D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“Nobody is going to hang you, Ebenezer,” Darrow said. He frowned at Ethan. “I thought better of you, Mister Kaille.”

Ethan made no answer to Darrow, but asked Mackintosh, “Do you remember seeing a lone young woman in the streets that night?”

The cordwainer shook his head. “Do you know how many of us there were? Hundreds. Maybe more. I know tha’ most o’ my South End boys were there, an’ a fair number from th’ North End, too. But askin’ me t’ remember one girl… Obviously you weren’ there, or you’d know better.”

“Did your men stay with you the entire time?”

He shook his head a second time. “No, we split up. Some wen’ t’ pay a visit t’ Hallowell, th’ rest wen’ t’ see Story. We met up again an’ then wen’ on t’ Hutchinson’s house. An’ before you ask, I wen’ back an’ forth between th’ two-kept an eye on both groups.”

Ethan nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. When he met with Adams, Darrow, and Otis, the men had blamed Mackintosh for the girl’s death, and Ethan had no doubt that they could convince the Crown authorities that he was responsible. He had led the mob, controlled it even. He admitted as much, and that might well be enough for a court, particularly if they could also blame Daniel. But Ethan wasn’t interested in holding Mackintosh responsible. He wanted to know who had actually killed Jennifer Berson. And he sensed that Mackintosh was right: There was no way to know this for certain, short of speaking to every person who had been in that crowd.

“Can I see your forearms, Mister Mackintosh?”

The other man regarded him as if he was mad. “Wha’?”

“Please,” Ethan said. He could hear the weariness in his own voice. “Humor me. I need to see your forearms.”

Mackintosh looked to Darrow, who hesitated but then nodded. The cordwainer pushed up his sleeves and held out his arms for Ethan to see. There was a single long scar on one of them, which might have come from a knife fight. But otherwise, unlike Ethan’s own arms, which were scored with a lattice of scars old and new, Mackintosh’s were unmarked. If he was a conjurer, he had found some other way to draw upon his blood for spells.

“Wha’ are you lookin’ for?” Mackintosh asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ethan said. He stood, drank a bit of the ale Darrow had bought him, and started toward the stairway. “It isn’t there.”

As much as he didn’t wish to see Mackintosh sacrificed by Darrow, Adams, and the others, Ethan was disappointed to learn that the man wasn’t a sorcerer. Everyone he had talked to thought that Mackintosh was responsible for Jennifer Berson’s death, and though he mistrusted them and questioned their motives, he had also come to hope that they might be right.

Now he knew they weren’t. And with the cordwainer eliminated as a suspect, Ethan’s suspicions fell once more on Cyrus Derne. He thought it likely that whatever dealings the merchant had in the city the night of the riots had gotten his betrothed killed. Whether that had been his intent remained open to question.

He didn’t think that Derne or his friends would allow him to get close enough to the merchant to question him, so he needed to think of another strategy. He went back to the Dowser.

As soon as he entered the tavern, Kelf called for Kannice, who emerged from the kitchen clutching a scrap of parchment in her hand. She stepped out from behind the bar and handed it to Ethan.

“This came a short while after you left,” she said.

Ethan unfolded it. It read simply “Come quickly.” It was signed by Mister Pell.

“Did Pell himself bring it?” Ethan asked.

Kannice shook her head. “A boy. No one I recognized.”

“All right. Thank you.”

“How did it go with Derne and Mackintosh?”

Ethan shrugged. “Derne wouldn’t see me; Mackintosh couldn’t tell me much.” He held up the note from Pell. “Maybe this will be something.”

She nodded, and Ethan left, hurrying down Treamount to King’s Chapel.

When he reached the church he found Mr. Troutbeck in the sanctuary. The curate looked pale and seemed agitated. Ethan expected the man to order him off the premises, but Troutbeck acted genuinely relieved to see him.

“Mister Kaille! Thank goodness you’re here.”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s Trevor-I mean, Mister Pell. He’s in the crypt. There was another body brought in, and he insisted on showing you. The mother has come to claim the girl, but he won’t let anyone take her. He merely says again and again that you have to see the girl first.” Troutbeck frowned and glanced back toward the stairs leading to the crypt. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice. “He’s gone so far as to arm himself. He actually has an old sword down there.”

Any other time, Ethan would have laughed at the thought of Pell holding off Caner and Troutbeck with a blade. But at the mention of this newest death, he had been gripped by terror. A girl was dead. Her mother had come. Had he saved Holin’s life the night before only to lose Clara today?

“He’s waiting for me?” Ethan demanded, already striding across the sanctuary toward the stairway.

“Yes,” Troutbeck called after him. “Is this about the Berson murder?”

“I’ll tell you when I know.”

Then he was on the stairs, running down them so quickly that he nearly fell. Emerging into the candlelit corridor, Ethan saw the body lying on the same stone table that had held Jennifer Berson’s body only days before. Long, dark hair. A slight form.

Pell stood, the sword held loosely in his hand.

“Thank God you’ve come,” the minister said. “I didn’t know how much longer I could hold them off.”

Ethan barely glanced at him, but walked quickly to the table, his heart hammering. But when he was close enough to see the girl’s features, he exhaled, realizing that he had been holding his breath. Her coloring was similar to Clara’s, but it wasn’t her. He braced his hands on the stone table, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a long, shuddering breath.

“You were afraid you knew her,” the young minister said.

“Terrified is more like it.”

“Someone dear to you?”

“As close to a daughter as I’m ever likely to have.”

The girl had a pleasant round face and had just barely come into womanhood. She should have been wandering through shops with her mother, or perhaps with a suitor. She should have been anywhere but here, in this cold, dim chamber. But all Ethan could think as he looked at her was Thank God it’s not Clara.

He bent closer to the girl’s neck and face. He lifted her head, probing with his fingers for a lump or dried blood. But he found nothing. Like Jennifer, she was unmarked. “Where was she found?” he asked.

“Near the wharves again,” Pell said. After a brief silence, he asked, “Was she killed by the same man?”

“I believe so. But there’s only one way I can be certain she was killed by a spell.”

The minister winced, tight-lipped. “I thought that might be the case.”

“Do you want to leave?”

Pell drew himself up to his full height. “No. I’ll stay here.”

“Caner is worried about you,” Ethan said. “He fears that I’m going to ruin you.”

“I know. I don’t share his concern, and neither should you. I was ruined a long time ago.” He said it with a straight face, and for a moment Ethan wondered if some dark truth lay beneath his words. But then a small grin flitted across his features.

Ethan laughed. “Have you ever considered the possibility, Mister Pell, that you would make a better thieftaker than you do a minister?”

“I hadn’t until I met you,” Pell said. “Now, get on with it.”