“Seven pounds, sir. Two and ten now, and four and ten when I recover what you’ve lost.”
Paxton’s smile lingered, but the look in his eyes grew flinty. “You don’t lack for confidence, do you? Seven pounds is a good deal of money.”
“Sephira Pryce will demand more.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
He produced a purse from his pocket, opened it, and counted out two pounds and ten shillings. He handed the coins to Ethan and slipped the purse back into his coat. Ethan pocketed the money.
“What now?” Paxton asked. “I’ve been fortunate; this is the first time I’ve had to hire a man of your profession. How does this work?”
“I take it these items were stolen from your home.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“None. The rear door was broken, my wife’s personal effects were strewn about her dressing chamber and treated most barbarously. Whoever did this might well have been part of the rabble seen so often abroad in our city’s streets. I put nothing past them.”
“In that case, sir, I would suggest that I meet you at your home first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll want to see the damage done to your home, as well as those jewels belonging to your wife that were not stolen. At the risk of inconveniencing you, I’ll also need a written description of each stolen item.”
“Of course.”
“You see, Mister Paxton?” Geoffrey said. “Ethan is quite thorough. I think you’ll be very pleased with his work.”
Paxton barely glanced his way. Ethan had the sense that Brower was doing little to ingratiate himself with the commissioner.
“I’ll look for you tomorrow morning, Mister Kaille.”
“Yes, sir. Until then.”
As Ethan turned to leave, a third man entered the main chamber from a small office at the rear of the building. He and the man recognized each other at the same time. Jonathan Grant, the patriot conjurer from the Green Dragon, froze at the sight of Ethan, his mouth agape, his eyes open so wide they made his expression comical.
“Ah, yes,” Geoffrey said. “Mister Grant, this is Ethan Kaille. Ethan, this is Mister Grant, one of our clerks.”
His tone was so dismissive, Ethan was surprised Grant didn’t round on him in indignation. But Grant did not seem able to tear his gaze from Ethan. There was panic in his youthful face, and an entreaty as well.
Ethan proffered a hand to the man. “Mister Grant, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“A-and yours,” the clerk managed, gripping Ethan’s hand for an instant.
“Grant, have you found those manifests yet?” Paxton asked.
“Most of them, sir.”
“Well, find the rest. Mister Kaille, I will look forward to our conversation in the morn. For now I have matters that demand my attention.”
“Yes, of course, sir. Until the morrow. Good night, Geoffrey.” He nodded once to Grant and left the Customs House, glad to be away.
The sky overhead had darkened to indigo, and a few stars had emerged, gleaming like gems in the velvet. The moon, a pale sickle, hung low in the west above a fiery horizon. Despite the cold, it was as lovely a night as Boston had seen in some weeks.
This might have had something to do with the coins that jangled in Ethan’s pocket as he returned to the Dowsing Rod. Kannice would not be pleased with him. Nor would Diver. Mere days before he had stopped working for Theophilus Lillie, they would say, and now he was taking money from Paxton, who was even worse.
Ethan wouldn’t go so far as to say that he didn’t care-Kannice’s opinion meant a great deal to him. But he also couldn’t deny that he was happy to be employed again, no matter who was paying him.
Still, he was not looking forward to telling her why Geoffrey had summoned him.
Diver and Deborah were already at the Dowser when Ethan arrived. He had little choice but to take his ale back to their table. Kannice joined him there as he was still greeting his friends.
“What was that all about?” she asked, a towel draped over her shoulder, strands of auburn hair hanging across her brow.
“The message from Geoffrey, you mean?” Ethan asked, taking his seat.
Her periwinkle eyes narrowed and in that split second it came to him again just how well she knew him. “Of course that’s what I mean. What did he want?”
“He found work for me, and I’m happy to have it.”
“And who is it you’ll be working for this time?” Diver asked, sounding every bit as suspicious as Kannice.
Ethan took a breath, bracing himself for their response. “Charles Paxton.”
“Paxton!” Diver repeated. “You might as well be working for King George himself!”
Ethan lifted his tankard and took a sip. “Given what the king might pay, I could do worse.” He glanced at Deborah, who appeared to be suppressing a grin.
“What are you doing for him?” Kannice asked. Ethan could tell that she was trying to conceal her outrage, and he appreciated the effort.
“I’m not protecting him, if that’s what you’re asking. His home was robbed, and he hired me to retrieve what was taken.” He eyed Diver. “Surely we can agree that any man who’s had his property pinched deserves to get back what’s his, regardless of his political beliefs.”
“I’m not so sure, where Paxton’s concerned,” Diver said. “Really, Ethan. It sometimes seems you go out of your way to work for the most despicable men in Boston.”
“Not out of my way, no. But when they’re offering coin, I don’t avoid them either. You’ll be happy to hear, though, that I asked for more than my usual fee.”
This brought a smile to Diver’s face. “And he agreed?”
“Aye. I’m making about as much as Sephira Pryce would.”
“And why not?” Kannice said. “You’re worth more.”
“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”
“It might.” A coy grin curved her lips. “We might need to discuss the matter further later this evening.”
Ethan held her gaze before asking of Diver, “And you?”
The younger man shrugged. “A cove’s got to work, doesn’t he?”
It was a better ending to the discussion than he had expected, and, later, a nicer conclusion to his evening than he had anticipated.
Charles Paxton lived on Hutchinson Street perhaps one hundred yards south of Milk Street. His was the only residence on the east side of the lane, and an impressive home it was: a three-story brick structure with colonnades flanking the front entrance. It stood directly across the lane from the rope yard of John Gray and but a short distance from Green’s Barracks, which housed those men of the Twenty-ninth Regiment for whom there was no space at Murray’s Barracks. Indeed, Ethan had forgotten how close to the quarters Paxton lived.
The rope yard, one of several in this part of the city, was a grand enterprise that included a large warehouse, several other buildings including the Gray residence, and an open expanse that ran almost all the way from Cow Lane north to Milk Street.
Ethan arrived at the Paxton estate as the clocks on the nearby meeting houses struck eight bells. Journeymen and apprentices were arriving at the rope yards. Not far off, groups of soldiers congregated in the street, bundled in their red coats, their gazes following the workers.
Ethan felt uneasy as he waited for an answer to his knock on Paxton’s door. The sooner he was inside the house and away from the regulars and workers, the better for all concerned.
He didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and Paxton himself greeted Ethan.
“You’re prompt, Mister Kaille. That bodes well for our association.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paxton asked him into the house and escorted him first to the rear of the house, where stood the broken door and doorjamb. Ethan knelt to examine the damage more closely, but from a mere glance he could see what had happened.
“The thief used his foot to break in the door,” he said, still scrutinizing the shattered wood. “He would have kicked it here…” He pointed. “Beside the door handle. I take it the theft occurred during the day, while you were at the Customs House, and your wife was abroad in the city. I would imagine that your servants were gone as well, shopping for groceries, perhaps.”