Until the night before, this had been one of the more stately homes in the North End. It was similar in many respects to the Berson house; three stories high and perhaps fifty feet across, with a simple, classical design: a solid home befitting one of the most important men in the thirteen colonies.
But in a single night, it had been laid waste. Every window across the front of the house, twenty in all, had been completely shattered. The door had been destroyed, as if by axes, and parts of the roof had been torn away, as had the cupola. The garden fence had been torn down, and all the trees in the yard pulled over or hacked down. Personal effects belonging to the lieutenant governor and his family littered the yard and the narrow street. The crowd of gawkers here dwarfed the gathering Ethan had seen at the Hallowell home, although they remained in the street, seemingly afraid to venture into the lieutenant governor’s yard. Ethan could see people moving about inside the house, but he didn’t recognize Hutchinson himself.
“Got wot he deserved, if ya ask me.”
Ethan turned and saw a young man standing near him. The lad wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes and a stained cap.
“Hutchinson, I mean,” the young man added, unnecessarily.
“Aye,” Ethan said, fighting to keep the rage from his voice. “I’m sure his wife and children did, too.”
“Come again?”
“His wife and children.” Ethan pointed to several dresses and petticoats lying in the yard, soiled and torn. “They deserved to have their home destroyed, and all their belongings pillaged by a crowd of strangers. They’re lucky they didn’t get worse, right?”
The lad frowned. “Well, I don’ know ’bout that.”
“Isn’t it their fault that Parliament’s burdened us with this Stamp Act?”
The young man pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “Well…”
“Think about it,” Ethan said, and started away.
“Right!” the lad called after him. “Right, I’ll do that.”
The Derne mansion was only a block or so from North Square. It wasn’t as impressive as either the Berson or Hutchinson houses, but it was of a similar design: a square, three-story building with large windows spaced evenly across the facade, and impressive columns flanking the main entrance.
The man who answered the door in response to Ethan’s knock was several years younger than William, and quite a bit larger. Burly, tall, stone-faced, he more closely resembled one of Sephira Pryce’s toughs than a house servant. Ethan attempted to explain that he had been hired by Abner Berson and needed to speak with Cyrus Derne, but the man simply glowered at him. When Ethan finished, the man informed him that Cyrus Derne was not at home, and promptly shut the door.
Ethan considered knocking again, but decided against it. It was growing dark. The night watch would begin rounds before long. And men like Cyrus and Fergus Derne would be making their way home from the waterfront. Ethan strolled back to the street, but he remained near the Derne house, nodding to strangers as they walked past, laughing under his breath at their reactions to his battered visage.
He had never met Cyrus Derne or his father, but he knew them as soon as they turned a far corner onto Bennet’s Street. They were both well-dressed in ditto suits as was the current fashion. The younger Derne’s was beige; Derne the Elder wore dark blue. Both men sported dark cloaks and black tricorn hats with elaborate black cockades, and both carried canes tipped with brass. The men were of medium height, the father thicker in the middle and heavier of face. The son was lean, the long gray hair of his wig framing a square chin and high cheekbones. Ethan could see how a young woman might be drawn to him.
Father and son spoke in low tones as they walked, oblivious of all around them. When they were only a few paces from where Ethan stood, he cleared his throat loudly to draw their attention.
The older Derne halted immediately, a frown clouding his face. The son slowed, but put himself between Ethan and his father, firmly gripping his cane.
“Is there something I can do for you?” the younger Derne asked in a strong, cold voice.
“I hope so,” Ethan said, smiling so that his lip and cheek hurt. “I’m looking for Cyrus Derne.”
The younger man hesitated for only a moment, although the knuckles on the hand holding his cane whitened even more.
“You’ve found him.”
“Forgive me if I’ve alarmed you, Mister Derne. My name is Ethan Kaille. Abner Berson has hired me-”
“Of course, Mister Kaille,” the younger Derne said, striding forward and offering a hand. “Mister Berson told me he intended to hire you. Terrible business. I’m still…” He shook his head. “Well, I’m at a loss for words. Jennifer was quite dear to me, as Mister Berson might have told you.”
“He did. I’m terribly sorry for you loss.”
“Thank you.”
The elder Derne joined them and offered a hand as well, even as he examined Ethan’s face.
“You look like you’ve had quite a day, Mister Kaille,” the older man said.
“Yes, sir, I have.” He was growing weary of hearing comments on his cuts and bruises, and he had yet to see Diver or Kannice. “If I may, Mister Derne,” he said to the son, “I would like to ask you a few questions. I won’t keep you long.”
Cyrus and his father exchanged glances.
“Of course,” the young man said. “Would you mind if we walked? I’ve spent most of my day in our offices; I wouldn’t mind a bit of air.”
“That’s fine, sir. Thank you. A pleasure meeting you, sir,” Ethan said to the elder Derne, “despite the circumstances.”
The elder Derne smiled coldly, glanced once more at his son, and then walked toward the house.
“Shall we?” Cyrus said, gesturing with an open hand for Ethan to lead the way. “I take it you’ve already spoken with Mister Berson.”
“I’ve just been at his home.”
“And you came straight to me.” The younger Derne’s smile was much as his father’s had been a few moments before. “Should I make anything of that?”
“I assure you it was simply a matter of convenience. I don’t spend much time in the North End. And with the Berson home so close to yours-”
“It’s all right, Mister Kaille. I was attempting a joke. Apparently I failed.” They came to a corner and continued down Fleet Street toward the wharves. “You have questions for me,” Cyrus prompted.
“Yes, sir. When did you last see Miss Berson?”
“Yesterday,” the man said. “I had some business elsewhere in the city that required my attention, but I wished to see her. I try-” He winced. “I tried to see her each day, even when we hadn’t made plans as such. I stopped by late-several hours past midday. We spoke briefly in the sitting room. She wanted to go for a walk, but by then it was growing late, so we sat and…” He paused, looking thoughtful. “And then I left.”
“Did she mention that she intended to leave the house?”
Cyrus shook his head. “No.”
“So you don’t know why she would venture out after dark.”
He stared at the street before them, shaking his head again. “For the life of me, I do not.”
“Do you often have business that takes you into the streets at night, sir?”
Cyrus smirked. “You’re bold, Mister Kaille.” He looked away, so that he was staring straight ahead. They turned another corner and walked past a line of warehouses. The smell of the harbor was heavy here. Flocks of gulls perched on rooftops, preening and crying out mournfully, and a lone osprey circled overhead. “Occasionally, yes. I’m a merchant, from a family of merchants. The Dernes have business in every part of Boston, as well as in Newport, Providence, Norfolk, Newbury, Hartford, even Halifax. And our business doesn’t always end with the setting of the sun.”
“Can you tell me where you were last night?”
“I’m not inclined to, no,” Derne said in a flat voice, his expression unchanged. Still, Ethan could tell that the merchant’s patience had started to run thin.