A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  “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.

  He made note of the names on the gravestones, just as he had at the Granary. At last, weary, sweating, he left the burying ground and trudged back toward the Dowser.

  Halfway there, on the edge of Middle Street, he stopped and stood blinking in the midday glare, swaying like a drunkard. How foolish he had been. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he hastened back to King’s Chapel.

  Chapter

  FIVE

  He had walked past the graves of both Cotton Mather and Samuel Sewall, sparing little more than a glance for either. But now it occurred to him that perhaps the Common Burying Ground had been spared for a reason. Or more precisely, maybe the grave robbers had chosen to strike at Boston’s three oldest burying grounds because of something specific in their history.

  He strode into the courtyard at King’s Chapel and entered the sanctuary. Mr. Troutbeck stood at the pulpit, reading from a large Bible set on a carved wooden stand. As an afterthought, Ethan grabbed his hat off his head.

  Troutbeck looked up at the sound of Ethan’s footsteps. “Mister Kaille—”

  “Who is buried here?” Ethan asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “In your burying ground. Samuel Sewall is in the Granary Burying Ground. Cotton Mather is at Copp’s Hill. Who is here?”

  “This is the oldest burying ground in Boston. I assure you, we have no shortage of great men interred on our grounds. And several women of note, as well.”

  “I don’t doubt it, reverend sir. But I need to know who. Are there any who were present at the trials in Salem?”

  Troutbeck stiffened. “I don’t know about that. John Cotton is buried here, but he died in the 1650s, I believe.”

  “Cotton,” Ethan repeated. “He was—”

  “The father of Maria Cotton, who married Increase Mather.”

  “So, he was Cotton Mather’s grandfather.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else?” Ethan asked.

  “John Davenport was a minister as well. I believe…” Troutbeck hesitated, licked his lips. “I believe he played a role in the witch trials at Huntingdon in the middle of the last century.”

  Ethan nodded slowly.

  “Why?” the minister asked. “What does all this mean?”

  “I’m not really certain.” Ethan stood thus for another moment before looking at Troutbeck again. “Thank you.” He turned to leave.

  “Mister Kaille! What is this about?”

  “I’ll be back when I know more,” Ethan said, and walked out of the chapel.

  He started down the path toward the street, but after a few steps veered off and walked back to the burying ground. The sexton was nowhere to be seen, which came as a relief in light of what Ethan needed to do.

  With each new bit of information, he felt more certain that a conjurer had robbed the graves and disfigured the corpses. And he guessed—though he had no real evidence to support this theory—that the speller in question had chosen these three burying grounds because of the men buried in each. Thinking this, a memory stirred deep in the recesses of his mind—a name from his past. He dismissed the notion as quickly as it had come. Sephira Pryce was the likeliest suspect for these foul deeds, especially since she now had a conjurer in her employ. He didn’t need to compound his problems by imagining enemies in every shadow.

  He had assured Reverend Caner that he would try to cast as few spells as possible on the congregation’s behalf, but already he could tell he would be conjuring far more than the rector would like. He needed to know if the thieves had used conjurings to locate the graves they wished to rob. If they had, he wanted to see the color of the power they wielded.

  He chose the grave James Thomson had shown him, which was farthest from the chapel, in a corner of the burying grounds shaded by maples and elms. It belonged to a woman named Mary Clark, who had died at the age of twenty-two. Ethan knelt by the open grave, and making certain no one could see him, drew his knife and pushed up his sleeve. But he paused with the blade over his forearm, wondering if blood was the proper choice. He sheathed the weapon and instead pulled out the pouch of mullein Janna had sold him.

  Different spells demanded different sources. Ethan was not always as careful as he should have been in choosing what to use as fuel for his conjurings, which was one of the reasons he was not yet as accomplished a spellmaker as he wanted to be. Most of the time he still u
sed whatever was at hand; more often than not, this meant blood. He was learning, though. He now used mullein for most of his wardings. A revealing spell, which was what he intended to try here, didn’t need any special source to be effective. But though he was not a religious man, he didn’t like the idea of using blood for a spell on the grounds of a church. He knew Caner would have liked it even less.

