The Bone Garden

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Now then, Mr. Tate,” cut in Porteous, suddenly realizing he’d just been insulted.

  “How are your accommodations here, Rose?” asked Eben. “Have you your own room, with a fine feather bed?”

  “I give them fresh straw, sir,” said Porteous’s daughter. “Every month.”

  “Oh! Fresh straw! Now there’s something to commend this establishment.”

  The woman looked uneasily at her father. It had managed to penetrate even her thick skull that Eben’s comments were not complimentary.

  Eben took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. Reasonable. “Rose, please consider what I’m offering. If you’re not happy, you can always return here.”

  She thought of the room upstairs, where fourteen lodgers lay wedged together, where the air smelled of piss and unwashed bodies, and your neighbor’s breath reeked of rotting teeth. The boardinghouse where Eben lived was not grand, but it was clean, and she would not be sleeping on straw.

  And he was her family. He was all she had left.

  “Go up and fetch her. Let’s go.”

  “She’s not here.”

  He frowned. “Then where is she?”

  “She stays with a wet nurse. But my bag is upstairs.” She turned toward the steps.

  “Unless it has something of value, leave it! Let’s not waste time.”

  She thought of the fetid room upstairs, and suddenly had no desire to return to it. Not now, not ever. Still, she was sorry to leave without telling Billy.

  She looked at Porteous. “Please tell Billy to bring my bag ’round tomorrow. I’ll pay him for it.”

  “The idiot boy? Does he know where to go?” asked Porteous.

  “The tailor shop. He knows where it is.”

  Eben took her arm. “The night gets colder by the hour.”

  Outside, snowflakes had begun to swirl down from the darkness, fine, stinging flakes that settled treacherously onto cobblestones already slick with ice.

  “Which way to this wet nurse?” Eben asked.

  “’Tis a few streets over.” She pointed. “Not far.”

  Eben picked up the pace, urging her far too quickly on such precarious ground, and she had to cling to his arm as her shoes slipped and skated. Why such haste, she wondered, when a warm room assuredly waited for them? Why, after that impassioned appeal for her forgiveness, had he suddenly fallen silent? He’d called Meggie the baby, she thought. What kind of father doesn’t even know his own daughter’s name? As they drew closer to Hepzibah’s door, she grew more and more uneasy. She’d never trusted Eben before; why should she trust him now?

  She did not stop at Hepzibah’s building, but walked straight past it and turned down another street. Kept leading Eben away from Meggie as she considered why he had really come for her tonight. His grasp offered no warmth, no reassurance, only the cold grip of control.

  “Where is this place?” he demanded.

  “A distance, still.”

  “You said it was close by.”

  “It’s so late, Eben! Must we fetch her now? We’ll wake the household.”

  “She’s my daughter. She belongs with me.”

  “And how will you feed her?”

  “It’s all arranged.”

  “What do you mean, all arranged?”

  He gave her a hard shake. “Just take me to her!”

  Rose had no intention of doing so. Not now, not until she knew what he really wanted. Instead, she continued to lead him away, leaving Meggie far behind them.

  Abruptly Eben jerked her to a stop. “What game are you playing with me, Rose? We’ve gone twice past this very street!”

  “’Tis dark, and these alleys confuse me. If we could wait until morning—”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  She yanked away from him. “A few weeks ago, you cared nothing about your daughter. Now suddenly you can’t wait to get your hands on her. Well, I won’t give her up now, not to you. And there’s nothing you can do to make me.”

  “Maybe nothing I can do,” he says. “But there’s someone else who might convince you.”

  “Who?”

  In answer, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up the street. With Rose stumbling behind him, he headed toward the harbor. “Stop struggling! I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a man who could change your life. If you’re nice to him.” He led her to a building she did not know and knocked on the door.

  It opened, and a middle-aged gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles peered out at them over a flickering lamp. “I was about to give up and leave, Mr. Tate,” he said.

