D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t understand much of what Brower told me about you. But I gather that you’re a witch, and that it was witchcraft that killed General Gage’s men aboard the Graystone. ”

Ethan could have throttled Brower for telling Hutchinson that he was a conjurer.

“You have nothing to say?” the lieutenant governor asked.

“No, sir. I can help you find this killer; I may be the one person in Boston who is best equipped to do so. I don’t believe anything else matters.”

Hutchinson’s smile was as thin as a blade. “I admire your confidence, misplaced though it may be. You seem to have misunderstood me, however. Some of the others seem to think as you do. But I find myself agreeing with Sheriff Greenleaf. He believes that far from being the best person to solve these murders, you’re much more likely to be the person who committed them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ethan said, his stomach tightening. It didn’t surprise him to learn that the sheriff thought him guilty of such a crime, but having Greenleaf believe this was one thing. Having the lieutenant governor and chief justice of the province believe it was quite another. “Why would I have killed those men? And why after doing so would I agree to help investigate their murders?”

“Fine questions. I have no answer for you. And to be honest, I have no time to deal with such puzzles now. In case you hadn’t noticed, Boston is about to welcome over a thousand new residents-all in uniform-with several thousand more on the way.”

“All the more reason to leave the investigation to me, Your Honor, just as Mister Brower and Lieutenant Senhouse intended.”

“Yes,” Hutchinson said. The word itself seemed to taste bitter on his tongue. “It shouldn’t surprise you to hear that I have a different solution in mind.”

He was almost afraid to ask. “What solution is that?”

“You have to understand, I have nothing against you personally. And I have no desire to return to the barbarities of the last century. But it seems to me that those who governed this colony before Governor Bernard and myself were so horrified by events in Salem and Ipswich, and even here in Boston, that they grew complacent over the years. I believe that they-that all of us-have become too tolerant of your kind.”

“Tolerant,” Ethan repeated. “You believe people in Boston are tolerant of conjurers?”

“You’re alive, Mister Kaille. And apparently a number of people know what you are and have known for some time. As I understand it, there are others like you. An African woman who lives on the Neck. An older man on Hillier’s Lane. And others.”

Janna. And old Gavin Black. Ethan wasn’t sure what others Hutchinson meant, but he was as certain as he could be that most if not all of them had no more to do with the killing of the Graystone ’s soldiers than had Janna or Black.

“You see my point,” Hutchinson said. “There are so many of you now, and any one of you could be responsible for these atrocities.”

“I had nothing to do with the attack on the Graystone. Neither did Janna or Gavin.”

“So you say. But nearly one hundred of His Majesty’s men are dead, and I haven’t the luxury of your certainty. I can’t take the time to find the one witch among you who did this. And since you’re all abominations in the eyes of God, I feel that I would be perfectly justified in purging all of you from the city. I don’t relish the idea of public hangings or burnings, but I’d be a fool if I didn’t also acknowledge that such a display might prove useful as the occupation proceeds.”

“You truly are considering this,” Ethan said.

“Of course I am. This occupation will begin in a matter of days, and I don’t want this inquiry of yours hanging over us indefinitely.”

“I don’t want that either, Your Honor. I assure you it won’t take that long. Give me ten days and I will have your murderer. I swear it.”

Hutchinson shook his head. “Ten days? That’s out of the question. I can give you five.”

“That may not be enough time,” Ethan said.

“Then perhaps I should have the sheriff arrest you and your witch friends straightaway.”

Ethan glared at him. “You do understand that limiting my inquiry in this way makes it more likely to fail.”

“I disagree,” Hutchinson said, the thin smile returning. “I have been a leader of men for a long time, and I’ve learned that demanding results tends to produce results. I have every confidence that if I were to give you a fortnight, you would take a fortnight. I’ve chosen instead to give you five days, and I’m certain that you’ll avail yourself of that time. And if in the end I’m proved wrong…” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Well, we still have my solution, don’t we?”

Hutchinson picked up a piece of parchment from his desk and began to read what was written there. “That is all, Mister Kaille.”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, making no effort to mask the bitterness in his tone. He let himself out of the courtroom, closing the door smartly behind him.

Greenleaf still waited for him in the corridor.

“What did he say?” the sheriff asked, his smile telling Ethan that he already had some notion of how the conversation had gone.

“He gave me five days,” Ethan said, striding past him.

Greenleaf’s face fell, making Ethan wonder if he had expected Hutchinson to deal with him even more harshly. It took the sheriff little time to recover, though.

“Well, I suppose you had better get busy then,” he called, his words echoing in the Town House stairway.

Ethan didn’t bother to answer.

Ethan seethed as he left the Town House and set out for the North End.

Hutchinson’s time limit was troubling enough. Ethan hoped that he could find Gant within five days, but he was far from certain of it. More disturbing by far, though, was the lieutenant governor’s apparent eagerness to purge Boston of all its conjurers. With his superstition and his fear of conjurers, he threatened to take Boston, indeed the entire Province of Massachusetts Bay, down a path that had been trodden before, with tragic results. It didn’t matter whether one called Ethan’s kind witches or conjurers; tied to a stake or standing on a hangman’s gallows, they were all mortal souls. Suddenly Ethan was the only man in Boston who could prevent what would amount to a massacre.

He thought about running back to the Fat Spider to warn Janna, and making his way to Hillier’s Lane to tell Gavin Black. Perhaps they could leave Boston, find a safe place to stay until this matter was settled. But what of the other conjurers Hutchinson had mentioned, the ones Ethan didn’t know offhand? Was it fair to warn Janna and Old Black and leave the others to fend for themselves? Better, he decided, to conduct his inquiry as quickly and effectively as possible, and save their lives that way.

The place he had been heading before meeting up with Sheriff Greenleaf-the place he hadn’t been willing to take Mr. Pell-was a run-down tavern in the North End called the Crow’s Nest. It sat just past Mill Creek, at the south end of Paddy’s Alley, near the waterfront.

Kannice made a point of keeping the Dowsing Rod as reputable as possible. She didn’t allow whoring or fighting or any other activities that might attract the notice of the sheriff. The Crow’s Nest, on the other hand, might not have existed had it not been for whores, fights, and the trafficking of stolen and smuggled items. Ethan felt certain that Sheriff Greenleaf knew quite well what went on within its begrimed walls, but that a steady flow of coin convinced the good sheriff to look the other way.