Boneseeker

by Brynn Chapman

  “Of course. He has been ever so helpful.”

  “I’ll bet he has.”

  “So.” She cocks her head, looking awkward, my implications completely lost on her. “What did you need, Henry?”

  I battle my expression—trying for care-not, but most likely only achieving awkward.

  What did I want? To say this is my dream appointment but now that I’m within five feet of you I cannot bloody-well think of moulages or anything else?

  “I. I thought we might have dinner. To discuss your thoughts on the Nephilim versus Neanderthal controversy?”

  Her face blushes as scarlet as her hair. “I don’t know if we’ll have time. The expedition departure is looming and I don’t even know if I’ve been approved yet. You know how Stygian feels—”

  “Has Stygian dropped any hints, one way or the other?”

  Bella shakes her head. “No. Apparently the decision will rest solely on the committee’s ruling.”

  “Miss Holmes.” Stygian’s voice is grave.

  He sweeps past the petrified menagerie as if the presence of skeletal animals are as ordinary as the sun’s rising and setting.

  His eyes only see Bella.

  I clear my throat.

  He regards me for a mere second and nods. “Mr. Watson.”

  His attention snaps back to her.

  She squares her shoulder slightly? “Sir?”

  “Have you finished cataloguing the new shipment?”

  “Not yet…”

  “Might I suggest you return to your lab and do so? Surely Mr. Watson and these…specimens, can spare your attention?”

  Stygian eyes me warily. “And you, Mr. Watson. Settled in, all unpacked, are we? Prepared for departure?”

  “Erm.” I step backward, heading for the hallway. I make eye contact with Bella from behind his back. She gives me a scarcely perceptible dismissal.

  I hesitate—but her eyes narrow.

  “Not really, sir. I’ll just be going there now.”

  ###

  Henry

  Darkness has swallowed Philadelphia whole; I am considering a walk because my frayed nerves would not even consider permitting me rest, but the stench is so overpowering tonight I’ve settled with hovering around my window.

  It’s only been a day since we left Riddle Run Road and the mysterious meat factory but Arabella and the poor babies refuse to vacate my head.

  And that bloody list. What items on an inventory sheet could be worthy of a disguise and a stroll through Philadelphia’s most dangerous district?

  Stygian has seemed almost deliberately keeping Bella and I so very busy I haven’t had a moment alone with her to discuss anything at all.

  I stand at the window, resting my forehead against the cool pane. My assigned cottage is in view of Arabella’s.

  There’s no movement next door and dread does a little dance up my spine as I chew my cuticle.

  I sigh and stare around the room. The museum certainly doesn’t invest its money in housing.

  A threadbare rug covers the hardwood floor. A great fieldstone hearth rambles to the ceiling. It’s only four rooms, but since arriving, I live at this table…by the window.

  I’m embarrassed to admit I spend most of my time staring out of it.

  Directly at Bella’s cottage.

  Like tonight.

  Her bedroom is the second window at the back of the cottage, and each and every night since my arrival, I wait. Wait for her to turn in for the night.

  I am unable to retire until she dims the lights. It gives me some sort of odd comfort, knowing she’s safe in her bed. I imagine the black and white dog standing sentry beside her.

  I slump into the chair and fiddle with the teacup; I grit my teeth against its tinny rattle.

  It’s only natural to be concerned for her welfare.

  My face flushes at my denial. The longing stirs and I close my eyes.

  I think of Priscilla and father’s matchmaking schemes, disguised as balls—and all the whirling, flirting faces of the past few months. Their beautiful, feminine bodies waltz through my imagination. I could be with any of them tonight.

  All accomplished, all connected, all in love with me. Or at least the idea of me.

  But I. I love none of them.

  It’s Bella I want. It’s always been Bella.

  I tilt back on the chair, balancing.

  “You must forget her. She doesn’t see you that way.”

  My voice bounces off the exposed beams, ricocheting back in my ears.

