D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“They said she was found on Cross Street. But that’s all.”

“And what time was this?” Ethan asked absently, his gaze still on the girl.

“Forgive me,” the minister said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Ethan looked up at that. “Mister Caner didn’t tell you?”

Pell regarded him placidly. Even in the dim light Ethan could see that his eyes were pale. He had straight dark hair. A powdered wig sat on the stone floor beside the chair on which he had been sitting, but Ethan couldn’t help thinking that with a face as youthful as his, Pell would have looked odd wearing it.

“Mister Caner might have mentioned something about expecting a visitor,” the young minister said, taking some care in the choice of his words. “But I wish to hear an answer from you.”

Ethan resumed his examination of the girl, bending closer to get a better view of her face. Let the man play his games. Ethan had work to do. “My name is Ethan Kaille,” he said as he searched her head and neck for wounds. “Abner Berson has asked that I look into the death of his daughter and the theft of an item she was carrying when she died.”

“And you’re a thieftaker?”

“Aye.”

“Do thieftakers often investigate murders?”

“Are you interested in hiring me?” Ethan asked. “Or are you making conversation?”

The minister shrugged, looking sheepish. “I was merely curious,” he said quietly.

“I’m not sure this is the time for indulging your curiosity. Please answer my question: When did they bring her?”

“It was close to midnight, I believe.”

“Had she been dead for long?”

The minister glanced at the girl before quickly averting his eyes again. He stood a few paces from the table, and his hands trembled. “You mistake me for a physician, Mister Kaille. I couldn’t tell you.”

“Then you have no idea how she died?” Ethan asked.

Pell licked his lips. “None at all.”

“Forgive me, Mister Pell,” Ethan said. “But this can’t be the first time you’ve seen a corpse.”

“Of course not,” the young man said, his voice unsteady.

“And yet, you seem shaken by the sight of her.”

The man hesitated, his eyes now fixed on the girl. “She’s about my age. And the men who brought her said that she had been murdered. I’ve seen the dead before, but never anyone who was… killed in that way.”

“I understand,” Ethan said. “I’m going to uncover her. I want to see if I can learn something of how she died. All right?”

Pell nodded.

Ethan pulled back the sheet to reveal the girl’s body. She was dressed in a pale silk gown-a soft shade of yellow, although it was hard to tell in the dim light. Her petticoats were darker-perhaps green-and she wore a stomacher of white silk. Ethan bent closer, examining the exposed skin of her shoulders and chest, searching for any marks that might explain her death.

“Bring me that sconce,” Ethan said, gesturing vaguely at an iron tree in the far corner of the chamber.

Pell retrieved it and brought it to Ethan, setting it beside him so that the glow of the candles illuminated the girl.

Even in the better light, Ethan saw no stab wounds, no dried blood, no obvious bruises. He searched her limbs, checked her clothing for rents or cuts in the fabric. At last he rolled her onto her side to examine her back. Nothing.

He wasn’t surprised; this was why Berson had wanted him and not Sephira Pryce or some other thieftaker. This was why he had been thinking about that pulse of power ever since seeing Berson’s servant in the Dowsing Rod. Even so, he was troubled.

“There are no marks on her,” Ethan said, straightening and meeting the young minister’s gaze.

“What does that mean?” Pell asked.

“Well, it means she wasn’t killed in any of the usual ways. She wasn’t stabbed or shot. Her throat wasn’t slit. Her neck wasn’t broken.”

“Could she have been strangled?”

Ethan looked down at the girl again and shook his head. “That would leave bruising on her neck, whether done with a rope or bare hands.”

“What about poison?”

He considered this for several moments, staring at the girl’s face. Her expression in death was peaceful; she could well have been sleeping rather than dead. It was hardly the face of someone who had died by poisoning.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Ethan said.

“But you don’t believe it.”

“No.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t murdered after all.”

“Perhaps,” Ethan said absently, still regarding the body. “Mister Pell, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind getting me a cup of water?”

“What?”

“Some water. Or better yet, wine. Like you, I’m… I’m troubled by the sight of this poor girl. I need something to drink.”

“You’re lying to me,” Pell said, sounding young and just a bit frightened.

“I assure you-”

“You’re lying,” he said again. “And I want to know why.”

Ethan smiled faintly. “No, you don’t.”

“What do you mean I don’t?” Pell said, frowning deeply. “Of course I do.”

“Do you know my sister, Mister Pell?” Ethan asked. “She’s a member of the congregation.”

“Your sister?”

“You would know her as Bett Brower, the wife of Geoffrey Brower.”

“You’re Missus Brower’s brother?” The minister leaned forward, scrutinizing Ethan’s face. “Yes, I suppose I do see some resemblance. What about her?”

“Has she mentioned me to you?”

“No, why would she?”

It was a fair question, though perhaps not as Pell meant it. Bett was too protective of her status in Boston society to risk calling attention to her rogue of a brother, who also happened to be a conjurer. Thinking about it, Ethan realized that he should have been surprised that she had spoken of him even to dear Geoffrey.

“No reason in particular,” Ethan said at last. “I merely mention her to make you understand that you have no reason to distrust me. If you can simply get me some wine, I would be grateful. I’ll stay with poor Miss Berson-she won’t be alone for even a second.”

Pell said nothing, but he continued to eye Ethan, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“That’s not what you were going to say,” the man said at last. “Is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Pell stared at him. “You do know what killed her, don’t you? You just don’t want to tell me.”

“I don’t know anything,” Ethan said, trying to keep his voice even.

“Not for certain, you mean. But you have some idea. It’s there in your eyes; I can hear it in your voice. What is it you’re not telling me?”

Ethan didn’t answer, but he watched as the minister worked it out for himself.

After a moment, Pell turned back to the corpse. “She wasn’t stabbed or strangled,” he muttered. “She wasn’t shot or poisoned or killed in any of the other, more conventional ways. But she was murdered.” He glanced at Ethan again, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then it hit him. Ethan saw it happen. He blinked, his eyes widening. Even in the faint candlelight, Ethan saw the color drain from Mr. Pell’s cheeks.

“Oh,” the minister said. And then again, “Oh.”

“You understand?” Ethan asked gently.

“I believe I do,” Pell whispered.

“Then you understand why I need you to go.”

He squared his shoulders. “What if…?” The young man paused and took a slow breath. “What if I won’t let you do this? What if I call for Mister Troutbeck right now?”

“And tell him what?” Ethan asked.

“That… that you’re… that you’re a witch.”

“You could do that,” Ethan said. “You could make your accusations. I’ve done nothing that you could point to as evidence to support your claim. But still, he might believe you. He might have me arrested and burned or hanged. Is that what you wish to see them do to me?”