Ethan said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch on until Derne seemed to grow uncomfortable.
“If you must know,” Derne said at last, “I was home. My father will confirm that if you ask him.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t think I need trouble him.”
“Have you asked similar questions of the brutes who were abroad last night, behaving like savages and showing themselves capable of the worst kind of violence and mischief?”
“Not yet,” Ethan said. “But I will.”
“Good,” Derne said brusquely. “It seems to me more than coincidence that poor Jennifer should be killed the same night that rabble was rampaging through the streets.”
“Yes, sir. Do you know if Miss Berson had any other suitors-anyone who might have been angered by how close the two of you had grown?”
Derne halted and faced him, forcing Ethan to stop, too. “Are you trying to offend me?” the merchant demanded, his voice low. “Do you find all of this amusing?”
“Neither, sir,” Ethan said evenly. “But Mister Berson is paying me a great deal, and I believe that obligates me to explore every possibility. I’ve no doubt that Miss Berson was devoted to you. But would it be so surprising that a woman of beauty and intelligence and, yes, means, might attract men possessed of less honor than you?”
Derne regarded him a moment longer, and then began walking again. Ethan fell in step beside him. They walked in silence for some time, turning another corner, so that the waters of the harbor were now behind them.
At last Derne exhaled softly and shook his head. “Is it your profession that makes your mind work as it does?”
“Sir?”
“Looking for betrayal and falsehood. Thinking the worst of people. I would think that spending your life among the criminal element would color your perceptions of everyone, even someone like Jennifer.”
“I think no ill of her, sir.”
“Perhaps,” Derne said coldly. “But your questions can hardly be deemed flattering.” He looked at Ethan briefly. “You’re right, of course. It is conceivable that she had other suitors of whom I knew nothing, and that one of them did her harm. It’s not a possibility I’ve considered. I would like to tell you out of hand that there was no one, but I don’t know for certain. Satisfied?”
“I take no satisfaction in offending you, sir. You have my word on that.”
Derne appeared unconvinced. “Did you ask her father about any of this?”
“I did. He said he knew of no one. But I thought perhaps he sought to protect her, or that maybe she had hidden such things from him.” Ethan shrugged. “There probably was no one. I apologize for upsetting you.” This last he added for Derne’s benefit. In fact, angering the man had served its purpose. He now knew Cyrus Derne’s composure could be shaken. That knowledge might eventually prove valuable.
They again lapsed into silence. A cart rumbled past, hoofbeats echoing off the nearby buildings. Two cats slunk across the lane ahead of them. A few faint stars shone overhead.
“Have you more questions for me?” Derne asked at length, a chill still in his voice. “I’ve had a long, difficult day.”
“I’m sure you have, sir.” Ethan hesitated, considering how best to word his next question. Finally, he said, “How much do you know about the circumstances of Miss Berson’s death?”
“Very little,” Derne answered. “I know that she was murdered, that she was found near where these… these agitators had been, that her grandmother’s brooch was taken. Is there more that matters?”
“Have you… have you gone to view her at King’s Chapel?”
The merchant shook his head. “Not yet. I haven’t had the chance. And to be honest I’ve been dreading it. Why? Is there something I ought to know before I do?”
“No, sir,” Ethan said. “It’s nothing like that.” Again he faltered. “Do you have any idea why Mister Berson came to me with this matter?” he asked at last.
Derne frowned. “What an odd thing to ask. Why should I care why you were hired? Why should you, for that matter? I should think you would be grateful for the work.”
Apparently there was at least one man left in Boston who didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. Which probably meant that Derne truly didn’t know how Jennifer had died. Berson might have been too ashamed or too frightened to tell him. “It probably shouldn’t,” he said, eager now to explain away his question. “I’m… I’m a bit out of my element. I’m a thieftaker. I usually don’t involve myself in murders.”
They turned one more corner and Ethan realized that Derne had steered them back within sight of his home. No doubt this was the man’s way of telling Ethan that their conversation was at an end.
“I won’t trouble you more, sir,” Ethan said as they approached the Derne house. “Except to ask you the same thing I asked Mister Berson. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Miss Berson, or anyone who wanted to hurt you so badly that he would take vengeance on her?”
Derne sighed, sounding genuinely weary. “Jennifer had no enemies,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. But her father, and my father and I are another matter entirely. We’re merchants. We make enemies every day, and yes, some of them might go to great lengths to get back at us.” He raised a hand to forestall interruption. “I’m not thinking of someone in particular. I’m just saying that the pursuit of wealth makes men do foolish things, dangerous things.”
He said this last with such earnestness that Ethan was forced to wonder if he did in fact have someone specific in mind. But he had already pushed the man hard enough, and he had no desire to provoke him further, at least not yet.
“I appreciate your candor, sir,” he said, as they stopped in front of the Derne house. “If you think of anything that might help me find Miss Berson’s killer, I hope you’ll let me know.”
“Of course,” Derne said, his tone businesslike. “How might I get in touch with you?”
“I live in the South End, above Dall’s cooperage. And a message can be left for me at the Dowsing Rod on Sudbury Street.”
“Very well.” Derne put out his hand and Ethan gripped it.
“Good night, Mister Derne.”
“Mister Kaille.”
Ethan started away, aware that Derne was staring after him. He kept his gaze fixed on the street ahead of him, however, and after a short while the feeling of being watched faded.
He was hungry, and he considered making his way to the Dowser for some of Kannice’s stew. But Kannice hadn’t been happy with him when he left the tavern that morning-was this really still the same day? — and he had given her good reason. If he had kept his word to himself, and had refused to take any more jobs for a time, he wouldn’t have been beaten by Sephira’s men, and he would still have the money Corbett had paid him the night before.
He knew, though, that he could not have refused Abner Berson’s offer. “Do you have to work every job that calls for a conjurer?” Kannice had asked him. And the truth was that he did. There was no one else. He had tried to explain as much to Kannice that morning, but they had been at odds over the riots and both of them had been angry. Ethan owed it to her to explain again.
Tonight, though, he couldn’t bring himself to face that conversation or her inevitable questions about his injuries. In the end, Ethan chose to walk home. He had some cheese and bread there, and even a small flask of Madeira that Diver had gotten for him-Ethan knew better than to ask where. He didn’t have a lot of any of it, but there was enough to make a meal. And then he could sleep.
As he walked through the lanes he tried to concentrate on what he had learned thus far about Jennifer Berson and the final hours of her life. A good deal of it struck him as odd. He sensed, though, that he had heard much of importance in his encounters with Berson and Derne, and even Sephira Pryce, if only he could sift through it all. But the day’s events had finally caught up with him. He was tired and sore, and he felt like his brain was moving slower than usual.