A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  Ethan squatted beside the site and peered down at the broken coffin. Again, the wood had been shattered, and the body of poor Abigail Rowan uncovered. As with the last, it seemed the burial cloth had been slit open with a blade. He could see that her body was badly decomposed.

  “They took her head and right hand, just like with the last one,” Thomson said. “And they took a shred of clothing, too.”

  “What shred?” Ethan asked.

  “They cut a square from her dress. That’s not important.” He uncovered her chest. The symbol carved into her leathered skin was similar to the other one. Similar, but not identical. The lines within the triangle were curved, rather than straight—like waves.

  “Do you think that was intentional?” Ethan asked.

  “I’m sure of it. Because every dead man who was dug up has the other mark, and every dead woman has this one. So tell me, thieftaker, what do you suppose that means?”

  Ethan had no answer. “How many graves have been disturbed?” he asked instead.

  “Nine of them, all told.”

  “And you say all of them were newly dug?”

  “Aye.”

  “And over how many nights have the desecrations taken place?”

  “Three nights. The first graves were dug up on Sunday last. The thieves came back on Tuesday, and again last night.”

  “Can you show me more of them?”

  Thomson stood again, and set out in the direction of the nearest open grave. He had started to favor his right leg. “You can see all of them for all I care. There’s not much difference among them.”

  He pointed down into this third site. Ethan could see what he meant. The damage to the coffin was much the same; once again the burial cloth had been sliced open. The head was gone, as was the right hand. And the decaying skin over the woman’s heart had been scored just the way Abigail Rowan’s had been.

  “Then maybe there’s no need for me to look at the rest,” Ethan said.

  “Oh, I think there is,” the sexton said. “I expect you’ll be thinking of them differently once you’ve seen them all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Thomson regarded Ethan through narrowed eyes. “Why don’t you walk with me for a time, and look at each grave, and after you can tell me what you think I mean.”

  “All right,” Ethan said.

  For the next quarter hour, Ethan and Thomson walked from gravesite to gravesite, examining the exposed bodies, comparing the marks on their skin and taking stock of what clothing had been taken. Pell and the warden trailed behind them, both of them keeping silent. Pell still grimaced at what he saw in the broken coffins, but like Ethan, he seemed to have become inured to the smell. Gardiner had pulled out a handkerchief of his own, and he held it firmly over his mouth and nose.

  After looking at all of the desecrated graves, Ethan circled back to take second looks at a couple of them. At last he halted near the first grave Thomson had shown them. He stared at the ground, trying to make sense of what he had seen.

  “I was wrong before,” he said at length. “The warden and I both were. These men weren’t careless. They had a specific purpose in mind. I don’t know what it was, but they made their marks, they took the head and hand from each body, and they took the scrap of clothing as well.”

  “Can you think of any reason why someone might do that?”

  Ethan turned. Mister Pell stood a short distance off, his skin flushed, a sheen of sweat on his cheeks and brow. He spared not even a glance for the sexton. He had asked his question of Ethan alone, and Ethan could tell that he was asking him to respond not as a thieftaker, but as a conjurer. He thought once more of the spells that had awakened him during the night. Perhaps he hadn’t dreamed them after all. This last, though, he kept to himself.

  “I can’t,” Ethan said. “Not yet. But there must be a reason, and a meaning to those symbols.” He thought once more of Janna. If anyone could tell him how a conjurer might use what had been taken from the dead, it was her. “I can speak to some people. One person in particular, who knows more about this sort of thing than I do.”

  Pell nodded.

  “But you should know, Mister Pell, that there is a chance nothing will come of these conversations. Sometimes—most times, really—a theft is just what it seems to be.” He gestured back at the open graves. “The skull and the bones of the human hand would be of great interest to physicians, and therefore could be quite valuable. The rest…” He shrugged. “It could all be nothing more or less than superstition. I don’t pretend to understand the workings of a resurrectionist’s mind.”

  They all fell silent. Pell shifted his gaze to the sexton, who still stood beside Ethan. Gardiner had come closer as well, and it was he who spoke first.

  “You haven’t yet told him?” the warden asked, eyeing Thomson.

  “No. I wanted him to see what there was to be seen. And I wanted to know first what he thought. As he says, it might all mean nothing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ethan asked the sexton. “What haven’t you told me? Was something else taken?”

  “Yes,” Trevor said, his expression pained. He faltered; he appeared not to know how to say what was on his mind. “Ethan,” he went on at last, “every corpse in every one of those desecrated graves has had three toes removed from his or her left foot.”

  Chapter

  FOUR

  His first response, which an instant later struck him as comical, was to think, That’s interesting: I’m missing three toes on my left foot, too. But of course Pell knew this. Ethan could see from the look in the young minister’s eyes that he was all too aware of the implications of what had been done to these bodies. Questions swarmed through his mind. Had this been done to mock him? Or to make it seem that he was responsible? Who knew about the injury he had suffered as a prisoner? Could there be a deeper, darker purpose to this particular indignity done to the cadavers? Could a conjurer use this body part to harm Ethan or bind him to the spellmaker’s will?

