“I don’t know that one of them did,” Ethan said. “I’m a thieftaker, and I’ve little experience with murders. I have to start somewhere. Thieves can be quite specific in choosing their victims, but they can also be random. If your daughter had wandered into the lower lanes of the South End and been robbed, I probably wouldn’t be asking such questions. But she was murdered, and though my experience with killings is meager, I believe that such acts are less arbitrary. Someone might have killed her to steal the brooch. Or might have stolen it as an afterthought. Or perhaps she was killed for some other reason and the villain took the brooch to confuse matters, to conceal the true purpose behind her murder.”
Berson’s face had paled and his hand trembled as he rubbed it across his mouth. But he shook his head vehemently. “I believe you’re thinking about this the wrong way, Mister Kaille.”
Ethan didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, though he wanted to. Did Berson now fancy himself a thieftaker? “Is that so, sir?”
“Yes. No doubt you’ve heard of the unpleasantness last night.”
“The destruction of the lieutenant governor’s home.”
“And the homes of Hallowell and Story,” Berson said pointedly.
It took Ethan a moment. “You believe this crowd also killed your daughter?” he asked.
“I believe this rabble was capable of the cruelest sort of mischief. They were obviously determined to do as much injury as possible to Boston’s finer families. Is it so hard to credit that they would also harm my poor girl?” His voice broke on these last words.
Ethan began to respond, his voice gentle. “I suppose-”
“She was found last night on Cross Street,” Berson went on, growing more animated by the moment. “She was only a few steps from the path these ruffians followed from the Hallowell home to Thomas Hutchinson’s house. She left here only a short time before the fire was lit at the Town House, and by the time the mob had finished with Hutchinson’s home, she was dead.”
It occurred to Ethan that if he was right about that pulse of power and its connection to Jennifer’s murder, he could have pinpointed the time of her death even more precisely. For now, though, he kept this to himself.
“Forgive me for asking, sir, but why was she abroad in the city so late in the evening?”
The merchant rubbed a hand over his face once more. “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
“And who found her?”
“A young man walking home from the wharves,” Berson said. “A customs clerk, I believe. I never learned his name or those of the men of the watch for that matter.”
There was a knock at the door and at Berson’s reply the African servant who had greeted Ethan at the entrance stepped into the room.
“What is it, Nathaniel?”
“Forgive me, sir,” he said, addressing Berson. “But Missus Berson is asking after you.”
“Of course,” Berson said, standing. “Tell her I’ll be along shortly.”
The man withdrew, leaving Ethan and Berson alone once more. Ethan stood, but remained by his chair, though he could tell Berson wanted him to go.
“I have just a few more questions, sir, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Yes, all right.”
“I went to King’s Chapel today, as your man instructed. Have you been to see your daughter’s body as well?”
“Of course I have!” Berson said, his brow knitting in anger. “What kind of question is that?”
“Did anything strike you as odd about what you saw?”
The merchant started to answer, faltered. At last he said, “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Mister Kaille. Perhaps you should just come out and say it.”
“All right,” Ethan said. “Why did you hire me, sir?”
The man stared back at him, his expression unreadable. Finally, he looked away and said, “You’re a thieftaker, aren’t you? I’m paying you handsomely. I thought you would be eager-”
“Why not Sephira Pryce? She’s far better known than I am. To be honest, I’m surprised you had even heard of me.”
A humorless smile flitted across Berson’s face. “Come now, Mister Kaille,” he said in a low voice. “There was a time when everyone in Boston knew your name. You and the Ruby Blade were quite the sensation some years back.”
“It’s not the same,” Ethan said. “Sephira Pryce is the most renowned thieftaker in all of Boston. So again I ask: Why did you hire me?”
Berson eyed him a moment longer, and then sagged. “You saw her,” he said. “There wasn’t a mark on her, nothing to tell us what had killed her, much less who. At first we didn’t even suspect foul play. But then we realized that the brooch was gone. And that mob was still in the streets.”
“Did you think perhaps that she had died of natural causes, and that the brooch was stolen after?”
A spark of hope lit Berson’s eyes. “Is that what you think happened?”
The man deserved the truth, but Ethan needed answers first. “I’m trying to understand how you came to hire me, sir.”
“Isn’t it clear? Jennifer was dead, and for no reason we could see or understand. She was a healthy girl, and there was no indication that anything had been done to her. It had to be… devilry.” He stumbled over the word and his face went white at his own mention of it. He even took a step back from Ethan, seeming to realize that he ought to be frightened of him. But then he went on.
“That’s the only explanation for what happened to her. I thought about going to Pryce. Of course I did. But she would be the first to admit that she doesn’t know much about your kind. And so we… we asked around. I’ve always known there were spellers in Boston. A person just needed to know where to look. And when I heard that there was a thieftaker who was also a speller…” He shrugged. “Well, how could I not seek you out?”
“Who told you I was a conjurer?”
