The Bone Garden: A Novel

by Tess Gerritsen

  — Norris, if you go to the hospital, I must warn you what to expect. —

  Norris turned to face him. — What? —

  — There's talk, you see, among the patients and staff. People are wondering about you. They're afraid. —

  — They think I killed her? —

  — The trustees have been speaking with Mr. Pratt. —

  — They aren't listening to his rubbish? —

  — They have no choice but to listen. They're responsible for enforcing order in the hospital. They can discipline any doctor on the staff. Certainly they can banish a lowly medical student from the wards. —

  — Then how would I learn? How would I pursue my studies? —

  — Dr. Crouch is trying to reason with them. And Dr. Grenville has argued against the ban as well. But there are others —

  — Others? —

  — Rumors, among the patients' families. And on the streets as well. —

  — What are they saying? —

  — The fact that her tongue was removed has convinced some that the killer is a medical student. —

  — Or someone who's butchered animals, — said Norris. — And I am both. —

  — I just came to tell you how things stood. That people are well, afraid of you. —

  — And why aren't you afraid of me? Why do you assume I'm innocent? —

  — I don't assume anything. —

  Norris gave a bitter laugh. — Oh, there's a loyal friend. —

  — Damn it, this is exactly what a friend would do! He'd tell you the truth. That your future's in jeopardy. — Wendell turned toward the door. There he paused and looked at Norris. — You have more bull-headed pride than any son of wealth I've ever met, and you use it to paint the whole world black. I don't need a friend like you. I don't even want a friend like you. — He yanked open the door.

  — Wendell. —

  — You'd be wise to speak to Dr. Crouch. And give him credit for defending you. Because he, at least, deserves it. —

  — Wendell, I'm sorry, — said Norris. And he sighed. — I'm not accustomed to assuming the best of people. —

  — So you assume the worst? —

  — I'm seldom disappointed. —

  — Then you need a better circle of acquaintances. —

  At that, Norris laughed. He sat down on the bed and rubbed his face. — I daresay you're right. —

  Wendell closed the door and came toward him. — What are you going to do? —

  — Against rumors? What can I do? The more I insist I'm innocent, the more guilty I look. —

  — You have to do something. This is your future. —

  And it hung by a thread. All it took was a few doubts, a few whispers, and the hospital trustees would ban him permanently from the wards. How easily a reputation is soiled, thought Norris. Suspicion would cling to him like a bloodstained cloak, frightening away all prospects, all opportunities, until the only path left to him was back to his father's farm. To a home shared with a cold and joyless man.

  — Until this killer is caught, — said Wendell, — everyone's eyes will be on you. —

  Norris looked down at his stained greatcoat, and with a chill, he remembered the creature standing above the riverbank, staring down at him. I did not imagine him.

  Rose Connolly saw him, too.

  Fifteen

  ANOTHER WEEK of this bitter cold, thought Wall-eyed Jack, and the soil will be too frozen to dig. Soon they'd be storing the corpses in vaults above the ground, awaiting the spring thaw. There'd be heavy locks to get past, groundskeepers to bribe, a whole new set of complications to match the change in the weather. For Jack, it wasn't the blooming of apple blossoms or the autumn tumble of leaves that marked the cycling of the seasons; no, it was the quality of the dirt. In April, there was mud to contend with, so thick and greedy it would suck the boots right off your feet. In August, the clods were dry and crumbled easily to warm dust in his fist, a good time to dig, except that every scoop of the shovel would stir up an angry cloud of mosquitoes. In January, the shovel would ring like a bell if you hacked at the frozen ground, and the impact, pounding through the handle, would make your hands ache. Even a tended fire set upon the grave could take days to thaw the soil. Few corpses were buried in January.

  But at the end of autumn, there were still riches to harvest.

