Nigel pulled the weapon from his coat pocket and took a step in Ethan’s direction.
“Just leave it on the arm of that chair,” Ethan said, pointing with a bloodstained finger.
Nigel glanced at Sephira, who hesitated, then nodded.
The big man did as Ethan had told him.
“Now go stand with her.”
The man crossed to Sephira. Ethan retrieved his knife and walked to the door.
“Watch your back, Ethan,” Sephira said. “Don’t sleep. Don’t even blink.”
He returned the blade to his belt, his hand trembling now, though with rage or with fear he couldn’t say. He glanced back at her once more and left the house, Uncle Reg stalking beside him.
Chapter
THIRTEEN
Sephira and her toughs didn’t come after him right away, though as he made his way back through the South End Ethan looked over his shoulder often, expecting at any moment to see them bearing down on him. Once he was away from her house the pounding of his heart subsided, and he began to wonder what in the name of all that was holy he had been thinking. Casting a spell in Sephira Pryce’s home? Destroying her furniture? Threatening to kill her? He might as well have stolen money from her purse as she watched, or called her a whore in front of her men.
If he needed any more incentive to find Jennifer Berson’s killer and be done with her father and the conjurer, he now had it. Sephira would never stop hating him; as long as he insisted on thieftaking in Boston, she would begrudge every coin he made. But if he could conclude this inquiry perhaps her desire to see him dead would diminish.
He decided to begin by speaking with Cyrus Derne. If Derne had lied to him the first time they spoke, Ethan wanted to know why.
It was midafternoon, and he knew better than to think that Derne would be at his home. Instead, he began the long walk across the city to Derne’s Wharf and Warehouse on Ship Street in the North End. He turned up his coat collar and hunched his shoulders against the rain. He walked at the edge of the road, keeping the iron posts that lined the thoroughfare between himself and the carriages and chaises. Rivulets of rank water ran between the cobblestones, gathering in the shallow trough in the middle of the lane and draining at intervals along the way. Carts and horses splashed him as they passed, chilling him, staining his clothes.
Derne’s Wharf jutted out into the harbor beside others belonging to merchants of similar means. Abner Berson’s wharf was only a short distance down Ship Street. Hancock’s Wharf, the longest in the North End, second in the entire city only to Long Wharf, sat just to the south of them both. All these wharves had large wooden warehouses where the merchants stored diverse goods and prepared them for market.
Two formidable men stood guard at the base of their wharf, and one of them stopped Ethan as he tried to set foot on the dock.
“Who’re you?” he asked, studying Ethan’s bruised face.
“Ethan Kaille. I’m here to see Cyrus Derne.”
The man eyed him dubiously.
“I work for Abner Berson,” he added.
That convinced him. “Aye, all right,” he said, and waved Ethan onto the wharf.
Ethan made his way down the dock past shops and storage buildings, until he came to the largest of the warehouses. A sign over the door read “Fergus Derne and Son, Boston. Established 1715.”
Dockworkers were carrying crates, burlap sacks, and cloth-wrapped parcels into the building. A few rolled barrels, and others worked in tandem to carry timber. Ethan waited until several of the men had entered, and then followed them inside, pausing by the door to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim light. Shouted conversations echoed through the building, an incomprehensible din that made the space feel smaller than it was.
Wares were stacked everywhere, and in addition to the workers who off-loaded the ship, a host of others sorted items into different areas, supervised by a number of foremen. At first it struck Ethan as chaotic, but it didn’t take him long to discern a rhythm and pattern to what everyone was doing.
He began to walk through the building, taking care to stay out of the way, even as he searched for Cyrus Derne. He didn’t see either Derne or his father, and he wondered if perhaps they were elsewhere on the wharf. But as he reached the back of the warehouse, he spotted both merchants in a small office.
They were speaking in low voices to a man of medium build who couldn’t have been much older than Ethan’s thirty-nine years. After a moment, Ethan recognized him as Gilbert Deblois, the brother of a wealthy merchant and a successful dealer of firearms in his own right. Ethan wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Sephira had purchased some of the weapons in her collection from him.