  Eben gave Rose a shove, forcing her ahead of him over the threshold. She heard the bolt slide home behind her.

  “Where is the child?” the man asked.

  “She won’t tell me. I thought you could convince her.”

  “So this is Rose Connolly,” the man said, and she heard London in his voice. An Englishman. He set down the lamp and looked her over with a thoroughness that alarmed her, though he himself was not a particularly alarming sort of man. He was shorter than Eben, and his thick side-whiskers were mostly gray. His topcoat was fashionably cut and well fitted, of fine fabric. Though not physically intimidating, his gaze was coolly formidable and penetrating.

  “So much fuss over this mere girl.”

  “She’s cleverer than she looks,” said Eben.

  “Let’s hope so.” The man started down a hallway. “This way, Mr. Tate. We’ll see what she can tell us.”

  Eben took her arm, his firm grip leaving no doubt that she would go where he directed her. They followed the man into a room where she saw roughly made furniture and a floor scarred by gouges. The shelves were lined with tattered ledgers, the pages yellowed from disuse. In the hearth were only cold ashes. The room did not match the man, whose tailored coat and air of prosperity were better suited to one of the fine homes on Beacon Hill.

  Eben pushed her into a chair. It took only one dark look from him to get his message across: You will sit there. You will not move.

  The older man set the lamp down on a desk, stirring up a puff of dust. “You’ve been in hiding, Miss Connolly,” he said. “Why?”

  “What makes you think I’ve been hiding?”

  “Why else would you call yourself Rose Morrison? That is, I believe, the false name you gave to Mr. Smibart when he hired you as a seamstress.”

  She shot a glare at Eben. “I didn’t wish to encounter my brother-in-law again.”

  “That’s why you changed your name? It had nothing to do with this?” The Englishman reached into his pocket and pulled out something that gleamed in the lamplight. It was Aurnia’s necklace. “I believe you pawned this several weeks ago. Something that did not belong to you.”

  She stared at him in silence.

  “So you did steal it.”

  She could not let that charge go unanswered. “Aurnia gave it to me!”

  “And you so blithely rid yourself of it?”

  “She deserved a decent burial. I had no other way to pay for it.”

  The Englishman glanced at Eben. “You didn’t tell me that. She had a good reason to pawn it.”

  “It still wasn’t hers,” said Eben.

  “And it sounds like it wasn’t yours, either, Mr. Tate.” The man looked at Rose. “Did your sister ever tell you where she got this necklace?”

  “I used to think it was Eben. But he’s too cheap.”

  The Englishman ignored Eben’s glower and kept his focus on Rose. “So she never told you where she got it?” he asked.

  “Why does it matter?” she shot back.

  “This is a valuable piece of jewelry, Miss Connolly. Only someone of means could have afforded it.”

  “Now you’ll claim Aurnia stole it. You’re with the Night Watch, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Who are you?”

  Eben gave her a hard slap on the shoulder. “Show some respect!”


  “For a man who won’t even tell me his name?”

  For her impudence, Eben raised his hand to deliver another blow, but the Englishman cut in: “There’s no need for violence, Mr. Tate!”

  “But you see what kind of girl she is! That’s what I’ve had to put up with.”

  The Englishman moved toward Rose, his gaze boring into her face. “I’m not with the local authorities, if that’s any reassurance.”

  “Then why do you ask me these questions?”

  “I work for a client who shall remain nameless. I’m charged with the gathering of information. Information that, I’m afraid, only you can provide.”

  She gave a disbelieving laugh. “I’m a seamstress, sir. Ask me about buttons or bows, and I’ll have an answer for you. Other than that, I don’t see how I can help.”

  “But you can help me. You’re the only one.” He moved in so close she could smell sweet tobacco on his breath. “Where is your sister’s child? Where is the baby?”

  “He doesn’t deserve her.” She glanced at Eben. “What sort of father signs away the rights to his own daughter?”

  “Just tell me where she is.”

