A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (22 page)

“Is that so?” Ramsey asked, his voice tight.

“Aye. So, go ahead and tell me. I’m going to find out soon enough. Think of how much more satisfying it will feel to tell me to my face, to see my reaction.”

For the span of a heartbeat, it seemed to Ethan that Ramsey was tempted. He could see the eagerness in the captain’s eyes, the boyish excitement in the smile that tried to break through his stolid mien. But the moment passed and he shook his head.

“I think I won’t. But I give you credit for makin’ the attempt.” He did smile then, but it was cold and clearly forced. “I’m goin’ to enjoy these next few days.”

Ethan finished his wine and stood. He tipped his hat to the captain and crossed to the gangplank.

But as he started to walk back down to the wharf, Ramsey called his name, stopping him.

“Your foot,” he said, nodding toward Ethan’s bad leg. “Did we have that right?”

Ethan had let down his guard, thinking that their interview was over. He felt his cheeks go white, and could think of nothing to say.

Ramsey threw back his head and laughed. He picked up his flask and cup, and went belowdecks.

Chapter

T
WELVE

As Ethan stepped off the gangplank onto the wharf, his hands shook. Rage, frustration, yes, even a touch of fear: a storm of emotions raged in his mind. He had very nearly gotten the better of Ramsey; he was certain that the man was on the verge of telling him everything. And in a moment of weakness, he allowed the captain to turn their encounter to his advantage.

He was desperate to know what Ramsey was planning, to understand what role he himself played in the man’s scheme.

“Yes, well, he’s not going to tell you,” Ethan muttered to himself, drawing a disapproving look from a passing wharfman.

The sun hung low in the west, still obscured by the haze that had settled over the city days before. The breeze had died, leaving the air hot and stagnant. It would be another hour at least until darkness fell and the shades Ramsey had released from their slumber appeared once more.

Ethan set out again for the North End. Bertram Flagg, another of the dead in the King’s Chapel Burying Ground who were mutilated by Ramsey’s men, had lived a short distance from the Rowan family. Ethan chose to begin his search for other ghosts at his home.

Mr. Flagg had been a shipbuilder whose yard was located in the North End, near the Charlestown ferry. He was no less wealthy or influential than Alexander Rowan. His home might have been more modest than the Rowan mansion, but only just. It was a two-story brick house with black shutters and a white colonnade at the entrance. It stood at the corner of Hull and Salem streets, at the base of Copp’s Hill and within sight—and smell—of the foul waters of Mill Pond.

Ethan approached the door only to have it open before he reached it. A young man walked out of the house and halted upon seeing him.

“Who are you?” he asked. He was a few inches shorter than Ethan and slight of build, with a soft, almost feminine face. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old.

Ethan thought he might retreat into the house at the first word he uttered.

“My name is Ethan Kaille,” he said. “I’m a thieftaker hired by Reverend Caner to find those who desecrated the burying ground at King’s Chapel.”

The lad gazed back at him, seemingly waiting for Ethan to say more. At last he stepped forward and stuck out a hand, which Ethan shook. “I’m Charles Flagg,” he said, not quite looking Ethan in the eye.

“I’m sorry about the passing of your father,” Ethan said.

Charles shrugged, looked down at his feet. “Thank you.” They fell into a brief, strained silence. “I have to go,” the lad finally said. “I have … I just have to go.” There was something in his manner …

“I take it you have a meeting to attend.”

The lad’s eyes widened, with fright at first, but when Ethan offered a faint conspiratorial smile, he nodded, and even chanced a grin of his own. “You won’t say anything, will you?” he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper. “My father had nothing but contempt for the Sons of Liberty, and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“I won’t say a word. Is your mother inside?”

“My stepmother is. My mother died when I was seven.”

Ethan grimaced in sympathy, thinking that in this respect at least, Charles had already lived a more difficult life than many men twice his age. “Again, I’m sorry. What is your stepmother’s name?”

“Edith.”

“Thank you, Charles.”

The boy nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said, and strode away, looking much like a boy trying to act older than his years.

Ethan went to the door, which Charles had left open. He rapped with the brass knocker and called, “Missus Flagg?”

