D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

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

“He has struggled with that, Mister Kaille, I assure you. Secrecy does not come easily to him. But in this case he has been forced to consider whether the truth might be so … unsettling to the families that a small omission is the greater balm.”

Perhaps the warden had a point. It wasn’t a choice Ethan would have wanted to make.

“I know it’s been but a few hours, but have you learned anything yet?” Gardiner asked.

“Yes. I know now that your sexton was right: Yours is not the lone burying ground to have been violated.” He nodded once to the man and limped toward the School Street gate. “I’ll send word when I know more.”

Gardiner offered no response. When Ethan reached the street, the warden was still standing just as he had been, gazing after Caner and the others.

Ethan was already considering how he might contrive to speak once more with Mister Rowan, perhaps at the family estate. There was more to their tale than either the father or daughter had let on, and he believed that before he finished this inquiry he would need to learn what it was. For the time being, though, he had other avenues to explore.

He followed Queen Street past the courthouse and the Old Meeting House, before continuing onto King Street, which took him by the Town Hall. At Merchant’s Row, he turned north. As he threaded his way through the crowds walking to and from Faneuil Hall, however, he caught sight of an all-too-familiar shock of yellow hair. Nigel. Nap, Gordon, and Mariz couldn’t have been far away. Ethan kept his head down, as he followed the edge of the lane closest to Wentworth’s Wharf, hoping Sephira’s toughs wouldn’t see him. This once, luck was on his side. He reached Ann Street without incident and crossed Mill Creek into the North End.

The first street after the creek was a narrow byway called Paddy’s Alley. And at the southern corner of the lane, a stone’s throw from the wharves and shipyards, stood a run-down tavern called the Crow’s Nest.

If the resurrectionists intended to sell the body parts they had stolen, it was possible they would eventually find their way here.

The Crow’s Nest was about as different from the Dowsing Rod as a publick house could be. Where Kannice maintained a strict prohibition against illegal activities, Joseph Duncan, the current proprietor of the Crow’s Nest, could not have remained in business were it not for the illicit trades-whoring, smuggling, and the buying and selling of pilfered goods-that went on under his roof.

Reaching the tavern, Ethan pushed through the door into a dimly lit great room that smelled of stale ale and tobacco. A dozen or so men sat at tables, speaking in low tones, and several more stood at the bar, trying hard to look like they were just there for a drink. All of them turned toward the door as Ethan walked in, but few spared him more than a perfunctory glance.

One who did was a small, dark-haired man by the bar, who held a pipe clenched between yellowed teeth. His cheeks were pitted and scarred from a bout of smallpox. He marked Ethan’s approach the way a sparrow might watch a feral cat.

“Good day, Dunc,” Ethan said, joining the man at the bar.

“Kaille,” Duncan said, sounding even less welcoming than Janna usually did. “What do you want?”

He spoke with a Scottish brogue, and with the pipe in his mouth his accent was nigh impenetrable.

“I just have a few questions, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Every time you come to me with questions, I seem to end up with with a broken nose or a blackened eye. I think I’ll pass this time.”

Ethan nodded. “I can understand that.”

“Well, good,” Dunc said, sounding surprised. “It’s not that-”

“Of course,” Ethan went on, dropping his voice, “if you won’t help me out, I’ll have no choice but to tell every fence and cloyer in Boston that you did . Starting with Sephira.”

Dunc stared back at him, puffing so hard on his pipe that the leaf in his bowl glowed like a brand, and pale smoke billowed around his head. “I don’t think you will,” he said. “You’re no nose. That’s something herself might do, but you’ve never been as mean you make yourself out to be.”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Aye. Don’t think too much of it. I still haven’t forgiven you for almost burning down my place.”

Ethan grinned, but quickly turned serious again. “I really do need to ask you some questions, Dunc,” he whispered, “and while I might not be a nose, I am still a speller. And my conjuring can cause all kinds of mischief.”

Dunc eyed him still, looking like he’d just sucked on a lemon. At last he gave a single curt nod.

“My thanks,” Ethan said, keeping his voice low. He slid a threepenny bit onto the bar. “An ale,” he said to the barkeep, a lanky man with overlarge eyes and a crooked nose. Ethan had never learned his name.

The barkeep filled a tankard for him.

Ethan sipped it, and nearly spit it out. After forcing down this one mouthful, he said to Dunc, “This is swill. You should serve the Kent pale that Kannice gets.”

“People don’t come in here for the food or drink,” Dunc said with a glare. “Now what is it you want?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d want me to buy a drink, linger a bit, make it look like I’m doing something other than wringing information out of you.”

Dunc paled. After a moment, he signaled for an ale as well.

“Have you heard anyone in here mention that they’ve taken to stripping graves in the last week or two?”

“What?” Dunc asked, making no effort to keep his voice down.

“Resurrectionists,” Ethan said in a whisper. “Grave robbers.”

Dunc pulled the pipe from his mouth. “No,” he said, his cheeks turning red. “I’ve heard nothing. And if I had, I would have told them to take it out in the streets. You might not think much of me, Kaille, but you should know I don’t tolerate that sort of thing in here! Not from anyone, not even Miss Pryce!”

Ethan didn’t ask how he would manage to tell Sephira to take her business outside without getting himself beaten to a bloody mess. Dunc sounded as serious as Ethan had ever heard him; he wondered if the Scot’s outrage was real.

“Calm down, Dunc,” he said. “I apologize. I didn’t know you felt so strongly about it.”

Dunc replaced his pipe with a click of his teeth on clay. “There have been robberies?” he asked, speaking around the pipe stem.

Ethan nodded. “Nearly two dozen. At King’s Chapel, Copp’s Hill, and the Granary.”

“What did they take?”

He shrugged. “Heads, hands. Just the sort of things a young man fancying himself a surgeon might need to educate himself.” He didn’t say anything about the feet or the mutilation of the cadavers’ chests. Even if Dunc truly had been offended by the suggestion that he would traffic in body parts, he was bound to mention the robberies to someone. Despite all his protestations to the contrary, Dunc was not Boston’s most discreet proprietor. That was fine with Ethan: let word get around that graves had been robbed, and let those who were responsible believe that Ethan thought the desecrations nothing more or less than the work of resurrectionists interested in making a few pounds.

“Well,” Dunc said, “if anyone shows up here trying to sell anything gruesome, I’ll order them out. And I’ll get word to you.”

“Yes, I’m sure. If you don’t inform me, I’ll hear of it sooner or later. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I was serious before, Kaille. I tolerate a lot in here; maybe more than I should. But my da’s grave was stripped back in Dundee. I’ve never forgotten it.”