D. Jackson: A Plunder of Souls

Ethan had heard as well of conjurers using bones for spells the way he used blood. Bones were said to be every bit as effective, and they eliminated the need for a spellmaker to cut himself. He also knew that Tarijanna Windcatcher, a conjurer who owned a tavern on Boston’s Neck, sold ground bone in her tavern, along with oils, herbs, and minerals that were said to enhance the power of conjurings. Most of the bone Janna sold came from animals rather than people, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she had vials of both. And there were those who trafficked in gruesome goods regardless of whether they could cast spells. A market for bone had thrived for years in this city, and thieves looked for profit where they could, caring not a whit for the sensibilities of others, even in matters of death and the sanctity of a grave.

“Members of our congregation deserve to know that their loved ones can lie undisturbed in their graves,” Caner said. “They should not have to fear that the poor souls will be profaned by rogues and craven thieves.”

“Of course, reverend sir. I understand completely.”

“We wish to engage your services, Mister Kaille. We want you to find the villains who have been desecrating these graves. You will, of course, have our full cooperation. Whatever you need, Doctor Gardiner and Mister Pell will see to it. You have my word on that. In return, we are prepared to pay you five pounds. As I understand it, we would pay you some of that now, and-”

“No,” Ethan said. “I’ll do what I can to help you, but I won’t take your money.”

Pell shook his head. “Ethan-”

“I’ll not take payment from a house of God. Besides, if all you say is true, this is a dark business; no one should profit from it.”

Mister Caner blinked, but said nothing.

Pell glanced sidelong at the rector before saying, “Thank you.”

Ethan faced Caner again. “I’ll do my best to find those responsible, reverend sir.” A small grin tugged at his lips. “And in deference to you, I’ll also do my best to…” His eyes flicked toward Gardiner. “To use conventional means to the extent possible.”

That, of all things, brought a smile to Reverend Caner’s face. “You’re most kind, Mister Kaille. I was reluctant to hire you, as you might imagine. But Trevor insisted you were the right person for this task. I see now that he was right. When can you begin?”

“Immediately. If one of you would be so kind as to show me the disturbed graves.”

The rector nodded. “Yes, of course. Silvester? Trevor?”

Gardiner gestured toward the chapel entrance. Ethan bid good day to Caner and Troutbeck, and allowed the warden and the young minister to lead him out into the sunshine.

It had been cool when Ethan left the Dowsing Rod a short while before, and dew had lain heavy on the lawns along Treamount Street. But the sun now hung higher in the morning sky, and already the air was turning uncomfortably warm. This promised to be another sweltering day.

Gardiner led Pell and Ethan around the side of the chapel to the old burying ground at the north end of the churchyard. As they approached the jumble of tombstones, Ethan spotted a man squatting in the shade over what appeared to be a disturbed gravesite.

“That’s James Thomson,” Gardiner said before Ethan could ask. “He’s our sexton.”

Marking their approach, Thomson straightened, and Ethan realized that he, like Gardiner, was uncommonly tall; he was also spear thin. Everything about him appeared stretched out, as if he had somehow survived years of torture on the rack. His limbs were spiderlike, his neck overlong and thrust forward at an odd angle. His steel-gray hair was tied back in a plait, and his face was weathered and lined. He wore a dark blue waistcoat over a white linen shirt that was stained dark with sweat under the arms.

Despite his awkward appearance, he came to greet them with long, loping strides that were almost graceful.

“Good day, Mister Pell,” he said, in a rough voice. “Doctor Gardiner.”

“Good morning, James,” Pell said.

“This our witch?” the sexton asked, turning to Ethan.

Ethan glanced at Pell, who stared at the ground, his lips pursed. Ethan had the feeling the young minister was doing everything in his power to keep from laughing. Gardiner glowered at them all.

“Aye,” Ethan said, proffering a hand. “I’m your witch.”

Thomson gripped his hand firmly and nodded, oblivious of having given offense. “Glad you’re here,” he said, and returned to the disturbed site. He squatted once more and pointed down into the grave. “It’s grim work they did,” he said. “Not seen anything like it in all my years here.”

As soon as Ethan, Pell, and Gardiner joined him graveside, they were assailed by the smell of decay. Pell gave a soft grunt and turned away, covering his nose and mouth with an open hand. Gardiner retreated in haste, a look of disgust on his fleshy features. Ethan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his face.

“They weren’t gentle about it,” Gardiner said, from a few paces away. “Seemed in a bit of a hurry, if you ask me.”

Ethan had to agree with the warden. Dirt had been hastily shoveled aside, and the coffin had been splintered, most likely by an axe. Through the broken wood, Ethan could see that the linen burial cloth had been cut open and pulled away from the corpse, exposing clothing and part of the neck and chest.

“They didn’t steal the entire body?” Ethan asked of the sexton, who seemed unaffected by the stench.

“No. They took the head, and the right hand off of each. It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Ethan said.

“Not only that, but they also took an article of clothing from each grave, or at least a piece of something.” He pointed down into the grave. “This one was wearing a cravat, and that’s gone.”

“Have you ever heard of other resurrectionists doing that?” Ethan asked.

The sexton shook his head. “No, but then again, I’ve not heard much of anything about their kind. And I would have been content to keep it that way.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ethan said. “I gather that the family has already been here.”

“No, why would you think that?”

“Well,” Ethan said, “I didn’t expect that you could remember so clearly what the man was wearing when he was buried.”

“He only went in the ground nine or ten days ago.” Thomson swept his arm in a wide arc, encompassing more than half a dozen graves, all of which appeared to have been desecrated. “Every one of these sites was dug in the last four months or so.”

“Do you mean to say that every grave that’s been robbed is a new one?”

“Aye. And that’s not all.”

Thomson climbed down into the grave and unbuttoned the soiled linen shirt in which the corpse had been buried. On the left side of the dead man’s chest, carved into the rotting skin over his heart was an odd symbol: a triangle, its apex pointing toward the man’s chin, with three straight lines cutting across the shape from the left edge to converge at the bottom right corner.

“What is that?” Ethan whispered.

“I was hoping you would know,” the sexton said. “Come with me.”

He covered up the chest of the cadaver and nimbly climbed out of the grave. He straightened and strode to another grave, which lay perhaps twenty yards from the first. Ethan followed, noting as he reached this second site that the gravestone was somewhat thicker than others nearby, and had more ornate carvings around the edges. The family name Rowan was engraved on the stone. Below etched in smaller letters, were the words “Abigail, Devoted Wife and Loving Mother, b. 23 September 1701, d. 28 May 1769.”