A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (8 page)

“I’d prefer that we keep this conversation between us.”

“All right.”

Ethan crossed to the door.

“Who are you workin’ for?” she asked, as he reached for the door handle.

“King’s Chapel,” Ethan said. “But I’m working for free.”

She nodded her approval. “You use that mullein, all right? It won’t protect you from everythin’ but it’ll keep you safer than just a regular wardin’.”

“I will. Again, thank you.”

He stepped out of the tavern into blinding daylight and oppressive heat. Remembering what the King’s Chapel sexton had said—that King’s Chapel wasn’t the only place where this was happening—he retraced the path he had taken the night before. Rather than following Orange Street back to the South End and Cornhill, he cut up to the unpaved road that ran along the edge of Boston’s Common.

Children played tips on the grass, laughing and shouting taunts at one another. A pair of women walked toward him, each carrying an infant. Swallows and swifts swooped and darted overhead, chattering, and high above them a lone hawk circled lazily in the hazy sky. It felt much like any summer day in Boston, save for the shadow that hung over him.

There weren’t many other conjurers in Boston other than Ethan and Janna, and none of those of whom Ethan was aware would have resorted to robbing graves for spells. Which meant that someone new had come to the city, someone with unholy purpose.

Before long, Ethan arrived at the Common Burying Ground, the newest of Boston’s cemeteries, and also the largest. Although it had been established just thirteen years before, it was already crowded with gravestones. Ethan entered the grounds and walked a short distance before halting and looking around. Unlike the King’s Chapel Burying Ground, this expanse was not affiliated with any church. Ethan wasn’t certain where to begin his search for someone he could ask about any possible desecrations.

He resumed his wandering, and for what seemed like an hour he walked up one row of graves and down the next, seeing no sign of disturbed earth. The burying ground was vast, but eventually Ethan realized he had covered all of it without finding any desecrated graves. He should have been relieved; perhaps the sexton had been mistaken, and these incidents were limited to the King’s Chapel Burying Ground. Try as he might, though, he could not convince himself of this.

His trepidation growing, he left the Common Buying Ground and continued along the edge of the Common to the old Granary Burying Ground, one of the oldest cemeteries in the city; only the grounds at King’s Chapel and at Copp’s Hill, in the North End, were older. Here were buried several men of note, including Peter Faneuil, for whom the marketplace in Cornhill had been named, and Samuel Sewall, the judge who had presided over the witch trials in Salem in 1690, and who had seen the sentence of death carried out for the convicted.

Ethan followed a narrow stone path into the burying ground and once more searched for a caretaker or gravedigger. There was no church in this burying ground either. The granary located in the middle of the expanse was just that: a building constructed long ago that housed the town’s supply of grain.

He began to walk the perimeter of the grounds, the sun beating down on him. A few years before, elms had been planted along the road, but they were too small to offer much shade, and the property was otherwise devoid of trees. Still walking, Ethan removed his waistcoat and draped it over his arm, all the while sweeping his gaze over the graves before him, searching for signs of disturbed earth.

Before long, he found what he sought: a single grave had been dug up much as those at King’s Chapel had been. He faltered in midstep, both relieved that he had managed to find what he sought, and troubled at the thought of more desecrations. Forcing himself into motion once more, he approached the site, but faltered a second time when the stink hit him.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Pledging to himself that he would never again take on an inquiry that required him to look into grave robberies, he closed the remaining distance between himself and the grave. He looked around the grounds again. Seeing no one—and hoping no one could see him—he lowered himself into the grave and examined the damage done to the coffin. As with those at King’s Chapel, the wood appeared to have been shattered with an axe. The burial cloth had been cut open, and the corpse—that of a woman, judging from the clothing—had been beheaded. The right hand was missing as well, and it appeared that a piece of cloth had been torn from her dress.

Steeling himself, he pulled down the front of the dress until he could see the rotting flesh over her breastbone. The symbol he had seen on the dead women at King’s Chapel had been carved into this corpse, too. Finally, he worked her left foot free. Or what was left of it.

“Damn,” he said again.

