Thieftaker (17 page)

“I understand there was an incident.”

“Sir?”

“At the tavern, where they found you. A man was injured. A friend of yours.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say. Had the sheriff told Hutchinson about the attack on Diver? And if so, how had he explained what happened?

“Well?” the lieutenant governor said, sounding impatient.

“There was, Your Honor. One of the sheriff’s men … my friend thought that he meant to hurt me, and he—”

“The man shoved you from behind,” Hutchinson said, his tone brusque.

“That’s right.”

The lieutenant governor nodded once. “The sheriff will speak with him.” He cleared his throat. “I take it you’ve heard of what was done to my home two nights ago.”

Hutchinson was a strange sort. On the one hand, his manner was haughty—abrasively so. And yet he had just shown Ethan, and Diver as well, more consideration than Ethan would have expected from a man of his station, particularly one whose home had recently been wrecked by the very people he was expected to govern.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Ethan said. “I walked by there yesterday. I’m sorry for how you and your family have suffered.”

The corners of Hutchinson’s mouth quirked upward into a fleeting, bitter smile. “Seeing it from the street, you would have no idea of how we’ve suffered. The damage to the exterior was nothing compared to what those devils did to the inside. They demolished every wall and every door in the house, leaving it nothing more than a shell. They left not a single piece of furniture whole. They stole my wife’s jewels, took every bit of clothing any of us owned, took every book in my library. They shattered or stole our plates and glasses, they walked off with our food and drink. They stole nine hundred pounds, and pieces of silver that had belonged to my father, and his father before him.”

The litany came easily to the man; Ethan had the feeling that he had recited it many times in the last two days.

“They left me nothing,” Hutchinson went on. “And had I remained, rather than fleeing my own home like a thief in the night, I would have lost far more. As it is, I fear to show my face in the streets. I will be leaving Boston for our home in Milton in another day or so, and I’ll be taking my wife and children. I fear for their safety even more than I do for my own.”

“Again, Your Honor, you have my deepest sympathy,” Ethan said. “No one should be treated so. But if you believe that I—”

“I don’t,” Hutchinson broke in. “You’ve been hired by Abner Berson. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, narrowing his eyes. Why would the lieutenant governor of Massachusetts take an interest in his business dealings? And what else did Hutchinson know about him?

“You wonder how I heard of this.”

“I assume you have it from Mister Berson himself, or from a mutual acquaintance,” Ethan said. “What I wonder is why the inquiries of a common thieftaker should draw the notice of a man of your importance.”

Hutchinson frowned, which served to give his face a fearsome aspect. “If you need to ask, Mister Kaille, I must recommend to Berson that he reconsider the faith he’s placed in you. Isn’t it obvious? The same villains who abused my family and me with such violence are responsible for the death of Berson’s daughter.”

“You know this as fact, Your Honor?”

“I know it from what I’ve seen, from what was done to me. This mob was whipped to a frenzy, not just that night, but over the course of weeks. It was bad enough what was done to Oliver’s properties. But then to compound it like this.” He had been speaking very quickly and he paused now, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his upper lip with a shaking hand. “They were exhorted to these acts of barbarism by James Otis and Peter Darrow and Samuel Adams, and every other carnival barker who claims to be a champion of … of
liberty
.” He said the word as if it were an imprecation. “And then they were directed through the streets by that cutthroat, Ebenezer Mackintosh.” He dabbed again at his lip, folded the handkerchief, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “If you want to find Jennifer Berson’s killer, I would suggest you start with him.”

“With Mackintosh, sir?”

“He is being held down the street at the gaol. At least for the moment. Already his brethren are agitating for his release, as if he had been arrested merely for being drunk. They revere him so. What is it the rabble call him? The Commander of the South End, or some such nonsense? And Captain Mackintosh. As if such a man could be captain of anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hutchinson regarded him briefly, suspicion in his gaze. “Do you know Mackintosh, Mister Kaille?”

“Only by reputation.”

“And what reputation would that be?”

“Merely that he has a following among those who march on Pope’s Day, and that whatever his faults, he’s respected by the men in the street.”

“I see.” Hutchinson considered Ethan for several seconds. “Perhaps I should have asked this earlier. Are you one of these so-called Sons of Liberty?”

