Thieftaker (43 page)

“Are you hungry?”

He shook his head. “Actually, no.”

Concern chased the smile from her face. “Is everything all right?”

“I have to go see Berson, and then Henry. And I could use a change of clothes.”

“All right,” she said, suddenly sounding guarded.

He knew why. He would also have to return the clothes he had borrowed from Elli.

“I’ll be back later. I promise.”

“Of course.”

Ethan eyed her a moment longer, then left the tavern.

He went first to the Berson house, and was ushered into the merchant’s study. Berson came in several minutes later, frowning at the state of Ethan’s clothes and his bruises.

“I’m afraid this inquiry hasn’t been kind to you, Mister Kaille,” the man said, indicating that Ethan should take a seat.

“No, sir. Which is why I’m glad it’s over.”

Berson had just turned to close the door, but now he spun back to face Ethan so quickly that he nearly lost his balance. “Over, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I know who killed your daughter. And I know why.”

“Tell me. Please.”

“Peter Darrow killed her and several others.”

Berson’s jaw dropped. “Darrow? The man who works with Otis and Adams?”

“Yes, sir. He was a conjurer, and he was using killing spells to control the actions of others. I believe he was working on behalf of the Crown, or someone close to it.”

Berson frowned. “I find that hard to believe. Surely this is what that scoundrel Adams told you.”

“Actually, sir, it’s what Darrow told me. He used the spell that cost your daughter her life to control Ebenezer Mackintosh. Darrow forced him to lead his mob to Hutchinson’s house.”

“This makes no sense,” Berson said, his voice shaking.

“No, sir, I don’t suppose it does. But it is the truth.”

Ethan thought about telling the merchant why his daughter went into the streets that night, but then thought better of it. Ethan couldn’t say for sure that her death was Derne’s fault, and even if he had been sure, that was a matter for Berson and Derne to work out between themselves.

“Where is Darrow now?” Berson asked after a time, staring at the floor, his cheeks bright red.

“He’s dead, sir.”

“Do I have you to thank for that?”

“In part, yes. I killed him, after Adams shot him.”

The merchant blinked, then nodded. There were tears in his eyes, but he made no effort to hide them. “Well, I’m grateful to you. Another man might have retrieved the brooch, taken his money, and been done with it. Few men I know would have risked so much on another’s behalf. I won’t forget this. You have my gratitude and that of my family.”

“I’m glad I could help you, sir.”

Berson stood. “I believe I owe you the balance of your payment.”

“You gave me five pounds the other day, sir, so whatever you pay me should reflect that.”

“You’re a good man, Mister Kaille. I’m not sure you would do very well down at the wharves, but I admire your honesty.” He crossed to a small writing table in a corner of the library and pulled from a drawer a coin pouch. He poured the contents onto the table and made a careful count. From where Ethan stood there looked to be twenty pounds sterling; perhaps more. Berson placed the coins back in the pouch and handed it to Ethan.

“There you go. You’ve earned every pound.”

“That’s … that’s very generous of you, sir.”

“Well, perhaps at some time in the future you’ll consider working for me again.”

“Of course, sir. It would be an honor.”

Berson shook Ethan’s hand and smiled, though it appeared to take a great effort. His eyes were still red. “I think I would like to tell my wife what’s happened. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have William show you out.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The merchant left him there, and his servant came to see Ethan to the door. William didn’t say much to him this time, but as Ethan was leaving he asked, “Was I righ’ abou’ Mister Derne?”

Ethan thought back to their conversation that first day. William had said Derne was careless, a man who could lead Jennifer into peril.

“Yes, you were,” he said. “I didn’t tell this to Mister Berson, because Derne didn’t mean to harm her. But if not for him, she might still be alive.”

William nodded gravely. “I feared as much. Good-bye, Mister Kaille. May th’ Lord keep you safe.”

“And you, William.”

Ethan walked back to the lane and turned toward home.

Chapter

T
WENTY-FOUR

A
s Ethan neared Henry’s cooperage, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and froze. Shelly lay by the side of the lane and had raised her head at his approach. Ethan swallowed, then took a tentative step toward her, remembering his dream from two nights before.

