Free A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) by D. B. Jackson Page B

he might have found some humor in the turn their conversation had taken. But with all he had seen this morning, he could not. Henry Caner had allowed Trevor to summon him because he believed these robberies to be the work of witches. Robert had already reached a similar conclusion, and others would do the same. It wouldn’t be long before Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf, and perhaps even Thomas Hutchinson, who in less than a month would assume duties as the acting governor of the Province of Massachusetts Bay, heard of these incidents. They, too, would blame “witchery,” and since Ethan was the “witch” they knew best, their suspicions would fall on him.
    “There’s more of them than you think,” the caretaker said, nodding. “Witches, I mean. You mark my word.”
    “Why don’t you show me the rest of the desecrated graves, Robert. And then you can get back to your work.”
    “Right.”
    Robert led Ethan around the burying ground to the other five disturbed graves, including the one Ethan had examined previously. Ethan made a show of looking at the body once more. The caretaker’s horror grew at every stop: Every one of the corpses had been marked on the chest and was missing part of the left foot, as well as the head and right hand. Ethan, of course, was not surprised in the least.
    The clothing on several of the corpses, although not all, had been torn. Ethan assumed that those without tears in their clothes had been wearing cravats, or had been buried with kerchiefs. When they had finished with the last of the graves, Robert led Ethan back to the burying ground entrance. He said not a word as they walked, but halting next to the gate, he looked Ethan in the eye.
    “Who was it you said you was workin’ for?”
    “Reverend Caner of King’s Chapel.”
    “Does that mean you’ll only be guardin’ the buryin’ ground there?”
    “I’ll be looking for whoever did this,” Ethan said. “I don’t care if I find the fiend at King’s Chapel, or Copp’s Hill, or here.” He paused for the span of a breath. “But I can’t be in two places at one time, Robert. And I need to know if the people who did this come back here.”
    “Oh, I’ll be watchin’ for them,” the caretaker said. “You can count on that.”
    “Thank you. If you need to find me for any reason, you can leave a message for me at the Dowsing Rod on Sudbury Street, or at Dall’s cooperage on Cooper’s Alley.”
    “All right. Kaille was it?”
    “Aye. Ethan Kaille.”
    They shook hands again, and Ethan left him, intent on making his way to the Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. He knew what he would find there, but he could not ignore the possibility that someone at the cemetery might aid his inquiry.
    Copp’s Hill was the resting place of many men of note, including Cotton Mather, who had played so central a role in the trials at Salem; who had devoted so many of his sermons to diatribes against the dark evils of witchcraft; and who was also the first and greatest advocate for inoculation against smallpox, which had proven in recent years to be a powerful defense for some against epidemics of the distemper.
    He made his way to the North End as quickly as the old injury to his foot would allow; by the time he reached Copp’s Hill, his limp had grown more pronounced and his leg was aching. Entering the grounds, he saw a cluster of men and women gathered around a gravesite, including a parson, who was administering rites.
    Ethan began yet another search for disturbed graves, making sure to give the mourners a wide berth. Even so, when he found sites that had been desecrated, as he had known he would, he did nothing more than give a cursory examination of the damage done to the coffins. He didn’t dare touch the corpses. Nor did he have to.
    What he saw in these sites resembled in almost every way what he had seen at King’s Chapel and in the Granary Burying Ground. The disturbed graves—seven in all—were the final resting places for men and