D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Concern chased the smile from her face. “Is everything all right?”

“I have to go see Berson, and then Henry. And I could use a change of clothes.”

“All right,” she said, suddenly sounding guarded.

He knew why. He would also have to return the clothes he had borrowed from Elli.

“I’ll be back later. I promise.”

“Of course.”

Ethan eyed her a moment longer, then left the tavern.

He went first to the Berson house, and was ushered into the merchant’s study. Berson came in several minutes later, frowning at the state of Ethan’s clothes and his bruises.

“I’m afraid this inquiry hasn’t been kind to you, Mister Kaille,” the man said, indicating that Ethan should take a seat.

“No, sir. Which is why I’m glad it’s over.”

Berson had just turned to close the door, but now he spun back to face Ethan so quickly that he nearly lost his balance. “Over, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I know who killed your daughter. And I know why.”

“Tell me. Please.”

“Peter Darrow killed her and several others.”

Berson’s jaw dropped. “Darrow? The man who works with Otis and Adams?”

“Yes, sir. He was a conjurer, and he was using killing spells to control the actions of others. I believe he was working on behalf of the Crown, or someone close to it.”

Berson frowned. “I find that hard to believe. Surely this is what that scoundrel Adams told you.”

“Actually, sir, it’s what Darrow told me. He used the spell that cost your daughter her life to control Ebenezer Mackintosh. Darrow forced him to lead his mob to Hutchinson’s house.”

“This makes no sense,” Berson said, his voice shaking.

“No, sir, I don’t suppose it does. But it is the truth.”

Ethan thought about telling the merchant why his daughter went into the streets that night, but then thought better of it. Ethan couldn’t say for sure that her death was Derne’s fault, and even if he had been sure, that was a matter for Berson and Derne to work out between themselves.

“Where is Darrow now?” Berson asked after a time, staring at the floor, his cheeks bright red.

“He’s dead, sir.”

“Do I have you to thank for that?”

“In part, yes. I killed him, after Adams shot him.”

The merchant blinked, then nodded. There were tears in his eyes, but he made no effort to hide them. “Well, I’m grateful to you. Another man might have retrieved the brooch, taken his money, and been done with it. Few men I know would have risked so much on another’s behalf. I won’t forget this. You have my gratitude and that of my family.”

“I’m glad I could help you, sir.”

Berson stood. “I believe I owe you the balance of your payment.”

“You gave me five pounds the other day, sir, so whatever you pay me should reflect that.”

“You’re a good man, Mister Kaille. I’m not sure you would do very well down at the wharves, but I admire your honesty.” He crossed to a small writing table in a corner of the library and pulled from a drawer a coin pouch. He poured the contents onto the table and made a careful count. From where Ethan stood there looked to be twenty pounds sterling; perhaps more. Berson placed the coins back in the pouch and handed it to Ethan.

“There you go. You’ve earned every pound.”

“That’s… that’s very generous of you, sir.”

“Well, perhaps at some time in the future you’ll consider working for me again.”

“Of course, sir. It would be an honor.”

Berson shook Ethan’s hand and smiled, though it appeared to take a great effort. His eyes were still red. “I think I would like to tell my wife what’s happened. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have William show you out.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The merchant left him there, and his servant came to see Ethan to the door. William didn’t say much to him this time, but as Ethan was leaving he asked, “Was I righ’ abou’ Mister Derne?”

Ethan thought back to their conversation that first day. William had said Derne was careless, a man who could lead Jennifer into peril.

“Yes, you were,” he said. “I didn’t tell this to Mister Berson, because Derne didn’t mean to harm her. But if not for him, she might still be alive.”

William nodded gravely. “I feared as much. Good-bye, Mister Kaille. May th’ Lord keep you safe.”

“And you, William.”

Ethan walked back to the lane and turned toward home.

As Ethan neared Henry’s cooperage, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and froze. Shelly lay by the side of the lane and had raised her head at his approach. Ethan swallowed, then took a tentative step toward her, remembering his dream from two nights before.

The dog got to her feet and trotted toward him, her tail wagging, her mouth open and her tongue hanging out in what looked like a grin. Ethan knelt down to greet her and she licked his hand before letting him scratch behind her ears.

“Shelly,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. If there had been any other way…” He shook his head, his throat tight. Was he crazy to be apologizing to a dog?

She padded closer and licked his cheek, and when Ethan stopped scratching her she pawed at his hand to get him to start again.

“I miss him, too,” he said, his voice still low.

After another few moments, he stood and let himself into the cooperage. Henry sat on a low stool by his workbench, sipping water from a cup.

“Resting?” Ethan asked, closing the door behind him.

The old man glanced Ethan’s way. “Hello, Ethan. Aye, I’m tired today.”

Ethan crossed the shop and sat on a finished barrel. “You all right?”

The cooper shrugged, his open mouth revealing the gap in his front teeth. “A bit thad, really. Pitch died.”

What could he say? That he knew? That he was a conjurer and had needed the dog dead more than he needed him alive? So he said the only thing he could, meaning it in ways that Henry could never know. “I’m sorry, Henry. I know he meant a lot to you.”

“Aye, he did,” Henry said, sounding wistful. “Him and Shelly both. The odd thing is, I don’t know why it happened. I found him out front this morning. He didn’t look hurt; I don’t think he’d been sick. There wasn’t a mark on him. He just died, like he was old.” He shook his head. “But he wasn’t. At least I don’t think he was.”

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell Henry what he had done. But he was afraid. He had faced Sephira and her men, he had fought the conjurer Darrow. But he lacked the courage to tell his friend what he had done to save his own life. “I’m very sorry,” he said again, the words feeling woefully inadequate. He leaned forward and gripped Henry’s shoulder briefly before standing again and walking back to the door.

“What about you, Ethan? You all right?”

“Tired, but otherwise fine, thank you.”

“No more trouble with Sephira Pryce?” He sounded more hopeful than concerned, as if he thought another visit from the Empress of the South End might be just the thing to lift his spirits.

Ethan suppressed a smile. “No, I think I’m done with Sephira, at least for now.”

“Oh,” Henry said, sounding distinctly disappointed. “Well, that’s good, I suppose.”

“See you later, Henry,” Ethan said, letting himself out.

“Bye, Ethan,” the old man called.

He walked around to the back, slowly climbed the stairway to his room, and went inside, taking care to lock the door. He believed what he had told Henry: His inquiry was over. Whatever interest Sephira had in protecting Darrow, there was nothing more she could do now. She might want the money Berson had given him, and she probably would have enjoyed setting her men on him again, but she had no reason to go out of her way to track him down. Still, he felt better with the door locked.