“I understand,” Ethan said. “I’m going to uncover her. I want to see if I can learn something of how she died. All right?”
Pell nodded.
Ethan pulled back the sheet to reveal the girl’s body. She was dressed in a pale silk gown-a soft shade of yellow, although it was hard to tell in the dim light. Her petticoats were darker-perhaps green-and she wore a stomacher of white silk. Ethan bent closer, examining the exposed skin of her shoulders and chest, searching for any marks that might explain her death.
“Bring me that sconce,” Ethan said, gesturing vaguely at an iron tree in the far corner of the chamber.
Pell retrieved it and brought it to Ethan, setting it beside him so that the glow of the candles illuminated the girl.
Even in the better light, Ethan saw no stab wounds, no dried blood, no obvious bruises. He searched her limbs, checked her clothing for rents or cuts in the fabric. At last he rolled her onto her side to examine her back. Nothing.
He wasn’t surprised; this was why Berson had wanted him and not Sephira Pryce or some other thieftaker. This was why he had been thinking about that pulse of power ever since seeing Berson’s servant in the Dowsing Rod. Even so, he was troubled.
“There are no marks on her,” Ethan said, straightening and meeting the young minister’s gaze.
“What does that mean?” Pell asked.
“Well, it means she wasn’t killed in any of the usual ways. She wasn’t stabbed or shot. Her throat wasn’t slit. Her neck wasn’t broken.”
“Could she have been strangled?”
Ethan looked down at the girl again and shook his head. “That would leave bruising on her neck, whether done with a rope or bare hands.”
“What about poison?”
He considered this for several moments, staring at the girl’s face. Her expression in death was peaceful; she could well have been sleeping rather than dead. It was hardly the face of someone who had died by poisoning.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Ethan said.
“But you don’t believe it.”
“No.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t murdered after all.”
“Perhaps,” Ethan said absently, still regarding the body. “Mister Pell, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind getting me a cup of water?”
“What?”
“Some water. Or better yet, wine. Like you, I’m… I’m troubled by the sight of this poor girl. I need something to drink.”
“You’re lying to me,” Pell said, sounding young and just a bit frightened.
“I assure you-”
“You’re lying,” he said again. “And I want to know why.”
Ethan smiled faintly. “No, you don’t.”
“What do you mean I don’t?” Pell said, frowning deeply. “Of course I do.”
“Do you know my sister, Mister Pell?” Ethan asked. “She’s a member of the congregation.”
“Your sister?”
“You would know her as Bett Brower, the wife of Geoffrey Brower.”
“You’re Missus Brower’s brother?” The minister leaned forward, scrutinizing Ethan’s face. “Yes, I suppose I do see some resemblance. What about her?”
“Has she mentioned me to you?”
“No, why would she?”
It was a fair question, though perhaps not as Pell meant it. Bett was too protective of her status in Boston society to risk calling attention to her rogue of a brother, who also happened to be a conjurer. Thinking about it, Ethan realized that he should have been surprised that she had spoken of him even to dear Geoffrey.
“No reason in particular,” Ethan said at last. “I merely mention her to make you understand that you have no reason to distrust me. If you can simply get me some wine, I would be grateful. I’ll stay with poor Miss Berson-she won’t be alone for even a second.”
Pell said nothing, but he continued to eye Ethan, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“That’s not what you were going to say,” the man said at last. “Is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Pell stared at him. “You do know what killed her, don’t you? You just don’t want to tell me.”
“I don’t know anything,” Ethan said, trying to keep his voice even.
“Not for certain, you mean. But you have some idea. It’s there in your eyes; I can hear it in your voice. What is it you’re not telling me?”
Ethan didn’t answer, but he watched as the minister worked it out for himself.
After a moment, Pell turned back to the corpse. “She wasn’t stabbed or strangled,” he muttered. “She wasn’t shot or poisoned or killed in any of the other, more conventional ways. But she was murdered.” He glanced at Ethan again, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then it hit him. Ethan saw it happen. He blinked, his eyes widening. Even in the faint candlelight, Ethan saw the color drain from Mr. Pell’s cheeks.
“Oh,” the minister said. And then again, “Oh.”
“You understand?” Ethan asked gently.
“I believe I do,” Pell whispered.
“Then you understand why I need you to go.”
He squared his shoulders. “What if…?” The young man paused and took a slow breath. “What if I won’t let you do this? What if I call for Mister Troutbeck right now?”
“And tell him what?” Ethan asked.
“That… that you’re… that you’re a witch.”
“You could do that,” Ethan said. “You could make your accusations. I’ve done nothing that you could point to as evidence to support your claim. But still, he might believe you. He might have me arrested and burned or hanged. Is that what you wish to see them do to me?”
Pell looked away. “Of course not.”
“A young woman is dead. I believe she died at the hands of a conjurer. I understand that the mere mention of the so-called dark arts is enough to make some who wear those robes fall into a panic, but her family has hired me to learn the truth. And I believe that even Mister Troutbeck would want to see her killer punished.”
The minister glanced at the woman’s corpse. “What is it you want to do to her?”
“I want to find out what kind of spell killed her, and, if possible, who cast it.”
“You can learn those things?”
“Yes, I can.”
“But only by using witchery yourself. Isn’t that so?”
“Aye,” Ethan said.
“What kind?”
“What?”
“What kind of witchcraft would you be using?”
Ethan frowned. “Why would you care about-?”
“What kind of witchcraft?” the minister asked again, his eyes meeting Ethan’s. “Your sister isn’t the only person who came to this chapel with… with strange powers in her blood. I know something of conjuring, and before I risk being banished from the ministry by letting you cast on these sanctified grounds, I would like to know what you intend to do.” When Ethan still hesitated, he said, “This calls for more than an elemental spell, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Ethan told him, surprised to hear that the minister really did know something of conjuring. “It would have to be a living spell.”
“So you’ll need to spill your own blood.”
“Unless you’d like to stay and let me bleed you.”
The minister paled again, but managed a smile. “No, I think not. But a living spell could draw the attention of other conjurers.”
“Any spell will,” Ethan said. “There’s nothing to be done about that.”
They stood eyeing each other for several moments, until at last the young minister dropped his gaze to the body. “Very well, Mister Kaille. I’ll trust you not to do any more conjuring than necessary, and you can trust me to say nothing about this to Mister Troutbeck or Mister Caner.”
“Thank you, Mister Pell. I’ll do this as quickly as I can.”
“I’ll be in the sanctuary. Please call for me before leaving the crypt.” Pell glanced at Jennifer Berson once more. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
His gaze lingered briefly on the corpse. Then he left the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. When Ethan couldn’t hear him anymore, he removed his waistcoat and pushed up his sleeve, shivering in the cool, still air. He paused over the girl for a mere instant, studying her face once more. Her expression was so serene; she couldn’t have known what was about to happen to her. She hadn’t feared her murderer. This might well have been done by someone she knew, perhaps even someone she trusted.