D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“Yes, Your Honor,” Ethan said. “I walked by there yesterday. I’m sorry for how you and your family have suffered.”

The corners of Hutchinson’s mouth quirked upward into a fleeting, bitter smile. “Seeing it from the street, you would have no idea of how we’ve suffered. The damage to the exterior was nothing compared to what those devils did to the inside. They demolished every wall and every door in the house, leaving it nothing more than a shell. They left not a single piece of furniture whole. They stole my wife’s jewels, took every bit of clothing any of us owned, took every book in my library. They shattered or stole our plates and glasses, they walked off with our food and drink. They stole nine hundred pounds, and pieces of silver that had belonged to my father, and his father before him.”

The litany came easily to the man; Ethan had the feeling that he had recited it many times in the last two days.

“They left me nothing,” Hutchinson went on. “And had I remained, rather than fleeing my own home like a thief in the night, I would have lost far more. As it is, I fear to show my face in the streets. I will be leaving Boston for our home in Milton in another day or so, and I’ll be taking my wife and children. I fear for their safety even more than I do for my own.”

“Again, Your Honor, you have my deepest sympathy,” Ethan said. “No one should be treated so. But if you believe that I-”

“I don’t,” Hutchinson broke in. “You’ve been hired by Abner Berson. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, narrowing his eyes. Why would the lieutenant governor of Massachusetts take an interest in his business dealings? And what else did Hutchinson know about him?

“You wonder how I heard of this.”

“I assume you have it from Mister Berson himself, or from a mutual acquaintance,” Ethan said. “What I wonder is why the inquiries of a common thieftaker should draw the notice of a man of your importance.”

Hutchinson frowned, which served to give his face a fearsome aspect. “If you need to ask, Mister Kaille, I must recommend to Berson that he reconsider the faith he’s placed in you. Isn’t it obvious? The same villains who abused my family and me with such violence are responsible for the death of Berson’s daughter.”

“You know this as fact, Your Honor?”

“I know it from what I’ve seen, from what was done to me. This mob was whipped to a frenzy, not just that night, but over the course of weeks. It was bad enough what was done to Oliver’s properties. But then to compound it like this.” He had been speaking very quickly and he paused now, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his upper lip with a shaking hand. “They were exhorted to these acts of barbarism by James Otis and Peter Darrow and Samuel Adams, and every other carnival barker who claims to be a champion of… of liberty.” He said the word as if it were an imprecation. “And then they were directed through the streets by that cutthroat, Ebenezer Mackintosh.” He dabbed again at his lip, folded the handkerchief, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “If you want to find Jennifer Berson’s killer, I would suggest you start with him.”

“With Mackintosh, sir?”

“He is being held down the street at the gaol. At least for the moment. Already his brethren are agitating for his release, as if he had been arrested merely for being drunk. They revere him so. What is it the rabble call him? The Commander of the South End, or some such nonsense? And Captain Mackintosh. As if such a man could be captain of anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hutchinson regarded him briefly, suspicion in his gaze. “Do you know Mackintosh, Mister Kaille?”

“Only by reputation.”

“And what reputation would that be?”

“Merely that he has a following among those who march on Pope’s Day, and that whatever his faults, he’s respected by the men in the street.”

“I see.” Hutchinson considered Ethan for several seconds. “Perhaps I should have asked this earlier. Are you one of these so-called Sons of Liberty?”

“I’m a son of the British Empire, Your Honor. I sailed in the Mediterranean under Admiral Matthews and would have fought the French in Canada if I’d had the opportunity.”

Hutchinson looked impressed. “You sailed with Matthews?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was your captain?”

“Thomas Cooper, sir.”

Hutchinson’s eyebrows went up. “You were on the Stirling Castle? At Toulon?”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant governor actually smiled. “Well, then perhaps it is I who should reconsider my first impression. You must understand; a man hears things, and it’s not always easy to know what to make of them.”

“I do understand, sir. I’m sure much of what you’ve heard about me is true.”

Hutchinson’s smile faded slowly. “I see. Well, Mister Kaille, I merely wished to tell you what I knew about the events of two nights past. The mob that attacked my home showed utter disregard for both our personal well-being and our property. I have it from Abner Berson himself that his daughter was not only murdered, she was also robbed. The similarity between these incidents is obvious to me, and I would hope it is to you, as well.”

“I understand, Your Honor.” He tried to keep his voice level, but apparently he failed.

“What is it you think you understand?” Hutchinson demanded.

“Merely what you told me, sir.”

The man continued to stare at him. “No. You think I wish to fix the blame for Jennifer Berson’s murder on those who destroyed my home.”

“You did just tell me that they were guilty of both crimes.”

“Because they are! This isn’t a matter of vengeance! It’s simple logic!”

“Yes, Your Honor. And if my own logic leads me to the same conclusion, I assure you I won’t rest until these men are punished.”

“I think I see,” Hutchinson said. “Perhaps you would like me to hire you, too. For a fee, you can find my silver and my money. Is that it?”

Ethan bristled at the insinuation, but he kept his voice even as he said, “No, sir. I only work for a single client at any one time. If you need to hire a thieftaker, you’ll have to go to Sephira Pryce.”

Apparently the lieutenant governor hadn’t expected him to respond as he did. The man regarded Ethan for another moment. “Very well, Mister Kaille. You may go.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ethan strode toward the door.

“I’ll be interested to hear how your inquiry progresses.”

Ethan didn’t face Hutchinson again, but he did pause at the door. “Yes, sir,” he said, and let himself out of the chamber.

Greenleaf and the men of the watch were there in the corridor. The sheriff nodded to him, and one of his men, perhaps the one who had shoved Ethan, glowered, but none of them tried to keep Ethan from leaving. They even returned his knife.

He exited the building, and started back toward his home, still seething at what Hutchinson had implied. He hadn’t gone far, though, when he spotted that same shock of yellow hair that he had seen in the Town House. He ducked behind a carriage that was rattling by, and, crouching low, jogged along beside it, keeping himself hidden until he could see this man more clearly.

A well-dressed gentleman sitting in the carriage leaned out over the door and stared hard at Ethan. Ethan ignored him, keeping to the side of the vehicle until at last he reached a narrow alley between a tavern and a storefront. He ducked into the shadows, and then, once the carriage had passed, peered back toward where he had seen that blond hair.

It was still midafternoon and the streets were crowded. The lanes stank of horse piss and flies buzzed around piles of droppings. It took Ethan a moment to spot the man again, but as soon as he did, he recognized him. Yellow-hair. Sephira’s tough. The bruises on Ethan’s face and body throbbed with remembered pain.