He covered up the corpse as well as he could, climbed out of the grave, and resumed his search, now walking with greater urgency. He did not immediately find another desecrated site, but he did spot a man working on a grave, a shovel in his hands. Ethan strode toward him, wiping sweat from his face.

“Well met, sir!” he called.

The man glanced up from his work, but said nothing, and soon turned his attention back to the grave at his feet. He looked to be about Ethan’s age. He was short, powerfully built, with small dark eyes and black hair. He wore torn brown breeches and a stained blue linen shirt that was soaked through with sweat.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Ethan asked, stopping a few steps from the man.

“I suppose,” the laborer said without pausing.

“Is this a new grave, or one you’ve had to cover up again because of a robbery?”

At that, the man ceased his labors and turned. “Who are you?”

“My name is Ethan Kaille. I’ve been asked by the Reverend Henry Caner to inquire into a series of desecrations at the King’s Chapel Burying Ground. I spoke this morning with Mister Thomson, the sexton there.”

“You know James?” the man said, squinting against the sun.

“Aye.” Ethan extended a hand. “You are?”

The man stared at Ethan, his mouth twisting. At last, he wiped his hand on his breeches and gripped Ethan’s for just a second. “Robert Helms.” The name tumbled out of his mouth in a jumble.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Robert.” Ethan surveyed the burying ground. “Have resurrectionists struck here, too?”

“Aye,” the man said. “Graves have been disturbed each of the last three nights. Six in all.”

“What was taken?”

Robert shook his head. “It’s a gruesome business.”

“I realize that. But I need to know what they took.”

“Heads off of each one,” he said. “And a hand, too. Damn surgeons and their dissections. I’ll have nothing to do with any of them.”

“Was that all?” Ethan asked, keeping his voice level. “Just the heads and hands?”

“I think so. Why? Isn’ that enough?”

Ethan didn’t answer. “Would it be all right if I took a look at the graves that have been disturbed?”

“Aye. I can take you around, show you where they are. They’re scattered about, and it’s a large burying ground.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“This was the first one right here,” Robert said, gesturing with his shovel at the grave he had been working on when Ethan found him. “We can’ bury him again until that coffin is repaired. I’ve been clearing away as much dirt as I can so that we can bury him proper a second time.”

Ethan bent to look at the gravestone, which read, “Emmett Peter George, b. 5 November 1728, d. 26 February 1769.” Glancing down into the grave, Ethan saw a grisly and now-familiar sight: a broken coffin and a burial cloth slit to reveal a decayed corpse, headless, a hand missing.

He didn’t want to have Robert with him as he examined the corpses to see if each one had been marked and had its left foot mutilated. He felt ghastly enough climbing down into the graves and handling the dead. Having an audience would make it that much worse. But he couldn’t imagine how he might ask the man to keep his distance.

“Forgive me, Robert, but I need to look at Mister George’s corpse.”

“What d’you mean? Look at it how?”

“I need to see his chest, and his left foot.”

The caretaker’s eyes glinted dangerously in the sunlight. Ethan could see that he had tightened his grip on the shovel. “Why?” he asked.

Ethan sensed it would be a mistake to mention that he had already looked at one corpse here in the Granary Burying Ground. “Because every corpse in every disturbed gravesite at King’s Chapel has been … marred in the same ways.”

Robert paled. “Marred?”

“Aye. I expect you’ll want to stay right here, so that you can make certain I do nothing to harm this grave or the body therein. But, with your permission, I need to look.”

The man wet his lips and nodded, his head jerking up and down. “All right.”

Ethan eased himself down into the grave and reached into the coffin to unbutton Emmett George’s shirt. When he exposed the cadaver’s chest, Robert gave a small gasp.

“Lord have mercy!”

“Aye,” Ethan said, the word coming out like a sigh. “I’m not done yet.” He pulled the man’s foot free, drawing another sharp breath from the caretaker.

“They did that to all of them?” Robert asked.

“So far.”

Ethan tucked the corpse’s leg back in place and climbed out of the grave. “Was he wearing a cravat when you buried him?”

“I don’t remember. Why?”

Ethan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Shall we check the others?”

