Thieftaker

by D. B. Jackson

  Until the night before, this had been one of the more stately homes in the North End. It was similar in many respects to the Berson house; three stories high and perhaps fifty feet across, with a simple, classical design: a solid home befitting one of the most important men in the thirteen colonies.

  But in a single night, it had been laid waste. Every window across the front of the house, twenty in all, had been completely shattered. The door had been destroyed, as if by axes, and parts of the roof had been torn away, as had the cupola. The garden fence had been torn down, and all the trees in the yard pulled over or hacked down. Personal effects belonging to the lieutenant governor and his family littered the yard and the narrow street. The crowd of gawkers here dwarfed the gathering Ethan had seen at the Hallowell home, although they remained in the street, seemingly afraid to venture into the lieutenant governor’s yard. Ethan could see people moving about inside the house, but he didn’t recognize Hutchinson himself.

  “Got wot he deserved, if ya ask me.”

  Ethan turned and saw a young man standing near him. The lad wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes and a stained cap.

  “Hutchinson, I mean,” the young man added, unnecessarily.

  “Aye,” Ethan said, fighting to keep the rage from his voice. “I’m sure his wife and children did, too.”

  “Come again?”

  “His wife and children.” Ethan pointed to several dresses and petticoats lying in the yard, soiled and torn. “They deserved to have their home destroyed, and all their belongings pillaged by a crowd of strangers. They’re lucky they didn’t get worse, right?”

  The lad frowned. “Well, I don’ know ’bout that.”

  “Isn’t it their fault that Parliament’s burdened us with this Stamp Act?”

  The young man pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “Well…”

  “Think about it,” Ethan said, and started away.

  “Right!” the lad called after him. “Right, I’ll do that.”

  The Derne mansion was only a block or so from North Square. It wasn’t as impressive as either the Berson or Hutchinson houses, but it was of a similar design: a square, three-story building with large windows spaced evenly across the façade, and impressive columns flanking the main entrance.

  The man who answered the door in response to Ethan’s knock was several years younger than William, and quite a bit larger. Burly, tall, stone-faced, he more closely resembled one of Sephira Pryce’s toughs than a house servant. Ethan attempted to explain that he had been hired by Abner Berson and needed to speak with Cyrus Derne, but the man simply glowered at him. When Ethan finished, the man informed him that Cyrus Derne was not at home, and promptly shut the door.

  Ethan considered knocking again, but decided against it. It was growing dark. The night watch would begin rounds before long. And men like Cyrus and Fergus Derne would be making their way home from the waterfront. Ethan strolled back to the street, but he remained near the Derne house, nodding to strangers as they walked past, laughing under his breath at their reactions to his battered visage.

  He had never met Cyrus Derne or his father, but he knew them as soon as they turned a far corner onto Bennet’s Street. They were both well-dressed in ditto suits as was the current fashion. The younger Derne’s was beige; Derne the Elder wore dark blue. Both men sported dark cloaks and black tricorn hats with elaborate black cockades, and both carried canes tipped with brass. The men were of medium height, the father thicker in the middle and heavier of face. The son was lean, the long gray hair of his wig framing a square chin and high cheekbones. Ethan could see how a young woman might be drawn to him.

  Father and son spoke in low tones as they walked, oblivious of all around them. When they were only a few paces from where Ethan stood, he cleared his throat loudly to draw their attention.

  The older Derne halted immediately, a frown clouding his face. The son slowed, but put himself between Ethan and his father, firmly gripping his cane.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” the younger Derne asked in a strong, cold voice.

  “I hope so,” Ethan said, smiling so that his lip and cheek hurt. “I’m looking for Cyrus Derne.”

  The younger man hesitated for only a moment, although the knuckles on the hand holding his cane whitened even more.

  “You’ve found him.”

