Thieftaker (34 page)

“… Break it down an’ fix it later!” he heard Kelf shouting through the door as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Kannice glanced back at him, eyes wide.

“No, Kelf!” Ethan called. “I think I can get it!”

“Ethan!” the barkeep said. “Wha’d ya do t’ this blasted thing?”

“I’m not sure, give me a minute.” He hated to use even a single leaf of the mullein for this, but he didn’t want to have to explain to Kelf why he had his sleeve up and his knife out.
Extegimen ex verbasco evocatum.
End warding, conjured from mullein. Feeling the hum of power, seeing Reg, he looked self-consciously at Kannice, though of course she hadn’t noticed anything.

For Kelf’s benefit, he tinkered with the door handle and key for a few moments, before opening the door.

“The tumbler must have gotten stuck,” he said, as Kelf stalked into the tavern, scowling at him, at the lock, at Kannice.

The barman shook his head, eyeing the door. “Never happens when I lock up.” He shook his head again and stomped off into the kitchen.

A grin flashed across Kannice’s face and was gone. She walked over to Ethan and kissed him, her brow knitting. “You didn’t sleep well.”

“No, but I slept. That’s something.”

“Eat something before you go.”

He followed her to the bar, where a platter of fried bread, eggs, and bacon waited for him. He ate quickly and fished in his pocket for a shilling.

“Don’t you dare,” Kannice said.

Ethan smiled. “Thank you.”

“Where are you going now?” she asked, her expression deadly serious.

“Are you going to follow me around, and make sure I’m safe?”

“If I have to.”

He leaned forward to kiss her. But she put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

“Tell me, Ethan.”

“What good do you think it’ll do? Do you really think you can save me from the—”

Kelf emerged from the kitchen, a barrel of ale on his great shoulder. He put it down with a thud, looked from one of them to the other, and returned to the kitchen, muttering to himself.

“I know I can’t save you from anyone,” Kannice said earnestly. “But maybe I can get word to someone who can.”

“I’m not sure there is anyone, not against this conjurer. But for what it’s worth, I’ll be speaking with Cyrus Derne this morning. And then Ebenezer Mackintosh. After that I’m not sure.”

“All right. Is there any point in telling you to be careful?”

He stood, kissed her, and picked up his coat off the bar. “Probably not,” he said, making his way to the door.

The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still scudded low over the city and puddles of befouled water filled the lanes. The air had cooled again, and a sharp wind rattled the door and windows of the tavern. Turning up his collar, he walked north into the teeth of the gale, crossing into the North End and continuing toward Bennet’s Street.

He wasn’t sure what to expect when he reached the Derne mansion. It was early still, and he felt reasonably sure that both Cyrus and his father wouldn’t have left yet for their wharf.

As Ethan approached the house, though, he was surprised to see Sephira Pryce and her men standing out front. Nigel grinned when he spotted Ethan, and he said something to Sephira, alerting her to Ethan’s arrival. She waved, a rapacious smile on her face. Ethan faltered a step, but then continued on toward the house, hoping that Sephira wouldn’t be so bold as to murder him here in the wealthiest part of the North End, in the light of day. As he had told Kannice, there was no point in telling him to be careful.

As Ethan approached the Derne house, Nigel and two of his friends stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Ethan halted, and the toughs remained where they were. But the grin on Yellow-hair’s face told Ethan that he would have been grateful for any opportunity to pick up right where things had left off the previous evening, before Pell and the sheriff interrupted them.

“You’re not welcome here, Ethan,” Sephira said, stepping out from behind her men and walking to him.

She was dressed in her street clothes again—a long coat over the usual breeches, shirt, and waistcoat—but her lilac perfume smelled stronger than usual. Maybe Ethan wasn’t used to seeing her so early in the day, or maybe she put on extra scent when visiting men as wealthy as the Dernes. Either way, it was too much; no one as hateful as this woman ought to have worn anything that smelled so sweet.

“Are you and your boys the Dernes’ personal guards now, Sephira?” Ethan asked. “Have things gotten that difficult for you since I started taking away your wealthy clientele?”

She laughed. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you? Do you think you’re safe now because it’s daytime and we’re surrounded by nice houses?”

