Thieftaker

by D. B. Jackson

  “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 façade. 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.

  The still incomplete structure had a ponderous look, much at odds with the more graceful lines of the older churches in the North and South Ends. But the chapel was the first in the colonies to affiliate itself with the Church of England. Its congregation included some of the wealthiest and most influential families living in the central part of the city, particularly those with close ties to the Crown.

  Ethan didn’t worship at any of Boston’s churches. In his years as a soldier and then as a prisoner, he had seen too much brutality and suffering, and had done things for which he could not forgive himself. He had lost a third of his life, part of his foot, and the one woman he had ever truly loved. At this point, whatever faith Ethan might once have had in the existence of a just and merciful God was gone.

  This was another point of contention with Kannice, who every Sunday went to the Old Meeting House in the South End, and who assured him that God had taken his toes to save his life and had eased his ague before it killed him. But even if Ethan believed her when she said that God was watching over him, he knew better than to think that His servants would be so kind. Ethan was a conjurer, not a witch, and few of those who had been hanged or burned as witches in New England’s dark history could actually cast true spells. But that hadn’t stopped men like Cotton Mather from railing at magicking in their sermons, and it didn’t stop the present crop of ministers and vicars from doing the same.

  And of all the churches in Boston, there was none that he avoided so assiduously as he did King’s Chapel. That was how Bett, the older of his two sisters, and a member of the chapel’s congregation, wanted it. Usually, he was more than happy to honor her wishes. Today he had no choice but to ignore them.

  He entered the churchyard through the gate on Treamount, ascended a low set of steps to a pair of heavy oak doors, and entered the chapel. The building was far more attractive within than it was from the street. Pairs of columns with ornate carvings at their tops supported a high ceiling with shallow vaulting. Two stories of windows allowed sunlight to flood the main sanctuary. Boxed pews lined the central aisle, which led to a rounded chancel beyond the altar at the far end of the church. The walls and ceilings had been painted ivory, the columns darker shades of tan and brown, and the pulpit and gallery fronts pale pink; the pews were natural wood. Given the chapel’s somber exterior, the cheeriness of the sanctuary surprised Ethan.

  A robed man, tall and narrow-shouldered, stood at the pulpit, poring over the Bible. He looked up as soon as he heard Ethan enter.

  “Yes?” he called, his voice echoing through the sanctuary. “What do you want?”

  “Mister Caner?” Ethan asked, walking forward.

  The man frowned and descended the curving stairway to the stone floor. He had a thin, bony face and a somewhat sallow complexion. His nose was overlarge, his eyes were small and hard, his lips thin and pale. His robe was black and he wore a stiff white cravat at his neck.

  “No, I’m not Mister Caner,” the man said, waiting for Ethan at the base of the steps. “I’m the curate, Mister Troutbeck. And you are?”

  “My name is Ethan Kaille. I was sent by Abner Berson. I’m to see his daughter’s body.”

  The minister’s frown softened. “Yes, of course. Mister Caner mentioned that you might be coming. This way.”

  Ethan followed Troutbeck through an archway into the vestry behind and to the left of the pulpit, and then down a broad set of marble stairs.

  The air grew colder and damper as they went down. At the bottom of the stairs, they turned onto a broad corridor lined on each side by stone walls. The basement was poorly lit; a few candles burned in iron sconces set in the corners, but there was no other source of light, and after the brightness of the sanctuary Ethan’s eyes were slow to adjust. He could tell, though, that the walls of the corridor were marked regularly with stone plaques, all carved with names and dates. The crypts.

  In the middle of the corridor stood a stone table. A delicate figure lay upon it, her dark hair spilling over the edge of the slab. She was covered to her neck with a white cloth. A censer had been placed in a corner by the stairway, and fragrant smoke rose from it, barely masking the sickly smell of decay and the pungent scent of the spermaceti candles.

  Ethan started toward the corpse, walking slowly, his boots clicking loudly on the stone floor. His vision was still uncertain, and so when a figure in the far corner moved, rising from a small wooden chair, Ethan nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “That is Mister Pell,” Troutbeck told Ethan, amusement in his voice as it reverberated loudly off the stone. “He is sitting vigil with the body. I trust that if you need anything he can help you.”

  The curate turned to go.

  “Who brought her here?” Ethan asked, his pulse still racing from the fright the second minister had given him.

  Troutbeck stopped and faced him once more. “Pardon?”

  “Who brought the body to King’s Chapel?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t here last night.”

  “Two men of the night watch,” said the minister in the corner. “They said they had been called by a man who found her lying in a deserted lane, and that Berson requested they bring her here.”

  “You see?” Troutbeck said. “Mister Pell should be able to answer any questions you have.” He nodded curtly to Ethan and then to the minister before returning to the stairway. This time, Ethan made no effort to stop him.