  A sharp bark then a growl cuts through the night. I snap the chair down to the floor and whisk the drape aside.

  Two police inspectors, by the looks of their uniforms, are tramping up Arabella’s steps and pounding on her door. “Miss Holmes? Miss Holmes, if you please?”

  “What the…?” I shoot to stand, reaching for my overcoat. I debate the tiny pistol, but leave it lie.

  I’m out the door in seconds, striding across the wet grass. The city smell burns inside my nostrils as they flare.

  The two men turn to stare; the younger officer’s hand straying inside his slicker.

  “Sir, this is official police business. Move along.”

  “If it involves Miss Holmes, it is my business.”

  The smaller man grimaces and pulls out his Billy club, tapping it against his open palm in warning. His pale, pockmarked face, begs me to cause trouble.

  The door opens and Bella appears in the doorway, fully clothed. She nods, nonplussed at a uniformed officer on her porch after midnight.

  “Inspector. How might I be of service?”

  Her eyes dart to me and back to the inspector. Her expression is smooth and unreadable.

  The man hesitates. “What about him?” The inspector nods at me.

  “That is Mister Henry Watson.”

  “A relative of Dr. John Watson?”

  She smiles. “The very same. Henry is his younger son.”

  The prodigal son. The obstinate one. The one who did not go into medicine.

  “So you don’t mind if he…?”

  “No, it’s fine. Henry is all discretion.” She steps outside, shooing the dog back in. “Desist, Newton.” She shuts the door on the dog’s growling. “I assume you require my assistance?”

  “Yes, the hansom is this way, Miss Holmes.” He gestures toward the waiting carriage.

  I attempt to make eye contact with Bella, but she is wholly engrossed with the inspector and the task at hand. I follow behind them, grateful they are not protesting my presence.

  We whisk down the main thoroughfare, whizzing past a mixing-pot of humanity. Ladies of the evening, drunken lads and the occasional dandy up to no good, fly past on either side.

  Arabella stares straight ahead, not meeting my gaze. Lost in thought.

  The carriage careens, speeding toward the river. It rumbles to a halt and we depart.

  The river comes into view. My scalp tightens, shriveling against the chill and what skullduggery brings us to the water.

  We step from the carriage and the inspector waves us forward.

  The gurgle of water dominates the night, leaving the city noise a mottled undercurrent of sound.

  The riverbank is a steep drop-off, but the inspector makes no apologies to Arabella. Never would a lady be asked to endure such a task.

  They must be well acquainted.

  We ease our way down the slope in a diagonal line.

  We reach the shore and Arabella steps forward, but the inspector raises his nightstick, halting her.

  His black eyebrows pull together. “Miss Holmes, it’s rather gruesome.”

  “Inspector.” Her tone is chastising. Her eyes are electric, searching the riverbank.

  “I know. I know.” He tips his hat compulsively. “I still feel the need to warn.”

  Down in the shallows, I spy our destination.

  Bodies. And some parts to spare.<
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  Three at first glance, but I quickly realize one has been rent in two. The torso lies surreally spread-eagled, separated from the legs. And a smaller body, with very little flesh on the pelvic skeleton, lies beside it. The shallow waters lap against the legs and the other is half-hidden in the grass.

  Arabella ducks under the nightstick and strides across the shore of wet stones.

  She knots up her dress, wading in, oblivious to the appreciative stares of the policemen. I arch an eyebrow and they both avert their eyes from her perfect, ivory skin.

  I force myself to look away.

  Bella bends forward, holding up a lantern.

  “This one is a woman.” She gestures to the halved remains.

  “How do you know?” The younger policeman says quietly.

  “The shape of the pelvic bowl.” Her finger traces its outline above the body. “Men are more heart shaped, women, more round, to allow for childbirth.”

  “Ah.” The chief inspector steps closer. “What about this one. Murder? Dismembered?”

  Arabella squints. “This body has been moved.” She points to the blue and black pooling on the corpse. “He died on his back, thus the discoloration—but now he’s facedown.”