  So he guided his dray through the thickening dusk, the wooden wheels crackling over a thin crust of frozen mud. At this hour, on this lonely road, he met no one. Across a cornfield littered with brown and broken stalks, he saw a glimmer of candlelight in a farmhouse window, but no movement, and he heard no sounds save for the clop of the horse's hooves and the snapping of ice beneath the wagon wheels. This was farther than he liked to journey on such a bitter night, but he'd been left few choices. Grave watchers were now stationed at the Old Granary burying grounds, and at Copp's Hill on the North Side. Even the lonely cemetery at Roxbury Crossing was now patrolled. Every month, it seemed, he was forced farther and farther afield. There'd been a time when he'd needed to travel no farther than the Central Burying Ground on the Common. There, on a moonless night, with a team of fast diggers, he had his choice of paupers and papists and old soldiers. Whether rich or poor, a corpse was a corpse, and all brought the same coin. The anatomists did not care whether the flesh they cut was well fed or consumptive.

  But the medical students had since spoiled that source, as well as most of the other nearby burying grounds, with their careless digging, their sloppy attempts at concealment. They showed up at cemeteries fueled with drink and bravado, and they left behind ruined graves and trampled earth, the evidence of desecration so blatant that even the paupers soon guarded their dead. Those damn students had ruined it for the professionals. Once, he could make a good living. But tonight, instead of a quick snatch, Jack was forced to drive on this endless back road, dreading the labors ahead. And all alone, too; with so few pickings these days, he was loath to pay a partner. No, tonight, he'd have to do it all by himself. He only hoped that any fresh grave he found was the work of diggers too lazy to bury their charge the full six feet.

  There'd be no such shoddy grave for his body.

  Wall-eyed Jack knew exactly how he'd be buried. He'd planned it well. Ten feet down, with an iron cage around him, and a watcher hired to guard him for thirty days. Long enough for his flesh to spoil. He had seen the work of the anatomists' knives. He'd been paid to dispose of the remains after they'd finished their hacking and sawing, and he had no desire to be reduced to a heap of severed limbs. No doctor would ever touch his body, he thought; already he was saving for his own burial, and he kept his treasure stashed in a box beneath the bedroom floor. Fanny knew what sort of grave he wanted, and he'd leave her enough to see it was done right, done proper.

  If you had enough money, you could buy anything. Even protection from a man like Jack.

  The low wall of the cemetery was ahead. He pulled his horse to a halt and paused in the road, scanning the shadows. The moon had fallen behind the horizon, and only stars lit the graveyard. He reached back for his shovel and lantern, and jumped off the dray. His boots crunched onto frost-heaved dirt. His legs were stiff from the long ride, and he felt clumsy as he scrambled over the stone wall, the lantern and shovel clanging together.

  It did not take long for him to locate a fresh grave. The lantern light revealed a mound of turned soil not yet crusted over by ice. He glanced at the headstones on adjoining graves, to confirm which way the body would be oriented. Then he sank his shovel in the soil where the head would be. After only a few scoops of dirt, he was short of breath. He had to pause, wheezing in the cold, regretting that he had not brought along that young Norris Marshall. But damned if he'd relinquish even a dollar to another man when he could do the job himself.

  Once again he sank the shovel into the dirt and was about to lift the next scoop when a shout made him freeze.

  — There he is! Get him! —

  Three lanterns were bobbing
toward him, closing in so fast that he had no time to extinguish his light. In panic, he abandoned the lamp right there and fled, carrying only the shovel. Darkness hid his path, and every gravestone was an obstacle waiting to trip him like bony hands, preventing his escape. The cemetery itself seemed to be taking its revenge on him for all his past outrages. He tripped and fell to his knees, onto ice that cracked like glass.

  — Over there! — came a shout.

  A gun fired, and Jack felt the bullet hiss past his cheek. He lurched to his feet and scrambled over the stone wall, abandoning the shovel wherever it had fallen. As he climbed into the dray, another bullet whistled by so close he felt it flick his hair.

  — He's getting away! —

  One crack of the whip and the horse took off, the dray rattling wildly behind it. Jack heard one last gunshot, and then his pursuers fell behind, their lights fading into the darkness.

