Thieftaker (11 page)

The click of footsteps on tile and a brisk “Mister Kaille” made Ethan turn.

Abner Berson was striding toward him, though he slowed upon seeing Ethan’s face. “God have mercy! What happened to you?”

He forced a broad smile, which hurt, and walked to where Berson had halted, extending a hand. “A disagreement with a colleague. It’s nothing, sir.”

Berson took his hand and shook it absently, but he continued to study Ethan’s face, frowning as if pained by what he saw. “You call this nothing?”

Silently cursing Sephira, he said, “Not really, no. But I can’t do anything about it now, and you and I have more pressing and difficult matters to discuss.”

“Aye,” Berson agreed soberly. “That we do.”

He started toward the large sitting room, gesturing for Ethan to follow. They stepped through that chamber into a small study, the walls of which were lined with shelves holding more bound volumes than Ethan had ever seen in one place.

“I collect them,” Berson said needlessly, watching Ethan as he scanned the shelves. There were volumes here by Rabelais and Cervantes, Butler and Newton, Hobbes and Locke.

“Most come from England,” the merchant went on. “A few are from France, and some of the newer ones were produced here in Boston, by Edes and Gill. Though I must say that I don’t think much of the quality of their volumes. Do you read, Mister Kaille?”

“Yes, sir, I do. There was a time when I read a lot.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“I have less time for leisurely pursuits now than I did in my youth.”
And less coin.

Berson nodded, staring at the volumes. He was a portly man with a thick neck and a jowly face. His eyes were heavy-lidded; his nose was round and red. A few strands of coarse black hair stuck out from beneath a powdered wig of white curls. He wore a black silk suit and a white cravat.

“William told you why I require your services?” he asked after some time, still avoiding Ethan’s gaze.

The silver-haired man.
“Yes, he did, sir. You, Missus Berson, and your younger daughter have my deepest sympathies.”

“She was…” Berson stopped, then swallowed, his eyes misting. “Thank you,” he said roughly. “At a time like this, a stolen brooch may seem like a trifle, an extravagance. But…” He shook his head, his lips quivering.

“I think I understand,” Ethan said. “I’ll need a description of the brooch.”

“Of course. Jennifer’s girl can help you with that.”

“I also have some questions for you, sir. If you can spare me the time. And if I may speak with Missus Berson—”

“I think not, Mister Kaille,” Berson said. “I’ll tell you what I can. But my wife is troubled enough just now. And with you looking the way you do … I don’t think it would be good for her.”

“I understand, sir.”

Berson sat in one of two large cushioned chairs before an empty hearth. He indicated with an open hand that Ethan should take the other.

“Thank you, sir,” Ethan said, lowering himself carefully into the chair. “Please forgive me if some of my questions strike you as … indelicate. I need information, and where murder is concerned one can’t always mince words.”

“Of course, Mister Kaille. Proceed.”

“Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to do your daughter harm?”

Berson shook his head. “Not a soul.”

“Did she have suitors, men she might have spurned?”

“She’s had but one suitor for some time now. Cyrus Derne, the eldest son of Fergus Derne, of whom you might have heard.”

Ethan had heard of the elder Derne. He was nearly as successful as Berson—another man Sephira would have wanted Ethan to avoid.

“How long had Mister Derne and your daughter been acquainted?”

“They’ve known each other since they were children,” Berson said. “And he had been courting her for the better part of a year. I expect they would have been married sometime in the fall.”

“There weren’t any others, even men she might have known before Mister Derne and she became close?”

“None who had reason to hurt her,” the merchant said.

Ethan wasn’t entirely certain that he believed this. Berson’s daughter had been young, beautiful, and wealthy; such women were bound to attract at least a few rogues along with more appropriate suitors. Then again, a spurned lover was apt to be more violent in wreaking his vengeance than Jennifer’s killer had been.

“Then what about your enemies, sir?”

“Mine?” Berson said in a way that told Ethan the man hadn’t even considered the possibility.

“A man in your position is bound to have rivals. Is that not so?”