“I don’t know. I have men who work for me. I’ve had them combing the streets for information since last night. I suppose one of them heard of your… talent.” Berson said all this without meeting Ethan’s gaze, leaving the thieftaker to wonder if he was being completely truthful.
Still, the events of the last day had made it clear to Ethan that too many people knew his secret. The last thing he wanted or needed was for every man and woman in the city to be talking about his past and the fact that he was a conjurer.
“I won’t tell anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Berson said. “You have my word.”
“Too many people know already.” He exhaled heavily and raised his gaze only to find the merchant already eyeing him. “It was a conjuring that killed her. I know that beyond a doubt. I used a spell at the chapel and… well, you don’t need to know the details. But there is no doubt in my mind. I don’t know who cast the spell that killed her, but he or she is powerful. There can’t be more than a handful of people in all the colonies who could have murdered her that way.”
“So, do you… do you think you can find the person who did this?” the man asked, sounding both hopeful and frightened.
“Yes, sir. I believe I can.”
Berson nodded, his gaze drifting toward the door.
“I’ll leave you to your family, sir,” Ethan said. He started to leave. Then he halted and faced the merchant again. “Is there really a brooch, Mister Berson, or was that just something you and your man made up to get me to take the job?”
Berson shook his head again, his eyes wide. “No, the brooch is real, and it’s missing.”
“All right,” Ethan said. “Then if you’ll direct me to your daughter’s servant, I’ll begin my inquiry straightaway.”
Berson led Ethan out of the study back into the large chamber with glazed windows. The merchant called for William, the white-haired man who had come to the Dowsing Rod that morning, and sent him in search of Jennifer’s servant. He then bade Ethan farewell.
William returned a few moments later accompanied by a plain
-looking young woman with reddish hair and freckles. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was blotchy, and even after William introduced Ethan to her she continued to stare at the floor. She looked frightened; Ethan thought it likely that his bruised face did nothing to set her mind at ease.
Ethan smiled at her, but she barely met his gaze. “This won’t take long,” he said gently. “I just need you to tell me about the brooch stolen from Miss Berson.”
A tear slipped from the girl’s eye and ran down her cheek. “It was oval,” she said in a low voice. “With a gold setting. There was a large round ruby in the center, and it was surrounded by small diamonds. And then around them were more rubies. Small ones.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips and was gone. “It was my mistress’s favorite. Mine, too.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about it?” Ethan asked.
The girl shook her head.
“It belonged t’ Jennifer’s grandmother,” William said. “Missus Berson’s mother. Her initials are etched in th’ back: CN. Caroline Neale.”
“I didn’t know that,” the girl whispered.
“I’ve worked in this house a good many years,” William said, eyeing Ethan. “Little escapes my notice.”
Ethan heard a warning in the words. He held the man’s gaze until at last the servant looked away. After thanking the girl, he allowed William to lead him to the entrance.
“Th’ brooch is worth more than they’re paying ya,” the Scotsman said, as Ethan stepped past him out into the cool twilight air.
“That’s usually the case,” Ethan told him. “It’s never stopped me from returning an item.”
“An’ why is that?”
“People won’t hire me if they don’t trust me.”
“One brooch like this one an’ you’d never need t’ work again.”
“Are you trying to tempt me, William, or warn me?” Ethan didn’t give the man a chance to respond. “I have no interest in stealing from the Bersons, or anyone else for that matter. Believe it or not, I like my work.”
“Ya can say tha’ looking as ya do right now?”
Ethan laughed. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
The man surprised him with a smile. “Rather, yes.”
“Good-bye, William.” Ethan started down the stairway.
“Wait.”
Ethan turned again. The servant stared at him another moment, tight-lipped, his brow creased. He glanced behind him into the house, before descending the steps to where Ethan had stopped.
“Ya know tha’ Miss Berson was… was being courted?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“By Cyrus Derne,” Ethan said. “Mister Berson mentioned it.”
“Not all of us were as pleased with th’ match as Jennifer,” the man said.
William sounded more like a concerned uncle than a servant. Abner Berson probably would have thought it impertinent had he heard. But this man, whatever his station, cared about the family he served.
“Do you suspect Mister Derne of doing her harm?” Ethan asked.
William shook his head. “Nothin’ so… heinous,” he said. “But he strikes me as a careless man, someone who coulda led her int’ peril.” He glanced back toward the door. “If my master knew that I was telling ya this-”
Ethan raised a hand, stopping him. “He’ll hear nothing of this conversation from me. Derne would have been the first person I sought out regardless. Now I’ll meet the man armed with your perceptions of him. Thank you for that.”
William ascended the steps. “Watch yourself, Mister Kaille,” he said over his shoulder. “Judging from th’ way ya look, I’d say ya have some trouble with that.”
Ethan was in no condition to argue.
Chapter Seven
Like the Bersons, the Derne family was well enough known that Ethan didn’t have to ask William or Mr. Berson how to find their house. The Derne mansion stood at the corner of Middle Street and Bennet’s in the North End, among some of the most opulent homes in that part of the city.