“Yes?” came a voice. A few seconds later a woman walked into view. She looked to be but a few years older than Charles. She was pretty but careworn, with wheaten hair and green eyes. She carried a babe in her arms, and was trailed by a second child, a girl who might have been five years old.

Ethan introduced himself again, and as he did, a single crease formed in the middle of the woman’s brow.

“Why would you come here?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be looking for answers in the burying ground?”

“I believe there might be answers here, ma’am.”

She looked away. “I don’t know anything about what happened to Bertram’s grave, except that it was gruesome and foul.”

“Who is that, Mama?” the girl asked, staring at Ethan with large round eyes the same shade as her mother’s.

“He’s just a man who works for the church, dear. And he won’t be staying.”

“This must be very frightening for all of you,” Ethan said. “Not being able to feel safe in your own home. I believe I can help you.”

Edith’s face had gone white.

“You’re not the only ones, you know,” he went on, pretending not to notice. “Families all across the city have had shades in their homes. You needn’t be embarrassed.”

“What’s he talking about, Mama?”

Edith bent and cupped her daughter’s face in a gentle hand. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.” She straightened and called, “Cecille!”

An African servant came to the foyer. “Yes, ma’am.”

Edith handed the infant to Cecille. “Can you take Alice and her brother into the parlor? Perhaps you and Alice can sing him to sleep again, as you did yesterday. Can you do that?” she asked the little girl.

Alice beamed and followed the servant as she carried the babe into another room. Edith stared after them.

“I’m sorry about that,” Ethan said.

The woman shook her head. When she faced him again there were tears on her cheeks. “She’s going to find out sooner or later. It’s been here every night this week. I know that it’s not my husband. Not really. But it wears his clothes, and all through the night it wanders around his study or lingers in our room. I can’t sleep in there anymore.”

“Yes, ma’am. Would you mind if I were to wait for him with you? I need to see what he looks like. And I may be able to learn something from him that will help me find a way to send him back where he belongs. To send all of them back.”

“To send them…” She shook her head. “How could you do that?”

“I believe that the people who disturbed your husband’s grave are using what they stole to control his spirit. If I can find these people and return to the burying ground what was taken, he and the others might be free once more to go back where they belong.”

“Yes, all right.” She still sounded doubtful.

“If you would like, I can wait outside. Once the shade appears, you can invite me in. Would that be easier?”

“No, that’s all right.” She backed away from the door, and beckoned him inside. “Please come in.”

Ethan thanked her and entered the house. Within, the dwelling was quite similar to the Rowan house, with its polished wooden floors and fine furniture. Ethan wondered if Flagg had bought his furniture from the Rowans.

“Can I get you anything, Mister … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Kaille,” Ethan said. “And no thank you. I’m fine.”

“Would you like to wait in my husband’s study?”

“Yes, of course.”

She led him through the house, past the harpsichord, where Alice was picking out “Come, Follow, Follow Me” as Cecille sat beside her singing to the babe.

Once they were beyond the hearing of Alice and the others, Ethan asked, “Missus Flagg, do you remember your husband mentioning a sea captain named Nate Ramsey? Or perhaps a pair of merchants: Deron Forrs and Isaac Keller?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m afraid Bertram didn’t tell me much about his work.” She unlocked a door off a narrow corridor and ushered Ethan into a spacious study. “Here you are,” she said with false brightness. “You can wait here until night falls. Are you sure I can’t have Cecille bring you something?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you.” Ethan surveyed the study. The air in the room smelled stale; he didn’t think it had been disturbed for months. “If I may ask, when did your husband die?”

“It was the tenth of April.”

He nodded, staring at a sheaf of papers on the writing desk against the war wall. “Would you mind if I examined some of those documents,” he asked, pointing at the desk. “It may be—”

“If you can find something that will help to rid of us of the demon haunting our home, it will be a blessing. Look at whatever you want.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said. “Thank you.”

