As they walked, a number of people approached Mackintosh offering words of support, or merely hoping to shake hands with him. And the cordwainer had a smile for every one of them. Ethan was amazed at the number of well-wishers he could greet by name. Thomas Hutchinson might have thought Mackintosh a common street tough, but Ethan thought he underestimated him. Watching Mackintosh exchange pleasantries with his people, Ethan realized that he had skills as a politician that Hutchinson simply did not possess.
But his renown had a dark side as well. Here on Brattle Street, they were as close to the North End as to the South, and for every South Ender who saw Mackintosh as a hero, there was a North Ender who glared at him with murder in his eyes, clearly incensed to see him walking the streets again.
Mackintosh, though, was oblivious of these others, or at least pretended to be. He seemed to bask in the adulation of his fellow South Enders, and he strode along the avenue like a conquering hero.
Turning onto Hanover Street, they walked past the Hallowell house. Ethan watched Mackintosh for some sign of remorse or shame or even pride in what he had wrought the night of the riots. But he gave no sign of realizing where he was. He walked and waved and smiled, and he allowed Darrow to lead him to the Green Dragon.
Once they were inside, though, some of Mackintosh’s swagger fell away. His smile vanished, leaving a wary, nervous stare. He might have trusted Darrow, but he also seemed to understand that he had few allies in the Dragon.
“We can take a table in the back of the tavern,” Darrow said, glancing back at Mackintosh and Ethan as they descended the stairs. “I’ll get you both ales, if you like.”
“Tha’s f—”
“No,” Ethan said, cutting off Mackintosh.
Darrow halted at the bottom of the stairs. Mackintosh stopped as well.
“What’s the problem, Mister Kaille?” Darrow asked sourly.
“I want to speak with him in private, without you and Adams and Otis listening to what we say.” He thinks you’re his friends, Ethan wanted to add. But you and I know better.
Darrow’s jaw muscles bunched. Mackintosh eyed them, seeming to grow more confused and nervous by the moment.
“I wan’ Mister Darrow with me,” he said at last.
Ethan sighed, but he could hardly blame the man. Mackintosh had known Darrow for a year and Ethan for ten minutes. To Darrow’s credit, he didn’t gloat at all. Rather he turned to Ethan again, a question in his eyes.
“All right, then,” Ethan said. “If that’s what he wants, you should join us.”
Darrow nodded and led them the rest of the way down the stairs to the tavern. While he crossed to the bar, Ethan and Mackintosh took a table by the hearth.
“You don’ trust Darrow?” the cordwainer asked as they sat.
“I wouldn’t say that I don’t trust him. But I’m not sure that he has your best interests at heart.”
Mackintosh laughed. “An’ you do, is tha’ right?”
“No,” Ethan said. “I couldn’t care less about your best interests. But you never would have thought to trust me, so that hardly matters.”
Mackintosh frowned. “Darrow helped me out some time back. He helped get me off after we sacked Oliver’s house, an’ jus’ this mornin’ he got Sheriff Greenleaf t’ let me go. You might not think he has my interests at heart, but he’s done me a good turn time an’ again. I know him. I trust him. You…” He shrugged.
“I understand.”
Before they could say more, Darrow came to the table with two ales. He placed one in front of each of them, and then sat.
Mackintosh still looked troubled.
“Is everything all right?” Darrow asked.
“Mister Mackintosh was explaining that he trusts you and not me,” Ethan said.
“I see,” Darrow said. “And were you telling him why he’s wrong to put his faith in me?”
“I merely told him I didn’t think you were concerned first and foremost with his welfare.”
“What do you think of that, Ebenezer?” Darrow asked.
“You’ve helped me out o’ some tough spots, Mister Darrow. Tha’s wha’ I told him.” But Mackintosh didn’t meet the man’s gaze.
Darrow regarded him for another moment before facing Ethan again.
“Perhaps you should ask your questions, Mister Kaille. Ebenezer has had several long and trying days.”