“Well, of course, but—”

“Do any of them dislike you enough to strike at your family in this way?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Ethan eyed him closely. “Then there are some who might.”

“Well … I suppose that … some … Derrin Cormack, for instance. He and I have disliked each other for years. And Gregory Kellirand—he and I had a falling-out some years back over a shipment of wine from Spain. I’ve never forgiven him, nor he me. I suppose you could list Louis Deblois and his brothers, or even Godfrey Malbone.”

“I thought Colonel Malbone lived in Newport,” Ethan said.

“He does,” Berson said, growing more impatient by the moment. “My point is that these men are merchants, as am I. We are all of us rivals, and therefore can be said to wish each other ill in some sense. But we are also successful men, and we try to leave our business and our disputes in the warehouses and the markets, where they belong. Why would any of them kill Jennifer for her brooch?”

“I don’t know that one of them did,” Ethan said. “I’m a thieftaker, and I’ve little experience with murders. I have to start somewhere. Thieves can be quite specific in choosing their victims, but they can also be random. If your daughter had wandered into the lower lanes of the South End and been robbed, I probably wouldn’t be asking such questions. But she was murdered, and though my experience with killings is meager, I believe that such acts are less arbitrary. Someone might have killed her to steal the brooch. Or might have stolen it as an afterthought. Or perhaps she was killed for some other reason and the villain took the brooch to confuse matters, to conceal the true purpose behind her murder.”

Berson’s face had paled and his hand trembled as he rubbed it across his mouth. But he shook his head vehemently. “I believe you’re thinking about this the wrong way, Mister Kaille.”

Ethan didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, though he wanted to. Did Berson now fancy himself a thieftaker? “Is that so, sir?”

“Yes. No doubt you’ve heard of the unpleasantness last night.”

“The destruction of the lieutenant governor’s home.”

“And the homes of Hallowell and Story,” Berson said pointedly.

It took Ethan a moment. “You believe this crowd also killed your daughter?” he asked.

“I believe this
rabble
was capable of the cruelest sort of mischief. They were obviously determined to do as much injury as possible to Boston’s finer families. Is it so hard to credit that they would also harm my poor girl?” His voice broke on these last words.

Ethan began to respond, his voice gentle. “I suppose—”

“She was found last night on Cross Street,” Berson went on, growing more animated by the moment. “She was only a few steps from the path these ruffians followed from the Hallowell home to Thomas Hutchinson’s house. She left here only a short time before the fire was lit at the Town House, and by the time the mob had finished with Hutchinson’s home, she was dead.”

It occurred to Ethan that if he was right about that pulse of power and its connection to Jennifer’s murder, he could have pinpointed the time of her death even more precisely. For now, though, he kept this to himself.

“Forgive me for asking, sir, but why was she abroad in the city so late in the evening?”

The merchant rubbed a hand over his face once more. “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

“And who found her?”

“A young man walking home from the wharves,” Berson said. “A customs clerk, I believe. I never learned his name or those of the men of the watch for that matter.”

There was a knock at the door and at Berson’s reply the African servant who had greeted Ethan at the entrance stepped into the room.

“What is it, Nathaniel?”

“Forgive me, sir,” he said, addressing Berson. “But Missus Berson is asking after you.”

“Of course,” Berson said, standing. “Tell her I’ll be along shortly.”

The man withdrew, leaving Ethan and Berson alone once more. Ethan stood, but remained by his chair, though he could tell Berson wanted him to go.

“I have just a few more questions, sir, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Yes, all right.”

“I went to King’s Chapel today, as your man instructed. Have you been to see your daughter’s body as well?”

“Of course I have!” Berson said, his brow knitting in anger. “What kind of question is that?”

“Did anything strike you as odd about what you saw?”

The merchant started to answer, faltered. At last he said, “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Mister Kaille. Perhaps you should just come out and say it.”

“All right,” Ethan said. “Why did you hire me, sir?”

The man stared back at him, his expression unreadable. Finally, he looked away and said, “You’re a thieftaker, aren’t you? I’m paying you handsomely. I thought you would be eager—”

“Why not Sephira Pryce? She’s far better known than I am. To be honest, I’m surprised you had even heard of me.”