  By the time he finally pulled the horse to a stop, it was wheezing, and he knew that if he did not let it rest he would lose it, too, as he had his shovel and his lantern. And then where would he be, a tradesman without his tools?

  A trade he was getting too old for.

  Tonight was a complete loss. And what of tomorrow, and the night after? He thought of the cash box under the bedroom floor, and the money he had saved. Not enough, it was never enough. There was the future to think of, his and Fanny's. If they could hold on to the tavern, they would not starve. But that was a bleak old age, if the best you could look forward to was at least we will not starve.

  Even that was not assured. A man can always starve. A chimney fire, a stray hot cinder from the hearth, and the Black Spar, the establishment that Fanny's father had left them, would be gone. Then it would be up to Jack to keep them fed, a burden he was less and less able to bear as the years went by. It was not just that his knees were bad and his back ached; it was the business itself. New medical schools were springing up everywhere, and students needed corpses. Demand was up, bringing new snatchers into the trade. And they were younger, quicker, and more daring.

  They had strong backs.

  A week ago, Jack had shown up at Dr. Sewall's with a sadly deteriorated specimen— the best he could find that night. He'd seen six barrels in the courtyard, each stamped with the label: PICKLES.

  — Those were just delivered, — Sewall had told him as he counted out the money. — In good condition, too. —

  — This is only fifteen dollars, — Jack had complained, looking at the money Sewall handed him.

  — Your specimen's already rotting, Mr. Burke. —

  — I expect twenty. —

  — I paid twenty apiece for the ones in the barrels, — Sewall said. — They're in much better shape, and I can get them six at a time. All the way up from New York. —

  To hell with New York, thought Jack as he huddled, shivering, in the dray. Where do I find a source in Boston? Not enough people were dying. What they needed was a good plague, something to clean out the slums in Southie and Charlestown. No one would miss that rabble. For once, let the Irish be good for something. Let them make him rich. To get rich, Jack Burke would sell his soul.

  Maybe he already had.

  By the time he got back to the Black Spar, his limbs were stiff, and he could barely climb out of the wagon. He stabled the horse, stamped the frozen clods from his boots, and walked wearily into the tavern, wanting nothing more than a seat by the fire and a glass of brandy. But as soon as he sank into a chair, he felt Fanny eyeing him from behind the counter. He ignored her, ignored everyone, and stared into the flames, waiting for the feeling to return to his numb toes. The establishment was almost empty; the cold had kept away their few regulars, and tonight only the most wretched of wanderers had been swept in from the streets. One man stood at the bar, digging desperately in filthy pockets for filthy coins. Nothing could dull the sting of a night this cold like a few precious ounces of rum. At a corner, another man had laid down his head, and his snores were loud enough to rattle the empty glasses that littered his table.

  — You're back early. —

  Jack looked up at Fanny, who stood over him, her gaze narrow with questions.

  — Not a good night — was all he said. He drained his glass.

  — You think I've had a good night here? —

  — Least you've spent it by the fire. —

  — With this lot? — She snorted. — Not worth the trouble of unlocking the door. —

  — Another flip! — the man at the bar yelled.

  — Show me your coins first, — shot back Fanny.

  — I have 'em. They're somewhere in these pockets. —

  — Haven't come up with 'em yet. —

  — Have a little pity, missus. It's a cold night. —

  — And you'll be out in it straightaway if you can't pay for another drink. — She looked back at Jack. — You came back empty-handed, didn't you? —

  He shrugged. — They had watchers. —

  — You didn't try some other place? —

  — Couldn't. Had to leave behind the shovel. And the lamp. —

  — You couldn't even bring home your own tools? —

  He slammed down his glass. — That's enough! —

  She leaned in closer. Said, softly: — There are easier ways to make money, Jack. You know that. Let me put out the word, and you'll have all the work you need. —

