As soon as he was outside, Ethan pulled his knife free, forced up his coat sleeve and the shirtsleeve beneath, and cut his forearm.
“ Velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” Concealment, conjured from blood.
He didn’t need to feel the resonance of the spell in his body and in the street beneath him to know that he was taking a great risk. The spell would allow him to walk the lanes without being seen. Sephira and her toughs could walk right past him without knowing he was there. But if the conjurer was still hunting him, the casting of the spell might well alert him to Ethan’s whereabouts. And Ethan suspected that a man of such power would see right through a concealment charm.
Nor was he done taking risks. He strode back to Cooper’s Alley, where Pitch still lay. He couldn’t bury the dog without then telling Henry what he had done and why. But he could at least honor Pitch by placing his body where it belonged. He lifted the creature into his arms and bore him to the front of the cooperage. Kneeling, he laid him just outside Henry’s door, taking a moment to stroke the dog’s fur one last time. He didn’t dare do more.
Ethan stood and struck out for the Dowsing Rod. He still had his sleeves pushed up and he drew his knife again, in case he encountered the conjurer. He kept to narrower streets, even though it meant taking a longer route, and he did his best to move silently. Somehow he managed to make it to the Dowser without running across any of the people who wanted him dead. A minor miracle.
He tested the door of the tavern, expecting that he might have to use a spell on the lock. It was unbolted. Ethan let himself inside, pulling the door closed behind him. He was careful not to let the door close loudly, but at the click of the door handle, he heard Kelf call out from the kitchen “Who’s there?” in a voice that would have given Sephira pause.
He quickly cut himself again, and cast a second spell to remove the concealment charm.
The barkeep emerged from behind the bar carrying a large cleaver and guardedly peering toward the door. It was dark in the great room. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and all but a few of the candles had been extinguished, so it would have been hard for him to see Ethan anyway. And concealment spells didn’t wear off instantaneously.
“It’s me. Ethan.” As an afterthought, he pushed down his sleeve to hide the raw skin on his forearm.
Kelf lowered his weapon, still squinting at the shadows. “Ethan?” He shook his head. “Ya near t’ scared me t’ death.”
Ethan walked to the bar and sat on one of the stools. “I’m sorry, Kelf. I didn’t want to wake Kannice.”
“Ya didn’t?” Kelf asked, sounding confused.
“Long story.” When Kelf continued to gaze back at him, Ethan said, “I’m in a bit of trouble, and I didn’t want to go home. So I thought I’d come here and sleep downstairs; keep watch on the door.”
Kelf hefted the cleaver again. “Ya need me t’ stay? Nothin’ personal, Ethan, bu’ ya’re not exactly th’ biggest fella in Boston. I can help ya.”
“That’s a kind offer, Kelf. But I can take care of myself better than you might think from looking at me.”
“Aye, I don’ doubt it,” the barkeep said. “Ya wiry types are like that.”
Ethan said nothing.
“Righ’ then. I’ll be on my way. I’ve jus’ finished up in there.” He grabbed his coat off the bar and started for the door. “Ya wan’ me t’ lock it?”
“Please,” Ethan said. “Good night, Kelf.”
“G’night, Ethan.”
Once Kelf had left the tavern, Ethan walked back to the door, cut his forearm once more, and placed a warding spell on the door. Reg appeared once again, glowing brightly in the dark room. The spell made the air hum; probably it sang through the streets. But as with the concealment spell, he believed the warding to be worth the risk.
Satisfied that the Dowser was secure for the night, he threw another log onto the fire, moved a pair of chairs in front of the hearth, and arranged them into a sort of bed. He hadn’t any blankets, and just about everything he had on was damp, but he thought the fire would cast enough warmth to let him sleep.
Just as he got himself settled, however, he heard the floorboards above him creak, and a moment later, footfalls on the stairway.
“Kelf?” Kannice’s voice.
“No, it’s me.”
“Ethan?” She came down the stairs, wrapped in a robe. “Are you all right?”
“Aye, I’m fine. It’s been a long night.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. I thought you couldn’t stay here until your work for Berson was finished.”
“That was before. Now I’d rather not leave you alone.”
She frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that, either.”
He nodded, thinking of Pitch and feeling his throat tighten. “The conjurer took Holin. I was able to get him back, and get away myself, but… but I had to do something terrible. After, I was afraid to go home, and I was afraid that if I didn’t come here, whoever this person is would take you next.”
“Why didn’t you come up?”
“I didn’t want to wake you. Also, I set a warding on the door. I want to make sure it holds, and I want to be able to take it off in the morning before Kelf gets here.”
“So you were with Elli tonight.” She offered it as a statement.
“I was. I had to get Holin home and-”
“I understand. I assume that’s where you got those clothes.”
Ethan felt his cheeks burn. “I was soaked, Kannice. I-”
She held up her hand, silencing him. Then she stooped quickly and kissed his lips. “I said I understand,” she whispered. “You were with Elli, and rather than stay there, you came here.”
“Yes, well, her stew is awful.”
Kannice punched his good arm, glaring and smiling at the same time. “Your clothes are wet,” she said, tugging gently at his shirt. “Come upstairs and we’ll take them off.”
He held her gaze. “That’s not why I came back here.”
“I know.” She took his hand and pulled him again.
Still, he didn’t stand. “All right. But ask me first.”
Her smile faded, though she continued to hold his hand. “What was the terrible thing you did?”
A tear rolled down his cheek, and then another. “I had to use a killing spell to get away; I had no choice. I had to… to kill Pitch.” He looked away, a sob escaping him. “He showed up just in time. It was like he knew I needed him.” He covered his face with his hand, unable to keep from weeping.
“Oh, Ethan,” she said, her voice breaking on his name. She knelt beside him and ran her free hand through his hair. He knew she was casting about for something to say, and just as surely he knew there was nothing she could say to heal this wound.
They remained thus for several moments as Ethan gathered himself. At last, he took a long breath, feeling too weary to climb the steps to Kannice’s room. Had the conjurer broken through his warding at that moment, he would have been helpless to fight the man off.
“Come on,” Kannice said, standing and tugging at his hand again. “You need sleep.”
He nodded and let her lead him up the stairs to her bed.
He slept poorly, troubled by strange, dark visions. At one point he dreamed that he battled the conjurer again, the hot pain in his chest and head so severe that he cried out, waking himself and Kannice. She put her arms around him and sang to him, until at last he fell asleep again. The worst dream, though, came later. He was in Cooper’s Alley, walking toward Henry’s shop. Shelly stood in the middle of the street, her pale eyes fixed on him, her teeth bared. Ethan called her name and squatted down, holding out a hand for her to sniff. But she growled, the fur on her neck and back standing on end. And then she turned and trotted away.
Ethan woke from that dream with an ache in his chest that he feared would never go away. He was alone, though he could hear Kannice moving around downstairs. Daylight seeped around the edges of the window shutters, and the smell of cooked bacon wafted up from below. He knew he had to get up; he had slept too long already. But he couldn’t bring himself to move until the door opened and Kannice stuck her head in the room.
“I wanted to let you sleep, but Kelf’s here and he can’t get in. I told him that the door is stuck and that I’m working on it, but he’s going to start getting suspicious.”
Ethan sat up, ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll be right down. What’s the time?”
“It’s early yet. Just an hour or so past dawn. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I have things to do, things that can’t wait.”
Ethan had gotten in the habit of leaving a change of clothes in Kannice’s wardrobe and after she went back down to the tavern, he dug them out: a pair of breeches, a white shirt and brown waistcoat, even a pair of hose. His boots were still damp, but they were the only pair he had. He examined his arm, which was covered with fresh scars from all the conjuring he had done the past few days, and lamented having charmed the door. Remembering Janna’s mullein, he retrieved the pouch from a pocket of his wet clothes, which lay in a pile on the floor by Kannice’s door. Then he went down to the tavern.
“… Break it down an’ fix it later!” he heard Kelf shouting through the door as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
Kannice glanced back at him, eyes wide.
“No, Kelf!” Ethan called. “I think I can get it!”
“Ethan!” the barkeep said. “Wha’d ya do t’ this blasted thing?”