  “She’s safe and she’s fed. That’s all he needs to know. Instead o’ paying a pretty penny for a fancy lawyer, he could’ve bought his girl milk and a warm crib.”

  “Is that what you think? That I’m in Mr. Tate’s employ?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  The Englishman gave a startled laugh. “Heavens, no!” he said, and she saw the angry flush of Eben’s face. “I work for someone else, Miss Connolly. Someone who wants very much to know where the child is.” He brought his face even closer, and she drew away, her back pressing into the chair. “Where is the baby?”

  Rose sat silent, suddenly thinking of that day in St. Augustine’s cemetery, when Aurnia’s grave had yawned at her feet. Mary Robinson had appeared like a ghost from the mist, her face pale and taut, her gaze ceaselessly scanning the graveyard. There are people inquiring about the child. Keep her hidden. Keep her safe.

  “Miss Connolly?”

  She felt her own pulse throbbing in her neck as his gaze bore even deeper. She remained silent.

  To her relief, he straightened and wandered to the other end of the room, where he casually ran a finger across a bookshelf and looked at the dust he’d picked up. “Mr. Tate tells me you’re a clever girl. Is that true?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “I think you’re entirely too modest.” He turned and looked at her. “What a shame that a girl with your intelligence is forced to live so close to the edge. Your shoes look as if they’re falling apart. And that cloak—when was it last washed? Surely, you deserve better.”

  “So do many others.”

  “Ah, but you are the one being offered an opportunity here.”

  “Opportunity?”

  “A thousand dollars. If you bring me the child.”

  She was stunned. That much money could buy a room in a fine lodging house with hot meals every night. New clothes and a warm coat, not this cloak with its tattered hem. All the tempting luxuries she could only dream about.

  All I have to do is surrender Meggie.

  “I can’t help you,” she said.

  Eben’s blow came so quickly that the other man had no time to intervene. The impact made Rose’s head snap sideways and she cringed in the chair, her cheek throbbing.

  “That was not necessary, Mr. Tate!”

  “You see how she is, though?”

  “You can get more cooperation with a carrot than with a stick.”

  “Well, she just turned down the carrot.”

  Rose lifted her head and stared at Eben with undisguised hatred. No matter what they offered her, be it a thousand or ten thousand dollars, she would never give away her own flesh and blood.

  The Englishman now stood before her, eyeing her face, where a bruise was surely starting to form. She didn’t fear a blow from him; this man, she guessed, was far more accustomed to using words and cash as his tools of persuasion, and left the violence to other men.

  “Let’s try again,” he said to Rose.

  “Or you’ll have him hit me again?”

  “I do apologize for that.” He looked at Eben. “Leave the room.”

  “But I know her better than anyone! I can tell you when she’s—”

  “Leave the room.”

  Eben shot Rose a poisonous look, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  The man reached for a chair and dragged it over to Rose’s. “Now, Miss Connolly,” he said, sitting down to face her. “You know it’s only a matter of time until we find her. Save us all the trouble and you’ll be well rewarded.”

  “Why is she so important to you?”

  “Not to me. To my client.”

  “Who is this client?”

  “Someone who cares about the child’s welfare. Who wants her to stay alive and healthy.”

  “Are you saying Meggie’s in danger?”

  “Our concern is that you may be. And if something happens to you, we’ll never find the child.”

  “Now you’re threatening me?” She forced a laugh, displaying a recklessness she did not really feel. “You’ve given up on the carrot, and you’re back to the stick.”

  “You mistake my meaning.” He leaned forward, his face deadly serious. “Both Agnes Poole and Mary Robinson are dead. You do know that?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “You were a witness the night Agnes Poole died. You saw the killer. And he certainly knows that.”

  “Everyone knows who the killer is,” she said. “I heard it yesterday, on the streets. Dr. Berry has fled town.”

