Thieftaker (23 page)

“That’s mullein,” Janna said. “Powerful protection.”

It was more than that. Mullein might have been the most potent of all warding herbs used by conjurers. It strengthened all spells, but it was especially effective as a shield against hostile conjurings. It could also be added in small amounts to tonics for coughs and fevers, and in poultices for wounds. This was as generous a gift as he had seen Janna give to anyone. Perhaps she liked him more than he thought.

“Thank you, Janna,” Ethan said. “I owe you. When I have some money…”

She shook her head.

“Never mind that. You watch yourself, Kaille,” she said. “Between this speller and Sephira Pryce, you got some nasty folk wishin’ you harm.”

As if I need Janna to tell me that.
“Again, thank you.”

“Now, go. I got things t’ do.” She softened the words with a rare smile.

Ethan grinned back and let himself out.

Chapter

T
WELVE

E
than stepped onto the filthy, rain-slicked lane and started back toward the center of the city. He needed to return the brooch to Abner Berson and ask the merchant if he wanted Ethan to continue his inquiry. Ethan didn’t wish to end it before he found Jennifer’s killer, but Berson hired him to find the brooch, as both Yellow-hair and the ghostly girl, Anna, had reminded him. He had done that. It was up to Berson to tell him to continue or desist.

As he walked, he tried to think of what connections might exist between the Richardson hanging, the Pope’s Day parades, and the assault on Thomas Hutchinson’s house. All three events had drawn large crowds, many of them, no doubt, the “rabble” of which Hutchinson had spoken.

Ebenezer Mackintosh had led the South Enders on Pope’s Day, and he also had incited the mob to riot two nights ago. Ethan wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he had been at the hanging, too. Hundreds had converged on the Neck that day to watch the notorious pair swing, and many had pelted the Richardsons with stones before the couple died. It was, he thought, just the sort of event to which Mackintosh and his faithful would have flocked. But he had never heard anything to indicate that the self-styled Commander of the South End was a conjurer, much less one as skilled as the speller who had created Anna.

Janna was right. It wasn’t enough simply to know that these killing spells had been cast. He needed to know what the conjurings had done, what evil the lives of this villain’s victims had purchased.

For that much he did know. Whatever power the killer had drawn from Jennifer Berson’s death and the deaths of his other two victims must have been dark. Such was the nature of killing spells, Janna’s “love spell” not withstanding. A conjurer willing to murder for a casting would do anything, destroy anyone, in pursuit of whatever wicked purpose drove him. This conjurer had to be found and destroyed.

Sephira wouldn’t be happy; unless somehow Ebenezer Mackintosh proved to be the greatest conjurer in all the colonies, neither would Thomas Hutchinson. And once the conjurer realized that Ethan hadn’t ended his inquiry, he would come after him, too. Ethan didn’t care. He knew that no one else could stand against this monster.

So resolved, Ethan arrived at the Berson home. William greeted him at the door and had him wait, dripping wet, in the entrance hall while he fetched the master of the house. A few moments later, Berson strode into the hall and led Ethan back to the study where they had spoken a few days before. Berson looked much the same as he had during their previous meeting, although perhaps the rings under his eyes were a bit more pronounced, his wig powdered with slightly less care. These past few days would have taken their toll on the man and his family.

“You have news for me?” the merchant asked when he and Ethan were seated by the hearth.

Ethan pulled the bundle containing the brooch from his pocket and held it out for Berson to take. The man hesitated, his gaze flitting from Ethan’s face to the package in his hand. Taking it at last, he unwrapped it with trembling hands. He let out a soft cry at the sight of the brooch and took a ragged breath. Tears ran down his cheeks.

“Thank you, Mister Kaille. You probably think me foolish, but I take some comfort in seeing this again.”

“I think I understand, sir,” Ethan said softly, keeping his gaze lowered.

“You’ve found the person who killed her, then?”

“No, sir.”

“But you know who did it. You must.”

Ethan shook his head.

“I don’t understand,” Berson said, staring down at the jewel lying in his thick palm. “How did you come by this?”

