Chapter Four
S oon after the men left, Kannice and Ethan went upstairs and immediately fell into each other’s arms, forgetting about Parliament and street mobs for a time. After they made love, though, Ethan made the mistake of asking if Kannice was ready to admit that the Stamp Act agitators were ruffians and fools.
“The ones who attacked Hutchinson’s house?” she said. “Clearly. But that doesn’t mean all of them are.”
He should have left it at that. But he didn’t, and they were up half the night arguing about the rioters and what they had done. Kannice, who believed that Parliament had overstepped its authority by enacting the Stamp Act in the first place, blamed the mob for going too far and ransacking the Hutchinson house. But she refused to say categorically that the riots led by Ebenezer Mackintosh and his men were wrong.
Ethan could hardly contain himself. “So what you’re saying is that they were justified in attacking Andrew Oliver’s property, but not Thomas Hutchinson’s.”
“Oliver has been made distributor of stamps!” she said, as if that was answer enough.
“That is what you’re saying then!”
Kannice raised her chin defiantly. “Yes!”
“So, you think it acceptable to destroy the property of those who disagree with you! And you’d be fine if people who support the Stamp Act tore the Dowser to the ground!”
“That’s not what I said!” she shot back. “And you know it! Oliver will be enforcing the Act. What was done to him was unfortunate, but justified. Tonight was different.”
“There’s no justification for destroying a man’s home,” Ethan said in a low voice. “I don’t care who he is, or what he’s done. If that’s the freedom these men speak of, then I want no part of it.” He rolled over and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
Ethan could tell that Kannice was watching him, thinking of more to say. But at last she blew out the lone candle burning in the room and lay down beside him. She touched his arm lightly and Ethan reached back to give her hand a quick squeeze. Soon after, he fell asleep.
When Ethan woke, Kannice was already up. The room was cold, though the bed was still warm where she had lain. She had pulled on a long, plain dress and was plaiting her hair.
Seeing that he was awake she said, “Good morning. Are you hungry?”
Ethan nodded and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.
“Bacon? Bread? Eggs?”
“Aye,” he said.
Kannice laughed. “Fine. Don’t take too long getting yourself out of bed. Unlike some people, I have to work today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She came to the bed, kissed him, and slipped out of the room.
Ethan lay there for a few minutes more before finally sitting up and reaching for his breeches, which were slung across a chair next to the bed. He had barely gotten them on when the door opened again and Kannice came in, wearing a mild frown.
“Is everything all right?” Ethan asked.
“I’m not really sure,” she said. “There’s a man downstairs-no one I’ve ever seen before. He says he’s looking for you.”
“Lots of people saw me here last night. And it’s no secret that you and I spend a great deal of time together.”
“I know,” she said, still troubled.
“What did he look like?” Ethan asked. “What’s he wearing?”
“He looks harmless enough. Older than I am.” She paused. “Probably older than you are, too. Fine clothes. A silk shirt, linen waistcoat and matching coat and breeches. But he looks too rough to be a merchant or a shop owner.”
“A servant?”
“Maybe.”
He reached for his shirt. “All right. I’ll be down shortly.”
She nodded and left the room once more. Ethan finished dressing, making certain to strap on his blade. Then he left the room and descended the stairs to the tavern.
The man stood beside the doorway, his hands in front of him clasping the brim of a black tricorn hat. As Kannice had said, his clothes-the white silk shirt and pale blue ditto suit with its matching coat, waistcoat, and breeches-were of fine quality and fit him well. His hair was silver, but his face was unlined-Ethan wouldn’t have wanted to hazard a guess as to his age. His eyes were pale, and his nose looked like it had been broken at least once. Even before he spoke, Ethan guessed that he was a Scotsman by birth.
“Yah’re Kaille?” the man asked, as Ethan approached. “Th’ thieftaker?” His brogue was heavy-definitely Scottish.
“I’m Ethan Kaille. Who are you?”
“I represen’ a man who wishes t’ hire ya.” He indicated the closest table with an open hand.
Ethan hesitated, then took a seat. The stranger seated himself across from him.
“Who is it you represent?”
“Have ya heard of Abner Berson?”
Who hasn’t? Ethan wanted to ask. Berson had made a fortune importing and selling hardware and firearms from England. He owned a wharf and warehouses in the North End off Ship Street, and was one of the richest men in Massachusetts. “Everyone’s heard of Mister Berson.”
“I suppose. Ya wouldna heard that his daughter was killed last night, in th’ middle of all that unpleasantness.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Ethan said, his eyes flicking in Kannice’s direction. She was wiping the bar with a cloth, but he could tell she was listening. “I hope you’ll convey my condolences to Mister Berson and his wife.”
The man accepted his words with a nod.
“They had two daughters, didn’t they?”
“Aye. This was th’ older one. Jennifer.”
Ethan knew why the man had come, and though he sympathized with the merchant and his family, he needed to make it clear that he couldn’t help them.
“You understand, sir, that I’m a thieftaker. I recover stolen items for a fee and I deal with those who are guilty of thievery. But I don’t track down murderers.”
A wry smile touched the stranger’s face. “O’ course ya don’t, Mister Kaille. There’s no profit in it.”
Ethan bristled. “That’s not-”
“I mean no offense. Ya have a trade. Ya have t’ make a livin’. I understand. As i’ happens, Mister Berson has need o’ yar talents as a thieftaker. His daughter had on a brooch when she was killed. It was taken. Th’ family wants it back.” He pulled a small pouch from the pocket of his coat and placed it on the table. Ethan heard the muffled clink of coins. “Tha’s ten pounds. More will come t’ ya when ya find that brooch.”
Ethan’s eyes strayed to the pouch. “And if I happen to find Jennifer’s killer while I’m recovering the brooch…”
“Obviously, Mister Berson would be most pleased.”
Ten pounds. And more when he found the brooch. Ethan had to admit that he was tempted. But only the night before he had decided to keep out of sight for a while, to live off the money he had gotten from Ezra Corbett. More to the point, in all the time he had been working as a thieftaker he had tried to avoid taking jobs involving murders. They were far more dangerous, and he could never justify sparing the life of a thief who also killed, which meant that he himself might have to take a life. He had vowed long ago never to do that again.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said, meeting the stranger’s gaze once more.
“If it’s a matter o’ more money…”
Ethan shook his head. “It’s not. I don’t work murders.” He stood. “Please thank Mister Berson for his offer.”
“He asked for ya specifically,” the man said quickly. “And he doesna like bein’ refused. Ya might wan’ t’ consider if Abner Berson is someone ya want as an enemy.”
It wasn’t the threat that stopped him. He had heard far worse in his years as a thieftaker in this city. But the other part… He asked for you specifically.
“Why would he want me?” Ethan asked.
The man shrugged; the expression on his face didn’t change at all. “It’s no’ my place t’ ask. But he did.”
Now that he thought about it, Ethan realized that this should have been his first question. He usually worked for men of middling means-merchants like Corbett, craftsmen like Henry, for whom he had recovered a valuable set of tools before taking the room above his cooperage. Men as wealthy as Berson didn’t come to him. They went to Sephira Pryce. Pryce was better known; she was as wealthy and influential as they were. If word got around Boston that Berson had come to Ethan instead of going to the Empress of the South End, as many called Pryce, both Ethan and the merchant could expect visits from her and her toughs-never an appealing prospect.