“Of course,” Ethan said. He faced Mackintosh. “As I already told you, I’ve been hired by Abner Berson to inquire into the death of his elder daughter, Jennifer. She died the night of August twenty-sixth, around the time you and your followers were abroad in the city ransacking the homes of Benjamin Hallowell, William Story, and Thomas Hutchinson.”
“And there’s folk who think I’m t’ blame?”
“Aye,” Ethan said, resisting the impulse to glance Darrow’s way. “She wore a brooch that night, and it was stolen from her. And since her father is wealthy, and a friend of the lieutenant governor, Hallowell, and Story, some have suggested there may be a connection between the attack on Hutchinson’s house and her death.”
“How did she die?” Mackintosh asked.
How indeed? They had come to the crux of the matter, and to the one thing Ethan least wished to discuss in front of Darrow. He didn’t know how to answer, or how to determine if Mackintosh was a conjurer. In the end, he decided that he had little choice but to dissemble, at least until he could contrive to speak privately with the man.
“No one knows for certain,” he said. “There are some who claim that her killer used dark powers against her.”
Mackintosh stared at him for the span of a heartbeat. Then he let out a loud, nervous laugh. “Dark powers. You’re havin’ a bit o’ fun with me, right?”
Ethan said nothing.
“Is he makin’ a joke?” Mackintosh asked Darrow. “Are you two havin’ th’ run on me?”
“I don’t know what Mister Kaille is up to,” Darrow said in a hard voice. “I was led to believe that yours was a serious inquiry, Mister Kaille,” he said. “What is this foolishness?”
“I’m only repeating what others have said,” Ethan told him.
“Wha’ others?”
“That I won’t say.”
“Well, it’s madness!” Mackintosh said, sounding truly shaken. “They wan’ me t’ hang for a murderer, an’ if tha’ don’ work, they’ll hang me for a witch instead!”
“Nobody is going to hang you, Ebenezer,” Darrow said. He frowned at Ethan. “I thought better of you, Mister Kaille.”
Ethan made no answer to Darrow, but asked Mackintosh, “Do you remember seeing a lone young woman in the streets that night?”
The cordwainer shook his head. “Do you know how many of us there were? Hundreds. Maybe more. I know tha’ most o’ my South End boys were there, an’ a fair number from th’ North End, too. But askin’ me t’ remember one girl … Obviously you weren’ there, or you’d know better.”
“Did your men stay with you the entire time?”
He shook his head a second time. “No, we split up. Some wen’ t’ pay a visit t’ Hallowell, th’ rest wen’ t’ see Story. We met up again an’ then wen’ on t’ Hutchinson’s house. An’ before you ask, I wen’ back an’ forth between th’ two—kept an eye on both groups.”
Ethan nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. When he met with Adams, Darrow, and Otis, the men had blamed Mackintosh for the girl’s death, and Ethan had no doubt that they could convince the Crown authorities that he was responsible. He had led the mob, controlled it even. He admitted as much, and that might well be enough for a court, particularly if they could also blame Daniel. But Ethan wasn’t interested in holding Mackintosh responsible. He wanted to know who had actually killed Jennifer Berson. And he sensed that Mackintosh was right: There was no way to know this for certain, short of speaking to every person who had been in that crowd.
“Can I see your forearms, Mister Mackintosh?”
The other man regarded him as i
f he was mad. “Wha’?”
“Please,” Ethan said. He could hear the weariness in his own voice. “Humor me. I need to see your forearms.”
Mackintosh looked to Darrow, who hesitated but then nodded. The cordwainer pushed up his sleeves and held out his arms for Ethan to see. There was a single long scar on one of them, which might have come from a knife fight. But otherwise, unlike Ethan’s own arms, which were scored with a lattice of scars old and new, Mackintosh’s were unmarked. If he was a conjurer, he had found some other way to draw upon his blood for spells.
“Wha’ are you lookin’ for?” Mackintosh asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ethan said. He stood, drank a bit of the ale Darrow had bought him, and started toward the stairway. “It isn’t there.”