“I’m a son of the British Empire, Your Honor. I sailed in the Mediterranean under Admiral Matthews and would have fought the French in Canada if I’d had the opportunity.”

Hutchinson looked impressed. “You sailed with Matthews?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was your captain?”

“Thomas Cooper, sir.”

Hutchinson’s eyebrows went up. “You were on the
Stirling Castle
? At Toulon?”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant governor actually smiled. “Well, then perhaps it is I who should reconsider my first impression. You must understand; a man hears things, and it’s not always easy to know what to make of them.”

“I do understand, sir. I’m sure much of what you’ve heard about me is true.”

Hutchinson’s smile faded slowly. “I see. Well, Mister Kaille, I merely wished to tell you what I knew about the events of two nights past. The mob that attacked my home showed utter disregard for both our personal well-being and our property. I have it from Abner Berson himself that his daughter was not only murdered, she was also robbed. The similarity between these incidents is obvious to me, and I would hope it is to you, as well.”

“I understand, Your Honor.” He tried to keep his voice level, but apparently he failed.

“What is it you think you understand?” Hutchinson demanded.

“Merely what you told me, sir.”

The man continued to stare at him. “No. You think I wish to fix the blame for Jennifer Berson’s murder on those who destroyed my home.”

“You did just tell me that they were guilty of both crimes.”

“Because they are! This isn’t a matter of vengeance! It’s simple logic!”

“Yes, Your Honor. And if my own logic leads me to the same conclusion, I assure you I won’t rest until these men are punished.”

“I think I see,” Hutchinson said. “Perhaps you would like me to hire you, too. For a fee, you can find my silver and my money. Is that it?”

Ethan bristled at the insinuation, but he kept his voice even as he said, “No, sir. I only work for a single client at any one time. If you need to hire a thieftaker, you’ll have to go to Sephira Pryce.”

Apparently the lieutenant governor hadn’t expected him to respond as he did. The man regarded Ethan for another moment. “Very well, Mister Kaille. You may go.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ethan strode toward the door.

“I’ll be interested to hear how your inquiry progresses.”

Ethan didn’t face Hutchinson again, but he did pause at the door. “Yes, sir,” he said, and let himself out of the chamber.

Greenleaf and the men of the watch were there in the corridor. The sheriff nodded to him, and one of his men, perhaps the one who had shoved Ethan, glowered, but none of them tried to keep Ethan from leaving. They even returned his knife.

He exited the building, and started back toward his home, still seething at what Hutchinson had implied. He hadn’t gone far, though, when he spotted that same shock of yellow hair that he had seen in the Town House. He ducked behind a carriage that was rattling by, and, crouching low, jogged along beside it, keeping himself hidden until he could see this man more clearly.

A well-dressed gentleman sitting in the carriage leaned out over the door and stared hard at Ethan. Ethan ignored him, keeping to the side of the vehicle until at last he reached a narrow alley between a tavern and a storefront. He ducked into the shadows, and then, once the carriage had passed, peered back toward where he had seen that blond hair.

It was still midafternoon and the streets were crowded. The lanes stank of horse piss and flies buzzed around piles of droppings. It took Ethan a moment to spot the man again, but as soon as he did, he recognized him. Yellow-hair. Sephira’s tough. The bruises on Ethan’s face and body throbbed with remembered pain.

Another carriage rumbled down the street, harnesses creaking, the dry clop of unshod hooves echoing off nearby buidlings, and as it rolled past Ethan stepped out of the alley and walked with it, again taking care to keep the carriage between himself and Yellow-hair. If he could keep out of sight long enough to reach Leverett’s Lane, he could cut back to Water Street and make it home without being seen. That was the plan, anyway.

He hadn’t gone far, however, when he caught sight of another familiar face. Thick features, a ruddy complexion, widely spaced eyes and a wide mouth. Gordon. Another of Sephira’s men. And this time Ethan had no chance to hide. The man spotted him, a broad grin splitting his face to reveal crooked, yellow teeth.

Ethan halted, glanced back over his shoulder, and saw Yellow-hair walking his way, though the man hadn’t seen him yet. Gordon whistled sharply, no doubt to point out Ethan to his friend. Ethan didn’t wait to see what Yellow-hair did.

