Thieftaker (6 page)

“She’s a’ King’s Chapel,” the man said, “downstairs in th’ crypt.”

“The crypt? She’s already been buried?”

“No. Tha’s where her body was taken. She’s t’ be buried on th’ grounds there.”

Naturally. The King’s Chapel Burying Ground was the oldest cemetery in Boston, and the only one a man like Abner Berson would have deemed appropriate for the interment of his child.

“Mister Caner, the rector there, knows yah’re comin’,” the man went on. “Once yah’ve seen her, yah’re t’ come t’ th’ Bersons’ home.”

“All right,” Ethan said, although he was already having second thoughts. He had his reasons for taking the job, but he had also had his reasons for refusing at first. Perhaps the stranger read the doubt in Ethan’s eyes, because he stood, put on his hat, and strode to the tavern entrance, as if determined to leave the Dowser before Ethan could change his mind. He paused by the door and looked back at Ethan.

“Until later, Mister Kaille,” he said, and left.

For several moments Ethan sat staring at the door, wrestling with the urge to run after the stranger and give him back Berson’s money. At last, knowing that by now he had waited too long, he reached for the pouch, which still sat on the table. He held it in his palm, enjoying the weight of it, the soft jangling of the coins. Then he stood and slipped it into his pocket.

Turning toward the bar, he froze. Kannice was watching him, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed in a thin line.

He walked over to her. “You have something to say to me?”

“I thought you weren’t taking any jobs for a while.”

“This one’s different,” he said. “I couldn’t say no.”

She didn’t respond.

“That man works for Abner Berson. His daughter’s been killed.”

“I heard,” she said, her voice flat. Ethan had been sure she would have much to say about him working on a killing, but if she did, she kept it to herself.

“They want me because there were spells involved. He didn’t say it, but I’m sure. I think I might even have felt the conjuring that killed her. That’s why Berson didn’t go to Sephira Pryce.”

“And do you have to work every job that calls for a conjurer?”

“Would you rather I left it to Sephira or the sheriff? They know nothing about spells. Or rather, they know just enough to cast suspicion on every speller in Boston, myself included. It has to be me, Kannice. I’m the only one who knows enough about conjuring to find the truth.”

Kannice went back to wiping the bar, rubbing at the wood with such fury that Ethan half expected her to take off the finish.

“She died last night,” Ethan said. “Berson’s man made it sound like she was killed by the same mob that destroyed Hutchinson’s house.”

She frowned, but she didn’t look at him. “You don’t believe that any more than I do,” she said quietly. “The men who wrecked those houses might be fools, but they’re not murderers.”

“Not all of them. But one of them might be.”

Kannice cast a hard look his way, but continued to clean the bar.

“I have to go,” he told her at last.

She nodded, a strand of hair falling over her forehead. He started to reach out to brush it away, then stopped himself.

“Will you be back here tonight?” she asked, pushing the strand away herself.

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

Her frown deepened.

“Anyway,” he went on. “It’ll probably be a late night.”

She straightened, her eyes meeting his. She draped the polishing cloth over her shoulder and tipped her head to the side. “If you change your mind…”

“Aye,” he said. Both of them knew he wouldn’t. He stood there another moment, neither of them speaking. Finally, Kannice went behind the bar, and retreated into the kitchen.

Ethan left the tavern.

The warmth of the previous night had given way to a cooler morning. The sky was a clear, bright blue, and a freshening wind blew in off the harbor, carrying the smell of fish and brine, and sweeping away the heavy pall of smoke that had been inescapable the night before. The streets were crowded with carriages and men and women on foot making their way with grim purpose to shops or to the markets at Faneuil Hall.

When Ethan first came to Boston, twenty-one years before, he thought he had never seen a finer place. The city was small by English standards, but it was clean and alive. Its streets bustled with activity. It was everything Bristol, his home in England, was not.

Two decades later, hard times and war had taken their toll. Every day, Boston felt more like the sad, gray cities of England. It had grown torpid, weak. Where once it had been the leading city of British North America, it was now the indolent older sister to New York and Philadelphia, surpassed by its younger, more vibrant siblings.