The caretaker nodded, but didn’t move. “Why would someone do those things?”

“You’re not the first to ask me,” Ethan said. “I don’t know the answer yet, but I’m going to find out.”

“I bet it’s witchery,” Robert said, still gazing down into the grave. “Word is there’s witches all through this city, workin’ their mischief, tryin’ to lure regular folk to their devilish ways.” He looked at Ethan. “You should have a care. You spend enough time in a buryin’ ground, you’re bound to run into one of them.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Ethan said. On another day he might have found some humor in the turn their conversation had taken. But with all he had seen this morning, he could not. Henry Caner had allowed Trevor to summon him because he believed these robberies to be the work of witches. Robert had already reached a similar conclusion, and others would do the same. It wouldn’t be long before Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf, and perhaps even Thomas Hutchinson, who in less than a month would assume duties as the acting governor of the Province of Massachusetts Bay, heard of these incidents. They, too, would blame “witchery,” and since Ethan was the “witch” they knew best, their suspicions would fall on him.

“There’s more of them than you think,” the caretaker said, nodding. “Witches, I mean. You mark my word.”

“Why don’t you show me the rest of the desecrated graves, Robert. And then you can get back to your work.”

“Right.”

Robert led Ethan around the burying ground to the other five disturbed graves, including the one Ethan had examined previously. Ethan made a show of looking at the body once more. The caretaker’s horror grew at every stop: Every one of the corpses had been marked on the chest and was missing part of the left foot, as well as the head and right hand. Ethan, of course, was not surprised in the least.

The clothing on several of the corpses, although not all, had been torn. Ethan assumed that those without tears in their clothes had been wearing cravats, or had been buried with kerchiefs. When they had finished with the last of the graves, Robert led Ethan back to the burying ground entrance. He said not a word as they walked, but halting next to the gate, he looked Ethan in the eye.

“Who was it you said you was workin’ for?”

“Reverend Caner of King’s Chapel.”

“Does that mean you’ll only be guardin’ the buryin’ ground there?”

“I’ll be looking for whoever did this,” Ethan said. “I don’t care if I find the fiend at King’s Chapel, or Copp’s Hill, or here.” He paused for the span of a breath. “But I can’t be in two places at one time, Robert. And I need to know if the people who did this come back here.”

“Oh, I’ll be watchin’ for them,” the caretaker said. “You can count on that.”

“Thank you. If you need to find me for any reason, you can leave a message for me at the Dowsing Rod on Sudbury Street, or at Dall’s cooperage on Cooper’s Alley.”

“All right. Kaille was it?”

“Aye. Ethan Kaille.”

They shook hands again, and Ethan left him, intent on making his way to the Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. He knew what he would find there, but he could not ignore the possibility that someone at the cemetery might aid his inquiry.

Copp’s Hill was the resting place of many men of note, including Cotton Mather, who had played so central a role in the trials at Salem; who had devoted so many of his sermons to diatribes against the dark evils of witchcraft; and who was also the first and greatest advocate for inoculation against smallpox, which had proven in recent years to be a powerful defense for some against epidemics of the distemper.

He made his way to the North End as quickly as the old injury to his foot would allow; by the time he reached Copp’s Hill, his limp had grown more pronounced and his leg was aching. Entering the grounds, he saw a cluster of men and women gathered around a gravesite, including a parson, who was administering rites.

Ethan began yet another search for disturbed graves, making sure to give the mourners a wide berth. Even so, when he found sites that had been desecrated, as he had known he would, he did nothing more than give a cursory examination of the damage done to the coffins. He didn’t dare touch the corpses. Nor did he have to.

What he saw in these sites resembled in almost every way what he had seen at King’s Chapel and in the Granary Burying Ground. The disturbed graves—seven in all—were the final resting places for men and women, old and young, even a child. According to their grave markers, all had died since the beginning of the year. Each one had been robbed of its head and right hand. Ethan had no doubt that if he had climbed down into the graves he would have found the same odd symbols carved into each corpse’s chest and each left foot mutilated to resemble his own. Again some, though not all, had rents in their clothing.