  Or was he allowing his imagination to get the better of him? Why would the people responsible for these thefts single him out in this way?

  To which a voice in his mind responded, I don’t know, but they have.

  For how else could he explain what had been done to the corpses? Already these events struck him as bizarre and unsettling. Yet there was also a certain logic to them. Thinking as might a physician or one who aspired to the profession, he could see the value in stealing or buying a skull and a hand. But what possible value could there be in three toes from a left foot? Why would anyone take just part of a foot not from a single cadaver, but from nine of them?

  He understood now why Mister Pell had summoned him, and why Reverend Caner had been willing to overlook his abhorrence of Ethan’s conjuring powers.

  “Ethan?” Pell said, concern etched on his face.

  “I need to see them again,” Ethan said, starting back toward the first gravesite. Thomson fell in step with him, but Pell and Gardiner hesitated.

  Pell took a step toward him. “Perhaps you should—”

  “It’s all right, Mister Pell,” Ethan said, his tone crisp, despite the roiled state of his emotions. “I’ll meet you back inside the chapel.”

  If anything, this served to make the minister appear more worried. Pell, though, was the least of Ethan’s concerns.

  He and the sexton moved with grim efficiency from grave to grave. Thomson climbed down into each site and held up the profaned foot for Ethan to see, before leading Ethan to the next one.

  Ethan soon realized that every foot looked much the same. The three smallest toes had been removed perhaps half an inch below the joints; the cuts were clean, precise. If the resurrectionists had hoped to mimic his own old injury, they had been both too exact and not exact enough. His wound was not as straight or neat as these cuts; it had been made by plantation physicians who hardly knew what they were doing. Ethan had often remarked to himself and to others that it was a miracle t
heir butchery hadn’t cost him his entire leg. Also, his ordeal had left him with somewhat less of his foot than the cadavers now had.

  Still, seeing what had been done to the corpses reaffirmed what he had already deduced: The people who did this knew him and wanted Ethan to understood that.

  “What kind of witchery uses bones?” Thomson asked, breaking a silence that had stretched on for many minutes. Ethan wondered if he was trying to make conversation.

  “Dark,” Ethan said.

  “Isn’t it all dark?” the sexton asked, surprising Ethan with a conspiratorial grin.

  Ethan smiled. “No, not all.” He turned a slow circle, his expression growing grim as he surveyed the burying ground. “This is, though. I don’t understand it, but I’m certain there’s some dark purpose here.” He proffered a hand to Thomson. “You have my thanks for showing me all of this. I should speak with Mister Pell before I go.”

  “Of course,” the sexton said, shaking his hand.

  “If I have more questions—”

  “Mister Pell knows where to find me. So do Doctor Gardiner and Reverend Caner.”

  Ethan nodded before walking back toward the front of the chapel, more aware than ever of his limp.

  “Thieftaker!”

  He stopped and turned.

  “I have friends who are sextons at other churches, with other burying grounds. I don’t know if it’s the same everywhere, but King’s Chapel isn’t the only place where these robberies are happening.”

  Ethan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He raised a hand, acknowledging what Thomson had told him. Turning away, he hurried into the sanctuary.

  Pell, Gardiner, and Caner were waiting for him just inside the door.

  “James showed you?” Caner asked.

  “Aye,” Ethan said. “I’m wondering if there is anything more that links the mutilated corpses beyond their membership in your congregation, and the fact that they all died within the past several months.”

  Caner pondered this, his brow knitting. Pell and Gardiner wore similar expressions.

  “Some among them share certain traits,” the rector said at last, “just as you would expect. Abigail Rowan and Bertram Flagg were neighbors, and also had in common considerable wealth. John Newell and George Wright both practiced law, but they were the only attorneys among those whose graves were robbed. I can go on, but you see my point. Many of them had certain attributes in common, but I can’t think of anything—beyond the factors you mentioned—that links all of them.” He faced Gardiner and Pell. “Can either of you?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “I assumed as much,” Ethan said. “I should be on my way.”

  “Where?” Pell asked.

  “To start, I need to speak with a friend.” He turned and pulled open the door. “I’ll keep you apprised of what I learn.”

  He hadn’t made it two steps down the path leading back to the street before he heard the door open again. He knew without looking who had followed him.

  “Ethan, wait.”

  “You needn’t be concerned about me, Mister Pell,” he said, facing the man.

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  Ethan’s amusement was fleeting. “Will you accept that, while unnerved, I am all the more resolved to complete my inquiry?”

  “Aye. I just hope that you’ll exercise some caution. More than you usually do.”

  “I’m always cautious,” Ethan said, frowning.

  “If that’s so, why is it that every time you conduct an inquiry, you wind up beaten, or thrown in gaol, or at the wrong end of a pistol or blade?”

  “I wouldn’t say that happens every time.”

  Pell raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll have a care,” Ethan said.

  “Good. If you require help of any sort, let me know.”

  Ethan gripped the minister’s shoulder briefly and left him there.