  “What about the dismemberment?”

  Bella rubs her temples. “Difficult to say. It is a rather jagged perforation…”

  She turns to hand me her lantern and proceeds to open a bag hanging on her elbow, which looks like any ladies satchel and pulls out a pick.

  If the night weren’t so gruesome, I’d have laughed.

  Only Arabella.

  She carefully lifts up the flap of skin on the torso. “And a significant portion of his organs are gone.”

  “Sacrificial death?” The inspector suggests.

  She shrugs. “Not enough evidence.”

  “One more item, if you please, Miss Holmes.”

  Arabella follows the chief inspector to the higher grass and points. I hold the lantern closer and she pulls out a magnifying glass. Her face screws up in concentration.

  She plucks a huge bone from the earth, with one end sheared off.

  “It’s a femur.” When the younger detective looks confused, she adds, gesturing, “The long bone of the leg.”

  She turns it, examining the hollowed core of the bone where it’s been sheared.

  “Yes, but is it man or beast?” The inspector holds his breath.

  Bella sighs. “Man.”

  She points, speaking directly to me. It’s a lesson now, not a crime scene. Her eyes beam with an obsessive flame. The police have momentarily disappeared from her perception. Her hand quickly dips into the bag and extracts a peculiar-looking monocle. She fashions the stem of it behind her ear and locks the glass in place over her eye and stares into the bone.

  It’s like none I’ve ever seen; multiple lenses swing in and out for various magnifications.

  “What, pray tell, is that?”

  She waves my comment away. “New-fangled magnifying glass, courtesy of our fathers.”

  She tilts the bone so that I may see into the center. “First, the slanted angle on the top indicates the bone’s owner walks upright.” She tilts it, so I can see inside. “If the hollowed-out center is filled with one-third bone, it’s a large mammal. One-fourth filled, a human. One-eighth, a bird. For flight, the bones must be light.”

  “Excellent, Miss Holmes. Your knowledge is indispensable.”

  Other policemen are now trickling down the bank. Arabella’s face twists with anxiety. Not all will value a feminine opinion, especially on a subject so serious as murder.

  The chief notices. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. Just like your father, you truly are helpful. Please give him my regards.” He tilts his bowler in dismissal.

  “Thank you, I will, Inspector Giamatti.”

  “I will escort her home, sir. I’m sure you’ve much more to do.” I nod toward the oncoming onslaught of uniformed officers.

  He tips his hat again. “Mr. Watson. A pleasure.”

  Chapter Six

  Palpable Personalities

  Mutter Lecture Hall

  Phrenology Presentation

  Bella

  John sits down beside me, bestowing his ‘let’s make the best of it’ smirk.

  He leans in and whispers, “Do you remember our case where Holmes employed phrenology?”

  My mind whisks through a litany of images, like thumbing through a mental photo collage. I think in pictures and after multiple conversations with John, have discovered this is not necessarily the norm.

  “Yes. Father occasionally used it on me, and my unknowing playmates.”

  I picture father, his long fingers probing through Henry’s tousled hair after he’d caught us blowing up the mailbox. Again.

  “However, his deductions were completely at odds to my opinion of the person.”

  Like telling me Henry was not a good match for me. Even as a friend. Which simply. Wasn’t. True.

  Henry was the best friend I ever had; then or now.

  Father thought his intellect beneath me. What he failed to realize was that no man, from any race or continent, would ever rise to his impossible-to-meet qualifications for my husband.

  John raises one telling eyebrow, indicating he knows there’s more to this story than I shall ever divulge.

  “It’s only an hour, Arabella.” His smile is bracing.

  Henry has taken the stage with Stygian. I suck my breath in and bite the inside of my cheek.

  I hate how he affects me. I am powerless to the attraction.

  Henry’s beauty is staggering. His thin lips, deep set eyes and perpetually tousled hair gave him a permanently just-risen-from-bed appearance that no amount of coiffing could tame.