  “Yes, that’s what the newspapers have reported. Dr. Nathaniel Berry lived in the West End. He knew the two victims. He tried to kill a third—a prostitute, who claims she had to flee for her life. Now Dr. Berry’s gone missing, so of course he must be the Reaper.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “Do you believe everything you hear on the street?”

  “But if he isn’t the killer…”

  “Then the West End Reaper may still be in Boston, and he could very well know your identity. After what happened to Mary Robinson, I’d be looking over my shoulder if I were you. We were able to find you, and so could anyone else. Which is why I’m so concerned about your niece’s welfare. You’re the only one who knows the baby’s whereabouts. If anything happened to you…” He paused. “A thousand dollars, Miss Connolly. It would help you leave Boston. Help you find a comfortable new home. Give us the child, and the money’s yours.”

  She said nothing. Mary Robinson’s last words to her kept echoing in her head: Keep her hidden. Keep her safe.

  Weary of her silence, the man finally stood. “Should you change your mind, you can find me here.” He placed a calling card in her hand, and she stared down at the printed name.

  Mr. Gareth Wilson

  5 Park Street, Boston

  “You’d do well to consider my offer,” he said. “And to consider, too, the welfare of the child. In the meantime, Miss Connolly, do be careful. You never know what monster might be searching for you.” He walked out, leaving her alone in that cold and dusty room, her gaze still fixed on the card.

  “Are you insane, Rose?”

  She looked up at the sound of Eben’s voice, and saw him standing in the doorway.

  “That’s more money than you’ll ever see! How dare you refuse it?”

  Staring into his eyes, she suddenly understood why he cared. Why he was involved. “He promised you money, too, didn’t he?” she said. “How much?”

  “Enough to make it worth it.”

  “Worth giving up your child?”

  “Haven’t you figured it out? She’s not my child.”

  “Aurnia would never—”

  “Aurnia did. I thought it was mine, and that’s the only reason I married her. But time tells the truth, Rose. It told me what kind of woman I really mar
ried.”

  She shook her head, still not willing to believe it.

  “Whoever the father is,” said Eben, “he wants that child. And he has enough to pay whatever it takes.”

  Money enough for a lawyer, she thought. Money enough to buy his mistress a fine necklace. Maybe even enough to buy silence. For what fine gentleman wants it known that he’s fathered a child with a poor seamstress only a year out of Ireland?

  “Take the money,” said Eben.

  She stood. “I’d starve before I give her up.”

  He followed her out of the room, to the front door. “You don’t have much choice! How’re you going to feed yourself? Keep a roof over your head?”

  As she stepped outside, he yelled: “This time they were gentle with you, but next time you won’t be so lucky!”

  To her relief, Eben didn’t follow her. The night had grown even colder, and she shivered as she retraced her steps to Fishery Alley. The streets were deserted, and invisible fingers of wind swept the snow in swirling furrows before her feet. Suddenly she halted and looked back. Had she just heard footsteps? She peered into the stinging mist, but saw no one behind her. Don’t go near Meggie, not tonight. They may be watching you. Quickening her pace, she continued toward Fishery Alley, eager to escape the wind. What a fool she’d been to let Eben lure her from the relative comfort, poor though it was, of her lodging house. Poor Dim Billy was a better man, a truer friend, than Eben would ever be.

  She made her way into the maze of South Boston. The cold had swept all sensible people off the streets, and as she passed a tavern, she heard the voices of men who’d gathered inside to escape the cold. Through the steamed windows she saw their silhouettes against the firelight. She did not linger, but walked on, hoping that old Porteous and his daughter had not already barred the door. Even her poor pile of straw, her patch of floor among the unwashed bodies, seemed a luxury this night, and she should not have so easily surrendered it. The sounds of the tavern faded behind her and she heard only the whistle of the wind through the narrow passage and the rush of her own breath. Fishery Alley was just around the next corner, and like a horse who has sighted its stable and knows that shelter lies ahead, she quickened her pace and almost skidded across the stones. She caught herself against a wall, and was just straightening when she heard the sound.