“I’m not sure, give me a minute.” He hated to use even a single leaf of the mullein for this, but he didn’t want to have to explain to Kelf why he had his sleeve up and his knife out. Extegimen ex verbasco evocatum. End warding, conjured from mullein. Feeling the hum of power, seeing Reg, he looked self-consciously at Kannice, though of course she hadn’t noticed anything.
For Kelf’s benefit, he tinkered with the door handle and key for a few moments, before opening the door.
“The tumbler must have gotten stuck,” he said, as Kelf stalked into the tavern, scowling at him, at the lock, at Kannice.
The barman shook his head, eyeing the door. “Never happens when I lock up.” He shook his head again and stomped off into the kitchen.
A grin flashed across Kannice’s face and was gone. She walked over to Ethan and kissed him, her brow knitting. “You didn’t sleep well.”
“No, but I slept. That’s something.”
“Eat something before you go.”
He followed her to the bar, where a platter of fried bread, eggs, and bacon waited for him. He ate quickly and fished in his pocket for a shilling.
“Don’t you dare,” Kannice said.
Ethan smiled. “Thank you.”
“Where are you going now?” she asked, her expression deadly serious.
“Are you going to follow me around, and make sure I’m safe?”
“If I have to.”
He leaned forward to kiss her. But she put a hand on his chest, stopping him.
“Tell me, Ethan.”
“What good do you think it’ll do? Do you really think you can save me from the-”
Kelf emerged from the kitchen, a barrel of ale on his great shoulder. He put it down with a thud, looked from one of them to the other, and returned to the kitchen, muttering to himself.
“I know I can’t save you from anyone,” Kannice said earnestly. “But maybe I can get word to someone who can.”
“I’m not sure there is anyone, not against this conjurer. But for what it’s worth, I’ll be speaking with Cyrus Derne this morning. And then Ebenezer Mackintosh. After that I’m not sure.”
“All right. Is there any point in telling you to be careful?”
He stood, kissed her, and picked up his coat off the bar. “Probably not,” he said, making his way to the door.
The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still scudded low over the city and puddles of befouled water filled the lanes. The air had cooled again, and a sharp wind rattled the door and windows of the tavern. Turning up his collar, he walked north into the teeth of the gale, crossing into the North End and continuing toward Bennet’s Street.
He wasn’t sure what to expect when he reached the Derne mansion. It was early still, and he felt reasonably sure that both Cyrus and his father wouldn’t have left yet for their wharf.
As Ethan approached the house, though, he was surprised to see Sephira Pryce and her men standing out front. Nigel grinned when he spotted Ethan, and he said something to Sephira, alerting her to Ethan’s arrival. She waved, a rapacious smile on her face. Ethan faltered a step, but then continued on toward the house, hoping that Sephira wouldn’t be so bold as to murder him here in the wealthiest part of the North End, in the light of day. As he had told Kannice, there was no point in telling him to be careful.
As Ethan approached the Derne house, Nigel and two of his friends stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Ethan halted, and the toughs remained where they were. But the grin on Yellow-hair’s face told Ethan that he would have been grateful for any opportunity to pick up right where things had left off the previous evening, before Pell and the sheriff interrupted them.
“You’re not welcome here, Ethan,” Sephira said, stepping out from behind her men and walking to him.
She was dressed in her street clothes again-a long coat over the usual breeches, shirt, and waistcoat-but her lilac perfume smelled stronger than usual. Maybe Ethan wasn’t used to seeing her so early in the day, or maybe she put on extra scent when visiting men as wealthy as the Dernes. Either way, it was too much; no one as hateful as this woman ought to have worn anything that smelled so sweet.
“Are you and your boys the Dernes’ personal guards now, Sephira?” Ethan asked. “Have things gotten that difficult for you since I started taking away your wealthy clientele?”
She laughed. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you? Do you think you’re safe now because it’s daytime and we’re surrounded by nice houses?”
“Actually, yes, I do,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Because of that, and because I have sources for conjuring that don’t require me to spill blood. Just as I did last night when I used a little bit of grass to hold off a dozen of your men. I could kill you where you stand without drawing a blade or making a sound. It would just look like I scared you to death.”