King’s Chapel sat at the corner of Treamount and School Streets, only a few blocks from the Dowsing Rod. It was one of the older churches in Boston, though it had been rebuilt only ten years before, its wooden exterior enclosed within a new granite façade. The wisdom of that choice had been borne out in the years since, as Boston was ravaged by fires, including one that began on Cornhill and swept down to the wharves, damaging literally hundreds of shops and homes. Some had suggested that the rebuilt church should now be called Stone Chapel, but it remained King’s Chapel to most in the city.

The still incomplete structure had a ponderous look, much at odds with the more graceful lines of the older churches in the North and South Ends. But the chapel was the first in the colonies to affiliate itself with the Church of England. Its congregation included some of the wealthiest and most influential families living in the central part of the city, particularly those with close ties to the Crown.

Ethan didn’t worship at any of Boston’s churches. In his years as a soldier and then as a prisoner, he had seen too much brutality and suffering, and had done things for which he could not forgive himself. He had lost a third of his life, part of his foot, and the one woman he had ever truly loved. At this point, whatever faith Ethan might once have had in the existence of a just and merciful God was gone.

This was another point of contention with Kannice, who every Sunday went to the Old Meeting House in the South End, and who assured him that God had taken his toes to save his life and had eased his ague before it killed him. But even if Ethan believed her when she said that God was watching over him, he knew better than to think that His servants would be so kind. Ethan was a conjurer, not a witch, and few of those who had been hanged or burned as witches in New England’s dark history could actually cast true spells. But that hadn’t stopped men like Cotton Mather from railing at magicking in their sermons, and it didn’t stop the present crop of ministers and vicars from doing the same.

And of all the churches in Boston, there was none that he avoided so assiduously as he did King’s Chapel. That was how Bett, the older of his two sisters, and a member of the chapel’s congregation, wanted it. Usually, he was more than happy to honor her wishes. Today he had no choice but to ignore them.

He entered the churchyard through the gate on Treamount, ascended a low set of steps to a pair of heavy oak doors, and entered the chapel. The building was far more attractive within than it was from the street. Pairs of columns with ornate carvings at their tops supported a high ceiling with shallow vaulting. Two stories of windows allowed sunlight to flood the main sanctuary. Boxed pews lined the central aisle, which led to a rounded chancel beyond the altar at the far end of the church. The walls and ceilings had been painted ivory, the columns darker shades of tan and brown, and the pulpit and gallery fronts pale pink; the pews were natural wood. Given the chapel’s somber exterior, the cheeriness of the sanctuary surprised Ethan.

A robed man, tall and narrow-shouldered, stood at the pulpit, poring over the Bible. He looked up as soon as he heard Ethan enter.

“Yes?” he called, his voice echoing through the sanctuary. “What do you want?”

“Mister Caner?” Ethan asked, walking forward.

The man frowned and descended the curving stairway to the stone floor. He had a thin, bony face and a somewhat sallow complexion. His nose was overlarge, his eyes were small and hard, his lips thin and pale. His robe was black and he wore a stiff white cravat at his neck.

“No, I’m not Mister Caner,” the man said, waiting for Ethan at the base of the steps. “I’m the curate, Mister Troutbeck. And you are?”

“My name is Ethan Kaille. I was sent by Abner Berson. I’m to see his daughter’s body.”

The minister’s frown softened. “Yes, of course. Mister Caner mentioned that you might be coming. This way.”

Ethan followed Troutbeck through an archway into the vestry behind and to the left of the pulpit, and then down a broad set of marble stairs.

The air grew colder and damper as they went down. At the bottom of the stairs, they turned onto a broad corridor lined on each side by stone walls. The basement was poorly lit; a few candles burned in iron sconces set in the corners, but there was no other source of light, and after the brightness of the sanctuary Ethan’s eyes were slow to adjust. He could tell, though, that the walls of the corridor were marked regularly with stone plaques, all carved with names and dates. The crypts.

In the middle of the corridor stood a stone table. A delicate figure lay upon it, her dark hair spilling over the edge of the slab. She was covered to her neck with a white cloth. A censer had been placed in a corner by the stairway, and fragrant smoke rose from it, barely masking the sickly smell of decay and the pungent scent of the spermaceti candles.