  Pulling three leaves from the pouch, Ethan held them in his palm and said, “Revela potestatem ex verbasco evocatam.” Reveal power, conjured from mullein.

  The leaves vanished. Ethan felt the conjuring hum in the ground and saw Uncle Reg appear beside him, ethereal in the dappled light. But nothing else happened. No glow appeared on the corpse or coffin, or even on the earth that had covered the grave. He sat back on his heels, frowning.

  The conjuring should have revealed the glowing residue of any spells cast on the gravesite. Every conjuring left some residue, and the power of every spellmaker glowed with a unique color. In the past, Ethan had used the revela potestatem spell to learn the identities of conjurers who had committed crimes of various sorts.

  “The spell worked, didn’t it?” he asked the ghost. “I felt it.”

  Reg opened his hands to indicate that he didn’t know.

  Ethan walked to another of the disturbed graves, watching for signs of the ministers or the sexton. Seeing no one, he tried the same spell on this site. Again he felt the spell and so assumed his conjuring would have worked had there been any residue of power to reveal.

  Whatever the intent of those who had robbed the graves, no spell had been directed at the grounds or the corpses themselves. Another idea stuck Ethan, and he pulled out three more leaves. “Reperi evocationem ex verbasco evocatam.” Locate conjuring, conjured from mullein.

  This second spell should have found the residue of any power used anywhere in the vicinity of the burying grounds. But again, nothing happened, beyond the thrum of his conjuring in the earth beneath him.

  “Were any of the people in these desecrated graves conjurers?” Ethan asked Reg.

  The ghost shook his head.

  “What about at the other burying grounds?”

  Reg shrugged, his eyes burning in the midday light.

  “Right,” Ethan said. “I needed to ask you when we were there.”

  A nod.

  It wasn’t worth the effort to walk back to both burying grounds. If there were conjurers among the dead victimized by the grave robbers, Ethan thought it would have been coincidence. These sites were chosen because of how recently those buried within them had died. He felt certain of it.

  He knew where he wanted to go next, but before he could leave the burying ground, he spotted a group of people walking toward King’s Chapel. They were led by Reverend Caner and a well-dressed man who appeared to be speaking to the minister. Silvester Gardiner walked alone at the rear of the small company. The well-dressed man with Caner gesticulated animatedly as they walked, and his voice was raised so that even at a distance, Ethan could make out a word or two of what he said. He guessed whose family this was well before they entered the churchyard.

  Ethan stepped out of the shadows and placed himself where Caner could not fail to see him. For the first time in the course of their long and contentious interaction, the minister seemed pleased to see Ethan. He said something to the well-dressed man, and led him and the others to where Ethan stood.

  The man speaking with Caner was tall, lean, and severe in aspect. He wore a black tricorn hat and a powdered wig, although Ethan could see wisps of his white hair sticking out from beneath. The black silk ditto suit he wore over a white shirt must have been oppressive in this heat, but he appeared not to notice. He had spoken once more to the minister before they halted, but now he stood, both hands resting on the gold handle of his walking cane, his imperious gaze raking over Ethan from unpowdered head to worn, mud-stained boot.

  “Mister Kaille,” Caner said. “I’m glad you’re here.” He indicated the man with an open hand and a tight smile. “This is Mister Alexander Rowan, widower of Missus Abigail Rowan. Mister Rowan, this is Ethan Kaille. He is a thiefta—”

  “I know who he is,” Rowan said in a deep baritone, as he appraised Ethan. He proffered a hand. “Abner Berson is a friend. You did a great service to him and Catherine after the death of their daughter.”

  It was a kinder greeting than Ethan had expected. “Thank you, sir. You and your family have my deepest condolences on your loss.”

  Rowan turned to look back at the cluster of people who had followed him and Caner to the burying ground. “Thank you,” he said, his tone brusque. “That is my son, Alex, his wife, Eliza, my daughter, Jane, her husband, Jonathan, my other daughter, Margaret, and her husband, Joseph.”

  They were all well-dressed and somber, and Ethan wasn’t sure he could have assigned a name to any of them, expect perhaps for Rowan’s son, who was as lean and grim as his father. But he raised a hand in greeting, and the men nodded in acknowledgment.

  “I’ve just told Mister Rowan that the chapel has engaged your services to inquire into these foul desecrations.”