To get from Beacon Street to the North End, Ethan had to walk past or near all three of the houses that had been attacked the previous night, as well as the spot where Jennifer Berson’s body was found. He decided to go just a short distance out of his way, so as to follow the path taken by the Stamp Act mob. He began by walking back to Cornhill Street and then making his way to the Town House, where the offices of the provincial government were housed. It was a grand brick building with a soaring steeple and striking statues: a lion on one side of the gable, and a unicorn on the other. These figures framed the building’s clock and the carved facade in which it was fixed. In front of the building, a pile of ash and the charred ends of wooden beams marked the spot where the bonfire had been lit.
Following Queen Street west from the site of the fire, Ethan soon came to William Story’s home, which had been ill treated the night before. Windows had been broken, shattered furniture lay in the yard and the street, and the gardens and walkways around the house were littered with torn and partially burned papers. A small crowd had gathered in the street in front of the house to gawk, and several more people wandered through Story’s yard, picking through ruined furniture and personal effects as if they lived there.
William Story meant nothing to Ethan, but still Ethan was tempted to demand that these people leave the man’s home alone. He had no authority, of course, and he doubted that anyone would listen to him. But not for the first time, he wondered if Boston wouldn’t be better off with a stronger sheriff and a constabulary. True, such an office would render thieftakers like himself and Sephira Pryce unnecessary, but he would find other work. And he liked the idea of Sephira begging someone for a job. Not that this was likely to happen any time soon. He cast a last look at the gawkers and continued up Brattle Street to Hanover, where Benjamin Hallowell lived.
The damage done to the Hallowell home was even more extensive than that inflicted on Story’s house. The wooden fence surrounding Hallowell’s property had been knocked down, many of the windows had been shattered, and Hallowell’s furniture had been wrecked and pieces of it strewn about. Papers, pieces of clothing, and empty bottles of wine had been scattered about the yard and into the street fronting it. The crowd gathered outside this house was far larger than that at the Story home. Benjamin Hallowell was better known and even less well liked than William Story. It stood to reason that the destruction of his property should draw more interest.
Ethan didn’t linger at the Hallowell home. After crossing over Mill Creek into the North End, he came to Cross Street, where Jennifer Berson’s body had been found, and followed it toward the harbor. Compared with Hanover and Middle Streets, Cross Street was quiet and peaceful. There were no crowds of curious onlookers, no men of the watch, no sign that a young girl had been killed here the night before. A few people strolled the lane; a chaise rattled past. But that was all.
Still, Ethan knew he needed to be careful. He wished to cast a spell that might reveal the nature of the conjuring that had killed the Berson girl, but he knew better than to draw blood on the open street. Instead, he casually picked a few leaves off tree branches overhanging the lane.
“ Revela potestatem, ” he muttered under his breath. “ Ex foliis evocatam. ” Reveal power, conjured from leaves.
Reg materialized beside him, pale and insubstantial in the failing light. Ethan felt the spell thrum like a bowstring, but he saw nothing to indicate that his conjuring had worked. Reg stared at him, shaking his head slowly, his expression grim.
“This conjurer hid his handiwork well, didn’t he?” Ethan whispered to the ghost.
Reg nodded.
“Is there another spell I should try?”
A woman eyed him as if he was mad and hurried off.
The old ghost shook his head again, even as he faded from view.
Discouraged, Ethan walked back to the main thoroughfare and made his way to the Hutchinson house on Garden Court Street, off North Square.
As he drew
close to the square, Ethan slowed. The damage that had been done to the Story and Hallowell homes paled next to what had been done to Thomas Hutchinson’s house. Ethan had little regard for the rioters, but he had never imagined that they could be capable of such wanton destruction.
Until the night before, this had been one of the more stately homes in the North End. It was similar in many respects to the Berson house; three stories high and perhaps fifty feet across, with a simple, classical design: a solid home befitting one of the most important men in the thirteen colonies.
But in a single night, it had been laid waste. Every window across the front of the house, twenty in all, had been completely shattered. The door had been destroyed, as if by axes, and parts of the roof had been torn away, as had the cupola. The garden fence had been torn down, and all the trees in the yard pulled over or hacked down. Personal effects belonging to the lieutenant governor and his family littered the yard and the narrow street. The crowd of gawkers here dwarfed the gathering Ethan had seen at the Hallowell home, although they remained in the street, seemingly afraid to venture into the lieutenant governor’s yard. Ethan could see people moving about inside the house, but he didn’t recognize Hutchinson himself.
“Got wot he deserved, if ya ask me.”
Ethan turned and saw a young man standing near him. The lad wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes and a stained cap.
“Hutchinson, I mean,” the young man added, unnecessarily.
“Aye,” Ethan said, fighting to keep the rage from his voice. “I’m sure his wife and children did, too.”
“Come again?”
“His wife and children.” Ethan pointed to several dresses and petticoats lying in the yard, soiled and torn. “They deserved to have their home destroyed, and all their belongings pillaged by a crowd of strangers. They’re lucky they didn’t get worse, right?”
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