The dog got to her feet and trotted toward him, her tail wagging, her mouth open and her tongue hanging out in what looked like a grin. Ethan knelt down to greet her and she licked his hand before letting him scratch behind her ears.

“Shelly,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. If there had been any other way…” He shook his head, his throat tight. Was he crazy to be apologizing to a dog?

She padded closer and licked his cheek, and when Ethan stopped scratching her she pawed at his hand to get him to start again.

“I miss him, too,” he said, his voice still low.

After another few moments, he stood and let himself into the cooperage. Henry sat on a low stool by his workbench, sipping water from a cup.

“Resting?” Ethan asked, closing the door behind him.

The old man glanced Ethan’s way. “Hello, Ethan. Aye, I’m tired today.”

Ethan crossed the shop and sat on a finished barrel. “You all right?”

The cooper shrugged, his open mouth revealing the gap in his front teeth. “A bit thad, really. Pitch died.”

What could he say? That he knew? That he was a conjurer and had needed the dog dead more than he needed him alive? So he said the only thing he could, meaning it in ways that Henry could never know. “I’m sorry, Henry. I know he meant a lot to you.”

“Aye, he did,” Henry said, sounding wistful. “Him and Shelly both. The odd thing is, I don’t know why it happened. I found him out front this morning. He didn’t look hurt; I don’t think he’d been sick. There wasn’t a mark on him. He just died, like he was old.” He shook his head. “But he wasn’t. At least I don’t think he was.”

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell Henry what he had done. But he was afraid. He had faced Sephira and her men, he had fought the conjurer Darrow. But he lacked the courage to tell his friend what he had done to save his own life. “I’m very sorry,” he said again, the words feeling woefully inadequate. He leaned forward and gripped Henry’s shoulder briefly before standing again and walking back to the door.

“What about you, Ethan? You all right?”

“Tired, but otherwise fine, thank you.”

“No more trouble with Sephira Pryce?” He sounded more hopeful than concerned, as if he thought another visit from the Empress of the South End might be just the thing to lift his spirits.

Ethan suppressed a smile. “No, I think I’m done with Sephira, at least for now.”

“Oh,” Henry said, sounding distinctly disappointed. “Well, that’s good, I suppose.”

“See you later, Henry,” Ethan said, letting himself out.

“Bye, Ethan,” the old man called.

He walked around to the back, slowly climbed the stairway to his room, and went inside, taking care to lock the door. He believed what he had told Henry: His inquiry was over. Whatever interest Sephira had in protecting Darrow, there was nothing more she could do now. She might want the money Berson had given him, and she probably would have enjoyed setting her men on him again, but she had no reason to go out of her way to track him down. Still, he felt better with the door locked.

He considered trying to nap, but though still weary from all the conjuring he had done the night before, and still sore from the injuries Darrow had inflicted on him, he knew that he wouldn’t sleep. Instead, he changed into clean clothes, realizing as he did that he had ruined a couple of shirts and a coat over the past few days. Before long he would have to dig into the pouch of silver Berson had given him and visit the clothier. Thinking about it, he decided that there was nothing stopping him from going this day, right now. It was an odd feeling, as unfamiliar as it was liberating.

He left his room, fully intending to buy himself a coat and some clothes. But as he stepped onto Cooper’s Alley, he saw a carriage waiting in front of the cooperage. Henry was there, speaking with the driver. They both turned at Ethan’s approach.

“It’s for you, Ethan,” Henry said, sounding awed.

“Are you Ethan Kaille?” asked the driver, a young, well-dressed man in a linen suit and powdered wig.

“Yes, I am.”

“Lieutenant Governor Hutchinson requests that you join him at his home in Milton. I’m to take you there.”

Ethan shared a look with Henry, who merely raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” Ethan said, “we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

He winked at the cooper and climbed into the carriage. The driver took his place in front and soon they were rattling through the streets of Boston toward the Neck and the town gate. The leather harnesses of the horses creaked, and the horses’ shod hooves rang brightly on the cobblestone. Once past the battlements, they crossed the causeway into Roxbury, veered south toward Dorchester, and continued on to Milton and the Hutchinson estate. It had been months since last Ethan ventured out of Boston, and despite the length of the journey—nearly two hours—he enjoyed seeing the countryside and knowing that Sephira Pryce was miles away.

