D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

“Have you hired men to rob graves here in the city?”

“I just docked today.” Ramsey finished his wine and poured himself more. He held the flask out to Ethan.

Ethan shook his head. His cup was still nearly full.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Ramsey drank, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“Do you know much about resurrectionists?” Ethan asked.

“I’ve read a bit. I know they steal cadavers.”

“Or body parts. They do it for profit-they sell the dead to surgeons and those who aspire to the trade. That’s what most people here think lies at the heart of this latest spate of desecrations. Greed.”

“Most people,” Ramsey said. “But, I take it, not the great Ethan Kaille.”

“I make no claims to greatness. But I do know better than to think that this is about money.”

“And that’s supposed to impress me?” Ramsey laughed. “I don’t imagine it was too hard to figure out. The gap between what these others think and what you know is more a product of their stupidity than any cleverness on your part.”

“As I said: I make no claims to greatness.”

“And yet,” Ramsey said, his voice silken, “you intend to match your wits against mine, your power against mine. You may not claim to be great, but you’re still reachin’ higher than you have any right to. You should be careful, thieftaker: stretch your arm out too far and you might overbalance. Or you might simply lose a limb.”

Ethan’s laughter sounded harsh to his own ears. “Is this how you speak to all your friends?”

“Why did you come here, Kaille? What did you expect to find? What did you think I’d tell you?”

“I came here because you as much as asked me to,” Ethan said. “It was your finding spell that drew me, your illusion spell that told me where the Muirenn was moored. She remains a fine ship, by the way. You should ask yourself if you wouldn’t be better off putting back out to sea. It’s safer for you out there.”

Ramsey drained his cup again and set it down smartly on the rail. There was no trace of mirth left on his face. “You should go.”

Ethan sipped his wine, making no move to leave. “I think you brought me here because you’re torn. You say that you’re not ready to reveal your purpose in being here. But you’re just bursting at the seams, wanting to tell me everything. You’re so enamored of your plans that keeping them secret hurts.”

“Is that so?” Ramsey asked, his voice tight.

“Aye. So, go ahead and tell me. I’m going to find out soon enough. Think of how much more satisfying it will feel to tell me to my face, to see my reaction.”

For the span of a heartbeat, it seemed to Ethan that Ramsey was tempted. He could see the eagerness in the captain’s eyes, the boyish excitement in the smile that tried to break through his stolid mien. But the moment passed and he shook his head.

“I think I won’t. But I give you credit for makin’ the attempt.” He did smile then, but it was cold and clearly forced. “I’m goin’ to enjoy these next few days.”

Ethan finished his wine and stood. He tipped his hat to the captain and crossed to the gangplank.

But as he started to walk back down to the wharf, Ramsey called his name, stopping him.

“Your foot,” he said, nodding toward Ethan’s bad leg. “Did we have that right?”

Ethan had let down his guard, thinking that their interview was over. He felt his cheeks go white, and could think of nothing to say.

Ramsey threw back his head and laughed. He picked up his flask and cup, and went belowdecks.

As Ethan stepped off the gangplank onto the wharf, his hands shook. Rage, frustration, yes, even a touch of fear: a storm of emotions raged in his mind. He had very nearly gotten the better of Ramsey; he was certain that the man was on the verge of telling him everything. And in a moment of weakness, he allowed the captain to turn their encounter to his advantage.

He was desperate to know what Ramsey was planning, to understand what role he himself played in the man’s scheme.

“Yes, well, he’s not going to tell you,” Ethan muttered to himself, drawing a disapproving look from a passing wharfman.

The sun hung low in the west, still obscured by the haze that had settled over the city days before. The breeze had died, leaving the air hot and stagnant. It would be another hour at least until darkness fell and the shades Ramsey had released from their slumber appeared once more.

Ethan set out again for the North End. Bertram Flagg, another of the dead in the King’s Chapel Burying Ground who were mutilated by Ramsey’s men, had lived a short distance from the Rowan family. Ethan chose to begin his search for other ghosts at his home.

Mr. Flagg had been a shipbuilder whose yard was located in the North End, near the Charlestown ferry. He was no less wealthy or influential than Alexander Rowan. His home might have been more modest than the Rowan mansion, but only just. It was a two-story brick house with black shutters and a white colonnade at the entrance. It stood at the corner of Hull and Salem streets, at the base of Copp’s Hill and within sight-and smell-of the foul waters of Mill Pond.

Ethan approached the door only to have it open before he reached it. A young man walked out of the house and halted upon seeing him.

“Who are you?” he asked. He was a few inches shorter than Ethan and slight of build, with a soft, almost feminine face. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old.

Ethan thought he might retreat into the house at the first word he uttered.

“My name is Ethan Kaille,” he said. “I’m a thieftaker hired by Reverend Caner to find those who desecrated the burying ground at King’s Chapel.”

The lad gazed back at him, seemingly waiting for Ethan to say more. At last he stepped forward and stuck out a hand, which Ethan shook. “I’m Charles Flagg,” he said, not quite looking Ethan in the eye.

“I’m sorry about the passing of your father,” Ethan said.

Charles shrugged, looked down at his feet. “Thank you.” They fell into a brief, strained silence. “I have to go,” the lad finally said. “I have … I just have to go.” There was something in his manner …

“I take it you have a meeting to attend.”

The lad’s eyes widened, with fright at first, but when Ethan offered a faint conspiratorial smile, he nodded, and even chanced a grin of his own. “You won’t say anything, will you?” he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper. “My father had nothing but contempt for the Sons of Liberty, and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“I won’t say a word. Is your mother inside?”

“My stepmother is. My mother died when I was seven.”

Ethan grimaced in sympathy, thinking that in this respect at least, Charles had already lived a more difficult life than many men twice his age. “Again, I’m sorry. What is your stepmother’s name?”

“Edith.”

“Thank you, Charles.”

The boy nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said, and strode away, looking much like a boy trying to act older than his years.

Ethan went to the door, which Charles had left open. He rapped with the brass knocker and called, “Missus Flagg?”

“Yes?” came a voice. A few seconds later a woman walked into view. She looked to be but a few years older than Charles. She was pretty but careworn, with wheaten hair and green eyes. She carried a babe in her arms, and was trailed by a second child, a girl who might have been five years old.

Ethan introduced himself again, and as he did, a single crease formed in the middle of the woman’s brow.

“Why would you come here?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be looking for answers in the burying ground?”