A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) Page 9

  Chapter

  SIX

  Patience Walters was a spellmaker of modest abilities who lived in New Boston until succumbing to pneumonia in mid-June. Ethan had gotten to know her only in the last year or two of her life, but he enjoyed her company. She was a diminutive woman with bright green eyes, a quick smile, and a soft, almost demure laugh. She liked to talk about conjuring—something Ethan didn’t get to do very often—and though she did not cast many spells in the last years of her life, she seemed to take great pleasure in asking Ethan questions about his spellmaking. He downplayed his own talent, often telling her that he knew of several spellers, including Janna, who could tell her far more about conjuring than he could, but each time she would wave off his protestations and ask him for another story.

  Darcy had not inherited his mother’s abilities, but he and Ruth welcomed Ethan into their home, and often sat with him and Patience as they talked. Ruth had recently given birth to a son, Benjamin, whom they named for Darcy’s deceased father.

  With all that he had seen this day, Ethan had little doubt as to why they wished to engage his services. Still, he was puzzled. Patience had been buried only a fortnight before in the Common Burying Ground, and Ethan had seen no disturbed graves there. He even convinced himself that because no one who had been involved in the old witch trials was buried there, the burying ground had been spared. He had attended Patience’s funeral, and so knew exactly where on the grounds she had been buried. Yet today he had been too distracted to think of seeking out her grave in particular. She had died so recently; if any graves at the burying ground had been robbed, hers would have been one of them. He berated himself for his carelessness.

  The Walters house was a small brick structure on Lynde Street, near the West Meeting House, and only a short walk from the Dowser. Ethan covered the distance in as little time as his bad leg would allow, and knocked on the door rather more forcefully than necessary.

  He had to wait but a moment before the door opened.

  “Ethan!” Darcy said. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”

  “I came as quickly as I could,” he said.

  Darcy waved him into the house, and shut the door behind him. He was taller than his mother, although not by much. In other ways—the vivid green eyes, the oval face, the easy, open manner—he resembled her a good deal. He wore his dark hair in a plait and was dressed plainly in a white linen shirt and brown breeches.

  Ruth sat by the window holding Benjamin in her arms, her long, wheaten hair reaching nearly to the floor, her round face pale and a bit pinched. Ethan hoped that she was well.

  “Good day, Ruth.”

  “Good day, Ethan,” she said, managing a smile that brought a hint of color to her cheeks.

  “Kannice told me you were engaged in another inquiry,” Darcy said. “I’m sorry to take you away from that.”

  “I’m not sure you are taking me away from it. Indeed, I think I know just why you sought me out.”

  Darcy frowned. “You do?”

  “Aye. I fear so.” Ethan hesitated. Darcy and Ruth might not know yet of the mutilations; he would want to present those tidings to them as gently as possible. Once more he wondered how Patience’s grave could have been disturbed; he had walked every path in the burying ground, and though he had failed to look for her headstone in particular, he had not noticed any disturbed graves. Perhaps whoever was responsible for the robberies was as brazen as he was cruel, and had struck in the middle of the day, in the hours since Ethan’s visit to the burying ground. This was the only explanation that made any sense to him. “Did someone come to tell you what had happened,” he asked, “or did you go out to the burying ground yourselves?”

  Darcy regarded him the way he might a babbling lunatic. “The burying ground? Ethan, what are you talking about?”

  “Your mother, of course, and the desecration of her grave.”

  “What?” Darcy and Ruth said simultaneously, her voice so sharp that Benjamin began to fuss.

  “Something’s been done to her grave?” Darcy asked.

  “Isn’t that why you came to the Dowser?”

  Darcy shook his head. “No. But if something’s happened—”

  “Perhaps it hasn’t,” Ethan said. He should have been relieved, but instead he felt his apprehension increase. “Forgive me. Tell me what it is you want me to do.”

  Darcy and Ruth shared a look. She had paled again.

  “It is about Mother,” Darcy said. “She’s been dead and buried for two weeks now. But … but her shade is still here.”

  Ethan gave an involuntary shiver. “Her shade?”

  “Aye. In her bedroom.”

  “And has it been here since the day of her death?”

  Darcy glanced at Ruth again.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I first noticed her three days ago. I thought … I was afraid that I had imagined it, so it wasn’t until yesterday that I told Darcy.”

  “Ruth is awake late at night more than I am. Because of Benjamin. And she wanders the house.”

  Ethan nodded. He had encountered ghosts too many times to count. He saw Reg most every day. Shades did not usually frighten him. But this … A trickle of sweat ran down his temple. “Have you tried to speak with her? Do you have any idea why she’s come back?”

  “None. My father wasn’t a speller so I don’t know … Is this normal?”

  “No, it’s not. Your mother would have communed with a spectral guide who allowed her to access power for her spells.”

  “Aye. She said it was her great-grandfather. But that was different, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. Can I see her room?” Ethan asked.

  “Of course,” Darcy said. “This way.”

  He started to lead Ethan to the back of the house, but before they left the common room, Ruth said, “She won’t be there.”

  Ethan and Darcy turned. Ethan shivered a second time. The woman sounded terrified.