  — And get hanged for it? — He shook his head. — I'll stick to my own profession, thank you. —

  — You come home empty-handed more often than not these days. —

  — The picking's aren't good. —

  — That's all I hear you say. —

  — Because they aren't. They just get worse. —

  — You think my trade is doing any better? — She jerked her head toward the nearly deserted room. — They've all moved on to the Mermaid. Or the Plough and Star, or to Coogan's. Another year like this and we won't be able to keep it. —

  — Missus? — the man at the bar called. — I know I have the money. Just one more, and I promise I'll pay you next time. —

  Fanny wheeled around at him in fury. — Your promise is worthless! You can't pay, you can't stay. Get out. — She stomped toward him and grabbed him by the jacket. — Go on, get out! — she roared.

  — Surely you can spare one drink. —

  — Not one bloody drop! — She hauled the man across the room, yanked open the door, and shoved him out into the cold. She slammed the door, then turned, panting and red-faced. When Fanny was angry, it was a terrifying sight to behold, and even Jack shrank into his chair, quailing at what might happen next. Her gaze landed on the lone customer still remaining, the man who had fallen asleep at the corner table.

  — You, too! It's time to leave! —

  The man did not stir.

  Being ignored was the final affront, one that made Fanny's face flush purple and the muscles bulge in her stout arms. — We're closed! Go! — She crossed to the man and gave him a hard cuff on the shoulder. But instead of waking, he rolled sideways and toppled off his chair, onto the floor.

  For a moment, Fanny just stared down in disgust at his gaping mouth, his lolling tongue. A frown creased her forehead and she leaned in, shoving her face so close that Jack thought she was going to kiss the man.

  — He ain't breathing, Jack, — she said.

  — What? —

  She looked up. — You give him a look. —

  Jack hauled himself out of the chair and groaned as he knelt beside the man.

  — You seen enough corpses, — she said. — You oughta be able to tell. —

  Jack looked into the man's open eyes. Drool glistened on purple lips. When had he stopped snoring? When had the corner table fallen silent? Death had crept in so furtively they hadn't even noticed its entrance.

  He looked up at Fanny. — What's his name? —

  — I dunno. —

  — You know who he is? —

  — Just some blow-in from the wharves. Walked in a
lone. —

  Jack straightened, his back aching. He looked at Fanny. — You strip off his clothes. I'll go harness the horse. —

  He didn't need to explain a thing to her; she met his gaze with a nod, a canny glint in her eye.

  — We'll earn our twenty dollars after all, — he said.

  Sixteen

  The present

  — RESURRECTIONIST, — said Henry, — is an old word, no longer used. Most people today have no idea that it refers to a grave robber or a body snatcher. —

  — And Norris Marshall was one of them, — said Julia.

  — Only by necessity. It was clearly not his trade. —

  They sat at the dining table, the pages of the newly discovered letter from Oliver Wendell Holmes spread out beside their coffee cups and breakfast muffins. Although it was well past midmorning, the fog still hung thick outside the sea windows, and Henry had turned on all the lamps to brighten the murky room.

  — Fresh corpses were valuable commodities in those days. So valuable, in fact, that there was a booming trade in them. All to supply the new medical schools that were popping up around the country. — Henry shuffled over to one of his bookcases. From the yellowing volumes on the shelves, he pulled down a book and brought it back to the dining table where he and Julia had been reading over breakfast. — You must understand what it was like to be an American medical student in 1830. There were no real standards, no official certification for medical schools. Some were decent, others little more than moneymaking schemes to suck up tuition fees. —

  — And the college that Dr. Holmes and Norris Marshall attended? —

  — Boston Medical College was one of the better ones. But even their students had to scramble for cadavers. A wealthy student could pay a resurrectionist to obtain a corpse for study. But if you were poor, like Mr. Marshall, you had to go out and dig up a body yourself. It appears this was also the way he paid for his tuition. —

  Julia shuddered. — Now, there's a work-study program I wouldn't want any part of. —