Her face fell a bit and Ethan was certain that he saw fear in her eyes. She would recover quickly; she always did. But he enjoyed the moment.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I came to speak with Cyrus Derne. But I wouldn’t mind knowing what you’re doing here.”
Sephira smoothed her waistcoat. “Well, I have no intention of telling you anything, and Derne asked us to keep you away from him.”
“You really are his guards,” Ethan said. “Why is Derne so afraid of me?” He knew the answer, of course, but he wanted to know what the merchant had told Sephira. Not that he really expected her to say.
“He’s not afraid of you. No one’s afraid of you, Ethan. He just doesn’t want to see you. Apparently you disturbed him in the middle of a negotiation yesterday at his place of business.” She shook her head. “That was foolish of you. But then again, you have a habit of making enemies of the wrong people.”
“I find it hard to believe that you would come to the North End just to keep away a conjurer who might or might not show up at Cyrus Derne’s door. What are you doing here, Sephira? What business do you have with him?”
“Ethan,” she purred. She came closer to him and leaned forward so that her face was only inches from his. “You sound jealous.”
“I imagine he and his father have connections with merchants throughout the British Empire,” he said, piecing it together as he spoke. “I’m sure that they pay very well, and would find value in an ally with your knowledge of the city and its shadier side. They might even look to someone like you to help them in a dispute with a man as influential as Abner Berson. Did Cyrus Derne really love Jennifer Berson, or was that a ruse, a way of getting close to her father?”
She regarded him with an odd mixture of amusement and alarm. Finally, she laughed and shook her head. “Go home, Ethan, before you get yourself hurt. You’re meddling in matters you can’t possibly understand.” She turned to her men. “We’re done here.” Glancing back at Ethan, she laughed again, and then led Nigel and the rest of her men back down Middle Street, toward the South End.
Ethan watched them go before making his way up the path to the Dernes’ door. Two chaises waited outside the house, their horses standing with their heads bowed. Derne was home. Ethan knocked once, and the door opened immediately. The same hulking servant Ethan remembered from his first visit to the house stood in the doorway, staring down at him, his expression no more welcoming than Nigel’s had been.
“Ethan Kaille to see Cyrus Derne,” Ethan said.
“Mister Derne doesn’t wish to speak with you, Ethan.”
Ethan frowned. The servant hadn’t opened his mouth. He glared at Ethan a moment longer and then stepped aside, revealing the last person Ethan had expected to see here: Geoffrey Brower-Bett’s husband, his brother-in-law.
As always, Geoffrey was impeccably dressed and perfectly groomed. He wore a suit of pale green silk, and his hair was pulled back and powdered. Geoffrey had a high forehead, a hook nose, and dark eyes, and he was as thin as a blade and uncommonly tall. He towered over Ethan, who had once remarked to Bett that her husband spoke down to everyone he met in more ways than one. She hadn’t seen the humor.
Geoffrey eyed Ethan briefly, apparently waiting for some sort of greeting. When Ethan offered none, he walked past him out of the house, saying, “Please, come with me.”
Ethan considered ignoring the man. But Derne’s servant hadn’t moved and hadn’t gotten any smaller. With one last glance at him, Ethan followed his brother-in-law.
“Mister Derne believes that you’re harrying him,” Geoffrey said, as Ethan caught up with him. His expression was grave. “Are you?”
“I don’t believe so. I came here the night Abner Berson hired me to look for his daughter’s brooch, and I asked Mister Derne a few questions. And then I asked him a few more questions yesterday at his wharf.”
“And here you are again today.”
“Yes. Here I am.”
Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. “Cyrus Derne is a wealthy man. And we both know that wealth buys far more than a fine house and nice things. He has impressed upon representatives of the Crown that he wants you kept away from him and his family.”
“So you came to his house as a representative of the Crown?” Ethan asked.
“I came to him as a friend. I shouldn’t have to tell you that the events of the past few days have alarmed those of us who still profess loyalty to His Majesty King George the Third.” He looked sidelong at Ethan. “I also should not have to tell you that you would be wise to avoid men like Samuel Adams and Peter Darrow.”