“Actually, yes, I do,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Because of that, and because I have sources for conjuring that don’t require me to spill blood. Just as I did last night when I used a little bit of grass to hold off a dozen of your men. I could kill you where you stand without drawing a blade or making a sound. It would just look like I scared you to death.”

Her face fell a bit and Ethan was certain that he saw fear in her eyes. She would recover quickly; she always did. But he enjoyed the moment.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I came to speak with Cyrus Derne. But I wouldn’t mind knowing what you’re doing here.”

Sephira smoothed her waistcoat. “Well, I have no intention of telling you anything, and Derne asked us to keep you away from him.”

“You really are his guards,” Ethan said. “Why is Derne so afraid of me?” He knew the answer, of course, but he wanted to know what the merchant had told Sephira. Not that he really expected her to say.

“He’s not afraid of you. No one’s afraid of you, Ethan. He just doesn’t want to see you. Apparently you disturbed him in the middle of a negotiation yesterday at his place of business.” She shook her head. “That was foolish of you. But then again, you have a habit of making enemies of the wrong people.”

“I find it hard to believe that you would come to the North End just to keep away a conjurer who might or might not show up at Cyrus Derne’s door. What are you doing here, Sephira? What business do you have with him?”

“Ethan,” she purred. She came closer to him and leaned forward so that her face was only inches from his. “You sound jealous.”

“I imagine he and his father have connections with merchants throughout the British Empire,” he said, piecing it together as he spoke. “I’m sure that they pay very well, and would find value in an ally with your knowledge of the city and its shadier side. They might even look to someone like you to help them in a dispute with a man as influential as Abner Berson. Did Cyrus Derne really love Jennifer Berson, or was that a ruse, a way of getting close to her father?”

She regarded him with an odd mixture of amusement and alarm. Finally, she laughed and shook her head. “Go home, Ethan, before you get yourself hurt. You’re meddling in matters you can’t possibly understand.” She turned to her men. “We’re done here.” Glancing back at Ethan, she laughed again, and then led Nigel and the rest of her men back down Middle Street, toward the South End.

Ethan watched them go before making his way up the path to the Dernes’ door. Two chaises waited outside the house, their horses standing with their heads bowed. Derne was home. Ethan knocked once, and the door opened immediately. The same hulking servant Ethan remembered from his first visit to the house stood in the doorway, staring down at him, his expression no more welcoming than Nigel’s had been.

“Ethan Kaille to see Cyrus Derne,” Ethan said.

“Mister Derne doesn’t wish to speak with you, Ethan.”

Ethan frowned. The servant hadn’t opened his mouth. He glared at Ethan a moment longer and then stepped aside, revealing the last person Ethan had expected to see here: Geoffrey Brower—Bett’s husband, his brother-in-law.

As always, Geoffrey was impeccably dressed and perfectly groomed. He wore a suit of pale green silk, and his hair was pulled back and powdered. Geoffrey had a high forehead, a hook nose, and dark eyes, and he was as thin as a blade and uncommonly tall. He towered over Ethan, who had once remarked to Bett that her husband spoke down to everyone he met in more ways than one. She hadn’t seen the humor.

Geoffrey eyed Ethan briefly, apparently waiting for some sort of greeting. When Ethan offered none, he walked past him out of the house, saying, “Please, come with me.”

Ethan considered ignoring the man. But Derne’s servant hadn’t moved and hadn’t gotten any smaller. With one last glance at him, Ethan followed his brother-in-law.

“Mister Derne believes that you’re harrying him,” Geoffrey said, as Ethan caught up with him. His expression was grave. “Are you?”

“I don’t believe so. I came here the night Abner Berson hired me to look for his daughter’s brooch, and I asked Mister Derne a few questions. And then I asked him a few more questions yesterday at his wharf.”

“And here you are again today.”

“Yes. Here I am.”

Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. “Cyrus Derne is a wealthy man. And we both know that wealth buys far more than a fine house and nice things. He has impressed upon representatives of the Crown that he wants you kept away from him and his family.”

“So you came to his house as a representative of the Crown?” Ethan asked.

“I came to him as a friend. I shouldn’t have to tell you that the events of the past few days have alarmed those of us who still profess loyalty to His Majesty King George the Third.” He looked sidelong at Ethan. “I also should not have to tell you that you would be wise to avoid men like Samuel Adams and Peter Darrow.”