Chapter
EIGHTEEN
As much as he didn’t wish to see Mackintosh sacrificed by Darrow, Adams, and the others, Ethan was disappointed to learn that the man wasn’t a sorcerer. Everyone he had talked to thought that Mackintosh was responsible for Jennifer Berson’s death, and though he mistrusted them and questioned their motives, he had also come to hope that they might be right.
Now he knew they weren’t. And with the cordwainer eliminated as a suspect, Ethan’s suspicions fell once more on Cyrus Derne. He thought it likely that whatever dealings the merchant had in the city the night of the riots had gotten his betrothed killed. Whether that had been his intent remained open to question.
He didn’t think that Derne or his friends would allow him to get close enough to the merchant to question him, so he needed to think of another strategy. He went back to the Dowser.
As soon as he entered the tavern, Kelf called for Kannice, who emerged from the kitchen clutching a scrap of parchment in her hand. She stepped out from behind the bar and handed it to Ethan.
“This came a short while after you left,” she said.
Ethan unfolded it. It read simply “Come quickly.” It was signed by Mister Pell.
“Did Pell himself bring it?” Ethan asked.
Kannice shook her head. “A boy. No one I recognized.”
“All right. Thank you.”
“How did it go with Derne and Mackintosh?”
Ethan shrugged. “Derne wouldn’t see me; Mackintosh couldn’t tell me much.” He held up the note from Pell. “Maybe this will be something.”
She nodded, and Ethan left, hurrying down Treamount to King’s Chapel.
When he reached the church he found Mr. Troutbeck in the sanctuary. The curate looked pale and seemed agitated. Ethan expected the man to order him off the premises, but Troutbeck acted genuinely relieved to see him.
“Mister Kaille! Thank goodness you’re here.”
“What’s happened?”
“It’s Trevor—I mean, Mister Pell. He’s in the crypt. There was another body brought in, and he insisted on showing you. The mother has come to claim the girl, but he won’t let anyone take her. He merely says again and again that you have to see the girl first.” Troutbeck frowned and glanced back toward the stairs leading to the crypt. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice. “He’s gone so far as to arm himself. He actually has an old sword down there.”
Any other time, Ethan would have laughed at the thought of Pell holding off Caner and Troutbeck with a blade. But at the mention of this newest death, he had been gripped by terror. A girl was dead. Her mother had come. Had he saved Holin’s life the night before only to lose Clara today?
“He’s waiting for me?” Ethan demanded, already striding across the sanctuary toward the stairway.
“Yes,” Troutbeck called after him. “Is this about the Berson murder?”
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
Then he was on the stairs, running down them so quickly that he nearly fell. Emerging into the candlelit corridor, Ethan saw the body lying on the same stone table that had held Jennifer Berson’s body only days before. Long, dark hair. A slight form.
Pell stood, the sword held loosely in his hand.
“Thank God you’ve come,” the minister said. “I didn’t know how much longer I could hold them off.”
Ethan barely glanced at him, but walked quickly to the table, his heart hammering. But when he was close enough to see the girl’s features, he exhaled, realizing that he had been holding his breath. Her coloring was similar to Clara’s, but it wasn’t her. He braced his hands on the stone table, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a long, shuddering breath.
“You were afraid you knew her,” the young minister said.
“Terrified is more like it.”
“Someone dear to you?”
“As close to a daughter as I’m ever likely to have.”
The girl had a pleasant round face and had just barely come into womanhood. She should have been wandering through shops with her mother, or perhaps with a suitor. She should have been anywhere but here, in this cold, dim chamber. But all Ethan could think as he looked at her was Thank God it’s not Clara.
He bent closer to the girl’s neck and face. He lifted her head, probing with his fingers for a lump or dried blood. But he found nothing. Like Jennifer, she was unmarked. “Where was she found?” he asked.
“Near the wharves again,” Pell said. After a brief silence, he asked, “Was she killed by the same man?”
“I believe so. But there’s only one way I can be certain she was killed by a spell.”