  He walked to Marlborough Street, and turned southward to journey back out to the Neck. He could admit to himself that he shared Pell’s concerns. But he wasn’t about to hide in his room on Cooper’s Alley, or in the back of Kannice’s tavern. The best thing he could do was find the resurrectionists, whoever they were. And the truth was, intentionally or not, they had helped him narrow his list of suspects to those who knew him, or at least of him.

  Speaking to Pell, he had referred to Janna as a friend; the truth was he had never been certain that she thought of him that way. Or anyone else, for that matter. Janna could be generous and kind, she could be as witty as anyone he knew. But most of the time, she was cantankerous to the point of rudeness.

  She was also defiantly proud of her conjuring abilities, and acted as though she had never given a thought to the possibility that church leaders or representatives of the Crown might decide someday to hang her for a witch. She had long ago proclaimed herself a “marriage smith.” Indeed, the sign on her tavern read “T. Windcatcher, Marriage Smith. Love is Magick.” Short of writing “I am a conjurer” across her brow, she could not have been less subtle about her talents.

  Reaching her tavern, the Fat Spider, Ethan knocked on the door. Early as it was, he couldn’t be certain that Janna would be awake. But at his knock, he heard a voice call for him to enter. Ethan opened the door and walked inside, hat in hand.

  It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. Before he could see properly, he heard Janna say, “Kaille,” drawing out his name as if it were a curse. “I shoulda known it would be you. No one else bothers me before noon.”

  “Good morning, Janna,” Ethan said, walking to where she sat.

  It was cooler in the tavern than it had been on the street, but it was still warm in the building. Nevertheless, Janna sat with a shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders, a cup of what was probably watered Madeira wine resting on the table beside her. Janna claimed to come from somewhere in the Indies, and it seemed to Ethan that she had never adjusted to life away from the tropical clime. She was always cold, even on the hottest days of the Boston summer.

  He had heard some say that she was an escaped slave, and she herself admitted that it was possible she had been born to servitude. But she was orphaned at sea as a young girl, and rescued by the crew of a ship out of Newport. To this day, Ethan wasn’t sure how she had managed to avoid being sold into slavery, but according to one account a wealthy man took her in and over time a romance developed between them. She chose the name Windcatcher for herself, having no recollection of her family name. Windcatcher had no particular meaning; she once told Ethan that she simply liked the sound of it.

  Whatever the truth of her past, today Janna was one of the few free Africans in Boston. Her skin was a deep, rich nut brown, and her hair was white and shorn so short that one could see her scalp peeking through the tight curls. She was thin, almost frail, with a wizened face. But her dark eyes were fierce like a hawk’s.

  “What do you want?” she asked, as Ethan took the seat across from hers. “As if I don’t already know.”

  Ethan often came to Janna for information, because she knew more about spellmaking than anyone else he had ever met. More often than not, she helped him, though only after complaining that he never paid her for anything. Today, he thought to surprise her.

  “I need to make a purchase or two.”

  Janna sat forward, the expression on her face conveying such surprise that Ethan nearly laughed out loud. “You came to buy somethin’?” she said.

  “Yes. I’m out of mullein, and I always prefer to have some on hand.”

  “You should,” she said, nodding with enthusiasm. “You should. There ain’t a better herb for protection spells. And I have some in fresh, as good as you’ll find in Boston. How much do you want?”

  “How much will three shillings buy me?”

  Janna considered this briefly before holding up her fist. “A pouch ’bout like this, packed full.”

  “All right.” He pulled out three shillings and handed them to her.r />
  She eyed the money, pocketed it, and stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll take a cup of Madeira, too,” Ethan said, following her to the bar. She went around the bar and disappeared into a room in back, adjacent to her kitchen.

  “You steal somebody’s coin purse, or somethin’?” she called.

  Ethan laughed. “No. But I got paid yesterday, and I managed to dupe Sephira Pryce long enough to keep her from stealing the money from me.”

  He heard Janna cackle. “Good for you, Kaille.”

  In all of Boston, Janna might have been the one person who disliked Sephira more than Ethan did. To this day, he wasn’t certain why. Janna remained closemouthed about whatever had passed between her and the Empress of the South End. When asked, she said only that Sephira had once cost her a good deal of coin.

  Janna emerged from the back room bearing a small leather pouch that was filled near to overflowing with leaves. She handed it to Ethan.

  He drew it open and held it to his nose. Right away, the air around him was redolent of the pungent, subtly bitter fragrance of fresh mullein.

  “Don’t that smell good?” Janna asked.

  “It does,” he said, as he slipped the pouch into his pocket. “My thanks.” He placed a half shilling on the bar.

  Janna took it and poured him a cup of Madeira. “Watered?” she asked.

  “Just a little, thank you.”

  Janna watered her own Madeira so much that it had little flavor. Given how much of it she drank, this was wise; if she drank it undiluted she would have put herself out of business, and been too drunk to notice.

  She added some water to his wine—more than he would have put in, but less than she added to her own—and slid the cup to him.

  “Were you conjuring last night?” he asked her.

  “When?”

  “Late.”

  “I was sleepin’ last night, late. Why?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not important.” He took a sip of wine. “Do you have any bone to sell, Janna?”

  Her expression grew guarded. “Since when do you conjure with bone?”