  “Yes, reverend sir,” Ethan said. To Rowan he said, “I’ve only just begun to look into this matter, but you have my assurance—”

  “I don’t want assurances,” Rowan said, rapping the butt of his cane on the ground. “I want Abigail made whole again! We buried her here with the expectation that the rector, his warden, and the sexton would see to it that she could rest in peace.”

  He half turned in Caner’s direction as he said this last.

  “Can you think of anyone who would wish to disturb your wife’s grave, sir?” Ethan asked, drawing Rowan’s gaze once more.

  “Of course not. And I was given to understand that it wasn’t just her grave that was desecrated. There were others, weren’t there?”

  “Yes, sir. But surely Missus Rowan was the most renowned of those who were disturbed, and—forgive me for being blunt—everyone in Boston knows you to be a man of substantial resources. I don’t know what the thieves thought to accomplish, but it may be that they hope to ransom these … things they have taken. It is possible that the other sites were desecrated as an afterthought, and that your wife’s grave was foremost in the designs of the fiends who did this.”

  “I see your point,” Rowan said. “But surely you don’t think I am likely to consort with anyone who would commit such crimes.”

  “No, sir. Of course not. Can you tell me,” Ethan continued after a moment’s pause, “have you noticed anything unusual at your home or at your place of business in recent days?”

  The other members of the Rowan family had been speaking in low voices among themselves during Ethan’s exchange with Mister Rowan. But at this question they fell silent. All of them looked at Ethan before facing the family patron.

  “I don’t believe I know what you mean,” Rowan said. He sounded far less sure of himself than he had seconds before, and it seemed to Ethan that his hands trembled, though he gripped the cane so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

  “I don’t mean anything in particular, sir. Have you noticed anyone loitering outside your home, or near your warehouses on Long Wharf?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Something else then?” Ethan asked. They had seen something, or someone. Rowan’s demeanor and the silence of his family made that much clear.

  “No, there’s nothing,” Rowan said, sounding more frightened than commanding. “There is just the matter of Abigail. Nothing else matters. I want her whole again! You’re a thieftaker, aren’t you? That’s your job: to retrieve what was lost.” Rowan turned to Caner, dismissing Ethan with a simple pivot. “Take me to her grave, Henry. I want to see what was done to her, and I want to know how you intend to make certain it doesn’t happen again.”

  Reverend Caner’s gaze flicked toward Ethan. Ethan thought he saw an apology in the man’s eyes, and perhaps gratitude as well. Caner and Rowan started toward the grave, followed by the
rest of the Rowan family.

  Or most of them; one of Rowan’s daughters lingered, waiting until her father was beyond hearing. Ethan didn’t remember if this was Margaret or Jane.

  “I apologize for my father’s rudeness,” she said. “This ordeal has taken its toll on us all.”

  “I don’t doubt it, ma’am. Again, my sympathies to all of you.”

  “Yes, well, that was all I wished to say.” She offered a thin smile. “Good day.”

  “I sensed that perhaps your father hadn’t told me everything,” Ethan said, as she began to walk away.

  She halted but didn’t face him. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe that to be the case.”

  “So, you’ve seen nothing strange at your father’s estate? He hasn’t said anything to you about people he might have seen?”

  At this she did turn, the smile still frozen on her lips. “There’s nothing, Mister Kaille. Whatever it is you’re looking for, you’ll not find it with my father or with any of us.”

  “Of course,” Ethan said. “Again, thank you.”

  He watched her leave, more convinced than before that all was not right with the Rowan family. But he didn’t believe this was the time or place to pursue the matter too aggressively.

  Gardiner had remained a short distance removed from the others throughout Ethan’s conversations with Mr. Rowan and the merchant’s daughter. Now, though, he strolled to where Ethan stood, stopping beside him.

  “I don’t envy the rector having to mollify Mister Rowan,” the warden said.

  “Nor do I. Will he tell them of all that was done to Missus Rowan’s corpse?”

  Gardiner shook his head. “Not unless he has to. They know that her skull was taken, of course, and the hand as well. The rest, though, is … well, it’s all rather gruesome, isn’t it?”

  “Some might say that he has an obligation to inform the families of everything.”