Thieftaker (26 page)

“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.

Janna had given him another clue as well, though he hadn’t realized it at the time; he was sure she hadn’t either. She told him that she had used a killing spell to compel someone to love a wealthy man. This wasn’t surprising, really; control spells were among the most difficult castings known to the conjuring world. They were also among the most frequently used dark conjurings.

“Ethan!”

He realized that Diver had been speaking to him for some moments, repeating his name and asking him if he was all right. A few people had gathered around them in the street and were eyeing Ethan the way they would a drunk or a madman.

“I’m all right.” He glanced around. “Really,” he said loudly enough for the others to hear. “I’m fine.”

The strangers around him appeared unconvinced, and he could hardly blame them. Though the bruises on his face weren’t as tender as they had been a day or two before, they had begun to color, leaving him looking worse than ever. He was wet and bedraggled; his clothes were sodden. It was no wonder they thought him insane.

“Come on, then,” Diver said, tugging gently at his coat sleeve.

They started walking again, but Ethan no longer had any intention of going to the Dowser. Night would be falling in another hour or two, and he didn’t want to be abroad in the city after dark if he could help it. He would get to the tavern eventually, but first he needed more information. And it was about time that he spoke with those who he knew had been in the streets the night Jennifer Berson died.

“What was that all about, anyway?” Diver asked.

“I can’t tell you right now.” Ethan halted again. “Look, Diver, you go on without me. There’s something else I have to do.”

“Go on without you? But we’re just about there!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Diver threw his hands wide. “I wasn’t even going to the Dowser until you came along. What am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan said, starting away from him. “I said I was sorry.”

“Well can you at least tell me where you’re going?” his friend called after him.

“I have to speak with someone at another tavern.”

“What other tavern?”

He made no reply, though as he hurried back up Hanover Street he glanced over his shoulder one last time. Diver still stood in the road, his hands on his hips.

*   *   *

The Green Dragon Tavern was located on Union Street, just off of Hanover. It was a plain, two-story building with a pitched roof and a brick façade. There was nothing remarkable about it, save for the cast-iron rod that projected over the front door, serving as the perch for an iron sculpture of a crouching dragon, its wings raised, its mouth open in a fiery roar.

The first floor of the building had for years been used as a meeting house by the Freemasons. The tavern itself was located in the basement of the building. It was open to all, but since the passage of the first Grenville Act, the year before, it had gained a reputation as a gathering place for those who opposed Parliament’s actions. Ethan did not doubt that these same men had organized the Stamp Act riots.

A few men in workmen’s clothes milled about in the narrow street in front of the building, seemingly oblivious of the rain. Another man stood in the doorway, and he watched Ethan as he approached the tavern. But no one stopped him or offered a word of greeting. Ethan paused just inside the door, shook the rain off his coat like a hound, and then descended the stairs to the basement.

Halfway down, the smells reached him: pipe smoke and musty ale, roasted meat and freshly baked bread. Ethan paused at the bottom of the stairs. A fire burned in a large stone hearth on the far side of the room and candles flickered on every table. Light and shadows danced capriciously along the uneven wood planking on the floor and the dingy walls. A few men stood at the bar, mugs of ale in their hands. Ethan had heard conversations while coming down to the pub, but all of them ceased when he walked in. The men simply stared at him, their expressions far from welcoming.

Ethan stared back. Up on the street, in the light of day, he had considered this a fine idea. Down here in the inconstant gloom, he was having second thoughts.

“My name is Ethan Kaille,” he finally said. “I want to speak with those who led the demonstrations of three nights past.”

At first, no one answered. But then a single figure stepped away from the bar, a tankard of ale in his hand. He was about Ethan’s height and age, and he stood straight-backed, his pale blue eyes meeting and holding Ethan’s gaze. He wore a simple white shirt and black breeches, a red waistcoat, and a powdered tie wig.

“Good day, Mister Kaille,” he said in a ringing voice. “We’ve been expecting you. My name is Samuel Adams.”

Chapter

F
OURTEEN

A
dams walked to where Ethan stood, and proffered a hand, which Ethan gripped.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Kaille,” he said, a disarming smile on his ruddy face. “I’ve heard a good deal about you.”

“And every man in Boston hears a good deal about Samuel Adams.”