Ethan wasn’t sure how much to tell the merchant. It was one thing to tell Janna about the spells he had cast and the conjurer he had been pursuing. It was quite another explaining this to someone who wasn’t a conjurer himself, who probably feared such power and wanted nothing to do with those who wielded it. But in the end he decided that Berson deserved to hear everything. He told the man about both of his encounters with Anna, even going so far as to repeat her claim that Daniel Folter had killed Jennifer.

“And you’re quite sure that this Folter fellow didn’t kill her?” Berson asked when Ethan had finished.

“That’s right. I know for a fact that Daniel wasn’t a conjurer.”

Berson looked up from the brooch. “You say he ‘wasn’t’ a speller. Does that mean … he’s…?”

“He’s dead. He was killed just yesterday. This conjurer told me—speaking through the girl I mentioned—that he wants me to stop looking for your daughter’s killer. He threatened to kill me if I don’t.”

“I understand, Mister Kaille. I’m grateful to you for retrieving her brooch. You told me the other night that you didn’t usually take jobs that involved murder. You’ve done more than I could have expected.” He pushed himself out of his chair with a great effort. “I’ll pay you, and you can be free of this matter.”

“Actually, sir,” Ethan said, standing as well, “I don’t think you do understand. I’m not asking your permission to end my inquiry. I’m asking that you allow me to continue it.”

The merchant couldn’t have looked more surprised if Ethan had asked to lease a room in the house. “You want to go on with this?”

“I believe your daughter was killed for a larger, even more sinister purpose. I won’t burden you with details about conjuring and how my kind do what we do, except to say that there are spells so evil they require power drawn from human sacrifice. I believe your daughter died so that this conjurer could cast such a spell.”

“May God save us all,” the man whispered, actually recoiling from Ethan. “Can you prove this?”

Ethan shook his head. “No.”

“But then how—?”

For several moments, Ethan refused to look at the merchant. At last, chancing a quick glance, he saw that Berson’s face had drained of all color.

“You needed … you needed her … her corpse, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, his voice low.

“Damn. I didn’t consider that. I just … the thought of her lying there in the crypt … My wife couldn’t take it anymore. The customary four days just felt like too long a time.”

“I understand, sir.”

“You’re kind, Mister Kaille. But I’ve made this harder for you. So, what can I do to make up for it?”

“You can refrain from telling anyone what I’m doing,” Ethan said. “If someone asks, even a member of your household, tell them you’re satisfied that I’ve learned everything I can about Jennifer’s murder, that Daniel Folter is responsible for her death, and that as far as you’re concerned the matter is closed.”

“Even people within my home?” Berson asked. “Surely my wife—”

Ethan raised a hand. “Please, sir. I’m not going to lie to you. I fear this conjurer, not least because I don’t know who he is. I’m sure your wife wouldn’t knowingly do anything to jeopardize the inquiry or my life. But I would feel safer if we could keep this matter between the two of us.”

“All right,” Berson said soberly. “Can I do anything else?”

Ethan felt heat rising in his cheeks. “To be honest, you can.” He gestured at his face. “The people who gave me these bruises took every coin I had, including the money you gave me. I managed to pay for my lodgings before they got to me, but I have no coin for food or anything else.”

Berson smiled and dug into his pocket for the change purse Ethan had seen the other day. “Of course, Mister Kaille. Will five pounds be enough?”

“Two would be enough, sir.”

“Well, I’ll give you five anyway.” The merchant handed him the coins. “Considering all you’ve done on our behalf and what you have endured to retrieve the brooch, it’s the least I can do.”

Berson led him back to the entrance hall and pulled open the door. He glanced behind him and said in a booming voice, no doubt so the others would hear, “Well, Mister Kaille, I’m grateful to you for finding my daughter’s brooch and putting this matter to rest. Best of luck to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ethan said, gripping the merchant’s proffered hand.

Berson winked at him and said in a low voice. “May the Lord keep you safe, Mister Kaille. I’ll look forward to our next conversation.”

Ethan nodded and left the house, thinking that for all the complaining he heard in the Dowser about wealthy men and their ways, Abner Berson struck him as no less kind or honorable than anyone living in one of Boston’s more modest quarters.