Hutchinson’s home stood at the top of a knoll that overlooked the Neponset River and offered a distant view of Boston Harbor. It was a sprawling estate built of marble, with an impressive portico at the main entrance, and smaller wings flanking the central portion of the house. Large trees shaded the yard, and as Ethan climbed out of the carriage and followed the driver up the path toward the house, he caught a glimpse of colorful gardens along both sides of the home. Birds sang, bees buzzed past, and a freshing breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Ethan could see why Hutchinson had chosen to retreat here after the attack on his home in the city. A servant met Ethan at the door and led him through the house to an open veranda at the back where Hutchinson sat alone, gazing out over his land.

The lieutenant governor appeared rested and in far better spirits than he had the last time they spoke. When his servant announced Ethan he stood and dismissed the man before extending a hand to Ethan and indicating that he should sit.

“Thank you for coming all this way, Mister Kaille.”

“Of course, Your Honor. The pleasure is mine.”

“Your journey out here wasn’t a hardship, I hope.”

“Not at all, sir. And if I may, it seems the country agrees with you.”

A reflexive smile touched Hutchinson’s lips and vanished. “I believe it does.” He cleared his throat. “I won’t waste your time on niceties. I had word this morning from Sheriff Greenleaf of a shooting on Orange Street that occurred last night. He said that you were there, with Mackintosh, Samuel Adams, Peter Darrow, and James Otis. Now I hear that none of you was arrested, and I will assume there was good reason for this. But I also gather that this incident was related in some way to the Berson killing, and I would like to know what happened.”

“Yes, sir. Simply put, Peter Darrow killed Jennifer Berson, and he came close to killing me. He was shot by Mister Adams, who acted to save my life.”

Hutchinson gave no sign that any of this came as a surprise. Ethan assumed that he had been told as much by the sheriff.

“Why would Darrow kill the Berson girl?” he asked.

Ethan hesitated, unsure of how much to tell the man about Darrow’s conjuring abilities, not to mention his own.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mister Kaille. Much of what I’ve heard about the events of last night strikes me as … fantastical, to say the least. I don’t know what to believe. Now, you tell me that Darrow killed Jennifer Berson, but obviously you are reluctant to tell me why he would do such a thing. Put yourself in my place, and tell me what I should think of all this.”

Ethan gazed toward Boston. It felt wrong to speak of murders and shootings here in this gentle place. But he doubted that Hutchinson would have much patience for evasions.

“Darrow practiced the dark arts,” he said, facing Hutchinson again. “He was what some would call a witch, and others a conjurer. He used his powers to bend men to his will, and in order to do this he had to sacrifice the lives of others. Jennifer Berson was one such sacrifice.”

Hutchinson stared at him for a long time. “That’s quite an explanation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I assume that Darrow did these things you describe to further the cause of … of liberty.” As he had the other time he and Ethan spoke, Hutchinson said the word as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Ethan shook his head. “No, sir. He indicated to me that he was an agent of the Crown, and an enemy of Samuel Adams and the Sons of Liberty.”

The lieutenant governor opened his mouth, then closed it again and sat back in his chair. Ethan thought that Hutchinson would object to this as Berson had. But he didn’t. Eventually he simply said, in a voice barely more than a whisper, “I see.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, until Ethan began to wonder if Hutchinson was done with him and expected him to leave.

But after a time, the lieutenant governor regarded Ethan again, seeming to take his measure with his gaze. “I would think that someone who could draw upon such … dark powers would be difficult to overpower. At least he would be for an ordinary man.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hutchinson watched him, clearly waiting for Ethan to say more. When at last he realized that Ethan had no intention of telling him anything else, that faint smile returned. “Very well, Mister Kaille. It’s a long journey back to Boston, and I’m sure you would rather arrive before nightfall. I’m grateful to you for coming all this way to speak with me.”