  “She comes at night. I’ve … I’ve looked for her at other times, but she’s never there. Only at night.”

  “Still, we should check,” Darcy said, his tone so gentle it made Ethan’s heart ache. “If you need us, call out.”

  He led Ethan back toward Patience’s room. Once they were out of the common room, he whispered, “This has been a terrible ordeal for Ruth. She was afraid she was going mad, and even now that I’ve seen Mother—or rather, her ghost—she’s still frightened. I think she fears for Ben.”

  The small bedroom at the back of the house was sparsely furnished. The bed in the far corner had been covered with a colorful quilt, and a simple chest of drawers stood nearer to the door, its top bare save for a single white candle in a pewter holder.

  “Her personal effects?”

  “She never had much. There’s some clothing left in the drawers. Her wedding ring is in a small box in my wardrobe. There wasn’t much else.”

  “You said you had seen her, too. What can you tell me about her appearance?”

  Darcy knitted his brow. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did she look … whole?”

  The young man shrugged, then nodded. “Aye.”

  “Was she solid or more like her spectral guide?”

  “More like him,” Darcy said. “Not solid at all. And she glowed like he used to.”

  “With the same color?”

  “No,” Darcy said, his tone giving the impression that he had just realized this for the first time. “Great-Grandfather was a bright yellow, quite a lovely color really. Mother looked more like a sickly green.” He looked stricken. “I should have noticed that earlier. Do you think it means something?”

  “I don’t know,” Ethan told him. “You also said that you tried to speak with her. What happened?”

  “Very little. She didn’t answer, but I didn’t expect she would.”

  “Did she know you were there? Did she seem to know where she was?”

  Darcy weighed this for several seconds, chewing
his lip and staring down at the floor. “She looked at us,” he said. “I think she could tell we were here. And she definitely knew where she was. She walked around her bed rather than through it or over it. But she didn’t seem well.”

  “Explain. Please.”

  “She was agitated, frightened even.” He raised his gaze to Ethan’s. “I believe she understands she shouldn’t be here, but I don’t think she knows how to leave.”

  Ethan rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I can do, Darcy, but I’ll help you in any way I can. I was fond of your mother. This is a cruel fate for one as kind as she.”

  “Thank you. We haven’t a lot of money, but we can pay you something.”

  “We can talk about that another time. As I said, I’m not even sure I can help.”

  “Again, you have our thanks.”

  “Can I come back here tonight?” Ethan asked. “I want to see her myself.”

  “I think that having you here tonight would come as a great relief to both Ruth and me.”

  Ethan offered what he hoped would be a reassuring smile. “Good. I’ll be back sometime after dark.”

  He turned, intending to leave Patience’s bedroom.

  “Just a moment, Ethan,” Darcy said, lowering his voice. “You thought I had called you here for another reason. You thought something had been done to Mother’s grave. Should I go out to the burying ground?”

  “No,” Ethan said. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Can you tell me what’s happened?”

  “A small number of graves have been desecrated, probably by resurrectionists.” Ethan didn’t dare say more.

  “Dear Lord! Do you think that’s why Mother—?”

  “No. I was in the Common Burying Ground today. I searched it thoroughly and didn’t notice any damage to your mother’s grave. I doubt that it’s been violated in the hours since.”

  Darcy let out a long breath. “Thank God. Ruth has been through too much already. I don’t think she could endure another shock, particularly one so gruesome. To be honest, I’m not certain that I could, either.”

  They walked back out to the common room, where Darcy informed Ruth of Ethan’s intent to return that evening. Ruth still looked pale, but her face brightened at these tidings, and she thanked Ethan several times before he managed to excuse himself and leave.

  Only when he was no longer with the young couple did he give in to the trepidation that had gripped him upon hearing of Patience’s ghost. As a thieftaker, he didn’t believe in coincidence; as a conjurer he understood that even seemingly disparate events and phenomena could be related to one another. He refused to believe the grave robberies had nothing to do with the appearance of Patience Walters’s ghost.

  But how were the two connected?

  The sun had started its long descent through the western sky, and the streets of Boston had begun to empty. It would be light for several hours more, but already Ethan could smell cooking fires and the aromas of roasting fowl and fish. It seemed that this day had lasted forever, and with the promise he had made to Ruth and Darcy, it was far from over. But a half plate of oysters and some ale had done little to take the edge off his hunger.

  He headed back to the Dowser, his thoughts racing in a hundred different directions. Fear for himself had given way to cold anger at the thought of a conjurer somehow using him to harm his friends. Patience had never done a cruel deed in her life; she deserved peace.

  Ethan heard a commotion ahead of him, and looked up in time to see a small cluster of people walking toward him, two of them carrying someone in a sedan, with a black cloth covering. A young man, tall, well-dressed in a black coat and breeches, walked several yards ahead. He had short powdered hair and dark, expressive eyes. Ethan thought that he had seen him before, though he couldn’t recall where.

  “Please stand aside, sir,” the man called, as he drew near. “We are bearing this child to the Province Hospital.”