His route home was blocked, so he went north instead, dashing up a small lane—he thought it was called Pierce’s Alley—toward Faneuil Hall. He could hear footsteps behind him, and so knew that both men were after him. He assumed that Sephira’s other henchmen were close by.

It didn’t take long for his bad leg to start aching, but he couldn’t allow his limp to slow him down. Emerging from the shadows of the alley into the afternoon sun, still at a full run, Ethan chose to cut through Dock Square toward the Dowser.

Before he had gotten far, however, he spotted two more of Sephira’s men. One of them, another brute, stood at the southwest end of the square, blocking his access to Cornhill Street and Hillier’s Lane. The fourth man—Ethan remembered once hearing Sephira call him Nap—stood opposite this other, guarding the corner of Union Street. Nap was muscular and tall and Ethan had no doubt that he was a competent fighter—better than Gordon and the brute, probably. But he was the smallest of Sephira’s crew, and, like the other man, he hadn’t yet caught sight of Ethan.

That wouldn’t be true for long.

He ran hard toward Nap, sweat soaking his face, his limp worsening. Another shrill whistle cut across the normal street noise of the square. Gordon, no doubt. Nap whirled at the sound, searching for its source. A moment later, he looked directly at Ethan, recognition making his eyes widen. He reached frantically for his blade, but by then Ethan was bearing down on him.

Lowering his shoulder, Ethan rammed into the man, hitting him full in the chest. Nap and Ethan were about the same size, but Nap hadn’t managed to brace himself. He flew off his feet and crashed into a group of ladies wearing fine linen dresses. All of them wound up in a heap on the cobblestones. Ethan stumbled, but kept his feet and ran on, his shoulder screaming agony.

He was on Union Street now. He had no doubt that the others were right behind him. Rather than continue toward the Dowsing Rod and risk leading Yellow-hair and the others right to Kannice, Ethan followed Ann Street eastward, down along the wharves and warehouses.

His leg was growing worse by the moment, and his lungs burned. He didn’t slacken his pace, but he knew he couldn’t outrun Sephira’s men forever. They were younger than he was, stronger. He scanned the street for somewhere he might hide, even as he continued to run. Too late he realized that the lanes were less crowded here, that he was more alone than he would have been had he taken a different route.

At the next corner, he turned, intending to head up into the central part of the North End. But he halted immediately, his chest heaving with every breath.

“Damnit!” he said.

A single man stood at the corner of the next street, waiting.…
For him.
Seeing him, the man smirked and started in his direction. Ethan backed away, and then ran back onto Ann Street, still heading north.

“Kaille!”

Ethan spun. Yellow-hair was behind him with Nap, who didn’t look at all pleased to see him. Yellow-hair was grinning, though, standing in the middle of the lane, a pistol held loosely in his right hand.

Ethan started away again, but a moment later, two more men emerged onto the street a block in front of him. He slowed. Gordon and the brute who had been with Nap stepped onto the lane from Cross Street, joining the two other toughs who had blocked his way.

They had herded him to this spot, like wolves nipping at his heels. And he had let them do it. He had been too quick to run, too predictable.

Ethan stopped and positioned himself so that he could watch Gordon and the men approaching from the north while also keeping an eye on Yellow-hair and Nap.

“What does Sephira want with me now?” he asked, still breathing hard. “She’s not satisfied with having you beat me to a bloody mess … now she wants you to finish the job?”

“If only,” Yellow-hair said. “She wants us t’ deliver a message. Tha’s all.”

Ethan cast a quick look toward Gordon. He and the brute were closer than Ethan expected.

“Stop there,” Ethan called to them, pulling out his knife.

Gordon laughed. “Ya think ya kin kill us all with tha’ blade?”

“He’s a speller, fool!” Yellow-hair said. “He doesn’ have t’ kill us with th’ knife.”

Gordon halted in his tracks, throwing out a hand to stop the other men. His face had gone white.

“I’ll conjure if I have to,” Ethan told them, looking first at Yellow-hair and then at the rest. He pushed his sleeve up, exposing his scarred forearm. “I could kill all of you, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me.”