She left him, closing the door behind her. Ethan crossed to the desk and after hesitating for a few breaths, lowered himself into the chair positioned behind it and picked up the sheaf of papers. A quick perusal of the contents convinced him that it consisted of invoices and bills of sale. He laid the papers aside and pulled open one of the desk drawers, and then another. In the third, he found several ledgers. He opened one, and began to read. In addition to the bills of sale Flagg kept, he had also maintained a careful ledger of every transaction by date: payments in, payments out, the names of those with whom he did business. Ethan retrieved the other ledgers stored in the drawer and thumbed through the pages until he found what he had sought.

In 1751, Bertram Flagg’s shipyard built a pink for a merchant captain named Nathaniel Ramsey. The
Muirenn
. Twice in subsequent years—1758 and 1760—Flagg’s workers performed minor repairs on the ship. The 1760 entry was the last mention of anyone named Ramsey.

The light outside was failing and Ethan could barely see, even if he held up the ledger to the window. There were candles set throughout the study. Ethan glanced toward the door before pulling his knife and cutting himself.

“
Ignis ex cruore evocatus.
” Fire, conjured from blood. Flames appeared atop three of the candles. Reg winked into view for a moment as well, but when Ethan paid him no heed, he faded. Ethan turned his attention back to the ledgers, thumbing through all of them a second time to make certain he hadn’t missed anything. This time, he found several mentions of Alexander Rowan and a few of Sebastian Wise, but none of these transactions struck him as out of the ordinary. And he saw no more entries for the Ramseys. What he had found didn’t tell him much, but at least he knew that Flagg, like the Rowan and Wise families, had dealings with Nate Ramsey’s father.

He sat back, stretched his back, rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Not for the first time, he considered whether he might need to be fitted with a pair of reading spectacles. No doubt Kannice would find this amusing.

Opening his eyes once more, he froze.

The ghost of Bertram Flagg stood in the middle of the study, his eyes gleaming balefully. He was in little better condition than the shade of Abigail Rowan had been, and like her he glowed bone white. His skin had darkened and stretched so that the contours of his skull were plainly visible. He wore a dark coat, waistcoat, and breeches with a light shirt and cravat. He held a cane in one leathery hand—it must have been buried with him—and he hovered just off the floor, bobbing like a bird sitting on the surface of the harbor.

The shade seemed far more agitated than Abigail’s ghost had been, and Ethan felt certain that he was the object of the shade’s wrath.

“
Veni ad me,
” Ethan said, holding himself still. Come to me.

Uncle Reg appeared beside the desk, his glowing eyes fixed on the shade.

“Can you tell him that I’m here to speak with him, and to find out who brought him back. I meant no harm in going through his documents.”

Ethan glanced up at Reg, who glared back down at him, a dour expression on his face. “It’s the truth!” he said.

The corners of Reg’s mouth twitched, but he turned to the shade and stared at it for several seconds. Whatever he said did little to mollify Flagg. The shade gestured wildly with his cane, at one point jabbing it so forcefully, that Ethan jerked back out of the way before remembering that the shade couldn’t hurt him.

Reg looked at Ethan again and shrugged.

Ethan stood, holding his hands where Flagg’s shade could see them. He opened his mouth to ask one of the many questions running through his mind, but stopped without asking any of them. When he had seen Abigail Rowan he had thought he glimpsed some faint hue in her form. Now, looking at Flagg, he was certain of it. Silvery light suffused the figure, but his face and head were tinged with a color Ethan recognized as Ramsey’s aqua. So was the shade’s right hand.

“Ask him if Ramsey has communicated with him in any way.”

Reg stood motionless for a few seconds, then turned quickly back to Ethan and nodded once more.

His heart began to race, though at the same time his frustration grew. How did he ask a ghost who couldn’t speak to tell him what another mute ghost had said?

“Is he giving them instructions?”

Reg shook his head.

“But Flagg knows that Ramsey is the one holding him here.”

The old ghost nodded.

Ethan looked at the shade again. “I’m trying to help you. You have my word on that.”

Flagg still looked angry, but he gave a reluctant nod, and he was using his cane for support again, rather than as a weapon, which Ethan took as a minor victory. He regarded the shade, marking once more the hint of color in his hand and head. The ghost’s foot, he noticed, had no hue at all. It seemed that had been something Ramsey did entirely to grab Ethan’s attention. And it had worked.