“The lieutenant governor,” Greenleaf said. “Thomas Hutchinson.”
Chapter Seven
Though still lieutenant governor in title, Hutchinson had been acting governor of the Province of Massachusetts Bay since the previous summer, when Francis Bernard left the city for England. Bernard had been vilified by Boston’s citizenry, many of whom considered him the man most responsible for the continuing occupation. But Hutchinson enjoyed little more goodwill than did his predecessor, and the Crown’s unwillingness to make his appointment as governor official had done nothing to enhance his standing.
Ethan had met Hutchinson on several occasions, each time under difficult circumstances. Back in 1765, after mobs protesting Parliament’s new Stamp Tax ransacked Hutchinson’s home, the lieutenant governor summoned Ethan to his chambers in the Town House. At the time, Ethan had been hired by Abner Berson, one of Boston’s wealthiest merchants, to investigate the murder of his elder daughter. Hutchinson sought to convince Ethan that the same rabble who destroyed his home were responsible for the murder, and he hoped that blame for both crimes would fall on Samuel Adams and his associates. Ethan’s inquiry led to a different conclusion: The riot and murder were the work of a conjurer acting on behalf of some in England intent on weakening the very agitators whom Hutchinson wished to blame.
Three years later, as the occupation began, Ethan was hired by agents of the Customs Board to find the conjurer responsible for the murders of nearly one hundred men aboard HMS Graystone, a ship in the occupying fleet. On this occasion, with the beginning of the occupation going poorly, Hutchinson gave Ethan a mere five days to find those responsible. If Ethan failed, the lieutenant governor warned, he would put to death every conjurer in the city. Ethan found the killers with barely any time to spare, but still Hutchinson spoke of purging Boston of all who dabbled in magick. Nearly eighty years after so-called witches were executed in nearby Salem, Massachusetts, Ethan believed Hutchinson remained willing to repeat that barbarity.
“Be careful how you use that witchery of yours,” the lieutenant governor had said at the end of their last conversation. “I’ll go to my grave believing that it’s an abomination, and I know that I am not alone in my belief.”
Ethan thought back on that exchange as the sheriff and soldiers led him through the icy streets to the Town House. He wondered if he would have been better off refusing the summons, although he couldn’t imagine that Greenleaf would have any compunction about dragging him to Hutchinson’s chambers against his will. It seemed that in this case he had no good choices.
Ethan and Greenleaf walked together behind the regulars; for now at least, the sheriff was not treating him as a prisoner. Still, some stopped to stare at Ethan and his escort as they progressed through the city; most ignored them, however. Uniformed soldiers were, by this time, an all-too-familiar sight in Boston.
They soon reached the Town House, an impressive red-brick building, famous for its graceful steeple, gabled facade, and ornate clock. While the soldiers waited outside, Greenleaf led Ethan into the building and up to the second floor. There he rapped once on the door to Hutchinson’s chambers, and, at a summons from within, opened the door and waved Ethan inside.
Hutchinson stood at a large desk, poring over a sheaf of parchment. He half turned at the sound of their entrance and removed a pair of spectacles from the bridge of his nose. “Ah, Sheriff Greenleaf, Mister Kaille. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Of course, Your Honor,” Greenleaf said.
“Sheriff, please leave us for a time.”
Greenleaf’s face fell. He cast a dark look Ethan’s way, but then let himself out of the chamber.
Ethan and the lieutenant governor eyed each other in silence for a few seconds, like men preparing to duel. Hutchinson was tall with large eyes, a high forehead, and a long, aristocratic nose. He had narrow shoulders that he held thrust back, as if constantly standing at attention, so that he appeared barrel-chested. His hair was gray, and in the year and a half since their last encounter the lines in his face had deepened considerably. The occupation of the city had not been kind to him.
“You have some idea of why I’ve summoned you?” the lieutenant governor asked.
“Is it to accuse me of causing Christopher Seider’s murder? Or perhaps to tell me that all of Boston’s witches are responsible and will be put to death at the morrow’s dawn?”
Hutchinson’s cheeks turned pink, but he did not rail at Ethan for his effrontery, as Ethan expected. Instead, he looked away, the corners of his mouth quirking. “I suppose I deserve that.” He placed his spectacles on his desk. “Would you believe that I have come to regret the way I treated you during the Graystone affair?”
It was one thing to confront the lieutenant governor with his own words and actions. It was quite another to call him a liar.
“Aye, sir. I believe it.”
Hutchinson nodded, still not looking Ethan in the eye. “I asked the sheriff to bring you here after he described for me your visit to the gaol last night.”
Ethan said nothing. Did he refer to Ethan’s eagerness to see Richardson, or the fact that he used a conjuring to put Greenleaf to sleep?
At last Hutchinson lifted his gaze. “You suspect that … that an act of magick caused Ebenezer Richardson to fire at that mob.”
“I believe it’s possible, yes.”
“I’ve had my own dealings with mobs, as you may recall. And I understand the impulse to draw a weapon in one’s own defense. But firing blindly as he did…” He shook his head. “Richardson is an idiot.”
“Yes, sir, he is.”
A faint smile touched Hutchinson’s lips. “At least we can agree on that.”
Ethan grinned as well. “At least.”
“The sheriff mentioned no names, save yours of course. I would like to know if you have in mind a certain-what is it you call yourselves?-a certain conjurer?”
Even Hutchinson, who knew so little about conjuring, would have heard Ramsey’s name mentioned the previous summer. He was not about to give the lieutenant governor cause for panic in the absence of any evidence. “No, sir, I don’t. Not yet at least.”
“Are there people of your kind living in Boston who might be capable of doing something as dark as this?”
“None of whom I’m aware, Your Honor. I suspect that if a conjurer is responsible, it is someone from outside of the city. A recent arrival perhaps. But really all of this is conjecture. Right now, I’m afraid I know very little.”
“Yes, the sheriff indicated as much. He seems to believe that you might be responsible.”
“Imagine my surprise.”
Hutchinson said nothing, but continued to watch him.
“If this were my doing,” Ethan said, “why would I bring it to the sheriff’s attention in the first place? I would simply cast my spells and let them work their mischief. Seeking him out as I did would make no sense at all.”
“No, I don’t suppose it would, though I do not pretend to understand the workings of a witch-of a conjurer’s mind.” Hutchinson began to pace the chamber. “Tell me, Mister Kaille: Have you discussed this matter with Samuel Adams or his fellow radicals?”
“No, sir, I haven’t. And if I may, whatever you might think of Adams and his allies, I do not believe that they would sacrifice the life of a child for their cause.”
Hutchinson halted. “Is that right?” he asked, his tone sharpening. “Perhaps if you knew them as I do, you would place less faith in their scruples.” He resumed his pacing, his thick eyebrows bunched. “Oh, they wouldn’t be so crass as to have the lad killed, but I’ve no doubt that they will seek to turn this tragedy to their advantage in whatever way they can. Already, I have received word that they intend to organize some sort of public display a few days hence.”