The Bone Garden: A Novel

by Tess Gerritsen

  A man might lose his taste for drink over that.

  Too many of those barrels were coming up from Virginia and the Carolinas these days. Male or female, black or white, the merchandise found a ready market in all the medical schools, whose ravenous appetite for cadavers seemed only to grow every year. He could see how the business was going. He had seen the barrels in Dr. Sewall's yard and knew they didn't contain cucumber pickles. The competition had grown fierce, and Jack had a vision of endless trains, car after car loaded with just such barrels, bringing the southern dead, at twenty-five dollars apiece, to the dissection parlors of Boston and New York and Philadelphia. How could he compete with that?

  Far easier to earn it the way he was doing today, walking in broad daylight, with clean boots, up Water Street. Not the finest neighborhood, but good enough for tradesmen, who were out in this clear, chill morning, their wagons filled with bricks or lumber or dry goods. It was a workingman's street, and the shop he arrived at should certainly cater to a workingman's taste and needs. But displayed behind the dusty glass was an evening coat that no workingman could possibly make use of. It was fashioned from brilliant crimson cloth and trimmed with gold lace, a coat that forced you to stop right there on the street and dream of a better life. A coat that said: Even a man like you can look like a prince. A useless thing for a tradesman, and the tailor certainly knew it, but he had chosen to display it anyway, as if to announce that he was destined for a better neighborhood.

  A bell tinkled as Jack walked into the shop. Inside, far more commonplace items were displayed: cotton shirts and pantaloons and a dark cloth roundabout coat. Even a tailor with delusions of grandeur must cater to the practical needs of his clientele. While Jack stood breathing in the smell of wool and the acrid tang of dye, a dark-haired man with a neatly trimmed mustache emerged from the back room. The man looked Jack up and down, as if mentally taking his measure for a suit. He was smartly dressed, his jacket well fitted to his trim waist, and although he was not particularly tall, he had the ramrod posture of one who has an exaggerated impression of his own stature.

  — Good morning, sir. May I be of service? — the tailor inquired.

  — Are you Mr. Eben Tate? — asked Jack.

  — Yes, I am. —

  Though Jack was wearing his good coat and a clean shirt, he had the distinct feeling that Mr. Tate had judged his clothes and found them wanting.

  Eben said: — A good selection of reasonably priced woolen cloth has just come in from the Lowell mills. It would do quite nicely for a new greatcoat. —

  Jack looked down at his own coat and saw no reason why he would want a new one.

  — Or perhaps you're in need of a topcoat or shirt? I can offer you some quite practical styles, something that would suit your profession. Which is ? —

  — I'm not in the market for anything, — growled Jack, offended that with just one look, this stranger had pegged him as a customer in need of something practical and reasonably priced. — I'm here to ask you about a certain someone. Someone you know. —

  Eben's attention remained focused on Jack's barrel chest, as though he was estimating how many yards of cloth were required.

  — I'm a tailor, Mr.— —

  — Burke. —

  — Mr. Burke. If you're interested in a shirt or pantaloons, I can certainly help you. But I make it a point to avoid needless gossip, so I doubt I'm the one you want to speak to. —

  — It's about Rose Connolly. Do you know where I can find her? —

  To Jack's surprise, Eben gave a laugh. — You, too, eh? —

  — What? —

  — Everyone seems to be interested in Rose. —

  Jack was confused. How many others had been hired to find her? How much competition did he have? — Well, where is she? — he asked.

  — I don't know and I don't care. —

  — Wasn't she your wife's sister? —

  — I still don't care. I'm embarrassed to admit she's any relation of mine. A piece of trash, that one, spreading lies about me. And a thief, too. That's what I told the Night Watch. — He paused. — You're not with the Watch, are you? —

  Jack avoided the question. — How can I find her? —

  — What's she done now? —

  — Just tell me where to find her. —

  — Last I knew, she was staying in some rathole down in Fishery Alley. —

  — She's not there anymore. Hasn't been there in days. —

  — Then I can't help you. Now, if you'll excuse me. — Eben turned and vanished into the back room.

  Jack remained where he was, frustrated by this impasse. And worried about the possibility that some other party might track down the girl before he did. Would he still be paid the finder's fee? Or would he have to be satisfied with what he'd already received? A generous sum, to be sure, but it wasn't enough.

  It was never enough.

  He stared at the doorway through which that prig of a tailor had retreated. — Mr. Tate? — he called.

  — I've told you what I know! — came the answer, but not the man.

  — There's money in it for you. —

  That was the magic word. In two heartbeats, Eben was out of the back room. — Money? —

  How quickly two men can have a meeting of the minds. Their gazes met, and Jack thought: Here's a fellow who understands what's important.

  — Twenty dollars, — said Jack. — Find her for me. —

  — For twenty dollars, it's hardly worth my time. Anyway, I told you. I don't know where she is. —

  — Does she have any friends? Anyone who might know? —

  — Just that half-wit. —

  — Who? —

  — Skinny boy. Everyone knows him. Hangs around the West End, begging for pennies. —

  — You mean Dim Billy. —

  — That's the one. He was lodging with her over on Fishery Alley. Came around here looking for her. Brought her bag over, thinking she'd be with me. —

  — So Billy doesn't know where she is, either? —

  — No. But he's got a nose on him. — Eben laughed. — May be a half-wit, but he's good at finding things. —

  And I know where to find Billy, thought Jack as he turned to leave.

