D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

“What is it?” Darcy asked. “What is he trying to say?”

Ethan let out a long shuddering breath. “There are more shades like your mother,” he said. “They can’t leave either, and there are a lot of them.”

After delivering these last tidings, Uncle Reg agreed to be released. Ethan and Darcy joined Ruth in the common room, where they offered her assurance that as unsettling as it might be to have a shade in her home, the ghost of Patience Walters posed no danger to her child or to her. Soon after, Ethan departed their home and, hesitating but for an instant, left New Boston for the opulent mansions of the North End.

This time he made certain to avoid Brattle Street and the barracks of the Twenty-ninth Regiment. Still, he saw many regulars on the streets, including four soldiers who were being taunted by yet another group of reckless young men. “Bloody-backed scoundrels!” the pups shouted. “Lobsters!” One called, “Damn the king! Damn his soldiers!” This drew laughs from his companions. These regulars, like the others Ethan had seen earlier in the day, held their rifles waist high, their bayonets fixed. Ethan half expected them to open fire.

He gave the regulars and the pups taunting them a wide berth, and crossed into the North End by way of Hanover. He then followed Back and Salem streets, making his way past the North Meeting House, with its soaring spire and clock tower, to Ellis Street and the impressive mansion of Alexander Rowan.

It was late to arrive at anyone’s home uninvited and unannounced. It was especially so for one as wealthy and influential as Mr. Rowan. Ethan didn’t care.

The entire Rowan family had behaved strangely in the King’s Chapel Burying Ground, and after his encounter with the shade of Patience Walters, Ethan thought he knew why.

Like the Walters house, the Rowan mansion was constructed of brick. The resemblance ended there. Alexander Rowan’s home stood three stories tall, and had banks of windows across the façade and marble columns on either side of the entrance. The door itself was oak, with a polished brass lion’s-head knocker. Candlelight still glowed in several of the windows on the first and second floors, but not all. Ethan wondered if some in the family were already abed.

He followed the stone path to the door and rapped with the knocker. At first there was no response, and Ethan knocked a second time.

At last the door opened, revealing not a servant, as he had expected, but Mr. Rowan’s son. He was in shirtsleeves, and kept one arm hidden behind his back.

“Yes, what is it?” the young man demanded, sounding cross.

Ethan moved forward a half step, so that the light from within fell upon his face. Rowan the younger retreated a step and produced a pistol, which he held in the hand that had been hidden. Ethan raised his hands to show that he carried no weapon.

“I’m unarmed, Mister Rowan.”

“Who are you?” Rowan asked, though Ethan saw a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes.

“I’m Ethan Kaille, sir. Reverend Caner has engaged my services to inquire into the unfortunate incidents in the King’s Chapel Burying Ground.”

Rowan lowered the pistol, looking much relieved. “Of course, Mister Kaille. I remember you now.” He frowned. “Are you in the habit of disturbing people in their homes at such a late hour?”

“No, sir, I’m not. I wouldn’t have come without good reason.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say that my father has already retired for the night. If you wish to speak with him, you’ll have to come back in the morning.”

“I believe you can help me, sir.”

If anything, this prompted a deepening of Rowan’s frown. After a brief hesitation, however, he beckoned Ethan into the house and closed the door after him.

“I wonder, sir-”

“Not here,” Rowan said. He walked away, leaving Ethan little choice but to follow.

They crossed through a large parlor, followed a dim corridor toward the back of the house, and entered a well-lit study. An open book rested pages-down on a wooden side table beside a plush chair. When he had shut the door, Rowan faced Ethan, looking like he intended to say something. Instead, he glanced down at the pistol he still held and crossed to a writing desk along the far wall of the study. After placing the weapon in a drawer, he turned to Ethan again.

“Now, what is it you want?”

“Today, at the burying ground, I asked your father if he had noticed anything odd, either here or at your family’s warehouses.”

“Yes, I remember. And he told you that he hadn’t.”

“Aye, he did. But you and I both know that wasn’t true.”

“Now see here, Kaille-!”

“Do you truly expect the ghost to leave of its own accord?” Ethan asked, his voice echoing in the small room.

Rowan gaped at him, looking frightened and young. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do, sir,” Ethan said, speaking in softer tones. “When did your mother’s shade first appear?”

Rowan shook his head, saying nothing. After a lengthy silence, he dropped into the nearest chair and asked, “How did you know?”

“Yours is not the only family in Boston being haunted. How long has it been?”

“She appeared three nights past. My wife noticed her first. We’ve been living here since Mother died. Father has not been himself since he lost her, and Esther and I felt that he shouldn’t be alone in a house of this size. The servants are all quite competent, of course, but … well, you understand.”

“Aye.”

“On Tuesday night, Esther went into Father and Mother’s room to make certain that his bedclothes had been laid out properly. And when she entered, she saw the … you called it a shade. That’s as good a word as any. It’s a foul, horrible thing. I shudder to think of the fright Esther took.”

“Wait,” Ethan said, his eyes narrowing. “The shade doesn’t look like your mother?”

“Heavens, no. It’s-” He shook his head again. “I suppose there is really no delicate way to say this: It looks like a ghoul in Mother’s clothes.”

Ethan considered this, staring down at his tricorn, which he held in his hands. He had assumed that this ghost would resemble Mrs. Rowan, just as Patience’s shade resembled her.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said at length. “Please go on with your tale.”

“There isn’t much more to tell,” Rowan said. “Esther screamed, and the rest of us hurried to the room. The apparition didn’t flee, as one might expect. It merely stood at the window, gazing out into the night.”

“Did it make any sound? Did it seem to recognize any of you, or make an attempt to communicate?”

“We didn’t give it the chance,” Rowan said, sounding appalled at the very idea. “We removed my father’s personal effects the following morning, and have not been back in the room since. For the past several nights he’s been sleeping in the room that used to belong to Margaret.”

“So, you don’t even know if it’s come back,” Ethan said.

Rowan took a long breath. “We do, actually. Late at night, when the candles in the corridor have been extinguished, I can see the fiend’s glow seeping out from beneath the door.”

“Have you seen it tonight?”

“I haven’t yet looked.”

“I realize that this is an imposition, Mister Rowan, but I would like to see this shade.”

“You mean now?”

“Aye.” When Rowan didn’t answer, Ethan said, “I can come back another night, of course. But it would be every bit as much an imposition then. And perhaps it’s best that we do this tonight, while your father is sleeping, rather than trouble him some other evening.”

Rowan didn’t move. “You said that you’re a thieftaker. What do you think you can accomplish here?”