The minister winced, tight-lipped. “I thought that might be the case.”
“Do you want to leave?”
Pell drew himself up to his full height. “No. I’ll stay here.”
“Caner is worried about you,” Ethan said. “He fears that I’m going to ruin you.”
“I know. I don’t share his concern, and neither should you. I was ruined a long time ago.” He said it with a straight face, and for a moment Ethan wondered if some dark truth lay beneath his words. But then a small grin flitted across his features.
Ethan laughed. “Have you ever considered the possibility, Mister Pell, that you would make a better thieftaker than you do a minister?”
“I hadn’t until I met you,” Pell said. “Now, get on with it.”
Ethan drew his blade and stared at the girl for some time, wondering which spell he ought to cast. Either of the spells he had used on Jennifer Berson the last time he was in this building—reveal power, or reveal source of power—would tell him whether she had been killed by a conjurer. But Ethan wanted to find some way to learn more about the conjurer who killed her. Chances were he had masked his power, just as he had with the spell that killed Jennifer. Ethan needed some way to overcome whatever precautions the conjurer had taken. But how?
When at last it came to him, the idea struck him as so simple that Ethan laughed out loud.
“What?” Pell asked.
“I think I’ve thought of a way to overcome the concealing spells this conjurer’s been using.”
“And that’s funny?”
“It’s simple, and one of the oldest spells I know. I should have thought of it days ago.” He pushed up his sleeve and cut his arm. Then, as he had with Jennifer, he dabbed his blood onto her face, neck, and chest. “Revela omnias magias ex cruore evocatas.” Reveal all magicks, conjured from blood.
Pell inhaled sharply at the sight of Uncle Reg, whose glowing form suddenly appeared beside Ethan.
At the same time, the entire chamber came to life, as if Ethan’s blood flowed through the walls, the ceiling, the stone beneath his feet. The torchlight flickered, though the air remained still, and Ethan shuddered, as from a sudden chill.
“I felt that,” Pell said in a hushed voice.
Ethan didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the girl, saw the blood vanish from her skin. And then he caught just a glimpse of what he had been hoping for. The light spread from her chest, as it had when he cast the spell on Jennifer’s body. In mere moments, she was sheathed in that same silver light that had enveloped the Berson girl. But in the instant be
tween the first glimmer of light, and the spread of that silver glow, Ethan saw a flash of color.
It was a rich golden yellow, the color of the sun’s first rays on the sands of a beach or the last glimpse of daylight in the western sky. Ethan’s first thought was that a color that beautiful should never have been used for killing spells.
“Did it work?”
“You didn’t see it?” Ethan asked.
“I see how she’s glowing,” Pell said. “Is that how she’s supposed to look?”
He frowned. “That’s how Jennifer looked after I did a similar spell.” He beckoned the man forward with a wave of his hand. “You saw the way the light spread over her body, beginning over her heart.”
Pell nodded.
“The spell I cast is supposed to reveal the nature of all conjurings that have been set upon her. That silver light…” Ethan shook his head. “That’s not a natural color for this kind of power. The silver is a masking spell, something the conjurer used to conceal his first casting. The first spell was yellow. I saw just a hint of it before the silver covered it over. That was the true color of his casting. It spread from her heart as well, and I think it would have covered her entire body, just as the silver does. She was used as the source for another killing spell.”
“By a conjurer whose power is yellow?” the minister asked, clearly trying to follow what Ethan was telling him.
“Basically.”
“But I didn’t see any color from your spell.”
Ethan smiled. “That’s because you haven’t cast a revealing spell. What I saw with that yellow was not really his conjuring, but the residue of it. All spells leave behind some trace of the conjurer’s power. They also leave some trace of the source used by the conjurer to make the spell work. There’s a spell to reveal that, as well.”
Pell rubbed his forehead. “Of course there is.”
“If someone were to cast another revealing spell on her now, my spell would show up as well.” He paused, then, anticipating the minister’s next question, “The residue from my conjurings is rust-colored.”
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