  “Forgive me if I’ve alarmed you, Mister Derne. My name is Ethan Kaille. Abner Berson has hired me—”

  “Of course, Mister Kaille,” the younger Derne said, striding forward and offering a hand. “Mister Berson told me he intended to hire you. Terrible business. I’m still…” He shook his head. “Well, I’m at a loss for words. Jennifer was quite dear to me, as Mister Berson might have told you.”

  “He did. I’m terribly sorry for you loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  The elder Derne joined them and offered a hand as well, even as he examined Ethan’s face.

  “You look like you’ve had quite a day, Mister Kaille,” the older man said.

  “Yes, sir, I have.” He was growing weary of hearing comments on his cuts and bruises, and he had yet to see Diver or Kannice. “If I may, Mister Derne,” he said to the son, “I would like to ask you a few questions. I won’t keep you long.”

  Cyrus and his father exchanged glances.

  “Of course,” the young man said. “Would you mind if we walked? I’ve spent most of my day in our offices; I wouldn’t mind a bit of air.”

  “That’s fine, sir. Thank you. A pleasure meeting you, sir,” Ethan said to the elder Derne, “despite the circumstances.”

  The elder Derne smiled coldly, glanced once more at his son, and then walked toward the house.

  “Shall we?” Cyrus said, gesturing with an open hand for Ethan to lead the way. “I take it you’ve already spoken with Mister Berson.”

  “I’ve just been at his home.”

  “And you came straight to me.” The younger Derne’s smile was much as his father’s had been a few moments before. “Should I make anything of that?”

  “I assure you it was simply a matter of convenience. I don’t spend much time in the North End. And with the Berson home so close to yours—”

  “It’s all right, Mister Kaille. I was attempting a joke. Apparently I failed.” They came to a corner and continued down Fleet Street toward the wharves. “You have questions for me,” Cyrus prompted.

  “Yes, sir. When did you last see Miss Berson?”

  “Yesterday,” the man said. “I had some business elsewhere in the city that required my attention, but I wished to see her. I try—” He winced. “I tried to see her each day, even when we hadn’t made plans as such. I stopped by late—several hours past midday. We spoke briefly in the sitting room. She wanted to go for a walk, but by then it was growing late, so we sat and…” He paused, looking thoughtful. “And then I left.”

  “Did she mention that she intended to leave the house?”

  Cyrus shook his head. “No.”

  “So you don’t know why she would venture out after dark.”

  He stared at the street before them, shaking his head again. “For the life of me, I do not.”

  “Do you often have business that takes you into the streets at night, sir?”

  Cyrus smirked. “You’re bold, Mister Kaille.” He looked away, so that he was staring straight ahead. They turned another corner and walked past a line of warehouses. The smell of the harbor was heavy here. Flocks of gulls perched on rooftops, preening and crying out mournfully, and a lone osprey circled overhead. “Occasionally, yes. I’m a merchant, from a family of merchants. The Dernes have business in every part of Boston, as well as in Newport, Providence, Norfolk, Newbury, Hartford, even Halifax. And our business doesn’t always end with the setting of the sun.”

  “Can you tell me where you were last night?”

  “I’m not inclined to, no,” Derne said in a flat voice, his expression unchanged. Still, Ethan could tell that the merchant’s patie
nce had started to run thin.

  Ethan said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch on until Derne seemed to grow uncomfortable.

  “If you must know,” Derne said at last, “I was home. My father will confirm that if you ask him.”

  “Thank you, sir. I don’t think I need trouble him.”

  “Have you asked similar questions of the brutes who were abroad last night, behaving like savages and showing themselves capable of the worst kind of violence and mischief?”

  “Not yet,” Ethan said. “But I will.”

  “Good,” Derne said brusquely. “It seems to me more than coincidence that poor Jennifer should be killed the same night that rabble was rampaging through the streets.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you know if Miss Berson had any other suitors—anyone who might have been angered by how close the two of you had grown?”

  Derne halted and faced him, forcing Ethan to stop, too. “Are you trying to offend me?” the merchant demanded, his voice low. “Do you find all of this amusing?”

