Ethan smiled at her, but she barely met his gaze. “This won’t take long,” he said gently. “I just need you to tell me about the brooch stolen from Miss Berson.”
A tear slipped from the girl’s eye and ran down her cheek. “It was oval,” she said in a low voice. “With a gold setting. There was a large round ruby in the center, and it was surrounded by small diamonds. And then around them were more rubies. Small ones.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips and was gone. “It was my mistress’s favorite. Mine, too.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about it?” Ethan asked.
The girl shook her head.
“It belonged t’ Jennifer’s grandmother,” William said. “Missus Berson’s mother. Her initials are etched in th’ back: CN. Caroline Neale.”
“I didn’t know that,” the girl whispered.
“I’ve worked in this house a good many years,” William said, eyeing Ethan. “Little escapes my notice.”
Ethan heard a warning in the words. He held the man’s gaze until at last the servant looked away. After thanking the girl, he allowed William to lead him to the entrance.
“Th’ brooch is worth more than they’re paying ya,” the Scotsman said, as Ethan stepped past him out into the cool twilight air.
“That’s usually the case,” Ethan told him. “It’s never stopped me from returning an item.”
“An’ why is that?”
“People won’t hire me if they don’t trust me.”
“One brooch like this one an’ you’d never need t’ work again.”
“Are you trying to tempt me, William, or warn me?” Ethan didn’t give the man a chance to respond. “I have no interest in stealing from the Bersons, or anyone else for that matter. Believe it or not, I like my work.”
“Ya can say tha’ looking as ya do right now?”
Ethan laughed. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
The man surprised him with a smile. “Rather, yes.”
“Good-bye, William.” Ethan started down the stairway.
“Wait.”
Ethan turned again. The servant stared at him another moment, tight-lipped, his brow creased. He glanced behind him into the house, before descending the steps to where Ethan had stopped.
“Ya know tha’ Miss Berson was… was being courted?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“By Cyrus Derne,” Ethan said. “Mister Berson mentioned it.”
“Not all of us were as pleased with th’ match as Jennifer,” the man said.
William sounded more like a concerned uncle than a servant. Abner Berson probably would have thought it impertinent had he heard. But this man, whatever his station, cared about the family he served.
“Do you suspect Mister Derne of doing her harm?” Ethan asked.
William shook his head. “Nothin’ so… heinous,” he said. “But he strikes me as a careless man, someone who coulda led her int’ peril.” He glanced back toward the door. “If my master knew that I was telling ya this-”
Ethan raised a hand, stopping him. “He’ll hear nothing of this conversation from me. Derne would have been the first person I sought out regardless. Now I’ll meet the man armed with your perceptions of him. Thank you for that.”
William ascended the steps. “Watch yourself, Mister Kaille,” he said over his shoulder. “Judging from th’ way ya look, I’d say ya have some trouble with that.”
Ethan was in no condition to argue.
Chapter Seven
Like the Bersons, the Derne family was well enough known that Ethan didn’t have to ask William or Mr. Berson how to find their house. The Derne mansion stood at the corner of Middle Street and Bennet’s in the North End, among some of the most opulent homes in that part of the city.
To get from Beacon Street to the North End, Ethan had to walk past or near all three of the houses that had been attacked the previous night, as well as the spot where Jennifer Berson’s body was found. He decided to go just a short distance out of his way, so as to follow the path taken by the Stamp Act mob. He began by walking back to Cornhill Street and then making his way to the Town House, where the offices of the provincial government were housed. It was a grand brick building with a soaring steeple and striking statues: a lion on one side of the gable, and a unicorn on the other. These figures framed the building’s clock and the carved facade in which it was fixed. In front of the building, a pile of ash and the charred ends of wooden beams marked the spot where the bonfire had been lit.
Following Queen Street west from the site of the fire, Ethan soon came to William Story’s home, which had been ill treated the night before. Windows had been broken, shattered furniture lay in the yard and the street, and the gardens and walkways around the house were littered with torn and partially burned papers. A small crowd had gathered in the street in front of the house to gawk, and several more people wandered through Story’s yard, picking through ruined furniture and personal effects as if they lived there.
William Story meant nothing to Ethan, but still Ethan was tempted to demand that these people leave the man’s home alone. He had no authority, of course, and he doubted that anyone would listen to him. But not for the first time, he wondered if Boston wouldn’t be better off with a stronger sheriff and a constabulary. True, such an office would render thieftakers like himself and Sephira Pryce unnecessary, but he would find other work. And he liked the idea of Sephira begging someone for a job. Not that this was likely to happen any time soon. He cast a last look at the gawkers and continued up Brattle Street to Hanover, where Benjamin Hallowell lived.
The damage done to the Hallowell home was even more extensive than that inflicted on Story’s house. The wooden fence surrounding Hallowell’s property had been knocked down, many of the windows had been shattered, and Hallowell’s furniture had been wrecked and pieces of it strewn about. Papers, pieces of clothing, and empty bottles of wine had been scattered about the yard and into the street fronting it. The crowd gathered outside this house was far larger than that at the Story home. Benjamin Hallowell was better known and even less well liked than William Story. It stood to reason that the destruction of his property should draw more interest.
Ethan didn’t linger at the Hallowell home. After crossing over Mill Creek into the North End, he came to Cross Street, where Jennifer Berson’s body had been found, and followed it toward the harbor. Compared with Hanover and Middle Streets, Cross Street was quiet and peaceful. There were no crowds of curious onlookers, no men of the watch, no sign that a young girl had been killed here the night before. A few people strolled the lane; a chaise rattled past. But that was all.
Still, Ethan knew he needed to be careful. He wished to cast a spell that might reveal the nature of the conjuring that had killed the Berson girl, but he knew better than to draw blood on the open street. Instead, he casually picked a few leaves off tree branches overhanging the lane.
“ Revela potestatem, ” he muttered under his breath. “ Ex foliis evocatam. ” Reveal power, conjured from leaves.
Reg materialized beside him, pale and insubstantial in the failing light. Ethan felt the spell thrum like a bowstring, but he saw nothing to indicate that his conjuring had worked. Reg stared at him, shaking his head slowly, his expression grim.
“This conjurer hid his handiwork well, didn’t he?” Ethan whispered to the ghost.
Reg nodded.
“Is there another spell I should try?”
A woman eyed him as if he was mad and hurried off.
The old ghost shook his head again, even as he faded from view.
Discouraged, Ethan walked back to the main thoroughfare and made his way to the Hutchinson house on Garden Court Street, off North Square.
As he drew close to the square, Ethan slowed. The damage that had been done to the Story and Hallowell homes paled next to what had been done to Thomas Hutchinson’s house. Ethan had little regard for the rioters, but he had never imagined that they could be capable of such wanton destruction.