  — Wait, Mr. Burke! You said there was money involved. —

  — For useful information. But it has to be useful. —

  — What if I found her myself? —

  — You just let me know, and I'll see you get paid. —

  — Who's providing the fee? Who's paying you? —

  Jack shook his head. — Believe me, Mr. Tate, — he said. — You're better off not knowing. —

  BODY OF DR. BERRY FOUND

  A most shocking turn of events has transpired in the search for the West End Reaper. On Sunday afternoon at one o'clock, two young boys playing along the Charles River discovered a man's body beneath the West Boston Bridge. Authorities have identified the corpse as none other than Dr. Nathaniel Berry, who vanished from his post as house physician earlier this month. A most appalling and clearly deliberate wound to his abdomen has been accepted as proof that this was not a suicide.

  Dr. Berry was the subject of an extensive manhunt from Maine to Georgia, in connection with the recent slayings of two nurses at the hospital where he was employed. The sheer brutality of their deaths has evoked terror throughout the region, and the sudden disappearance of the doctor was interpreted by Constable Lyons of the Night Watch as a convincing indication of Dr. Berry's guilt in the matter. Dr. Berry's death now raises the disturbing likelihood that the West End Reaper remains at large.

  This reporter can reveal on good authority that another suspect is currently under investigation, one who has been described as a young man in possession of both surgical and butchering skills. This gentleman, moreover, resides in the West End. Rumors that he is currently enrolled as a student at the Boston Medical College cannot be confirmed.

  From gentleman to leper in the span of a single day, thought N
orris, as he watched the front page of the Daily Advertiser flutter past him down the street. Was there anyone of consequence in Boston who had not read that damning article? Anyone who could not guess the identity of the — young man in possession of both surgical and butchering skills —? This morning, when he had walked into the auditorium for morning lectures, he'd noticed the startled glances and heard the sharp intakes of breath. No one had directly challenged his attendance. How could they, when he had not been formally charged with any crime? No, the gentleman's way of dealing with scandal was with whispers and innuendo, both of which he must now endure. Soon, his ordeal would end one way or another. After the Christmas holiday, Dr. Grenville and the school trustees would render their decision and Norris would know if he still had a place in the college

  For now he was reduced to this: skulking on Park Street, spying on the one man who might know the Reaper's identity.

  He and Rose had been watching the house all afternoon, and now the fading light took with it the day's last blush of color, leaving only dreary shades of gray. Across the street was Number Five, one of eight imposing row houses that faced the skeletal trees of the snow-blanketed Common. So far they had caught not even a glimpse of Mr. Gareth Wilson or of any visitors. Wendell's inquiries about the man had turned up little information, only that he'd recently returned from London, and that his Park Street home stood vacant for most of the year.

  Who is your client, Mr. Wilson? Who paid you to track down a baby, to terrify a friendless girl?

  The door to Number Five suddenly opened.

  Rose whispered: — It's him. It's Gareth Wilson. —

  The man was warmly dressed in a black beaver hat and a voluminous greatcoat. He paused outside his front door to pull on black gloves, then began to walk briskly up Park Street in the direction of the State House.

  Norris's gaze followed the man. — Let's see where he goes. —

  They allowed Wilson to reach the end of the block of row houses before falling into step behind him. At the State House, Wilson turned west and began to make his way up into the maze of the Beacon Hill neighborhood.

  Norris and Rose followed him past stately brick homes and winter-bare linden trees. It was quiet here, too quiet, and only an occasional carriage rattled past. Their quarry gave no indication that he realized he was being followed, and walked at a leisurely pace, leaving behind the fine homes of Chestnut Street to wend his way into more modest territory— not where a gentleman with an affluent Park Street address would normally be wandering.

  When Wilson abruptly turned into narrow Acorn Street, Norris wondered if the man had suddenly realized he was being followed. Why else would Wilson visit this tiny alley, occupied by mere coachmen and retainers?

  In the dim light of dusk, Wilson was almost invisible as he walked down the shadowy passage. He stopped at a door and knocked. A moment later the door opened, and they heard a man say: — Mr. Wilson! It's a pleasure to see you back in Boston after all these months. —

  — Have the others arrived? —

  — Not everyone, but they'll be here. This dreadful business has made us all quite anxious. —

  Wilson stepped into the house, and the door swung shut.

  It was Rose who made the next move, walking boldly up the alley as though she belonged there. Norris followed her to the doorway, and they stared up at the house. It was neither distinctive nor grand, just one in a row of anonymous brick houses. Above the doorway was a massive lintel, and in the fading light, Norris could just make out the symbols carved in the granite.

  — Someone else is coming, — whispered Rose. Quickly she looped her arm in his, and they walked away, bodies pressed together like lovers, their backs turned to the man who had just entered the alley behind them. They heard a knock on the door.