Ethan stared at him. “Am I being followed, Geoffrey?”
Brower laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Adams and Darrow and James Otis are being watched, as are a host of others who are believed to be threats to the peace.”
Of course. “Well then,” Ethan said, “it might interest you to know that I’ll be visiting Ebenezer Mackintosh next. I’m sure that will raise some eyebrows.”
“Actually, I believe most will wonder why it took you so long to confront the scoundrel.” Geoffrey stopped walking. “But out of respect for Bett, I’ll trust you to conduct the rest of your inquiry as you see fit. My concern is that you keep away from Mister Derne. Do that, and you’ll have nothing to fear from me.”
Ethan nearly laughed out loud. He had never been afraid of Geoffrey. But as he faced him, he kept his expression neutral. “That’s Christian of you, Geoffrey,” he said. “Tell me though: Don’t you worry about the appearance of a customs man going to such lengths to protect a merchant like Derne?”
The color drained from Geoffrey’s cheeks, even as he forced a weak smile onto his thin lips.
“For that matter,” Ethan continued, “doesn’t it bother you to work so closely with a woman like Sephira Pryce? Does Bett know that you have dealings with her?”
“I do not!” Geoffrey said. But his denial seemed to lack conviction.
“Of course not.” Ethan started to walk away, then turned to face Brower again. “I’ve never had anything to fear from you, Geoffrey. But if you dare get in my way again, I’ll have a conversation with my sister that I believe she’ll find quite illuminating.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Nor did he return to the Derne house. This had nothing to do with Geoffrey Brower, or with Sephira Pryce for that matter. If Derne had made up his mind not to speak with him, Ethan could do little to force the matter. At least as long as Derne remained in his home.
Instead, Ethan headed back to the center of the city, to the Boston Prison. The time had come for him to speak with Ebenezer Mackintosh.
Thomas Hutchinson had mentioned to Ethan that Mackintosh’s friends were working to get the cordwainer released from gaol, but Ethan had put little stock in this, thinking it the bitter imaginings of a wronged man. As he approached the prison, though, he saw no less a personage than Peter Darrow exiting the building leading a slight young man in laborer’s clothes. Ethan had no doubt that this was Mackintosh.
He approached them. Mackintosh took no notice of him, but Darrow spotted him from a distance and momentarily faltered, his expression difficult to read. He appeared tired and he moved stiffly. His eyes were red, his cheeks blotchy. Ethan wondered if he had been drinking the night before.
“Mister Kaille,” the lawyer said. “I suppose I should have expected this. Have you met Ebenezer Mackintosh?”
Ethan stopped in front of the two men. “No, I haven’t.”
“Ebenezer Mackintosh, this is Ethan Kaille. Mister Kaille, Ebenezer Mackintosh.”
They shook hands and Ethan actually winced. The shoemaker had a crushing grip, as well as a winning smile. His face was angular and thin, his eyes small and widely spaced, so that he vaguely resembled a fox. His nose was crooked and his hair hung to his shoulders in brown waves. Ethan wouldn’t have called him conventionally handsome-not like Darrow, with his square chin and almond-shaped eyes. But there was, he was forced to admit, something compelling about the man. Mackintosh had uttered not a word, and already Ethan could see why people were drawn to him.
“Nice t’ meet you, Mister Kaille. You a friend o’ Mister Darrow?”
“Not really, no.”
Mackintosh’s face fell, puzzlement furrowing his brow. Already people on the street had recognized the cordwainer and were crowding around them, hoping to shake the hand of the Commander of the South End and congratulate him on his release from prison.
Mackintosh turned to Darrow, perhaps hoping that the lawyer would steer him away from Ethan. But Darrow didn’t move. He was watching Ethan, wearing that same bland expression.
“I need to speak with you, Mister Mackintosh,” Ethan said. “And I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
The man glanced at Darrow again. “Well, I don’ know tha’-”
“I’m investigating the murder of Jennifer Berson, which occurred the night of the twenty-sixth. There are those in the city, many of them in positions of power, who would like to see you blamed for her death.”
A hard look came into Mackintosh’s eyes, offering Ethan a glimpse of the street fighter lurking within.
