Dead Man's Reach (23 page)

“Of course, sir, I understand. When were these items taken?”

“Only yesterday.” He paused, as if casting about for something else to say. “Geoffrey tells me that you solved the Berson murder a few years ago?”

“That's right.”

“Ethan also found those responsible for the deaths aboard the
Graystone
,” Geoffrey added, sounding too eager.

“Yes, I had heard that. I take it you have had other successful inquiries aside from these.”

“I have, sir,” Ethan said. “But I've no interest in cataloging them for you.”

“Ethan!”

“Be quiet, Geoffrey.” Facing Paxton once more, Ethan said, “I have been a successful thieftaker in this city for the better part of ten years. I'm skilled at my trade, I'm honest, and I'm discreet. If you prefer Sephira Pryce, I understand. I'll say nothing against her, though I will tell you that I'm sure either of us can recover the items you've lost. Hire me. Don't hire me. The choice is yours.”

Paxton stared openmouthed; one might have thought Ethan had struck his face with a glove. Ethan was certain that the man would tell him to leave. For his part, Geoffrey appeared apoplectic. To Ethan's great surprise, however—and no doubt Geoffrey's as well—the commissioner began to laugh.

“Well played, Mister Kaille. Well played. Very well, what do you charge for your services?”

For any other man, Ethan would have done the work for five pounds total. But not Paxton.

“Seven pounds, sir. Two and ten now, and four and ten when I recover what you've lost.”

Paxton's smile lingered, but the look in his eyes grew flinty. “You don't lack for confidence, do you? Seven pounds is a good deal of money.”

“Sephira Pryce will demand more.”

“I've no doubt.”

He produced a purse from his pocket, opened it, and counted out two pounds and ten shillings. He handed the coins to Ethan and slipped the purse back into his coat. Ethan pocketed the money.

“What now?” Paxton asked. “I've been fortunate; this is the first time I've had to hire a man of your profession. How does this work?”

“I take it these items were stolen from your home.”

“That's right.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“None. The rear door was broken, my wife's personal effects were strewn about her dressing chamber and treated most barbarously. Whoever did this might well have been part of the rabble seen so often abroad in our city's streets. I put nothing past them.”

“In that case, sir, I would suggest that I meet you at your home first thing tomorrow morning. I'll want to see the damage done to your home, as well as those jewels belonging to your wife that were not stolen. At the risk of inconveniencing you, I'll also need a written description of each stolen item.”

“Of course.”

“You see, Mister Paxton?” Geoffrey said. “Ethan is quite thorough. I think you'll be very pleased with his work.”

Paxton barely glanced his way. Ethan had the sense that Brower was doing little to ingratiate himself with the commissioner.

“I'll look for you tomorrow morning, Mister Kaille.”

“Yes, sir. Until then.”

As Ethan turned to leave, a third man entered the main chamber from a small office at the rear of the building. He and the man recognized each other at the same time. Jonathan Grant, the patriot conjurer from the Green Dragon, froze at the sight of Ethan, his mouth agape, his eyes open so wide they made his expression comical.

“Ah, yes,” Geoffrey said. “Mister Grant, this is Ethan Kaille. Ethan, this is Mister Grant, one of our clerks.”

His tone was so dismissive, Ethan was surprised Grant didn't round on him in indignation. But Grant did not seem able to tear his gaze from Ethan. There was panic in his youthful face, and an entreaty as well.

Ethan proffered a hand to the man. “Mister Grant, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“A-and yours,” the clerk managed, gripping Ethan's hand for an instant.

“Grant, have you found those manifests yet?” Paxton asked.

“Most of them, sir.”

“Well, find the rest. Mister Kaille, I will look forward to our conversation in the morn. For now I have matters that demand my attention.”

“Yes, of course, sir. Until the morrow. Good night, Geoffrey.” He nodded once to Grant and left the Customs House, glad to be away.

The sky overhead had darkened to indigo, and a few stars had emerged, gleaming like gems in the velvet. The moon, a pale sickle, hung low in the west above a fiery horizon. Despite the cold, it was as lovely a night as Boston had seen in some weeks.