  Once the sound of Troutbeck’s footsteps had faded, Ethan approached the stone table. Mr. Pell did the same.

  Pell was young and slight; despite his black robes and cravat, he looked more like an altar boy than a minister.

  “Did the men of the watch tell you where she was found?” Ethan asked, as he stared down at Jennifer Berson’s face. She had been an attractive girl, with a wide, sensuous mouth, large, widely spaced eyes, and a straight, fine nose.

  “They said she was found on Cross Street. But that’s all.”

  “And what time was this?” Ethan asked absently, his gaze still on the girl.

  “Forgive me,” the minister said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  Ethan looked up at that. “Mister Caner didn’t tell you?”

  Pell regarded him placidly. Even in the dim light Ethan could se
e that his eyes were pale. He had straight dark hair. A powdered wig sat on the stone floor beside the chair on which he had been sitting, but Ethan couldn’t help thinking that with a face as youthful as his, Pell would have looked odd wearing it.

  “Mister Caner might have mentioned something about expecting a visitor,” the young minister said, taking some care in the choice of his words. “But I wish to hear an answer from you.”

  Ethan resumed his examination of the girl, bending closer to get a better view of her face. Let the man play his games. Ethan had work to do. “My name is Ethan Kaille,” he said as he searched her head and neck for wounds. “Abner Berson has asked that I look into the death of his daughter and the theft of an item she was carrying when she died.”

  “And you’re a thieftaker?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do thieftakers often investigate murders?”

  “Are you interested in hiring me?” Ethan asked. “Or are you making conversation?”

  The minister shrugged, looking sheepish. “I was merely curious,” he said quietly.

  “I’m not sure this is the time for indulging your curiosity. Please answer my question: When did they bring her?”

  “It was close to midnight, I believe.”

  “Had she been dead for long?”

  The minister glanced at the girl before quickly averting his eyes again. He stood a few paces from the table, and his hands trembled. “You mistake me for a physician, Mister Kaille. I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Then you have no idea how she died?” Ethan asked.

  Pell licked his lips. “None at all.”

  “Forgive me, Mister Pell,” Ethan said. “But this can’t be the first time you’ve seen a corpse.”

  “Of course not,” the young man said, his voice unsteady.

  “And yet, you seem shaken by the sight of her.”

  The man hesitated, his eyes now fixed on the girl. “She’s about my age. And the men who brought her said that she had been murdered. I’ve seen the dead before, but never anyone who was … killed in that way.”

  “I understand,” Ethan said. “I’m going to uncover her. I want to see if I can learn something of how she died. All right?”

  Pell nodded.

  Ethan pulled back the sheet to reveal the girl’s body. She was dressed in a pale silk gown—a soft shade of yellow, although it was hard to tell in the dim light. Her petticoats were darker—perhaps green—and she wore a stomacher of white silk. Ethan bent closer, examining the exposed skin of her shoulders and chest, searching for any marks that might explain her death.

  “Bring me that sconce,” Ethan said, gesturing vaguely at an iron tree in the far corner of the chamber.

  Pell retrieved it and brought it to Ethan, setting it beside him so that the glow of the candles illuminated the girl.

  Even in the better light, Ethan saw no stab wounds, no dried blood, no obvious bruises. He searched her limbs, checked her clothing for rents or cuts in the fabric. At last he rolled her onto her side to examine her back. Nothing.

  He wasn’t surprised; this was why Berson had wanted him and not Sephira Pryce or some other thieftaker. This was why he had been thinking about that pulse of power ever since seeing Berson’s servant in the Dowsing Rod. Even so, he was troubled.

  “There are no marks on her,” Ethan said, straightening and meeting the young minister’s gaze.

  “What does that mean?” Pell asked.

  “Well, it means she wasn’t killed in any of the usual ways. She wasn’t stabbed or shot. Her throat wasn’t slit. Her neck wasn’t broken.”

  “Could she have been strangled?”

  Ethan looked down at the girl again and shook his head. “That would leave bruising on her neck, whether done with a rope or bare hands.”

  “What about poison?”

  He considered this for several moments, staring at the girl’s face. Her expression in death was peaceful; she could well have been sleeping rather than dead. It was hardly the face of someone who had died by poisoning.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Ethan said.

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t murdered after all.”

  “Perhaps,” Ethan said absently, still regarding the body. “Mister Pell, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind getting me a cup of water?”

  “What?”

  “Some water. Or better yet, wine. Like you, I’m … I’m troubled by the sight of this poor girl. I need something to drink.”

  “You’re lying to me,” Pell said, sounding young and just a bit frightened.

  “I assure you—”

  “You’re lying,” he said again. “And I want to know why.”

  Ethan smiled faintly. “No, you don’t.”

