Abner Berson’s home was no more grand than those around it, and it was modest when compared with the Hancock estate farther down the road. But still it was impressive. Constructed of white marble, it was solid and square and stood three stories high. A wide flagstone drive led from the street to the door. Before it, broad marble steps led to an ornate portico supported by proud Corinthian columns. A carriage waited by the house, a large chestnut cart horse standing before it with its head lowered, a grizzled driver seated behind the beast. He eyed Ethan with unconcealed curiosity as the thieftaker approached.
“Wha’ happ’n’d t’ you, mate?” the man asked. “I once hit a felleh with my cart-looked a bit like you do now.”
Ethan chuckled. “It wasn’t a cart,” he said, and climbed the steps to the front entrance.
The servant who answered his knock was a white-haired African man, smartly dressed in black linen. He regarded Ethan dubiously, even after the thieftaker told the man his name.
“Mister Berson is expecting me,” Ethan said. “If you don’t believe me, you can find the man with the silver hair and Scottish accent who hired me earlier today.”
This convinced the servant, who waved Ethan into the house even as he continued to cast disapproving looks his way.
“Wait here,” the man said, and walked off, leaving Ethan just inside the door, in a spacious tiled entrance hall with a high ceiling. Brilliantly colored tapestries covered the walls, and a large, round fixture that held no fewer than a dozen candles hung overhead. Ethan could hardly imagine how much work it took to light and extinguish the flames every night. Rather than smelling of spermaceti, though, the house was redolent of sweet scents: bayberry and beeswax.
He could see into the next chamber, which was also huge. The floors in there were made of some dark, fine-grained wood, and the furniture was of better quality than anything he had seen in the Corbett house.
No wonder Sephira didn’t want Ethan competing for her clientele.
Curtains had been drawn across every window Ethan could see, and in the sitting room a cloth was draped over what he assumed was a looking glass. Even in the wealthiest households, mourning superstitions remained the same.
The click of footsteps on tile and a brisk “Mister Kaille” made Ethan turn.
Abner Berson was striding toward him, though he slowed upon seeing Ethan’s face. “God have mercy! What happened to you?”
He forced a broad smile, which hurt, and walked to where Berson had halted, extending a hand. “A disagreement with a colleague. It’s nothing, sir.”
Berson took his hand and shook it absently, but he continued to study Ethan’s face, frowning as if pained by what he saw. “You call this nothing?”
Silently cursing Sephira, he said, “Not really, no. But I can’t do anything about it now, and you and I have more pressing and difficult matters to discuss.”
“Aye,” Berson agreed soberly. “That we do.”
He started toward the large sitting room, gesturing for Ethan to follow. They stepped through that chamber into a small study, the walls of which were lined with shelves holding more bound volumes than Ethan had ever seen in one place.
“I collect them,” Berson said needlessly, watching Ethan as he scanned the shelves. There were volumes here by Rabelais and Cervantes, Butler and Newton, Hobbes and Locke.
“Most come from England,” the merchant went on. “A few are from France, and some of the newer ones were produced here in Boston, by Edes and Gill. Though I must say that I don’t think much of the quality of their volumes. Do you read, Mister Kaille?”
“Yes, sir, I do. There was a time when I read a lot.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I have less time for leisurely pursuits now than I did in my youth.” And less coin.
Berson nodded, staring at the volumes. He was a portly man with a thick neck and a jowly face. His eyes were heavy-lidded; his nose was round and red. A few strands of coarse black hair stuck out from beneath a powdered wig of white curls. He wore a black silk suit and a white cravat.
“William told you why I require your services?” he asked after some time, still avoiding Ethan’s gaze.
The silver-haired man. “Yes, he did, sir. You, Missus Berson, and your younger daughter have my deepest sympathies.”
“She was…” Berson stopped, then swallowed, his eyes misting. “Thank you,” he said roughly. “At a time like this, a stolen brooch may seem like a trifle, an extravagance. But…” He shook his head, his lips quivering.
“I think I understand,” Ethan said. “I’ll need a description of the brooch.”
“Of course. Jennifer’s girl can help you with that.”
“I also have some questions for you, sir. If you can spare me the time. And if I may speak with Missus Berson-”
“I think not, Mister Kaille,” Berson said. “I’ll tell you what I can. But my wife is troubled enough just now. And with you looking the way you do… I don’t think it would be good for her.”
“I understand, sir.”
Berson sat in one of two large cushioned chairs before an empty hearth. He indicated with an open hand that Ethan should take the other.
“Thank you, sir,” Ethan said, lowering himself carefully into the chair. “Please forgive me if some of my questions strike you as… indelicate. I need information, and where murder is concerned one can’t always mince words.”
“Of course, Mister Kaille. Proceed.”
“Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to do your daughter harm?”
Berson shook his head. “Not a soul.”
“Did she have suitors, men she might have spurned?”
“She’s had but one suitor for some time now. Cyrus Derne, the eldest son of Fergus Derne, of whom you might have heard.”
Ethan had heard of the elder Derne. He was nearly as successful as Berson-another man Sephira would have wanted Ethan to avoid.
“How long had Mister Derne and your daughter been acquainted?”
“They’ve known each other since they were children,” Berson said. “And he had been courting her for the better part of a year. I expect they would have been married sometime in the fall.”
“There weren’t any others, even men she might have known before Mister Derne and she became close?”
“None who had reason to hurt her,” the merchant said.
Ethan wasn’t entirely certain that he believed this. Berson’s daughter had been young, beautiful, and wealthy; such women were bound to attract at least a few rogues along with more appropriate suitors. Then again, a spurned lover was apt to be more violent in wreaking his vengeance than Jennifer’s killer had been.
“Then what about your enemies, sir?”
“Mine?” Berson said in a way that told Ethan the man hadn’t even considered the possibility.
“A man in your position is bound to have rivals. Is that not so?”
“Well, of course, but-”
“Do any of them dislike you enough to strike at your family in this way?”
“I–I don’t know.”
Ethan eyed him closely. “Then there are some who might.”
“Well… I suppose that… some… Derrin Cormack, for instance. He and I have disliked each other for years. And Gregory Kellirand-he and I had a falling-out some years back over a shipment of wine from Spain. I’ve never forgiven him, nor he me. I suppose you could list Louis Deblois and his brothers, or even Godfrey Malbone.”
“I thought Colonel Malbone lived in Newport,” Ethan said.
“He does,” Berson said, growing more impatient by the moment. “My point is that these men are merchants, as am I. We are all of us rivals, and therefore can be said to wish each other ill in some sense. But we are also successful men, and we try to leave our business and our disputes in the warehouses and the markets, where they belong. Why would any of them kill Jennifer for her brooch?”