  “Neither, sir,” Ethan said evenly. “But Mister Berson is paying me a great deal, and I believe that obligates me to explore every possibility. I’ve no doubt that Miss Berson was devoted to you. But would it be so surprising that a woman of beauty and intelligence and, yes, means, might attract men possessed of less honor than you?”

  Derne regarded him a moment longer, and then began walking again. Ethan fell in step beside him. They walked in silence for some time, turning another corner, so that the waters of the harbor were now behind them.

  At last Derne exhaled softly and shook his head. “Is it your profession that makes your mind work as it does?”

  “Sir?”

  “Looking for betrayal and falsehood. Thinking the worst of people. I would think that spending your life among the criminal element would color your perceptions of everyone, even someone like Jennifer.”

  “I think no ill of her, sir.”

  “Perhaps,” Derne said coldly. “But your questions can hardly be deemed flattering.” He looked at Ethan briefly. “You’re right, of course. It is conceivable that she had other suitors of whom I knew nothing, and that one of them did her harm. It’s not a possibility I’ve considered. I would like to tell you out of hand that there was no one, but I don’t know for certain. Satisfied?”

  “I take no satisfaction in offending you, sir. You have my word on that.”

  Derne appeared unconvinced. “Did you ask her father about any of this?”

  “I did. He said he knew of no one. But I thought perhaps he sought to protect her, or that maybe she had hidden such things from him.” Ethan shrugged. “There probably was no one. I apologize for upsetting you.” This last he added for Derne’s benefit. In fact, angering the man had served its purpose. He now knew Cyrus Derne’s composure could be shaken. That knowledge might eventually prove valuable.

  They again lapsed into silence. A cart rumbled past, hoofbeats echoing off the nearby buildings. Two cats slunk across the lane ahead of them. A few faint stars shone overhead.

  “Have you more questions for me?” Derne asked at length, a chill still in his voice. “I’ve had a long, difficult day.”

  “I’m sure you have, sir.” Ethan hesitated, considering how best to word his next question. Finally, he said, “How much do you know about the circumstances of Miss Berson’s death?”

  “Very little,” Derne answered. “I know that she was murdered, that she was found near where these … these agitators had been, that her grandmother’s brooch was taken. Is there more that matters?”

  “Have you … have you gone to view her at King’s Chapel?”

  The merchant shook his head. “Not yet. I haven’t had the chance. And to be honest I’ve been dreading it. Why? Is there something I ought to know before I do?”

  “No, sir,” Ethan said. “It’s nothing like that.” Again he faltered. “Do you have any idea why Mister Berson came to me with this matter?” he asked at last.

  Derne frowned. “What an odd thing to ask. Why should I care why you were hired? Why should you, for that matter? I should think you would be grateful for the work.”

  Apparently there was at least one man left in Boston who didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. Which probably meant that Derne truly didn’t know how Jennifer had died. Berson might have been too ashamed or too frightened to tell him. “It probably shouldn’t,” he said, eager now to explain away his question. “I’m … I’m a bit out of my element. I’m a thieftaker. I usually don’t involve myself in murders.”

  They turned one more corner and Ethan realized that Derne had steered them back within sight of his home. No doubt this was the man’s way of telling Ethan that their conversation was at an end.

  “I won’t trouble you more, sir,” Ethan said as they approached the Derne house. “Except to ask you the same thing I asked Mister Berson. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Miss Berson, or anyone who wanted to hurt you so badly that he would take vengeance on her?”

  Derne sighed, sounding genuinely weary. “Jennifer had no enemies,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. But her father, and my father and I are another matter entirely. We’re merchants. We make enemies every day, and yes, some of them might go to great lengths to get back at us.” He raised a hand to forestall interruption. “I’m not thinking of someone in particular. I’m just saying that the pursuit of wealth makes men do foolish things, dangerous things.”

  He said this last with such earnestness that Ethan was forced to wonder if he did in fact have someone specific in mind. But he had already pushed the man hard enough, and he had no desire to provoke him further, at least not yet.