He walked to the door leading into the office, smiling benignly as he stood watching the three men, his hands clasped behind his back.
Cyrus Derne barely spared him a glance. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded.
“Good afternoon, Mister Derne.”
Derne looked at Ethan again, more closely this time. At last, after several seconds, the man recognized him.
“Mister Kaille!” he said, making no effort to mask his surprise.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir,” Ethan said, offering a hand.
Derne stepped forward and gripped it, still looking perplexed. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hoping for a word with you.”
Derne released his hand and cast a self-conscious look at Deblois and then at his father. Fergus Derne had paused to watch Ethan and his son, an expression of deepest disapproval on his broad face. No doubt he believed Ethan had committed an inexcusable breach of decorum by coming here. Deblois merely seemed annoyed at having his business dealings interrupted.
“This isn’t the best time for me, Mister Kaille,” the younger Derne said, facing Ethan again. “If you could come by my home later, some time this evening perhaps—”
“No, sir. I’d like a word with you now.”
“Now, see here, Kaille,” the elder Derne said. “This is a place of commerce. My son is occupied with—”
“A girl is dead, sir!” Ethan said, raising his voice enough to draw stares from the closest of the workmen in the warehouse. Deblois frowned, but he directed his gaze at Fergus Derne rather than at Ethan. “A girl your son loved and intended to marry,” Ethan went on, lowering his voice slightly. “Surely you weren’t about to tell me that whatever business you’re conducting is more important than finding her killer.”
So much for keeping secret the fact that he was still looking into Jennifer’s murder. But Sephira already knew, which meant that everyone else who mattered soon would as well. Besides, he wouldn’t have traded the look on Fergus Derne’s face for anything.
“Well … I…” The older man turned to his son for help, his cheeks crimson.
“Can we speak of this outside, Mister Kaille?” Cyrus asked, indicating a door at the back of the warehouse that opened onto the wharf.
“That would be fine.”
“I shouldn’t be long,” the younger Derne told Deblois. He gestured for Ethan to follow and led him to the door.
Once outside, they walked a short distance from the building so that they would be beyond the hearing of anyone standing by the door. Derne pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and glowered at Ethan.
“Now then,” he said, halting and drawing himself up to his full height. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until this evening?”
“I want to know why you lied to me the other night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Derne said. He sounded indignant, but his gaze slid away.
“You told me that you had no idea why Berson had hired me, and you said that you had no idea how Jennifer died. The truth is you knew she had been killed by a conjuring, and you recommended to her father that he give me the job.”
Derne didn’t answer at first. He stared out across the harbor at a vessel putting to sea, a mist-laden wind stirring his dark hair. T
wo workers lingered in the doorway to the warehouse watching Ethan and Derne.
“Who told you?” Derne finally asked. “Was it Abner?”
“No. I worked it out for myself. I would guess that he asked you who he ought to hire and you offered to find someone for him. You went to Sephira Pryce first, but once she realized that a speller was involved, she sent you to me.”
The young merchant twisted his mouth sourly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you reasoned it out.” He took a breath and faced Ethan. “I’m sure deception comes naturally to men in your line of work.”
Ethan ignored the remark. “Why not tell me the truth from the beginning?” he asked.
“That was Miss Pryce’s idea. She indicated that the two of you are rivals and she suggested that if you knew the idea had come from her, you would refuse the job.”
Sephira knew him well; he would have done just that. But why had she been so eager for him to take a job she claimed she didn’t want him to have? Unless she knew from the start just how dangerous the conjurer who killed Jennifer was. That might have made her wary of taking the job herself, and all the more eager for Ethan to take it, particularly if she thought that the conjurer would eventually kill him. But then why go to the trouble of having him beaten, of following him through the marketplace? Too much of this still didn’t make any sense.
