The Bone Garden: A Novel

Julia frowned. — Who is this? —

— Henry Page. I'm Hilda's cousin. I hear you found some old bones in her garden. —

Julia turned back to the kitchen table and quickly scanned the obituary. A splash of soup had landed right on the paragraph listing Hilda's survivors. She dabbed it away and spotted the name.

?her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine?

— I'm quite interested in those bones, — he said. — I'm considered the family historian, you see. — He added, with a snort, — Because no one else gives a bloody damn. —

— What can you tell me about the bones? — she asked.

— Not a thing. —

Then why are you calling me?

— I've been looking into it, — he said. — When Hilda died, she left about thirty boxes of old papers and books. No one else wanted them, so they came to me. I admit, I just shoved them aside and haven't looked at them for the past year. But then I heard about your mysterious bones, and I wondered if there might be something about them in these boxes. — He paused. — Is this at all interesting to you, or should I just shut up and say goodbye? —

— I'm listening. —

— That's more than most of my family does. No one cares about history anymore. It's always hurry, hurry, hurry on to the hot new thing. —

— About those boxes, Mr. Page. —

— Oh, yes. I've come across some interesting documents with historical significance. I'm wondering if I've found the clue to who those bones belong to. —

— What's in these documents? —

— There are letters and newspapers. I have them all right here in my house. You can look at them, anytime you want to come up to Maine. —

— That's an awfully long drive, isn't it? —

— Not if you're really interested. It doesn't matter to me one way or the other whether you are. But since this is about your house, about people who once lived there, I thought you might find the history fascinating. Certainly I do. The tale sounds bizarre, but there's a news article here to substantiate it. —

— What news article? —

— About the brutal murder of a woman. —

— Where? When? —

— In Boston. It happened in the autumn of 1830. If you come up to Maine, Miss Hamill, you can read the documents for yourself. About the strange affair of Oliver Wendell Holmes and the West End Reaper. —

Six

1830

ROSE DRAPED HER SHAWL over her head, wrapped it tight against the November chill, and stepped outside. She had left baby Meggie nursing greedily at the breast of another new mother in the lying-in ward, and tonight was the first time in two days she'd left the hospital. Though the night air was damp with mist, she inhaled it with a sense of relief, grateful to be away, if only for a short time, from the odors of the sickroom, the whimpers of pain. She paused outside on the street, breathing in deeply to wash the miasma of illness from her lungs, and smelled the river and the sea, heard the rumble of a carriage passing in the fog. I've been locked away so long among the dying, she thought, I've forgotten what it is to walk among the living.

Walk she did, moving swiftly through the bone-chilling mist, her footfalls echoing off brick and mortar as she navigated the warren of streets, toward the wharves. On this inhospitable night, she passed few others, and she hugged her shawl tighter, as though it offered a cloak of invisibility against unseen eyes that might regard her with hostile intent. She picked up her pace, and her breath seemed unnaturally loud, magnified by the thickening fog that grew ever denser as she moved toward the harbor. Then, through the rush of her own breathing, she heard footsteps behind her.

She stopped and turned.

The footsteps moved closer.

She backed away, her heart hammering. In the swirling mist, a dark form slowly congealed into something solid, something that was coming straight at her.

A voice called out: — Miss Rose! Miss Rose! Is that you? —

All the tension drained from her muscles. She released a deep breath as she watched the gangly teenager emerge from the fog. — Dash it all, Billy. I should box your ears! —

— For what, Miss Rose? —

— For scarin' me half to death. —

From the pathetic look he gave her, you'd think she had boxed his ears. — I didn't mean to, — he whimpered. And of course it was true; the boy couldn't be blamed for half of what he did. Everyone knew Dim Billy, but no one wanted to claim him. He was a constant and annoying presence on Boston's West End, wandering from barn to stable in search of a place to bed down, begging a meal here and there from scraps handed out by pitying housewives and fishmongers. Billy wiped a filthy hand across his face and whined, — Now you're all wrathy at me, ain't you? —

— What're you doing out and about at this hour? —

— Lookin' for my pup. He's lost. —

More likely ran away, if the pup had any sense. — Well then, I hope you find him, — she said, and turned to continue on her way.

He trailed after her. — Where're you going? —

— To fetch Eben. He needs to come to the hospital. —

— Why? —

— Because my sister is very ill. —

— How ill? —

— She has a fever, Billy. — And after a week in the lying-in ward, Rose understood what lay ahead. Within a day of giving birth to baby Meggie, Aurnia's belly had begun to bloat, her womb to drain the foul discharge that Rose knew was almost invariably the beginning of the end. She had seen so many of the other new mothers on the ward die of childbed fever. She had seen the look of pity in Nurse Robinson's eyes, a look that said: There is nothing to be done.

— Is she going to die? —

— I don't know, — she said softly. — I don't know. —

— I'm afraid of dead people. When I was little, I saw my own da dead. They wanted me to kiss him, even though his skin was all burned off, but I wouldn't do it. Was I a bad boy not to do it? —

— No, Billy. I've never known you to be a bad boy. —

— I didn't want to touch him. But he was my da, and they said I had to. —

— Can you tell me about it later? I'm in a hurry. —

— I know. Because you want to fetch Mr. Tate. —

— Go look for your pup now, why don't you? — She quickened her pace, hoping that this time the boy would not follow her.

— He's not at the lodging house. —

It took her a few paces to register what Billy had just said. She stopped. — What? —

— Mr. Tate, he's not at Mrs. O'Keefe's. —

— How do you know? Where is he? —

— I seen him over at the Mermaid. Mr. Sitterley gave me a spot of lamb pie, but he said I had to eat it outside in the alley. Then I saw Mr. Tate go in, and he didn't even say hello. —