  The same voice that had greeted Gareth Wilson now said: — We wondered if you'd make it. —

  — I apologize for the state of my apparel, but I came straight from a patient's sickbed. —

  Norris came to a halt, too shocked to take another step. Slowly, he turned. Though he could not see the man's face through the shadows, he could make out a familiar silhouette, the broad shoulders filling out the generous greatcoat. Even after the man had stepped into the house, and the door swung shut, Norris stood rooted to the spot. It cannot be.

  — Norris? — Rose tugged on his arm. — What is it? —

  He stared up the alley at the doorway through which the new visitor had just entered. — I know that man, — he said.

  Dim Billy is an apt name for the boy who now shambles down the alley, his shoulders hunched forward, his neck extended like a stork's as he stares at the ground, as though in search of some treasure that he's lost. A penny perhaps, or a stray bit of tin, something that no one else would give a second glance to. But Billy Piggott is not like anyone else, or so Jack Burke said. A useless half-wit, Burke called the boy, a stray who wanders the streets always in search of a free meal, just like the equally stray black mutt who so often trots at the boy's heels. A half-wit the boy might be, but he is not entirely useless.

  He is the key to finding Rose Connolly.

  Until recently, Billy had lodged with Rose in a rathole on Fishery Alley. The boy must know where to find her.

  And tonight, Dim Billy will almost certainly talk.

  The boy suddenly stops and his head jerks up. Somehow he's sensed the presence of another in his alley, and his gaze seeks out a face. — Who's there? — he calls out. But his attention isn't focused on the shadow in the doorway; instead he looks at the far end of the alley, where a silhouette has just appeared, backlit by the glow of a streetlamp.

  — Billy! — a man calls.

  The boy stands still, facing the encroaching intruder. — What d'ya want with me? —

  — I just want to talk to you. —

  — About what, Mr. Tate? —

  — About Rose. — Eben moves closer. — Where is she, boy? —

  — I don't know. —

  — Come on, Billy. You do know. —

  — No I don't! And you can't make me tell you! —

  — She's my own family. I only want to speak to her. —

  — You hit her. You're mean to her. —

  — Is that what she told you? And you believe her? —

  — She only tells me the truth. —

  — That's what she'd have you believe. — Eben's voice turns smooth, coaxing. — There's money in it for you if you help me find her. Even more if you help me find the baby. —

  — She says if I tell, they'll kill Meggie. —

  — So you do know where she is. —

  — She's just a baby, and babies can't fight back. —

  — Babies need milk, Billy. They need tender care. I can buy it for her. —

  Billy backs away. Idiot though he is, he can hear the insincerity in Eben Tate's voice. — I ain't talking to you. —

  — Where is Rose? — Eben advances. — Come back here! —

  But the boy scrabbles away, quick as a crab. Eben makes a desperate lunge and stumbles in the dark. He goes sprawling facedown as Billy makes his escape, his footsteps receding into the darkness.

  — Little bastard. Wait till I get my hands on you. — Eben grunts as he rises to his knees. He is still on all fours when his gaze suddenly fixes on the shadowy doorway right beside where he has fallen. On the gleam of two leather shoes, planted almost in front of his nose.

  — What? Who? — Eben scrambles to his feet as the figure emerges from the doorway, black cape sweeping across the icy stones.

  — Good evening, sir. —

  Eben gives an embarrassed grunt and pulls himself up straight, swiftly reclaiming his dignity. — Well! This is not a place I'd expect to find— —

  The thrust of the knife drives the blade so deep it strikes spine, and the handle transmits the impact against bone, a thrilling ache of ultimate power. Eben sucks in a breath as his body goes rigid, his eyes bulging in shock. He does not cry out; in
fact, he makes no sound at all. The first stab is almost always met with the silence of the stunned.

  The second slash is swift and efficient, releasing a gout of entrails. Eben collapses to his knees, hands pressed to the wound as though to hold back the waterfall of offal, but it spills from his belly and would have tripped him had he tried to flee. Had he been able to take even a single step.

  Eben's is not the face the Reaper expected to stare down upon this night, but such are the vagaries of providence. Though it's not Billy's blood that funnels its way into the gutter and trickles between the cobblestones, there is a purpose yet for this harvest. Every death, like every life, has its use.

  There is one more slice to make. Which part this time, which bit of flesh?

  Ah, the obvious choice. By now, Eben's heart has ceased to beat. Only a little blood spills as the blade slits into the scalp and begins to peel away its prize.

  Twenty-seven

  — THESE ACCUSATIONS are extremely dangerous, — said Dr. Grenville. — Before you take them any further, gentlemen, I advise you to consider the possible consequences. —

  — Norris and I both saw him come out of that building last night, on Acorn Street, — said Wendell. — It was Dr. Sewall. And there were others at that house, others we recognized. —

  — And what of it? A gathering of gentlemen is hardly an extraordinary occurrence. — Grenville gestured to the room in which they now sat. — We three are now having a meeting in my parlor. Is this to be taken as a suspicious gathering? —

  — Consider who those men were, — said Norris. — One was Mr. Gareth Wilson, recently returned from London. A most mysterious individual with few friends in town. —