  John tsk’s beside me. “That hair. I swear we should just shear it.”

  I feel the laugh rising in my throat.

  “Like a sheep. Honestly, his hair is like a horsetail.” John sighs.

  I cover my mouth to hide the smile and feel the heat on my cheeks.

  I know my face to be as red as the ridiculous feathered hat, blocking my view.

  And the flush deepens.

  The woman beside me stage-whispers to her daughter, “Wilhelmina. That man is an English thoroughbred among Philadelphia nags. You must attempt to speak to him after tonight’s presentation.”

  John leans in and whispers, “Do you see? Even that woman agrees with my equestrian comparison.”

  At this, my loud laugh breaks free.

  I bristle as the woman in front of me fans herself; her wide eyes follow Henry’s every action on the stage.

  Feathered-hat-lady, who blocks my view, finally removes the poor taxidermied creature, mercifully placing it on the seat beside her.

  I once again vow never to become a lovesick, pandering female. This auditorium is bursting with them and seems to expand and contract with their every sigh.

  I glance around. Every woman in the audience is glued to Henry’s every twitch. His attempts at taming his dark blonde hair have failed, as it is slowly rebelling to its normally chaotic state. His cheeks are high with nervous color.

  His smile could incinerate any woman, like Medusa’s power in reverse, channeled through those smirking lips.

  The sheer number of interested fools makes my skin prickle and I shift in my seat. I detest crowds.

  So many people asking so many things at precisely the same moment.

  I hear snippets of every conversation within five rows—and am unable to block them. Another inherited Holmesian trait. It’s useful for detective work, but not for living.

  One row back. “Do you see him, my stars; I’ve never seen a man so very handsome—”

  Two rows to my right. “Is he married? Engaged, then?”

  I sigh.

  My brain spits fireworks with the excess sound. A woman’s high-pitched cackle makes me jerk, raising every hair on my arms.

>   John’s hand pats mine. The man notices everything.

  So does Henry. It’s unnerving.

  For all of father’s genius, and deciphering the slightest change in surroundings, he rarely noticed when I was upset.

  I picture my tiny self, weeping amid taunts of, ‘Where’s your mother, Arabella? Did she think you odd—so she left to find a normal girl?’

  No hugs from father, no confidential talk. Instead, he bought me a new dog.

  I shake my head, banning the memory.

  Or perhaps father did notice, but not having the slightest idea how to handle the female persuasion, chose to pretend otherwise?

  “Welcome.”

  Stygian’s black eyes and booming voice immediately hush the low thrum of the crowd.

  My eyes narrow on the stage.

  “Our demonstration this evening will focus on the controversial science of phrenology.” He gestures to a chart beside him. The title at the top of the poster proclaims, “Know Thyself”.

  Henry’s eyes dart to the illustration of the human skull, sectioned into parts.

  “From the size and shape of one’s cranium, many deductions may be drawn,” Stygian continues. The yellow stage lighting casts shadows across Stygian and Henry’s faces; the black bruises beneath their eyes, reminding me of corpses.

  Stygian’s voice commands attention. “From one’s instinct for reproduction to predicting a person’s pride and vanity—to whether one has the heart, or mind, rather, of a murderer.”

  A murmur rushes through the crowd like a wordless ripple.

  Chills lick my neck. John uncrosses his legs at the inference. Apparently it makes him nervous, too.

  I whisper, “This science is more like voodoo. But that hasn’t stopped people from arranging marriages around it, or hiring or firing staff based on its predictions.” The disdain coats my voice. I hear my tone rising and rising, like one of my blasted butterflies. “Perhaps we might employ fortune tellers to predict our next scientific discovery.”

  “Arabella, quietly!” John blurts in a harsh whisper.

  Feather-lady glares at me.

  On stage, Henry has extracted a large caliper.

  “We need a volunteer. Two actually. Miss Holmes, perhaps you might grace our stage?” Stygian’s voice drips sweetness.