This might have had something to do with the coins that jangled in Ethan's pocket as he returned to the Dowsing Rod. Kannice would not be pleased with him. Nor would Diver. Mere days before he had stopped working for Theophilus Lillie, they would say, and now he was taking money from Paxton, who was even worse.

Ethan wouldn't go so far as to say that he didn't care—Kannice's opinion meant a great deal to him. But he also couldn't deny that he was happy to be employed again, no matter who was paying him.

Still, he was not looking forward to telling her why Geoffrey had summoned him.

Diver and Deborah were already at the Dowser when Ethan arrived. He had little choice but to take his ale back to their table. Kannice joined him there as he was still greeting his friends.

“What was that all about?” she asked, a towel draped over her shoulder, strands of auburn hair hanging across her brow.

“The message from Geoffrey, you mean?” Ethan asked, taking his seat.

Her periwinkle eyes narrowed and in that split second it came to him again just how well she knew him. “Of course that's what I mean. What did he want?”

“He found work for me, and I'm happy to have it.”

“And who is it you'll be working for this time?” Diver asked, sounding every bit as suspicious as Kannice.

Ethan took a breath, bracing himself for their response. “Charles Paxton.”

“Paxton!” Diver repeated. “You might as well be working for King George himself!”

Ethan lifted his tankard and took a sip. “Given what the king might pay, I could do worse.” He glanced at Deborah, who appeared to be suppressing a grin.

“What are you doing for him?” Kannice asked. Ethan could tell that she was trying to conceal her outrage, and he appreciated the effort.

“I'm not protecting him, if that's what you're asking. His home was robbed, and he hired me to retrieve what was taken.” He eyed Diver. “Surely we can agree that any man who's had his property pinched deserves to get back what's his, regardless of his political beliefs.”

“I'm not so sure, where Paxton's concerned,” Diver said. “Really, Ethan. It sometimes seems you go out of your way to work for the most despicable men in Boston.”

“Not out of my way, no. But when they're offering coin, I don't avoid them either. You'll be happy to hear, though, that I asked for more than my usual fee.”

This brought a smile to Diver's face. “And he agreed?”

“Aye. I'm making about as much as Sephira Pryce would.”

“And why not?” Kannice said. “You're worth more.”

“Does that mean I'm forgiven?”

“It might.” A coy grin curved her lips. “We might need to discuss the matter further later this evening.”

Ethan held her gaze before asking of Diver, “And you?”

The younger man shrugged. “A cove's got to work, doesn't he?”

It was a better ending to the discussion than he had expected, and, later, a nicer conclusion to his evening than he had anticipated.

*   *   *

Charles Paxton lived on Hutchinson Street perhaps one hundred yards south of Milk Street. His was the only residence on the east side of the lane, and an impressive home it was: a three-story brick structure with colonnades flanking the front entrance. It stood directly across the lane from the rope yard of John Gray and but a short distance from Green's Barracks, which housed those men of the Twenty-ninth Regiment for whom there was no space at Murray's Barracks. Indeed, Ethan had forgotten how close to the quarters Paxton lived.

The rope yard, one of several in this part of the city, was a grand enterprise that included a large warehouse, several other buildings including the Gray residence, and an open expanse that ran almost all the way from Cow Lane north to Milk Street.

Ethan arrived at the Paxton estate as the clocks on the nearby meeting houses struck eight bells. Journeymen and apprentices were arriving at the rope yards. Not far off, groups of soldiers congregated in the street, bundled in their red coats, their gazes following the workers.

Ethan felt uneasy as he waited for an answer to his knock on Paxton's door. The sooner he was inside the house and away from the regulars and workers, the better for all concerned.

He didn't have to wait long. The door opened and Paxton himself greeted Ethan.

“You're prompt, Mister Kaille. That bodes well for our association.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paxton asked him into the house and escorted him first to the rear of the house, where stood the broken door and doorjamb. Ethan knelt to examine the damage more closely, but from a mere glance he could see what had happened.