Ethan stared at him. “Am I being followed, Geoffrey?”

Brower laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Adams and Darrow and James Otis are being watched, as are a host of others who are believed to be threats to the peace.”

Of course. “Well then,” Ethan said, “it might interest you to know that I’ll be visiting Ebenezer Mackintosh next. I’m sure that will raise some eyebrows.”

“Actually, I believe most will wonder why it took you so long to confront the scoundrel.” Geoffrey stopped walking. “But out of respect for Bett, I’ll trust you to conduct the rest of your inquiry as you see fit. My concern is that you keep away from Mister Derne. Do that, and you’ll have nothing to fear from me.”

Ethan nearly laughed out loud. He had never been afraid of Geoffrey. But as he faced him, he kept his expression neutral. “That’s Christian of you, Geoffrey,” he said. “Tell me though: Don’t you worry about the appearance of a customs man going to such lengths to protect a merchant like Derne?”

The color drained from Geoffrey’s cheeks, even as he forced a weak smile onto his thin lips.

“For that matter,” Ethan continued, “doesn’t it bother you to work so closely with a woman like Sephira Pryce? Does Bett know that you have dealings with her?”

“I do not!” Geoffrey said. But his denial seemed to lack conviction.

“Of course not.” Ethan started to walk away, then turned to face Brower again. “I’ve never had anything to fear from you, Geoffrey. But if you dare get in my way again, I’ll have a conversation with my sister that I believe she’ll find quite illuminating.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Nor did he return to the Derne house. This had nothing to do with Geoffrey Brower, or with Sephira Pryce for that matter. If Derne had made up his mind not to speak with him, Ethan could do little to force the matter. At least as long as Derne remained in his home.

Instead, Ethan headed back to the center of the city, to the Boston Prison. The time had come for him to speak with Ebenezer Mackintosh.

Thomas Hutchinson had mentioned to Ethan that Mackintosh’s friends were working to get the cordwainer released from gaol, but Ethan had put little stock in this, thinking it the bitter imaginings of a wronged man. As he approached the prison, though, he saw no less a personage than Peter Darrow exiting the building leading a slight young man in laborer’s clothes. Ethan had no doubt that this was Mackintosh.

He approached them. Mackintosh took no notice of him, but Darrow spotted him from a distance and momentarily faltered, his expression difficult to read. He appeared tired and he moved stiffly. His eyes were red, his cheeks blotchy. Ethan wondered if he had been drinking the night before.

“Mister Kaille,” the lawyer said. “I suppose I should have expected this. Have you met Ebenezer Mackintosh?”

Ethan stopped in front of the two men. “No, I haven’t.”

“Ebenezer Mackintosh, this is Ethan Kaille. Mister Kaille, Ebenezer Mackintosh.”

They shook hands and Ethan actually winced. The shoemaker had a crushing grip, as well as a winning smile. His face was angular and thin, his eyes small and widely spaced, so that he vaguely resembled a fox. His nose was crooked and his hair hung to his shoulders in brown waves. Ethan wouldn’t have called him conventionally handsome—not like Darrow, with his square chin and almond-shaped eyes. But there was, he was forced to admit, something compelling about the man. Mackintosh had uttered not a word, and already Ethan could see why people were drawn to him.

“Nice t’ meet you, Mister Kaille. You a friend o’ Mister Darrow?”

“Not really, no.”

Mackintosh’s face fell, puzzlement furrowing his brow. Already people on the street had recognized the cordwainer and were crowding around them, hoping to shake the hand of the Commander of the South End and congratulate him on his release from prison.

Mackintosh turned to Darrow, perhaps hoping that the lawyer would steer him away from Ethan. But Darrow didn’t move. He was watching Ethan, wearing that same bland expression.

“I need to speak with you, Mister Mackintosh,” Ethan said. “And I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

The man glanced at Darrow again. “Well, I don’ know tha’—”

“I’m investigating the murder of Jennifer Berson, which occurred the night of the twenty-sixth. There are those in the city, many of them in positions of power, who would like to see you blamed for her death.”

A hard look came into Mackintosh’s eyes, offering Ethan a glimpse of the street fighter lurking within.

“Aye,” the man said. “All righ’. Where?”