D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

“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.