“Yes, well, not all one hears can be credited.” His smile had turned brittle, and Ethan noticed that his head shook slightly, even as the man continued to hold his gaze. “My colleagues and I have been wishing to speak with you. We had every intention of inviting you here. We’re grateful to you for saving us the trouble.”

He caught the eye of a man standing by the bar. “James, would you be so kind as to fetch Mister Kaille an ale? Then you and Peter can join us at the table.” Adams faced Ethan again. “This way,” he said.

Ethan followed the man to a table by the fireplace and sat, his back to the far wall. Adams took the seat across from him and lifted his tankard to his lips with a trembling hand. Seeing that Ethan had noticed his tremor, he smiled once more, faintly this time.

“Palsy,” he said. “I’ve been plagued by it all my life, mild though it is.”

Ethan nodded, not knowing what to say.

A moment later, they were joined by two men. One of them, a portly man with a broad, heavy face, thin lips, and somewhat protuberant eyes, carried an extra ale, which he placed in front of Ethan before sitting beside him. The other man was as handsome as his companion was odd-looking. His face was square; his eyes were brown. He wore his hair long and in a plait, and he powdered it white.

“Allow me to introduce my friends,” Adams said. He indicated the portly man with an open hand. “This is James Otis.” Gesturing toward the other man, he said, “And this is Peter Darrow.”

Otis nodded. Darrow flashed a smile and proffered his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Kaille.”

Ethan shook the man’s hand before facing Adams again. “You said you had been expecting me. Then you know why I’ve come.”

“I believe we do, yes,” Adams said. “You’ve been hired by Abner Berson in the matter of his daughter’s death. Isn’t that right?”

“It is, sir. And nearly everyone I’ve spoken to about it believes that your friends were involved.”

Adams narrowed his eyes. “Our friends?”

“And who is it you’ve spoken to?” Otis broke in. “Berson’s friends, no doubt. Tories, every one.”

“He has a point,” Adams said. “Berson is well acquainted with those who administer the province. So is Cyrus Derne, who I believe was to marry Jennifer Berson.”

“So is Mister Kaille.”

“Meaning what?” Ethan demanded of Darrow, who had spoken.

The look in Darrow’s eyes had hardened. “The obvious. Your sister is married to a customs official, a friend of Andrew Oliver no less.”

“Geoffrey Brower? I barely speak to the man, much less consult with him during my inquiries.”

“Nevertheless, Mister Kaille,” Adams said, drawing Ethan’s gaze once more. “We know that you served in the British navy, and that your family is firmly tied to the Crown.”

“What else do you think you know about me?” Ethan asked. He tried to sound indifferent, but he wondered if they knew how he came to be working for Berson.

“That you were a prisoner for many years. That you’re a thieftaker.” Adams paused, glancing at Otis and Darrow. “And that thus far, your inquiry has taken you to those who wish my colleagues and me ill.”

Ethan looked at each man. “Well,” he said, “if you’re willing to cast your lot with men like Ebenezer Mackintosh, you shouldn’t be surprised to find others treating you like rabble.”

“You go too far, sir!” Otis said. “We have no more cast our lot with that charlatan than you have!” He waved a shaking finger in Ethan’s face. “And for you to say so—”

“It’s all right, James,” Darrow said, reaching across the table to lay a hand on Otis’s other arm. “They blame Mackintosh for the Berson murder?” he asked Ethan.

“Shouldn’t they? Mister Hutchinson believes that he incited that mob to riot. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he was right. With everything else Mackintosh and his mob did that night, it’s not so great a leap of logic to believe the rest. You know what kind of man Mackintosh is.”

“Yes, we know,” Adams told him. “Better than most, actually. Peter here won his release after the Brown boy was killed on Pope’s Day last year. He also defended Mackintosh at his trial.”

Darrow frowned. “Samuel—”

“
You
defended him?” Ethan could scarcely believe it. “You know this man—you see the way he incites his South End rabble—and still you choose to associate yourself with him?”

“The charges brought against him were for disturbing the peace,” Darrow said. “He was never charged in the matter of the Brown boy’s death. And with good reason. The child was killed when he was run over by a cart carrying one of the effigies. And Mackintosh wasn’t anywhere near the cart or the boy when it happened. You may not approve of the man’s tactics—neither do I—but he didn’t deserve to hang for the boy’s death.”