Derne was growing more impatient by the moment. “Are we done?” he asked. “There are other matters that require my attention.”
“What reason did Seph—did Miss Pryce give for refusing to take the job herself?”
“It was just as you said. She realized that witchcraft was involved and told me that we would want a speller. She mentioned your name right off. I hadn’t heard of you, but later, when I told Abner, he knew who you were.”
“Who else have you told?” Ethan asked.
“Told what?”
“That I’m a conjurer?”
“No one,” Derne said. “Not even my father.”
“Good,” Ethan said. “I asked you other questions that night, about when you had last seen Jennifer, about whether you had been abroad in the city the evening she died, about other suitors she might have had. How many other lies did you tell me?”
“You have no right to speak to me this way!” the merchant said, contempt in his voice.
Ethan knew that he should have kept his temper in check. But after all he had endured the past few days, hearing this man complain about being spoken to rudely pushed him over the edge. He grabbed Derne by the collar and yanked him forward, nearly pulling him off his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two workers start in their direction.
“Call them off,” he said, his voice low. “Now!”
“It’s all right,” Derne called to the men, a sickly smile on his face. “Just … talking.”
The men hesitated, looked at each other. Finally, one of them shrugged, and they resumed their positions just inside the door.
“Now listen to me,” Ethan said, keeping his voice down. “Since this began I have been beaten, robbed, threatened, chased, and lied to.” He waved his free hand in the direction of the city. “Jennifer’s murderer is out there somewhere, hunting me, just as I’m hunting him. The difference is he knows my name and what I look like and where I live. And he has every intention of killing me. So do you really think I give a damn how you’d like me to speak to you?”
Derne shook his head, his eyes wide. It occurred to Ethan that in all likelihood no one, with the possible exception of his father, had ever manhandled the young man this way.
“I’m going to ask you again: Did you lie to me about anything else the other night?”
The merchant licked his lips. “Yes. I was abroad in the city that night. Jennifer wasn’t with me. I swear she wasn’t. I won’t tell you what I was doing there. But it had nothing to do with her or her murder. You must believe me.”
Ethan glared at him a moment longer before releasing him and shoving him away. “You don’t know that,” he said. “You idiot! I’m sure you would like to believe that whatever you did there had nothing to do with her death, but you don’t know it.”
“Of course I—”
“Listen to me!” Ethan closed his eyes briefly and dragged a hand over his face. “Why would she have gone into the streets at such an hour unless it was to follow you?”
Derne just stared back at him.
“What was it you were doing there?” Ethan demanded.
“I’m not telling you that.”
“You may not believe that her death has anything to do with your foray into the city, but if she did follow you—if she was curious about your dealings there, or wondered if you had a woman—” Derne started to object, but Ethan didn’t give him the chance. “If she followed you for any reason, then she might have stumbled upon something she wasn’t supposed to. Her murder could have everything to do with your business. Now you must tell me what you were doing that night!”
Derne shook his head. “No.” He shook his head again. His face was pale and his tongue flicked nervously over his lips. “No, I won’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You know nothing of my business and I’m not about to tell you. But I know you’re wrong.”
Ethan lunged for the man again, but Derne jumped back more nimbly than Ethan had expected he could.
Derne raised a finger in warning. “You’ll not touch me again, Mister Kaille! If you come near me now, I’ll call for those men. And if I see you at my home, you’ll have my father’s hired men to deal with. Not to mention Sheriff Greenleaf.” He grimaced. It took Ethan a moment to realize that he had intended to smile. “Perhaps the sheriff would be interested to know that you’re a witch as well as a thieftaker.”
He started to back away, as if expecting Ethan to attack him at any moment. Ethan would have liked nothing more, but the two men by the door were still watching, and Ethan thought they looked eager for an excuse to intervene.
“Abner Berson won’t be happy to learn that you’ve refused to help me,” Ethan said.
Derne actually laughed at that, a high-pitched nervous bark. “Not that I care, but you’re wrong. Abner would understand completely. He’s a merchant.”
