D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Ethan did as he was told.

“We’ll start with the shoulder,” the doctor said, stepping to a washbasin and scrubbing his hands. “I’d say that’s the worst of it.”

Ethan cast a quick self-conscious look at Pell. He had already healed that wound, at least enough to stop the bleeding.

Pell misunderstood. Or else he was as squeamish as Ethan. “Perhaps I’ll wait in the other room,” he said, a wan smile flitting across his pale features.

“All right,” Church said absently. “Take off your coat if you can manage it,” he told Ethan. “Your waistcoat and shirt, too.”

Reluctantly, Ethan peeled off the bloodstained coat, removed his waistcoat, and pulled his shirt over his head. The doctor stepped around him and leaned over to peer at the bullet wound, which was still badly discolored, despite Ethan’s spell. After a moment, he straightened again.

“I see,” Church muttered. “I take it the bullet never actually entered your body.”

“No, sir. I was fortunate.”

“Indeed, you were. Still, it would have better if you had cleaned that wound before healing it.”

Ethan stared at him, his mouth hanging open. He had expected questions, even accusations; not this blithe acceptance of his healing spell.

“Come now,” the doctor said. “You can’t believe that you are the first of your kind I’ve encountered.”

“No, sir,” Ethan said, recovering from his surprise. “I had to heal it when I did. I couldn’t afford to lose too much blood.”

“At least not that way.”

Ethan chuckled. “That’s right.”

“The bruise at your temple is new. The rest are a few days old.”

“Yes, and I think I might have a broken rib.” He pointed to the spot where Sephira’s man kicked him.

The doctor began to probe Ethan’s rib with deft fingers.

“It isn’t broken,” he said after a few moments. “Though one of these ribs feels like it’s healed from a previous break.” When Ethan didn’t respond, the doctor went on. “You’ve had a rough time of it. Perhaps you should consider finding another line of work.”

“Pell would agree with you.”

“I’m sure.” The doctor examined his shoulder again, then straightened once more, shaking his head. “Well, Mister Kaille, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do for you. Your bruises will heal on their own. The bullet wound should as well. If it becomes fevered or if there is discharge of any sort, come back and see me.”

“I will, Doctor. Thank you.”

Church crossed to the door. “Get dressed. I’ll be with Mister Pell.”

The doctor left him and Ethan pulled his clothes back on with care, inhaling sharply through his teeth whenever he moved his shoulder too quickly or twisted his torso too suddenly. When at last he was dressed again, he joined Pell and Church in the sitting room.

Pell turned at the sound of Ethan’s approach. The minister looked relieved to see him. “Doctor Church was just asking me what you’ve been doing that would lead to so many injuries. I didn’t know what to tell him.”

“It’s all right,” Ethan told the minister. To Church he said, “I’m looking into the death of Jennifer Berson.”

The doctor’s expression sobered. “I see. Forgive me for asking.”

“It’s all right,” Ethan said, remembering at last something that should have come to him long ago. “You know, before Sephira Pryce’s men invited me into their carriage, I was on my way to King’s Chapel to ask you a question, Mister Pell. But perhaps I would be best served asking both of you. The day Ann and John Richardson were hanged, were there any other unexplained deaths in the city?”

Both men considered the question for a few moments.

At last, Pell shook his head. “Not so far as I know.”

“I don’t recall hearing of any, either,” the doctor said. “Why do you ask?”

“Something I heard,” Ethan said. Another thought came to him; a recollection of his conversation with Holin the previous day.

“Did either of you see the Richardsons’ corpses after their hanging?”

“No,” Pell said. “I believe they were cut down and thrown in a shallow grave.”

“And good riddance to them,” the doctor added.

Many people, Ethan knew, shared this view of the Richardsons. He himself did.

Pell was watching him. “There’s no doubt as to how they died, Ethan.”

“No, of course not.” Ethan started to say more, but then stopped himself. “Doctor, we’ve taken up enough of your time. What do I owe you?”

The doctor shook his head. “Nothing. Which is about what I did for you.”

“We’ve intruded upon your evening, bothered you at your home-”

“Thank you, Mister Kaille. Perhaps, in the future, if I have need of a thieftaker, you’ll do a favor for me.”

“It would be my honor, sir,” Ethan said.

Church walked them to the door. “You know, if you’re looking for someone who might have had something to do with Jennifer Berson’s death-”

“Let me guess,” Ethan said. “Ebenezer Mackintosh.”

“You know of him.”

“How could I not? Every person I meet wants to blame him for the girl’s murder. It may be the only point of agreement between Thomas Hutchinson and Samuel Adams.”

“You’ve spoken with Samuel?”

“Yes. James Otis and Peter Darrow, as well. Do you know them?”

Apparently Church found the question amusing. “We’re acquainted, yes.” His tone said much more. Ethan thought it likely that Benjamin Church was allied with Adams and the others.

“I found it interesting,” Ethan said, “that Mister Darrow should help Mackintosh escape punishment for one death, and then accuse the man of complicity in another.”

The doctor’s shrug was noncommittal. “Peter knows Mackintosh better than most. And I, for one, trust his judgment in such matters.”

They stood eyeing each other for another moment. Then Ethan forced a smile. “Well, good evening, Doctor. Thank you for your care and your time.”

“You’re welcome, Mister Kaille.” Church nodded to the minister. “Mister Pell.”

Ethan and Pell left the house and started walking back to King’s Chapel, their collars raised against the rain.

“Where will you go next?” Pell asked after a lengthy silence.

“Why? Are you planning to follow me around the city with the sheriff or men of the watch?”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

Actually, Ethan reflected, it wasn’t.

“I’m going to the Dowsing Rod,” Ethan said. “And then home, I would imagine. I’ve had a long day. Another one.”

Pell said nothing for several moments. “Why were you asking about the Richardsons?” he finally asked.

“Something a friend told me, about feeling a spell that day.” He raised his shoulders, then immediately winced at the pain. “I’ve wondered if this conjurer might be responsible for a third killing, in addition to Jennifer Berson, and the Brown boy on Pope’s Day.”

They had reached King’s Chapel, and they stopped in front of it. Pell wore a thoughtful look, his brow creased, his hair wet with rain. “I was at the hanging,” he said, his voice low.

“Did you feel a spell?” Ethan asked.

“I don’t know. I remember being uneasy. Something about that day wasn’t right. But even now I can’t put a name to it.” Pell took a breath. “Did I feel a spell? At the time I wouldn’t have known. I’ve only come to recognize the feeling these past few days, watching you conjure.” He shook his head. “This is all too new.”

“It’s all right,” Ethan said. He put out his hand, and Pell grasped it. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Ethan laughed. “For saving my life. For taking me to see Doctor Church. For helping me find Jennifer Berson’s killer.”