  “I appreciate your candor, sir,” he said, as they stopped in front of the Derne house. “If you think of anything that might help me find Miss Berson’s killer, I hope you’ll let me know.”

  “Of course,” Derne said, his tone businesslike. “How might I get in touch with you?”

  “I live in the South End, above Dall’s cooperage. And a message can be left for me at the Dowsing Rod on Sudbury Street.”

  “Very well.” Derne put out his hand and Ethan gripped it.

  “Good night, Mister Derne.”

  “Mister Kaille.”

  Ethan started away, aware that Derne was staring after him. He kept his gaze fixed on the street ahead of him, however, and after a short while the feeling of being watched faded.

  He was hungry, and he considered making his way to the Dowser for some of Kannice’s stew. But Kannice hadn’t been happy with him when he left the tavern that morning—was this really still the same day?—and he had given her good reason. If he had kept his word to himself, and had refused to take any more jobs for a time, he wouldn’t have been beaten by Sephira’s men, and he would still have the money Corbett had paid him the night before.

  He knew, though, that he could not have refused Abner Berson’s offer. “Do you have to work every job that calls for a conjurer?” Kannice had asked him. And the truth was that he did. There was no one else. He had tried to explain as much to Kannice that morning, but they had been at odds over the riots and both of them had been angry. Ethan owed it to her to explain again.

  Tonight, though, he couldn’t bring himself to face that conversation or her inevitable questions about his injuries. In the end, Ethan chose to walk home. He had some cheese and bread there, and even a small flask of Madeira that Diver had gotten for him—Ethan knew better than to ask where. He didn’t have a lot of any of it, but there was enough to make a meal. And then he could sleep.

  As he walked through the lanes he tried to concentrate on what he had learned thus far about Jennifer Berson and the final hours of her life. A good deal of it struck him as odd. He sensed, though, that he had heard much of importance in his encounters with Berson and Derne, and even Sephira Pryce, if only he could sift through it all. But the day’s events had finally caught up with him. He was tired and sore, and he felt like his
brain was moving slower than usual.

  Still, his senses remained sharp. As he stepped onto Cooper’s Alley he felt the back of his neck prickle. He was being watched again. It wasn’t his conjuring ability that told him this. At least not exactly. There were protection spells a conjurer could use to ward himself, even to make himself blend into his surroundings, though these worked better in crowds than in empty lanes. A speller with enough skill might even cast spells that could alert him to the presence of certain enemies.

  But Ethan hadn’t used any such conjurings. He merely sensed the presence of something, or more precisely, someone. He couldn’t always perceive conjuring ability in others, but when he did, the feeling was unmistakable, as though an ethereal tether bound him to that person, charging the air between them as during an electrical storm. He felt that way now. And a moment later, he also sensed a conjuring. The feeling was vague; either the spell was weak or the conjurer was casting at a great distance. He couldn’t say for certain. But he had no doubt that someone was working a spell. The air around him vibrated, like a plucked string on a harp.

  He slowed and turned a full circle, looking for a conjurer, thinking it strange that he should feel the person so acutely, but not the spell. He saw no one on the street. Candlelight from the windows of homes along the lane spilled weak pools of light onto the cobblestones, and the moon shone overhead, only a night or two shy of full and gleaming white.

  Ethan eased his knife from his belt. “Who’s there?”

  He expected to see a conjurer emerge from the shadows. He couldn’t have been more surprised to see a girl of no more than eight or nine years step into the street, her clothes in rags, her dark, lank hair hanging to her shoulders. Without realizing it, he had lowered himself into a fighter’s crouch, his weapon held ready. He straightened now, allowing his blade hand to drop to his side, though he didn’t put the knife away.

  He slowly walked toward the girl, glancing from side to side, expecting at any moment to see Sephira Pryce and her men charging at him. The girl watched him with large pale eyes, but she didn’t back away or show any sign of fear. She looked half starved, her cheeks sunken, her skin sallow, bare wrists as thin as sticks.