“The thief used his foot to break in the door,” he said, still scrutinizing the shattered wood. “He would have kicked it here…” He pointed. “Beside the door handle. I take it the theft occurred during the day, while you were at the Customs House, and your wife was abroad in the city. I would imagine that your servants were gone as well, shopping for groceries, perhaps.”

When Paxton said nothing, Ethan craned his neck to peer up at him.

“Very well done, Mister Kaille. That is precisely what happened.”

“Yes, sir. No thief would have entered in this way when the house was occupied. It would have made a good deal of noise. I would guess as well that whoever did this had been watching your home for some time, educating himself as to your behavior and that of your wife, as well as those others who live with you.” He stood.

“That doesn't surprise me,” Paxton said. “You would have seen the sort of men who frequent the rope yard across the street from us. No doubt it was one of them.”

“Or one of the soldiers billeted up the street.”

He could see that Paxton wanted to argue the point; they both knew that he couldn't. Since the beginning of the occupation, soldiers had been responsible for many thefts throughout the city. They were paid poorly, were too often idle, and had little regard for the city's inhabitants.

“I suppose that's possible as well,” Paxton said.

“Did you prepare a list of the stolen items?”

“Yes, of course. Wait here.”

Paxton left through a doorway that led onto a narrow corridor. Ethan glanced at the door again, but really there was little more he could glean from it. Already he knew where this inquiry would take him. Before he was through, he would need to speak with Paxton's servants and pay a visit to Green's Barracks.

Paxton soon returned, clutching a piece of parchment. On it were listed nine items, including the necklace, brooch, and watch the commissioner had mentioned the night before. In addition, Mrs. Paxton had lost several gold rings, a pair of bracelets, and an ivory-handled hairbrush.

“Thank you, sir. This will be most helpful. I believe you said last night that these items were taken from your wife's dressing room?”

“That's right. Except for the watch, which was taken from my bedroom. I would allow you to see both, but there would be little use in it. We wasted no time cleaning up the mess left by this brute. There is nothing for you to see upstairs, and I don't wish to disturb my wife. As you might expect, she has been thoroughly unnerved by this ordeal. I would prefer that we not include her in any of our conversations, lest we upset her more.”

“I understand,” Ethan said. “Tell me though, is there anything unusual about the plan of this house?”

“What do you mean?”

“There's no delicate way for me to put this, sir. What I mean to ask it this: Would a stranger to your home have an easy time navigating its many rooms, or would he need some prior knowledge in order to find the things he stole?”

Paxton frowned. “I don't think I like your implication, Mister Kaille.”

“No, sir, I didn't expect you would. I wish to speak with your servants, if I may. Particularly any young women who might work for you, and might have drawn the interest of one of General Gage's soldiers.”

Paxton sighed. “That would be Louisa,” he said. “I'm afraid she's not here at this time. Her parents live in the country and she left yesterday to spend the evening with them; her father, it seems, is elderly and infirm. She will return later today. You can speak with her tomorrow morning, if that suits you.”

“That would be fine, sir.”

“What will you do now?”

Ethan had no chance to answer, for at that moment a conjuring shook the floors and walls of the mansion. He knew it instantly for a finding spell, and he had no doubt that it had been cast to locate him. It rushed toward the house, putting him in mind of an advancing tide, as had Morrison's spell two days before. It reached him in mere seconds, and was followed immediately by another spell.

This time, as the house rumbled with conjuring power, Uncle Reg appeared between Ethan and Paxton, who was, of course, oblivious.

“Mister Kaille, I asked you a question.”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, desperate to leave at once and learn what this newest spell had wrought. “I plan to visit a tavern that is frequented by men who traffic in pilfered goods.”

“You know of such a place?” Paxton asked, sounding indignant. “You should inform the sheriff at once.”

“I would, sir,” Ethan said, “but doing so would be a waste of time. Sheriff Greenleaf is well aware of its existence. If you can show me to the door?”