D. Jackson - Thieftaker

William ascended the steps. “Watch yourself, Mister Kaille,” he said over his shoulder. “Judging from th’ way ya look, I’d say ya have some trouble with that.”

Ethan was in no condition to argue.

Like the Bersons, the Derne family was well enough known that Ethan didn’t have to ask William or Mr. Berson how to find their house. The Derne mansion stood at the corner of Middle Street and Bennet’s in the North End, among some of the most opulent homes in that part of the city.

To get from Beacon Street to the North End, Ethan had to walk past or near all three of the houses that had been attacked the previous night, as well as the spot where Jennifer Berson’s body was found. He decided to go just a short distance out of his way, so as to follow the path taken by the Stamp Act mob. He began by walking back to Cornhill Street and then making his way to the Town House, where the offices of the provincial government were housed. It was a grand brick building with a soaring steeple and striking statues: a lion on one side of the gable, and a unicorn on the other. These figures framed the building’s clock and the carved facade in which it was fixed. In front of the building, a pile of ash and the charred ends of wooden beams marked the spot where the bonfire had been lit.

Following Queen Street west from the site of the fire, Ethan soon came to William Story’s home, which had been ill treated the night before. Windows had been broken, shattered furniture lay in the yard and the street, and the gardens and walkways around the house were littered with torn and partially burned papers. A small crowd had gathered in the street in front of the house to gawk, and several more people wandered through Story’s yard, picking through ruined furniture and personal effects as if they lived there.

William Story meant nothing to Ethan, but still Ethan was tempted to demand that these people leave the man’s home alone. He had no authority, of course, and he doubted that anyone would listen to him. But not for the first time, he wondered if Boston wouldn’t be better off with a stronger sheriff and a constabulary. True, such an office would render thieftakers like himself and Sephira Pryce unnecessary, but he would find other work. And he liked the idea of Sephira begging someone for a job. Not that this was likely to happen any time soon. He cast a last look at the gawkers and continued up Brattle Street to Hanover, where Benjamin Hallowell lived.

The damage done to the Hallowell home was even more extensive than that inflicted on Story’s house. The wooden fence surrounding Hallowell’s property had been knocked down, many of the windows had been shattered, and Hallowell’s furniture had been wrecked and pieces of it strewn about. Papers, pieces of clothing, and empty bottles of wine had been scattered about the yard and into the street fronting it. The crowd gathered outside this house was far larger than that at the Story home. Benjamin Hallowell was better known and even less well liked than William Story. It stood to reason that the destruction of his property should draw more interest.

Ethan didn’t linger at the Hallowell home. After crossing over Mill Creek into the North End, he came to Cross Street, where Jennifer Berson’s body had been found, and followed it toward the harbor. Compared with Hanover and Middle Streets, Cross Street was quiet and peaceful. There were no crowds of curious onlookers, no men of the watch, no sign that a young girl had been killed here the night before. A few people strolled the lane; a chaise rattled past. But that was all.

Still, Ethan knew he needed to be careful. He wished to cast a spell that might reveal the nature of the conjuring that had killed the Berson girl, but he knew better than to draw blood on the open street. Instead, he casually picked a few leaves off tree branches overhanging the lane.

“ Revela potestatem, ” he muttered under his breath. “ Ex foliis evocatam. ” Reveal power, conjured from leaves.

Reg materialized beside him, pale and insubstantial in the failing light. Ethan felt the spell thrum like a bowstring, but he saw nothing to indicate that his conjuring had worked. Reg stared at him, shaking his head slowly, his expression grim.

“This conjurer hid his handiwork well, didn’t he?” Ethan whispered to the ghost.

Reg nodded.

“Is there another spell I should try?”

A woman eyed him as if he was mad and hurried off.

The old ghost shook his head again, even as he faded from view.

Discouraged, Ethan walked back to the main thoroughfare and made his way to the Hutchinson house on Garden Court Street, off North Square.

As he drew close to the square, Ethan slowed. The damage that had been done to the Story and Hallowell homes paled next to what had been done to Thomas Hutchinson’s house. Ethan had little regard for the rioters, but he had never imagined that they could be capable of such wanton destruction.

Until the night before, this had been one of the more stately homes in the North End. It was similar in many respects to the Berson house; three stories high and perhaps fifty feet across, with a simple, classical design: a solid home befitting one of the most important men in the thirteen colonies.

But in a single night, it had been laid waste. Every window across the front of the house, twenty in all, had been completely shattered. The door had been destroyed, as if by axes, and parts of the roof had been torn away, as had the cupola. The garden fence had been torn down, and all the trees in the yard pulled over or hacked down. Personal effects belonging to the lieutenant governor and his family littered the yard and the narrow street. The crowd of gawkers here dwarfed the gathering Ethan had seen at the Hallowell home, although they remained in the street, seemingly afraid to venture into the lieutenant governor’s yard. Ethan could see people moving about inside the house, but he didn’t recognize Hutchinson himself.

“Got wot he deserved, if ya ask me.”

Ethan turned and saw a young man standing near him. The lad wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes and a stained cap.

“Hutchinson, I mean,” the young man added, unnecessarily.

“Aye,” Ethan said, fighting to keep the rage from his voice. “I’m sure his wife and children did, too.”

“Come again?”

“His wife and children.” Ethan pointed to several dresses and petticoats lying in the yard, soiled and torn. “They deserved to have their home destroyed, and all their belongings pillaged by a crowd of strangers. They’re lucky they didn’t get worse, right?”

The lad frowned. “Well, I don’ know ’bout that.”

“Isn’t it their fault that Parliament’s burdened us with this Stamp Act?”

The young man pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “Well…”

“Think about it,” Ethan said, and started away.

“Right!” the lad called after him. “Right, I’ll do that.”

The Derne mansion was only a block or so from North Square. It wasn’t as impressive as either the Berson or Hutchinson houses, but it was of a similar design: a square, three-story building with large windows spaced evenly across the facade, and impressive columns flanking the main entrance.

The man who answered the door in response to Ethan’s knock was several years younger than William, and quite a bit larger. Burly, tall, stone-faced, he more closely resembled one of Sephira Pryce’s toughs than a house servant. Ethan attempted to explain that he had been hired by Abner Berson and needed to speak with Cyrus Derne, but the man simply glowered at him. When Ethan finished, the man informed him that Cyrus Derne was not at home, and promptly shut the door.

Ethan considered knocking again, but decided against it. It was growing dark. The night watch would begin rounds before long. And men like Cyrus and Fergus Derne would be making their way home from the waterfront. Ethan strolled back to the street, but he remained near the Derne house, nodding to strangers as they walked past, laughing under his breath at their reactions to his battered visage.