“Mister Pell makes his own choices.”
“No, he doesn’t!” Caner said. “He stays here for you, for the adventure you offer him. For years now I’ve begged you to keep away from him. And still-”
“And still you don’t accept that you do so in vain.”
Ethan and Caner both turned toward the back of the chapel, where Pell was emerging from the stairway leading down to the crypts.
Ethan glanced sidelong at Caner. “I thought you said he wasn’t here.”
Pell’s mouth fell open. “Mister Caner! You lied?”
Caner lifted his chin. “I dissembled.” When neither Ethan nor Pell said anything, he added, “Well, he wasn’t here in the sanctuary.”
“Do you have the names yet,” Ethan asked Pell.
“Yes, I wrote them out for you.”
“What names?” Caner asked.
“The dead from the Graystone,” Pell said.
Caner’s gaze flicked from one of them to the other. “You know about that?” he asked Ethan.
“Yes, sir. Geoffrey Brower asked for my assistance with the inquiry.”
“Ah, yes, Brower,” Caner said. “He’s married to your sister, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
The rector started to say more, but couldn’t seem to get the words out. His bow-shaped mouth was frozen in a small “o,” and Ethan could see that the realization had come to him at last. “Do you mean to tell me that … that this was some form of … that witchcraft killed these men?”
“A conjuring,” Ethan said. “Witchcraft is the stuff of children’s nightmares and preachers’ sermons. And yes, that’s precisely what we’re telling you.” He turned back to Pell. “You have the list with you?”
The minister pulled a rolled piece of parchment from within his robes and handed it to Ethan. Ethan opened it and scanned the list, which was not very long-eight names. His eye was drawn to the name about halfway down the page.
“All of these men were from Boston?” he asked.
“Yes, why?”
“There’s a name on here-Caleb Osborne-” He trailed off, shaking his head. It was possible that Osborne still had family here in the city. If so, they might not want it known among Boston’s clergymen that Caleb was a conjurer.
“You know him?” Pell asked.
“I’ve heard others speak of him. Is this his address beside the name?” Ethan asked, trying to read Pell’s scrawl. “Fourteen Wood Lane?”
Pell looked over Ethan’s shoulder. “Yes, that’s right.”
Ethan read through the rest of the list, but he didn’t recognize any other names. “All right.” He stood. “Thank you, Mister Pell, Mister Caner.”
“Have you learned anything yet?” Pell called, as Ethan walked back toward the chapel entrance.
“Yes,” Ethan said. “But I don’t understand any of it.”
Wood Lane was back in the North End, near the waterfront and North Square. Number fourteen was a wheelwright’s shop, not a home, but a worn and rickety stairway along the side of the building led to a weathered gray doorway. Ethan climbed the stairs and knocked once.
He heard quick footsteps and the click of the lock. The door opened a crack, and a woman peered out at him. She was pale and slight, with dark eyes, and brown hair that she wore in a tight bun.
“Yes?” she said, sounding both suspicious and frightened.
“Missus Osborne?”
“Who are you?” the woman asked.
“My name is Ethan Kaille. I’m a thieftaker, and I’m conducting an inquiry for the Customs Board. I wonder if I might speak with you. I won’t take but a few moments of your time.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Your husband.”
She laughed, though the sound was as brittle as dried kindling. “I have no husband.”
“Isn’t this the home of Caleb Osborne?”
“Let him in, Molly,” a second woman said from behind the first.
The first woman looked back over her shoulder. Another moment passed before she opened the door wide and waved Ethan inside.
The room was as small and simple as Ethan’s own. A pair of beds stood near a window that looked out over the narrow yard behind the wheelwright’s shop, and a fire burned in a woodstove near the door. The floors were worn, as was the paint on the walls. A table stood on uneven legs, flanked by two chairs that looked as old as everything else, save for the brightly colored cushions resting on each one.
The second woman stood beside one of these chairs, her hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes were hazel rather than brown, and she wore her hair in a plait rather than a bun. But she resembled in both complexion and stature the woman who had answered the door.
“Did you say your name was Kaille?” this second woman asked.
“That’s right.”
“My name is Hester Osborne,” she said, her tone grave. She indicated the other woman with an open hand. “This is my younger sister, Molly. Caleb Osborne is our father.”
A small, strangled sound escaped Molly, but she looked more frightened than sorrowful. Hester crossed to her sister and took her hand.
“My pardon,” she said. “I meant to say was our father. This has been a difficult day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said. “Both of you have my deepest condolences.”
“Why would the Customs Board be interested in him?”
“They’re interested in learning what happened to his ship.”
“I don’t understand,” the older woman said, still holding her sister’s hand.
As before, Ethan wasn’t certain how much to reveal. “Your father’s death wasn’t the only casualty on board the Graystone. I’m wondering if either of you ever heard your father speak of a man named Simon Gant.”
Molly flinched at the name and sidled closer to her sister. Hester put her arm around the woman.
“That should answer your question,” Hester said.
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Not very much, I’m afraid. He and my father worked together for many years before going off to fight the French. Father didn’t tell any of us-my mother included-what kind of work they did, but I gather that it involved smuggling or thievery or some other kind of mischief. He and my mother fought about it sometimes.”
“Is your mother-?”
“She died some years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Ethan said. After a pause he asked, “Have you seen Simon Gant in the last few days?”
Molly stared at the floor, wringing her hands.
The older sister shook her head. “No, and to be honest I hope I never see him again.”
Ethan couldn’t help thinking that this was a common sentiment where Gant was concerned.
“Well, thank you,” he said. “Again, my deepest sympathies to you both.”
“Thank you, Mister Kaille.”
Ethan turned to leave the room, but didn’t move. Facing the women again, he said, “You told me that Gant and your father worked together. Do you know if they had dealings with Sephira Pryce?”
“Miss Pryce?” Hester said. “No, I would have remembered that. Father never mentioned her.”
A frown creased Ethan’s brow. Each time he thought he had found some useful information he learned something else that left him even more confused than he had been before.
“I see,” he said. “Well again, thank you.”
He let himself out of the room, descended the stairs, and walked out onto Gallop’s Wharf with his hands buried in his pockets. Long Wharf lay to the south, bathed in the warm glow of the late-afternoon sun. The water sparkled, and gulls wheeled overhead. Regulars were still massed on the pier, arrayed in neat columns. Ethan saw no more longboats in the water. A train of artillery had been brought ashore as well, adding to the show of force.
An officer stood near the men barking orders, his voice at this distance mingling with the strident cries of the gulls. Several other officers waited at the base of the wharf; Ethan wondered if the captain he had met at Castle William was among them. As the regulars began to march off the pier, officers took command of smaller units and led them into the streets of Boston.