D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

“I don’t know whether to thank you for all you’ve done, or to ban you from this house and demand that you never return,” he said, his glare smoldering in the candlelight.

Ethan stared back at him, unsure of what he had done to earn such a response. “I don’t understand. I didn’t-”

“It’s not a matter of what you did or didn’t do,” Geoffrey said. “But if this power you wield can give and take life with such ease…” He shook his head. “How can such a thing not be evil?”

“I carry a knife on my belt,” Ethan said. “I can take a life with it. Does that make the knife evil? Or does the question of good or evil fall to the man holding the blade?”

Geoffrey sat back, his eyebrows raised. Before he could answer, there came a knock at his door. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Excuse me.”

He left the room, only to return seconds later with Stephen Greenleaf in tow.

“Kaille,” the sheriff said, his lip curling. “I figured you had to be behind this.”

“You should be happy, Sheriff,” Ethan said, taking another bite of bread and cheese. “Caleb Osborne is dead.”

“I don’t even know who Caleb Osborne is. Unless you mean the Osborne who worked for Miss Pryce all those years ago.”

“One and the same.” Ethan stood. “We should go back and talk to his daughters.”

“Talk to them?” Geoffrey asked.

“You heard what I told you,” Ethan said. “They didn’t know they had killed anyone. We need to place them in the colonel’s custody, but I believe they should be shown mercy. They were ruled by a tyrant, a cruel and violent man who threatened and abused them. They intended only to help him get away from the army.”

“Hardly admirable,” Greenleaf said, glancing at Geoffrey.

“I agree. But I’m not sure theirs was a hanging offense.”

Another knock sounded at the door.

“That will be Colonel Dalrymple,” Geoffrey said, and left the room once more.

“You look like you took a beating,” Greenleaf said, sounding far too pleased. “All this for ten pounds. Are you sure it’s worth it?”

Ethan took one last sip of wine, stood, and left the room without bothering to answer. Geoffrey stood at the door talking to Dalrymple. They both turned at Ethan’s approach.

“Where is it we’re going, Mister Kaille?” the colonel asked.

“Hull Street,” Ethan said. “That’s where Osborne and his daughters held me earlier today.”

Dalrymple’s brow furrowed. “Osborne. Why do I know that name?”

“He was on the Graystone , sir,” Ethan said. “A member of the Twenty-ninth Regiment.”

“I thought Gant was the only man who deserted in time.”

Geoffrey and Ethan shared a quick look.

“Apparently Osborne got away, too,” Ethan said.

“Yes, all right,” Dalrymple said, sounding impatient. “Let’s be on our way, then.”

The colonel had a dozen men with him, and as it turned out the sheriff had brought two of his ruffians as well, both of whom carried torches. No doubt every man there would have been shocked to learn that if Hester and Molly Osborne decided to fight them, a contingent of men twice as large wouldn’t be enough to overpower them. But Ethan kept this to himself.

They set out northward toward Hull Street, Ethan walking with Geoffrey, the sheriff, and Dalrymple. The soldiers and Greenleaf’s men followed. It was a cold, still night and clouds still blanketed the sky. The streets were mostly empty, but those people they did encounter gave the company a wide berth.

They walked at a brisk pace and soon reached the coppersmith’s shop. Resisting an urge to draw his knife and push up his sleeve, Ethan led the men around to the grassy clearing behind the shop. Seeing the shack, his heart sank. The window was dark.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s here, Kaille,” the sheriff said, a smug grin on his face.

Ethan didn’t answer, but he held out a hand to one of Greenleaf’s men. “Give me your torch.”

The man glanced at the sheriff, who hesitated before nodding.

Ethan walked to the shack and pulled the door open. The room remained much as he had left it. Osborne lay in the center of the floor, drying blood pooling beneath his wounded arm, his eyes still wide, his mouth still hanging open.

Greenleaf joined him in the doorway. “That’s Osborne?”

“Aye,” Ethan said.

“And he killed Gant?”

“His daughters did. But they did so because he made them, because they were terrified of him.”

“And who killed him?”

“They did.”

Greenleaf glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. “Are you sure of that?”

“I was there when they did it. If they hadn’t, I’d be dead.”

The sheriff twisted his mouth. “Remind me to thank them,” he said, the words dripping with irony. “What now? Where else could they be?”

“They live on Wood Lane. Perhaps they’ve gone back there.”

“This place isn’t theirs?”

“No,” Ethan said. He descended the steps and trudged through the trampled grass. “This was Simon Gant’s house,” he said over his shoulder.

Ethan led the men back through the streets of the North End, to the wheelwright’s shop at fourteen Wood Lane. They went around to the side of the building and Ethan looked up the stairs. To his relief, the small window of the Osborne sisters’ room glowed with candlelight.

“This way,” he said, starting up the stairs. This time he did pull out his knife, but he kept it out of sight. He knew better than to think that he could conjure without drawing attention to himself and his spellmaking abilities. But after seeing what these women could do with their conjuring powers, he refused to meet them without a blade in hand.

Dalrymple, Greenleaf, and Brower followed him up the stairs. The others remained on the street.

Reaching the door, Ethan knocked once. When no one answered, he tried the door handle. The door swung open, and Ethan swore at the sight and stench that greeted him.

The two women dangled from the rafters of the room, nooses at their necks, chairs overturned beneath their feet, their dresses soiled where their bladders and bowels had released.

“Good Lord!” Geoffrey said, breathing the words.

Hester stared straight ahead, her mouth open much as her father’s had been. But Molly’s eyes were closed, and she appeared almost to be smiling. In the short time Ethan had known her he had never seen her look more at peace.

He stepped into the room, his throat tight. There were cushions everywhere; a half-completed pillow sat on the floor by one of the beds along with several spools of thread.

On the table in the center of the room, he found a piece of parchment and, beside it, a pen and an inkwell. He picked up the note and looked at the others.

“What does it say?” the colonel asked.

“‘We’re sorry.’”

“That’s all?” Greenleaf said.

Ethan held the note out to him.

The sheriff didn’t bother to reach for it. “Well, that’s very convenient for you, isn’t it?” But Ethan could tell that the man’s heart wasn’t in the accusation.

“He was with me at my house for some time before you arrived, Sheriff,” Geoffrey said.

“Aye,” Ethan said. “And before that I brought Derrey Jervis to the Dowsing Rod. He had been with me at the shack on Hull Street. He was wounded there.”

Dalrymple crossed to where Ethan stood and took the note from him. He examined it briefly before turning to Greenleaf. “Sheriff, do you honestly believe that Kaille had a hand in the deaths of these women? It looks a good deal like suicide to me.”

For just a second Ethan thought that the sheriff might try to blame him for everything. But the man’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “I agree,” he said. “They killed themselves. As to the rest…” He shrugged. “I suppose their note is proof enough of their guilt.”