Ethan started toward the corpse, walking slowly, his boots clicking loudly on the stone floor. His vision was still uncertain, and so when a figure in the far corner moved, rising from a small wooden chair, Ethan nearly jumped out of his skin.

“That is Mister Pell,” Troutbeck told Ethan, amusement in his voice as it reverberated loudly off the stone. “He is sitting vigil with the body. I trust that if you need anything he can help you.”

The curate turned to go.

“Who brought her here?” Ethan asked, his pulse still racing from the fright the second minister had given him.

Troutbeck stopped and faced him once more. “Pardon?”

“Who brought the body to King’s Chapel?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t here last night.”

“Two men of the night watch,” said the minister in the corner. “They said they had been called by a man who found her lying in a deserted lane, and that Berson requested they bring her here.”

“You see?” Troutbeck said. “Mister Pell should be able to answer any questions you have.” He nodded curtly to Ethan and then to the minister before returning to the stairway. This time, Ethan made no effort to stop him.

Once the sound of Troutbeck’s footsteps had faded, Ethan approached the stone table. Mr. Pell did the same.

Pell was young and slight; despite his black robes and cravat, he looked more like an altar boy than a minister.

“Did the men of the watch tell you where she was found?” Ethan asked, as he stared down at Jennifer Berson’s face. She had been an attractive girl, with a wide, sensuous mouth, large, widely spaced eyes, and a straight, fine nose.

“They said she was found on Cross Street. But that’s all.”

“And what time was this?” Ethan asked absently, his gaze still on the girl.

“Forgive me,” the minister said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Ethan looked up at that. “Mister Caner didn’t tell you?”

Pell regarded him placidly. Even in the dim light Ethan could see that his eyes were pale. He had straight dark hair. A powdered wig sat on the stone floor beside the chair on which he had been sitting, but Ethan couldn’t help thinking that with a face as youthful as his, Pell would have looked odd wearing it.

“Mister Caner might have mentioned something about expecting a visitor,” the young minister said, taking some care in the choice of his words. “But I wish to hear an answer from you.”

Ethan resumed his examination of the girl, bending closer to get a better view of her face. Let the man play his games. Ethan had work to do. “My name is Ethan Kaille,” he said as he searched her head and neck for wounds. “Abner Berson has asked that I look into the death of his daughter and the theft of an item she was carrying when she died.”

“And you’re a thieftaker?”

“Aye.”

“Do thieftakers often investigate murders?”

“Are you interested in hiring me?” Ethan asked. “Or are you making conversation?”

The minister shrugged, looking sheepish. “I was merely curious,” he said quietly.

“I’m not sure this is the time for indulging your curiosity. Please answer my question: When did they bring her?”

“It was close to midnight, I believe.”

“Had she been dead for long?”

The minister glanced at the girl before quickly averting his eyes again. He stood a few paces from the table, and his hands trembled. “You mistake me for a physician, Mister Kaille. I couldn’t tell you.”

“Then you have no idea how she died?” Ethan asked.

Pell licked his lips. “None at all.”

“Forgive me, Mister Pell,” Ethan said. “But this can’t be the first time you’ve seen a corpse.”

“Of course not,” the young man said, his voice unsteady.

“And yet, you seem shaken by the sight of her.”

The man hesitated, his eyes now fixed on the girl. “She’s about my age. And the men who brought her said that she had been murdered. I’ve seen the dead before, but never anyone who was … killed in that way.”

“I understand,” Ethan said. “I’m going to uncover her. I want to see if I can learn something of how she died. All right?”

Pell nodded.

Ethan pulled back the sheet to reveal the girl’s body. She was dressed in a pale silk gown—a soft shade of yellow, although it was hard to tell in the dim light. Her petticoats were darker—perhaps green—and she wore a stomacher of white silk. Ethan bent closer, examining the exposed skin of her shoulders and chest, searching for any marks that might explain her death.

“Bring me that sconce,” Ethan said, gesturing vaguely at an iron tree in the far corner of the chamber.