“Aye,” the man said. “All righ’. Where?”
“Come with me,” Darrow said to both of them, and started away.
It didn’t take Ethan long to figure out that the man was leading them back to the Green Dragon. He didn’t relish the idea of having this conversation with Adams, Otis, and Darrow listening in, but he would deal with that when they reached the tavern.
As they walked, a number of people approached Mackintosh offering words of support, or merely hoping to shake hands with him. And the cordwainer had a smile for every one of them. Ethan was amazed at the number of well-wishers he could greet by name. Thomas Hutchinson might have thought Mackintosh a common street tough, but Ethan thought he underestimated him. Watching Mackintosh exchange pleasantries with his people, Ethan realized that he had skills as a politician that Hutchinson simply did not possess.
But his renown had a dark side as well. Here on Brattle Street, they were as close to the North End as to the South, and for every South Ender who saw Mackintosh as a hero, there was a North Ender who glared at him with murder in his eyes, clearly incensed to see him walking the streets again.
Mackintosh, though, was oblivious of these others, or at least pretended to be. He seemed to bask in the adulation of his fellow South Enders, and he strode along the avenue like a conquering hero.
Turning onto Hanover Street, they walked past the Hallowell house. Ethan watched Mackintosh for some sign of remorse or shame or even pride in what he had wrought the night of the riots. But he gave no sign of realizing where he was. He walked and waved and smiled, and he allowed Darrow to lead him to the Green Dragon.
Once they were inside, though, some of Mackintosh’s swagger fell away. His smile vanished, leaving a wary, nervous stare. He might have trusted Darrow, but he also seemed to understand that he had few allies in the Dragon.
“We can take a table in the back of the tavern,” Darrow said, glancing back at Mackintosh and Ethan as they descended the stairs. “I’ll get you both ales, if you like.”
“Tha’s f-”
“No,” Ethan said, cutting off Mackintosh.
Darrow halted at the bottom of the stairs. Mackintosh stopped as well.
“What’s the problem, Mister Kaille?” Darrow asked sourly.
“I want to speak with him in private, without you and Adams and Otis listening to what we say.” He thinks you’re his friends, Ethan wanted to add. But you and I know better.
Darrow’s jaw muscles bunched. Mackintosh eyed them, seeming to grow more confused and nervous by the moment.
“I wan’ Mister Darrow with me,” he said at last.
Ethan sighed, but he could hardly blame the man. Mackintosh had known Darrow for a year and Ethan for ten minutes. To Darrow’s credit, he didn’t gloat at all. Rather he turned to Ethan again, a question in his eyes.
“All right, then,” Ethan said. “If that’s what he wants, you should join us.”
Darrow nodded and led them the rest of the way down the stairs to the tavern. While he crossed to the bar, Ethan and Mackintosh took a table by the hearth.
“You don’ trust Darrow?” the cordwainer asked as they sat.
“I wouldn’t say that I don’t trust him. But I’m not sure that he has your best interests at heart.”
Mackintosh laughed. “An’ you do, is tha’ right?”
“No,” Ethan said. “I couldn’t care less about your best interests. But you never would have thought to trust me, so that hardly matters.”
Mackintosh frowned. “Darrow helped me out some time back. He helped get me off after we sacked Oliver’s house, an’ jus’ this mornin’ he got Sheriff Greenleaf t’ let me go. You might not think he has my interests at heart, but he’s done me a good turn time an’ again. I know him. I trust him. You…” He shrugged.
“I understand.”
Before they could say more, Darrow came to the table with two ales. He placed one in front of each of them, and then sat.
Mackintosh still looked troubled.
“Is everything all right?” Darrow asked.
“Mister Mackintosh was explaining that he trusts you and not me,” Ethan said.
“I see,” Darrow said. “And were you telling him why he’s wrong to put his faith in me?”
“I merely told him I didn’t think you were concerned first and foremost with his welfare.”
“What do you think of that, Ebenezer?” Darrow asked.
“You’ve helped me out o’ some tough spots, Mister Darrow. Tha’s wha’ I told him.” But Mackintosh didn’t meet the man’s gaze.
Darrow regarded him for another moment before facing Ethan again.