Ethan wanted to argue, but he wasn’t entirely sure that the man wasn’t right. Berson had far more in common with the Dernes of the world than he did with Ethan.
At last, Derne reached the door, still walking backward. He groped for the doorframe, found it, and quickly slipped into the warehouse.
“Stupid bastard,” Ethan muttered. But he felt sick to his stomach. Shivering at another raw gust of wind, he walked back along the wharf toward the street.
Just as he reached the thoroughfare, he saw Diver walking toward him, his eyes scanning the street warily and his hands in his pockets. He didn’t notice Ethan until the thieftaker stepped right in front of him, blocking his way.
“Ethan!” Diver said, halting and looking around again. “What are you doing here?”
“Had to speak with someone back there,” he said, nodding his head toward the warehouses. “Though for all the good it did me, I could have gone to the Dowser instead and had an ale or two. You coming up from work?”
Diver had halted in front of Derne’s Wharf. He glanced toward the storage buildings and the guards standing outside them. “That’s right. I got off early today. You were talking to someone down here? Berson was it?”
“Actually, no,” Ethan said quietly. “Cyrus Derne.”
“Derne?” Diver laughed, but Ethan could see something was bothering him. “Damn, Ethan! Pretty soon you won’t want anything to do with us poor folk.”
“Actually, Derne’s the least of it. Sephira Pryce had me to supper today.”
Diver had been eyeing the wharf again, but at this his gaze snapped back to Ethan. “You’re not serious!”
“I am. She showed me her collection of blades and pistols, she poured me wine, she even hinted at offering me work.” He took a step,
intending to walk back toward the Dowser. “Come on, I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
Diver hesitated, though only for an instant. Still, that was enough.
“What’s the matter with you?” Ethan asked. “You’re acting like I was the last person in the world you wanted to see.”
“I am not,” Diver said unconvincingly. “I was … I was headed home. I’m tired; it’s been a long day. But … but sure, I’ll come to the Dowser with you.” His voice sounded falsely bright.
Ethan eyed him curiously as they began to walk.
“What were you talking to Derne about?”
Ethan hadn’t expected Diver to ask about Derne before hearing of his latest encounter with Sephira. But he recounted his conversation with the merchant as they headed up to Middle Street and across Mill Creek into the center of the city.
When Ethan had finished, Diver said, “I didn’t know that he and Berson’s daughter were engaged.”
“You wouldn’t have known it to listen to him today, either.”
“Do you really think she was killed because of something Derne was doing?”
“I don’t know,” Ethan said. “I can’t think of any other reason she would have been out on the streets alone at night. And I can’t imagine why a conjurer would have chosen to kill her unless it had something to do with her father or Derne.”
“But maybe she was taken into the streets after she was killed. Or maybe someone made her go there. They could even have used a spell on her.”
Ethan shook his head. “No, that’s too powerful a con—”
He stopped in the middle of the street, swaying slightly, his head spinning. “I’m an idiot!” he whispered.
“What? Are you all right?” Diver laid a hand on Ethan’s back and peered into his face.
Ethan barely noticed. It was right there in front of him, like a trail of blood on an empty lane. All he had to do was follow the drops and they would lead right where he needed to go. And he had been too blind to do even that much.
You find out what those spells did and you’ll find your killer. That’s what Janna had told him. But even after hearing this, and recognizing the wisdom in her words, he hadn’t altered his approach to his inquiry. Ethan had been assuming that the murderer killed Jennifer Berson because of who she was or who she knew. But what if she was killed simply because she was there, in the streets of Boston, at precisely the wrong time? What if her murderer had never intended to kill the daughter of a wealthy merchant, but had been looking merely for someone—anyone—who was alone in the city and young enough to provide, through her death, the power necessary for an ambitious conjuring? Rather than trying to link the killer to Jennifer Berson, Ethan should have been searching for the object of his spell.
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