D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“Aye,” he said. Both of them knew he wouldn’t. He stood there another moment, neither of them speaking. Finally, Kannice went behind the bar, and retreated into the kitchen.

Ethan left the tavern.

The warmth of the previous night had given way to a cooler morning. The sky was a clear, bright blue, and a freshening wind blew in off the harbor, carrying the smell of fish and brine, and sweeping away the heavy pall of smoke that had been inescapable the night before. The streets were crowded with carriages and men and women on foot making their way with grim purpose to shops or to the markets at Faneuil Hall.

When Ethan first came to Boston, twenty-one years before, he thought he had never seen a finer place. The city was small by English standards, but it was clean and alive. Its streets bustled with activity. It was everything Bristol, his home in England, was not.

Two decades later, hard times and war had taken their toll. Every day, Boston felt more like the sad, gray cities of England. It had grown torpid, weak. Where once it had been the leading city of British North America, it was now the indolent older sister to New York and Philadelphia, surpassed by its younger, more vibrant siblings.

King’s Chapel sat at the corner of Treamount and School Streets, only a few blocks from the Dowsing Rod. It was one of the older churches in Boston, though it had been rebuilt only ten years before, its wooden exterior enclosed within a new granite facade. The wisdom of that choice had been borne out in the years since, as Boston was ravaged by fires, including one that began on Cornhill and swept down to the wharves, damaging literally hundreds of shops and homes. Some had suggested that the rebuilt church should now be called Stone Chapel, but it remained King’s Chapel to most in the city.

The still incomplete structure had a ponderous look, much at odds with the more graceful lines of the older churches in the North and South Ends. But the chapel was the first in the colonies to affiliate itself with the Church of England. Its congregation included some of the wealthiest and most influential families living in the central part of the city, particularly those with close ties to the Crown.

Ethan didn’t worship at any of Boston’s churches. In his years as a soldier and then as a prisoner, he had seen too much brutality and suffering, and had done things for which he could not forgive himself. He had lost a third of his life, part of his foot, and the one woman he had ever truly loved. At this point, whatever faith Ethan might once have had in the existence of a just and merciful God was gone.

This was another point of contention with Kannice, who every Sunday went to the Old Meeting House in the South End, and who assured him that God had taken his toes to save his life and had eased his ague before it killed him. But even if Ethan believed her when she said that God was watching over him, he knew better than to think that His servants would be so kind. Ethan was a conjurer, not a witch, and few of those who had been hanged or burned as witches in New England’s dark history could actually cast true spells. But that hadn’t stopped men like Cotton Mather from railing at magicking in their sermons, and it didn’t stop the present crop of ministers and vicars from doing the same.

And of all the churches in Boston, there was none that he avoided so assiduously as he did King’s Chapel. That was how Bett, the older of his two sisters, and a member of the chapel’s congregation, wanted it. Usually, he was more than happy to honor her wishes. Today he had no choice but to ignore them.

He entered the churchyard through the gate on Treamount, ascended a low set of steps to a pair of heavy oak doors, and entered the chapel. The building was far more attractive within than it was from the street. Pairs of columns with ornate carvings at their tops supported a high ceiling with shallow vaulting. Two stories of windows allowed sunlight to flood the main sanctuary. Boxed pews lined the central aisle, which led to a rounded chancel beyond the altar at the far end of the church. The walls and ceilings had been painted ivory, the columns darker shades of tan and brown, and the pulpit and gallery fronts pale pink; the pews were natural wood. Given the chapel’s somber exterior, the cheeriness of the sanctuary surprised Ethan.

A robed man, tall and narrow-shouldered, stood at the pulpit, poring over the Bible. He looked up as soon as he heard Ethan enter.

“Yes?” he called, his voice echoing through the sanctuary. “What do you want?”

“Mister Caner?” Ethan asked, walking forward.

The man frowned and descended the curving stairway to the stone floor. He had a thin, bony face and a somewhat sallow complexion. His nose was overlarge, his eyes were small and hard, his lips thin and pale. His robe was black and he wore a stiff white cravat at his neck.

“No, I’m not Mister Caner,” the man said, waiting for Ethan at the base of the steps. “I’m the curate, Mister Troutbeck. And you are?”

“My name is Ethan Kaille. I was sent by Abner Berson. I’m to see his daughter’s body.”

The minister’s frown softened. “Yes, of course. Mister Caner mentioned that you might be coming. This way.”

Ethan followed Troutbeck through an archway into the vestry behind and to the left of the pulpit, and then down a broad set of marble stairs.

The air grew colder and damper as they went down. At the bottom of the stairs, they turned onto a broad corridor lined on each side by stone walls. The basement was poorly lit; a few candles burned in iron sconces set in the corners, but there was no other source of light, and after the brightness of the sanctuary Ethan’s eyes were slow to adjust. He could tell, though, that the walls of the corridor were marked regularly with stone plaques, all carved with names and dates. The crypts.

In the middle of the corridor stood a stone table. A delicate figure lay upon it, her dark hair spilling over the edge of the slab. She was covered to her neck with a white cloth. A censer had been placed in a corner by the stairway, and fragrant smoke rose from it, barely masking the sickly smell of decay and the pungent scent of the spermaceti candles.

Ethan started toward the corpse, walking slowly, his boots clicking loudly on the stone floor. His vision was still uncertain, and so when a figure in the far corner moved, rising from a small wooden chair, Ethan nearly jumped out of his skin.

“That is Mister Pell,” Troutbeck told Ethan, amusement in his voice as it reverberated loudly off the stone. “He is sitting vigil with the body. I trust that if you need anything he can help you.”

The curate turned to go.

“Who brought her here?” Ethan asked, his pulse still racing from the fright the second minister had given him.

Troutbeck stopped and faced him once more. “Pardon?”

“Who brought the body to King’s Chapel?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t here last night.”

“Two men of the night watch,” said the minister in the corner. “They said they had been called by a man who found her lying in a deserted lane, and that Berson requested they bring her here.”

“You see?” Troutbeck said. “Mister Pell should be able to answer any questions you have.” He nodded curtly to Ethan and then to the minister before returning to the stairway. This time, Ethan made no effort to stop him.

Once the sound of Troutbeck’s footsteps had faded, Ethan approached the stone table. Mr. Pell did the same.

Pell was young and slight; despite his black robes and cravat, he looked more like an altar boy than a minister.

“Did the men of the watch tell you where she was found?” Ethan asked, as he stared down at Jennifer Berson’s face. She had been an attractive girl, with a wide, sensuous mouth, large, widely spaced eyes, and a straight, fine nose.