something to say to me?”

  “I thought you weren’t taking any jobs for a while.”

  “This one’s different,” he said. “I couldn’t say no.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “That man works for Abner Berson. His daughter’s been killed.”

  “I heard,” she said, her voice flat. Ethan had been sure she would have much to say about him working on a killing, but if she did, she kept it to herself.

  “They want me because there were spells involved. He didn’t say it, but I’m sure. I think I might even have felt the conjuring that killed her. That’s why Berson didn’t go to Sephira Pryce.”

  “And do you have to work every job that calls for a conjurer?”

  “Would you rather I left it to Sephira or the sheriff? They know nothing about spells. Or rather, they know just enough to cast suspicion on every speller in Boston, myself included. It has to be me, Kannice. I’m the only one who knows enough about conjuring to find the truth.”

  Kannice went back to wiping the bar, rubbing at the wood with such fury that Ethan half expected her to take off the finish.

  “She died last night,” Ethan said. “Berson’s man made it sound like she was killed by the same mob that destroyed Hutchinson’s house.”

  She frowned, but she didn’t look at him. “You don’t believe that any more than I do,” she said quietly. “The men who wrecked those houses might be fools, but they’re not murderers.”

  “Not all of them. But one of them might
be.”

  Kannice cast a hard look his way, but continued to clean the bar.

  “I have to go,” he told her at last.

  She nodded, a strand of hair falling over her forehead. He started to reach out to brush it away, then stopped himself.

  “Will you be back here tonight?” she asked, pushing the strand away herself.

  “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  Her frown deepened.

  “Anyway,” he went on. “It’ll probably be a late night.”

  She straightened, her eyes meeting his. She draped the polishing cloth over her shoulder and tipped her head to the side. “If you change your mind…”

  “Aye,” he said. Both of them knew he wouldn’t. He stood there another moment, neither of them speaking. Finally, Kannice went behind the bar, and retreated into the kitchen.

  Ethan left the tavern.

  The warmth of the previous night had given way to a cooler morning. The sky was a clear, bright blue, and a freshening wind blew in off the harbor, carrying the smell of fish and brine, and sweeping away the heavy pall of smoke that had been inescapable the night before. The streets were crowded with carriages and men and women on foot making their way with grim purpose to shops or to the markets at Faneuil Hall.

  When Ethan first came to Boston, twenty-one years before, he thought he had never seen a finer place. The city was small by English standards, but it was clean and alive. Its streets bustled with activity. It was everything Bristol, his home in England, was not.

  Two decades later, hard times and war had taken their toll. Every day, Boston felt more like the sad, gray cities of England. It had grown torpid, weak. Where once it had been the leading city of British North America, it was now the indolent older sister to New York and Philadelphia, surpassed by its younger, more vibrant siblings.

  King’s Chapel sat at the corner of Treamount and School Streets, only a few blocks from the Dowsing Rod. It was one of the older churches in Boston, though it had been rebuilt only ten years before, its wooden exterior enclosed within a new granite facade. The wisdom of that choice had been borne out in the years since, as Boston was ravaged by fires, including one that began on Cornhill and swept down to the wharves, damaging literally hundreds of shops and homes. Some had suggested that the rebuilt church should now be called Stone Chapel, but it remained King’s Chapel to most in the city.