  “What do you mean I don’t?” Pell said, frowning deeply. “Of course I do.”

  “Do you know my sister, Mister Pell?” Ethan asked. “She’s a member of the congregation.”

  “Your sister?”

  “You would know her as Bett Brower, the wife of Geoffrey Brower.”

  “You’re Missus Brower’s brother?” The minister leaned forward, scrutinizing Ethan’s face. “Yes, I suppose I do see some resemblance. What about her?”

  “Has she mentioned me to you?”

  “No, why would she?”

  It was a fair question, though perhaps not as Pell meant it. Bett was too protective of her status in Boston society to risk calling attention to her rogue of a brother, who also happened to be a conjurer. Thinking about it, Ethan realized that he should have been surprised that she had spoken of him even to dear Geoffrey.

  “No reason in particular,” Ethan said at last. “I merely mention her to make you understand that you have no reason to distrust me. If you can simply get me some wine, I would be grateful. I’ll stay with poor Miss Berson—she won’t be alone for even a second.”

  Pell said nothing, but he continued to eye Ethan, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “That’s not what you were going to say,” the man said at last. “Is it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Pell stared at him. “You do know what killed her, don’t you? You just don’t want to tell me.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Ethan said, trying to keep his voice even.

  “Not for certain, you mean. But you have some idea. It’s there in your eyes; I can hear it in your voice. What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Ethan didn’t answer, but he watched as the minister worked it out for himself.

  After a moment, Pell turned back to the corpse. “She wasn’t stabbed or strangled,” he muttered. “She wasn’t shot or poisoned or killed in any of the other, more conventional ways. But she was murdered.” He glanced at Ethan again, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then it hit him. Ethan saw it happen. He blinked, his eyes widening. Even in the faint candlelight, Ethan saw the color drain from Mr. Pell’s cheeks.

  “Oh,” the minister said. And then again, “Oh.”

  “You understand?” Ethan asked gently.

  “I believe I do,” Pell whispered.

  “Then you understand why I need you to go.”

  He squared his shoulders. “What if…?” The young man paused and took a slow breath. “What if I won’t let you do this? What if I call for Mister Troutbeck right now?”

  “And tell him what?” Ethan asked.

  “That … that you’re … that you’re a witch.”

  “You could do that,” Ethan said. “You could make your accusations. I’ve done nothing that you could point to as evidence to support your claim. But still, he might believe you. He might have me arrested and burned or hanged. Is that what you wish to see them do to me?”

  Pell looked away. “Of course not.”

  “A young woman is dead. I believe she died at the hands of a conjurer. I understand that the mere mention of the so-called dark arts is enough to make some who wear those robes fall into
a panic, but her family has hired me to learn the truth. And I believe that even Mister Troutbeck would want to see her killer punished.”

  The minister glanced at the woman’s corpse. “What is it you want to do to her?”

  “I want to find out what kind of spell killed her, and, if possible, who cast it.”

  “You can learn those things?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “But only by using witchery yourself. Isn’t that so?”

  “Aye,” Ethan said.

  “What kind?”

  “What?”

  “What kind of witchcraft would you be using?”

  Ethan frowned. “Why would you care about—?”

  “What kind of witchcraft?” the minister asked again, his eyes meeting Ethan’s. “Your sister isn’t the only person who came to this chapel with … with strange powers in her blood. I know something of conjuring, and before I risk being banished from the ministry by letting you cast on these sanctified grounds, I would like to know what you intend to do.” When Ethan still hesitated, he said, “This calls for more than an elemental spell, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Ethan told him, surprised to hear that the minister really did know something of conjuring. “It would have to be a living spell.”

  “So you’ll need to spill your own blood.”

  “Unless you’d like to stay and let me bleed you.”

  The minister paled again, but managed a smile. “No, I think not. But a living spell could draw the attention of other conjurers.”

  “Any spell will,” Ethan said. “There’s nothing to be done about that.”

  They stood eyeing each other for several moments, until at last the young minister dropped his gaze to the body. “Very well, Mister Kaille. I’ll trust you not to do any more conjuring than necessary, and you can trust me to say nothing about this to Mister Troutbeck or Mister Caner.”

  “Thank you, Mister Pell. I’ll do this as quickly as I can.”

  “I’ll be in the sanctuary. Please call for me before leaving the crypt.” Pell glanced at Jennifer Berson once more. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

  His gaze lingered briefly on the corpse. Then he left the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. When Ethan couldn’t hear him anymore, he removed his waistcoat and pushed up his sleeve, shivering in the cool, still air. He paused over the girl for a mere instant, studying her face once more. Her expression was so serene; she couldn’t have known what was about to happen to her. She hadn’t feared her murderer. This might well have been done by someone she knew, perhaps even someone she trusted.