  Ethan stepped off the road, taking care to stand on the upwind side. Province Hospital, which was located on the remote western edge of New Boston, was also called the Pest House. It was where those unfortunates who fell ill with the most contagious of distempers were sent to recover. Or not. Ethan had little doubt that the person in the oncoming sedan had been taken with smallpox. Which meant that this gentleman before him …

  “Might you be Doctor Warren?” Ethan asked him.

  “Yes, I am,” the man said, his manner sober, his voice strong. “Doctor Joseph Warren, at your service. Have we met, sir?”

  “No. I know you by reputation. But those who speak of you do so with admiration. It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “And you are?”

  “Forgive me. Ethan Kaille. I’m—”

  “A thieftaker. Yes, I know. Yours is a name one hears with some frequency as well.”

  “Followed by an imprecation, no doubt,” Ethan said, and smiled.

  For the first time, the man grinned, and it seemed that ten years fell away from his features. “Not at all. Some instruments were stolen from my office a year or so ago. An associate mentioned you, thinking I might wish to engage your services.”

  “Mister Adams, perhaps?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Warren said, with obvious surprise.

  “But you went to someone else?” Ethan asked, thinking of Sephira.

  “Actually, no. I recovered them myself, from a patient who was less than pleased with services I had provided.”

  “I believe, Doctor, that you might be in the wrong line of work.”

  Warren’s grin flashed again, though it faded as he watched the sedan holding his patient—a boy of perhaps twelve years—pass by, followed by a man and woman Ethan assumed were the stricken lad’s parents.

  “Smallpox?” Ethan asked, gazing after them.

  “Aye.”

  “In that case, I won’t keep you. It was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor Warren.”

  “And you, Mister Kaille.” He glanced down the road. “Avoid crowds if you can. And give any house bearing a red flag a wide berth.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He tipped his hat to the man, and they went their separate ways. It occurred to Ethan that if he was interested in robbing graves, and wanted to find corpses that hadn’t been dead for long, he would come to a city like Boston in the middle of the summer, when disease was prevalent. The bodies might be infected for a few days after the poor souls died, perhaps even for a week. But after that, the resurrectionists could begin their grim harvest.

  He usually arrived at the Dowser later in the evening, after the dinner hour, when Kannice’s regular clientele crowded around tables and the bar. This early in the day, there were fewer patrons in the great room, and many of those present were dressed in red and white uniforms.

  Over the past several years, Kannice had become ever more vocal in her opposition to the taxes and tariffs imposed on the colonies by Parliament and enforced by the Crown. The arrival of occupying troops, and their expectation that they could eat in publick houses without having to pay for their food, had convinced her that Britain could no longer lay claim to the loyalty of her American subjects.

  There were perhaps twenty-five regulars in the tavern, all of them crowded around five tables in the center of the great room. They were speaking in loud voices, laughing lustily at one joke or another.

  Kannice stood behind the bar, a dishcloth slung over her shoulder. The look in her bright blue eyes could have melted steel. Kelf hovered beside her, though whether because he feared for her safety or the safety of the soldiers Ethan couldn’t say. So intent was she on the regulars that she didn’t notice that Ethan had come in until he planted himself in front of her.

  She started, but then a smile crossed her lips. “I didn’t see you,” she said.

  “You had your mind on other things.”

  Her pleasure at seeing him gave way to a scowl. “They’ve already spilled four ales,” she whispe
red. “It’s not enough that they take my food and drink without offering to pay so much as a penny, but then they slosh it about like it’s naught more than water. And who do you think gets to clean it up?”

  “Kelf?” Ethan asked, feigning innocence.

  The barkeep snorted. Kannice glared at them.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I know,” Ethan said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Where’s the rum-dell?” one of the soldiers called, holding an empty tankard over his head.

  “Rum-dell am I now?” Kannice said through clenched teeth. She tried to push Kelf out of her way so that she could step out from behind the bar. Ethan thought it likely that she intended to shove the tankard into the soldier’s ear, or perhaps elsewhere.

  “I’ll go,” Kelf said. “No sense gettin’ us shut down.”

  He filled a tankard, pasted a smile on his face, and walked out into the great room. “Here ya go, sir,” he said, his voice pitched to carry. “Never been called a rum-dell before; I think I like it.”

  The soldiers laughed uproariously. Kannice seethed.

  “Kelf’s right, you know. They’re not worth getting angry over, or doing something you’ll regret.”

  “Something stupid, you mean?”

  Ethan didn’t reply, and a grin crept across her lovely face.

  “Afraid to answer?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  She laughed. “What would you like to eat, Mister Kaille?”

  “Whatever they’re having. What’s good enough for the king’s men is good enough for me.” He leaned forward and winked at her. “Just don’t spit in mine,” he whispered.

  She laughed again and walked back into the kitchen, returning moments later with a bowl of fish chowder and a round of bread. Ethan fished in his pocket.

  “Don’t you dare,” Kannice said, growling the words.

  Despite her warning, he pulled out a half shilling. “You’re having to give away too much food tonight. Let me pay for this.”

  She glowered at him, but when he didn’t shrink from her gaze, she took the coin. “Tonight,” she said. Her smile returned, deepened. “Speaking of tonight, will you be here?”