“Perhaps you should ask your questions, Mister Kaille. Ebenezer has had several long and trying days.”
“Of course,” Ethan said. He faced Mackintosh. “As I already told you, I’ve been hired by Abner Berson to inquire into the death of his elder daughter, Jennifer. She died the night of August twenty-sixth, around the time you and your followers were abroad in the city ransacking the homes of Benjamin Hallowell, William Story, and Thomas Hutchinson.”
“And there’s folk who think I’m t’ blame?”
“Aye,” Ethan said, resisting the impulse to glance Darrow’s way. “She wore a brooch that night, and it was stolen from her. And since her father is wealthy, and a friend of the lieutenant governor, Hallowell, and Story, some have suggested there may be a connection between the attack on Hutchinson’s house and her death.”
“How did she die?” Mackintosh asked.
How indeed? They had come to the crux of the matter, and to the one thing Ethan least wished to discuss in front of Darrow. He didn’t know how to answer, or how to determine if Mackintosh was a conjurer. In the end, he decided that he had little choice but to dissemble, at least until he could contrive to speak privately with the man.
“No one knows for certain,” he said. “There are some who claim that her killer used dark powers against her.”
Mackintosh stared at him for the span of a heartbeat. Then he let out a loud, nervous laugh. “Dark powers. You’re havin’ a bit o’ fun with me, right?”
Ethan said nothing.
“Is he makin’ a joke?” Mackintosh asked Darrow. “Are you two havin’ th’ run on me?”
“I don’t know what Mister Kaille is up to,” Darrow said in a hard voice. “I was led to believe that yours was a serious inquiry, Mister Kaille,” he said. “What is this foolishness?”
“I’m only repeating what others have said,” Ethan told him.
“Wha’ others?”
“That I won’t say.”
“Well, it’s madness!” Mackintosh said, sounding truly shaken. “They wan’ me t’ hang for a murderer, an’ if tha’ don’ work, they’ll hang me for a witch instead!”
“Nobody is going to hang you, Ebenezer,” Darrow said. He frowned at Ethan. “I thought better of you, Mister Kaille.”
Ethan made no answer to Darrow, but asked Mackintosh, “Do you remember seeing a lone young woman in the streets that night?”
The cordwainer shook his head. “Do you know how many of us there were? Hundreds. Maybe more. I know tha’ most o’ my South End boys were there, an’ a fair number from th’ North End, too. But askin’ me t’ remember one girl… Obviously you weren’ there, or you’d know better.”
“Did your men stay with you the entire time?”
He shook his head a second time. “No, we split up. Some wen’ t’ pay a visit t’ Hallowell, th’ rest wen’ t’ see Story. We met up again an’ then wen’ on t’ Hutchinson’s house. An’ before you ask, I wen’ back an’ forth between th’ two-kept an eye on both groups.”
Ethan nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. When he met with Adams, Darrow, and Otis, the men had blamed Mackintosh for the girl’s death, and Ethan had no doubt that they could convince the Crown authorities that he was responsible. He had led the mob, controlled it even. He admitted as much, and that might well be enough for a court, particularly if they could also blame Daniel. But Ethan wasn’t interested in holding Mackintosh responsible. He wanted to know who had actually killed Jennifer Berson. And he sensed that Mackintosh was right: There was no way to know this for certain, short of speaking to every person who had been in that crowd.
“Can I see your forearms, Mister Mackintosh?”
The other man regarded him as if he was mad. “Wha’?”
“Please,” Ethan said. He could hear the weariness in his own voice. “Humor me. I need to see your forearms.”
Mackintosh looked to Darrow, who hesitated but then nodded. The cordwainer pushed up his sleeves and held out his arms for Ethan to see. There was a single long scar on one of them, which might have come from a knife fight. But otherwise, unlike Ethan’s own arms, which were scored with a lattice of scars old and new, Mackintosh’s were unmarked. If he was a conjurer, he had found some other way to draw upon his blood for spells.
“Wha’ are you lookin’ for?” Mackintosh asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ethan said. He stood, drank a bit of the ale Darrow had bought him, and started toward the stairway. “It isn’t there.”