D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

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?”