A humorless smile flitted across Berson’s face. “Come now, Mister Kaille,” he said in a low voice. “There was a time when everyone in Boston knew your name. You and the
Ruby Blade
were quite the sensation some years back.”

“It’s not the same,” Ethan said. “Sephira Pryce is the most renowned thieftaker in all of Boston. So again I ask: Why did you hire me?”

Berson eyed him a moment longer, and then sagged. “You saw her,” he said. “There wasn’t a mark on her, nothing to tell us what had killed her, much less who. At first we didn’t even suspect foul play. But then we realized that the brooch was gone. And that mob was still in the streets.”

“Did you think perhaps that she had died of natural causes, and that the brooch was stolen after?”

A spark of hope lit Berson’s eyes. “Is that what you think happened?”

The man deserved the truth, but Ethan needed answers first. “I’m trying to understand how you came to hire me, sir.”

“Isn’t it clear? Jennifer was dead, and for no reason we could see or understand. She was a healthy girl, and there was no indication that anything had been done to her. It had to be … devilry.” He stumbled over the word and his face went white at his own mention of it. He even took a step back from Ethan, seeming to realize that he ought to be frightened of him. But then he went on.

“That’s the only explanation for what happened to her. I thought about going to Pryce. Of course I did. But she would be the first to admit that she doesn’t know much about your kind. And so we … we asked around. I’ve always known there were spellers in Boston. A person just needed to know where to look. And when I heard that there was a thieftaker who was also a speller…” He shrugged. “Well, how could I not seek you out?”

“Who told you I was a conjurer?”

“I don’t know. I have men who work for me. I’ve had them combing the streets for information since last night. I suppose one of them heard of your … talent.” Berson said all this without meeting Ethan’s gaze, leaving the thieftaker to wonder if he was being completely truthful.

Still, the events of the last day had made it clear to Ethan that too many people knew his secret. The last thing he wanted or needed was for every man and woman in the city to be talking about his past and the fact that he was a conjurer.

“I won’t tell anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Berson said. “You have my word.”

“Too many people know already.” He exhaled heavily and raised his gaze only to find the merchant already eyeing him. “It was a conjuring that killed her. I know that beyond a doubt. I used a spell at the chapel and … well, you don’t need to know the details. But there is no doubt in my mind. I don’t know who cast the spell that killed her, but he or she is powerful. There can’t be more than a handful of people in all the colonies who could have murdered her that way.”

“So, do you … do you think you can find the person who did this?” the man asked, sounding both hopeful and frightened.

“Yes, sir. I believe I can.”

Berson nodded, his gaze drifting toward the door.

“I’ll leave you to your family, sir,” Ethan said. He started to leave. Then he halted and faced the merchant again. “Is there really a brooch, Mister Berson, or was that just something you and your man made up to get me to take the job?”

Berson shook his head again, his eyes wide. “No, the brooch is real, and it’s missing.”

“All right,” Ethan said. “Then if you’ll direct me to your daughter’s servant, I’ll begin my inquiry straightaway.”

Berson led Ethan out of the study back into the large chamber with glazed windows. The merchant called for William, the white-haired man who had come to the Dowsing Rod that morning, and sent him in search of Jennifer’s servant. He then bade Ethan farewell.

William returned a few moments later accompanied by a plain-looking young woman with reddish hair and freckles. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was blotchy, and even after William introduced Ethan to her she continued to stare at the floor. She looked frightened; Ethan thought it likely that his bruised face did nothing to set her mind at ease.

Ethan smiled at her, but she barely met his gaze. “This won’t take long,” he said gently. “I just need you to tell me about the brooch stolen from Miss Berson.”

A tear slipped from the girl’s eye and ran down her cheek. “It was oval,” she said in a low voice. “With a gold setting. There was a large round ruby in the center, and it was surrounded by small diamonds. And then around them were more rubies. Small ones.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips and was gone. “It was my mistress’s favorite. Mine, too.”