Reaching the end of the broad stone path in front of Berson’s house, Ethan stepped out into Beacon Street, and immediately found himself face-to-face with Nigel, who looked as wet and bedraggled as an overlarge hound. Ethan took a step back, intending to run, but then thought better of it. If there was one of them, there were probably five. Ethan had no doubt that Sephira’s toughs had him trapped. Instead, he pulled out his blade and pushed up the sleeve of his coat.

“No need for that,” Nigel said in a low drawl. “She jus’ wants a word.”

“Right,” Ethan said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep my blade out anyway.”

Nigel merely shrugged and started walking away. “Follow me,” he said, not even bothering to look back.

Ethan hesitated, then followed. Gordon and Nap fell in step beside him, seeming to materialize out of nowhere. He heard footsteps trailing him as well.

“Do you all live together, too?” Ethan asked, glancing at the two men walking with him.

Gordon glowered at him but said nothing. Nap chuckled.

The toughs escorted him east and then south, past King’s Chapel and the Old South Church toward the more open lands around d’Acosta’s Pasture. At last, they came to a large house on Summer Street that stood only a short distance from the soaring wooden steeple of the New South Church. This wasn’t considered the most desirable place to live in Boston—that would have been back where the Bersons had their home. It wasn’t even the best street of the South End. But it was a good neighborhood nevertheless, and far better than Sephira Pryce deserved.

The house, Ethan had to admit, appeared from the street to be tasteful and elegant. It was large and constructed of the same white marble used to build the Berson home, but it wasn’t as ostentatious as Ethan would have expected the Empress of the South End’s home to be.

The men escorted Ethan up a cobbled path to the door. Nigel knocked once, and at a faint response from within pushed the door open. Ethan started to enter, but Nigel put out a massive arm to block his way.

“Yar knife,” he said, holding out his other hand.

Without his blade, Ethan would be at a distinct disadvantage in any confrontation with Sephira and her men. “I don’t think so.”

“Then ya’re not goin’ in.”

“Fine with me.”

“You have my word, Ethan,” came Sephira’s voice from within the house. “You’ll be safe. Maybe not the next time we meet, but for now, no harm will come to you.”

He had to admit that he was now curious. He took a breath, handed Nigel the knife, and stepped inside.

The interior of the house was far more ornate than the exterior, though again Ethan was surprised and a little disappointed to discover that Sephira had refined taste. A small entrance hall with a white tile floor and colorful wall tapestries led into a vast common room that was well furnished and brightly lit with bay-scented candles. The rugs covering the dark wooden floor were colorful without being tawdry, and they matched the tapestries. Ethan thought it likely that the rugs and tapestries came from the Orient. Everywhere he looked he saw paintings and sculptures, and though he didn’t pretend to know much of such things, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the quality of every piece.

“In here,” she called to him from a chamber to the left of the common room.

He followed her voice into a study that was similar in size to the Berson library. But where Abner Berson’s room had been filled with volumes, this chamber was filled with blades. Swords of every imaginable shape and size hung from the walls. There were scimitars from the Holy Land, their hilts studded with a galaxy of gems, and austere bastard swords that might well have come from the Scottish Highlands. There were fine long blades that had to have been made on the Iberian Peninsula, and one short sword that appeared to have been forged entirely from solid gold.

“That one was made by the Turks,” Sephira said, seeing where his gaze lingered. “Would you like to hold it?”

Ethan shook his head, glancing her way before crossing to a small glass case at the far end of the room. This was filled with a variety of firearms. They were all hand weapons, mostly of the flintlock variety, but there were older pistols as well—wheel locks and at least one matchlock that might also have been from the Orient. Each was as unique as the blades adorning the walls. One had a grip of carved ivory, another of some polished, light-grained wood Ethan didn’t recognize, and still another of what Ethan guessed was solid silver.

Beside this case stood yet another that held daggers and dirks. As with the swords and pistols, Ethan could scarcely believe the diversity of Sephira’s collection. Forced to guess, he would have said that there were blades and firearms in this room from every continent, and from nearly every country in Europe.