D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

“No. If I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

He walked to the bed, kissed her lightly on the lips, and left.

The clouds that had covered the sky the day before had passed, and the sun shone on Sudbury Street and Beacon Hill. This being the Sabbath, the streets were empty save for a few horse-drawn chaises and a number of children in ragged clothes who appeared to be playing tips.

The Adams estate, which had been owned by Samuel’s father before it came to the son, was one of the more famous homes in the South End. It was a fine dwelling that overlooked the waterfront, one of the most impressive houses in its neighborhood, but it didn’t rival the ornate estates of men like John Hancock and Thomas Hutchinson. Its fame derived not from its appearance, but rather from its tangled legal history and, of course, the fame, or infamy, of its current owner. Ten years ago, before Ethan returned to Boston from his imprisonment, Sheriff Greenleaf had attempted to auction off the Adams property. Samuel was newly widowed and in debt and the family property had been embroiled in a decades-old land-bank scandal. But Samuel challenged the sheriff’s authority and prevailed on the provincial authorities to let him keep the house. Ever since, the property had been a site of public curiosity.

It was located on Purchase Street, not too far from where Ethan lived. Upon reaching the house, Ethan paused to admire the grand observatory on its roof and the quaint gardens leading to its entrance. He approached the door and knocked. He didn’t have to wait long before the door opened, revealing an attractive young woman who smiled at him despite the quizzical look on her oval face.

“May I help you?”

“Please forgive the intrusion, Missus Adams. I’m looking for your husband.”

“Of course,” she said. “And you are…?”

“My name is Ethan Kaille. Mister Adams and I met several years ago.”

“Who is it, Betsy?” came a voice from within the house.

Adams stepped into view. He wore dark breeches and a white shirt with a red waistcoat and matching cloak. His gray hair was tied back from his face and he carried a black tricorn hat. Seeing Ethan he halted, staring hard, his eyes narrowed. He held up a finger, which trembled slightly, asking Ethan to keep silent for a moment.

“Kaille,” he said at last. “Ethan Kaille. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it is, sir. I’m flattered that you remember.”

“Well,” he said, walking to the doorway and glancing sidelong at his young wife. “Ours was a most … unusual meeting; not one I’m likely to forget.”

“Yes, sir. I’m wondering if I might have a word with you.”

Adams frowned, his head shaking visibly with the palsy that Ethan recalled from their previous encounters. “I’m afraid you’ve chosen a bad day to come, Mister Kaille. I’m going to have to put you off for now. Perhaps in another few days-”

“It’s about the occupation, sir.”

For several moments Adams said nothing. “Very well. You’ll walk with me?”

“Yes, sir. That would be fine.”

Adams turned to his wife. “I’ll be gone much of the day.”

“I expected as much,” Mrs. Adams said cheerfully.

“You’ll be all right?”

“Of course.”

Adams kissed her cheek, placed the tricorn hat on his head, and motioned for Ethan to follow him as he set off down the garden path to the street. Ethan thanked Mrs. Adams and hurried after her husband.

“I remember our conversations,” Adams said as Ethan caught up with him. “Even after you saw what Peter Darrow and men like him were willing to do in order to hinder the cause of liberty, you remained opposed to us.”

Ethan smiled reflexively. “What I remember, sir, is that I opposed your tactics: riots, destruction of property, disregard for the rule of law. What some call a cause others might see as mindless incitement.”

“When the law is unjust men of good conscience must sometimes step outside its bounds. Not to do harm, mind you, but to expose that injustice for all to see.” Adams gestured toward the harbor with an open hand. “But I believe we’re entering a new stage in our fight for liberty. By bringing their soldiers to our shores, Parliament and the king undermine any claim to legitimacy they might once have had. Don’t you agree?”

Ethan started to respond, but stopped himself. “I didn’t come to discuss politics, sir. I need your help.”

Adams regarded him, his pale eyes ice blue in the morning sun. “You said that you came to speak of the occupation.”

“Aye, but not-”

“Then it’s politics, Mister Kaille. That is the reality of the age in which we live.”

“All right,” Ethan said, relenting with a sigh. “Have it your way.”

“My wife will tell you that I usually do,” Adams said, grinning. “Now, what can I do for you? You’re a thieftaker, aren’t you?”

“Aye, sir, I am. And I come to you in that capacity.” Ethan hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. “There’s only so much I can tell you, though I should inform you that I’m currently in the employ of the Crown-or more accurately servants of the Crown here in Boston.”

Adams straightened. “Has something been stolen? That’s what thieftakers usually do, isn’t it? Recover stolen goods?”

“It is, but no, nothing has been stolen. At least not precisely.”

Adams halted and turned to face Ethan. “In that case, I must ask if you have been employed to spy on my allies and me.”

“No, sir. I swear that I haven’t. I wouldn’t take such a job even if it was offered to me.”

They stood that way for several seconds, Adams holding Ethan’s gaze. At length he nodded and started walking again.

“Then what?” he asked.

“You recall that I’m a conjurer as well as a thieftaker. That’s why the king’s men came to me. There has been … an incident. An attack of a sort on the British fleet. And I need to know if you or the men who work with you were involved in any way.”

“This attack-it involved witchery?”

“I have your word that you’ll speak of this with no one?” Ethan asked.

“You do.”

“Yes, it involved a conjuring.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

Ethan faltered, unsure once more of how much he could say. Geoffrey wouldn’t have been pleased to know that he was talking to Adams about any of this. Neither, he assumed, would Senhouse. He was less certain about Rickman. But as much as he disapproved of Adams’s tactics he realized in that instant that he trusted the man.

“Men died, sir. Dozens of them.”

Adams looked at him, a pained expression on his face. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” He shook his head, facing forward again. “No, my colleagues and I didn’t do this. We would have had no part in such an attack. You may not have approved of our tactics in combatting the Stamp Tax back in sixty-five, but if you know anything about the Sons of Liberty you know that we have pursued our goals through legal means whenever possible.”

Ethan didn’t point out that street riots and destruction of personal property were not, strictly speaking, “legal means.” He and Adams had long disagreed on where one might locate the line between civil action and criminality. Instead he asked, “Are there members of the Sons of Liberty who are conjurers? That you know of, that is.”

“No,” Adams said. “I’m not sure that I would know if there were, but I’ve neither seen nor heard anything that would give me reason to suspect … As I recall, you don’t like it to be called witchcraft.”

“No, sir. We refer to it as spellmaking, or conjuring, or casting.”

“Well, I’ve not seen any sign of those things.”

They had come to the South Battery, which offered a clear view of the harbor and Long Wharf. The entirety of the British fleet, save for the Graystone , had been positioned around the pier, broadsides facing the city and soldiers manning their cannons. A battle ship-a sixth-rate ship of the line-had joined the fleet overnight, making the royal presence that much more formidable.