The Bone Garden: A Novel

She turned. There was another way into the building, but she would have to trudge across the damp grass of the hospital common to the rear entrance. She paused at the edge of the lawn. Her route was obscured by fog, but she could just make out, through fingers of mist, the glow of hospital windows. He would not expect her to hike across this dark field. Certainly he himself would not go to such an effort if it meant soiling his shoes in the mud.

She waded into the grass. The field was saturated with rain, and icy water soaked through her shoes. The lights from the hospital intermittently faded out in the mist and she had to stop to regain her bearings. There they were again? off to the left. In the darkness, she had veered away from her goal, and now she corrected course. The lights glowed brighter now, the fog thinning as she climbed the gentle slope toward the building. Her sodden skirts clung to her legs, slowing her down, making every stride an effort. By the time she stumbled out of the grass, onto cobblestones, she was clumsy on cold-numbed feet.

Chilled and shivering now, she started up the back stairway.

Suddenly her shoe slid across a step slick with something black. She stared up at what looked like a dark waterfall that had cascaded down the stairs. Only as her gaze lifted to the source of that waterfall did she see the woman's body draped across the stairs above, her skirts splayed, one arm flung out, as though to welcome Death.

At first Rose heard only the drumming of her own heart, the rush of her own breath. Then she heard the footstep, and a shadow moved above her like an ominous cloud blotting out the moon. The blood seemed to freeze in Rose's veins. She looked at the looming creature.

What she saw was the Grim Reaper himself.

Her voice mute and choked with terror, she stumbled backward and almost fell as she hit the bottom step. Suddenly the creature swooped toward her, black cape billowing like monstrous wings. She whirled to flee, and saw empty lawn ahead, roiling with mist. A place of execution. If I run there, I will surely die.

She pivoted to the right and sprinted alongside the building. She could hear the monster in pursuit, its footsteps closing in behind her.

She darted into a passage and found herself in a courtyard. She ran to the nearest door, but it was locked. Pounding on it, she shrieked for help, but no one opened it.

I am trapped.

Behind her, gravel clattered across the stones. She spun around to face her attacker. In the darkness she could make out only the movement of black on black. She backed up against the door, her breaths coming out in sobs. She thought of the dead woman, and the waterfall of blood on the stairs, and she crossed her arms over her chest in a feeble shield to protect her heart.

The shadow closed in.

Cringing, she turned her face in anticipation of the first slash. Instead she heard a voice, asking a question that she did not immediately register.

— Miss? Miss, are you all right? —

She opened her eyes to see the silhouette of a man. Behind him, through the darkness, a light winked and slowly became brighter. It was a lantern, swaying in the grasp of a second man, now approaching. The man with the lantern called: — Who's out here? Hello? —

— Wendell! Over here! —

— Norris? What's all the commotion? —

— There's a young woman here. She seems to be hurt. —

— What's the matter with her? —

The lantern swung closer, and the light dazzled Rose's eyes. She blinked and focused on the faces of the two young men who were now staring at her. She recognized them both, just as they recognized her.

— It? it's Miss Connolly, is it not? — said Norris Marshall.

She gave a sob. Her legs suddenly went out from under her and she slid down the wall, to land on her rump against the cobblestones.

Seven

THOUGH NORRIS had never before met Mr. Pratt of Boston's Night Watch, he had known other men just like him, men too puffed up on authority to ever acknowledge the undeniable fact, recognized by everyone else, that they are stupid. It was Pratt's arrogance that Norris found most annoying, right down to the man's walk, his chest thrust out, arms swinging in a martial beat as he strutted into the hospital dissection room. Though not a large man, Mr. Pratt gave the impression that he thought he was. His only impressive feature was his mustache, the bushiest Norris had ever seen. It looked like a brown squirrel that had sunk its claws into his upper lip and refused to let go. As Norris watched the man taking notes with a pencil, he could not help staring at that mustache, picturing that imaginary squirrel suddenly leaping away and Mr. Pratt giving chase after his fugitive facial hair.

Pratt finally looked up from his pad of paper and regarded Norris and Wendell, who stood beside the draped body. Pratt's gaze moved on to Dr. Crouch, who was clearly the medical authority in the room.

— You say you have examined the body, Dr. Crouch? — asked Pratt.

— Only superficially. We took the liberty of bringing her into the building. It did not seem right to leave her lying there on the cold steps, where anyone might trip over her. Even if she were a stranger, which she is not, we owe her at least that small modicum of respect. —

— Then you are all acquainted with the deceased? —

— Yes, sir. Only when we brought out the lantern did we recognize her. The victim, Miss Agnes Poole, is the head nurse of this institution. —

Wendell interjected: — Miss Connolly must have told you this. Didn't you already question her? —

— Yes, but I find it necessary to confirm everything she's told me. You know how it is with these flighty girls. Irish girls in particular. They're likely to change their story depending on which way the wind blows. —

Norris said, — I'd hardly call Miss Connolly a flighty girl. —

Watchman Pratt fixed his narrowed gaze on Norris. — You know her? —

— Her sister is a patient here, in the lying-in ward. —

— But do you know her, Mr. Marshall? —

He didn't like the way Pratt was studying him. — We've spoken. In regard to her sister's care. —

Pratt's pencil was scribbling on the pad again. — You are studying medicine, is that correct? —

— Yes. —

Pratt eyed Norris's clothing. — You have blood on your shirt. Are you aware of that? —

— I helped move the body from the steps. And I assisted Dr. Crouch earlier in the evening. —

Pratt glanced at Crouch. — Is this true, Doctor? —

Norris felt his face redden. — You think I would lie about it? In Dr. Crouch's presence? —

— My only duty is to uncover the truth. —

You're too stupid to recognize the truth when you hear it.

Dr. Crouch said, — Mr. Holmes and Mr. Marshall are my apprentices. They assisted me earlier this evening on Broad Street, at a difficult delivery. —

— What were you delivering? —

Dr. Crouch stared at Pratt, clearly thunderstruck by the man's question. — What do you think we were delivering? A cart of bricks? —

Pratt slapped his pencil down on the pad. — There is no need for sarcasm. I simply wish to know everyone's whereabouts tonight. —

— I find this outrageous. I am a physician, sir, and I have no need to account for my activities. —

— And your two apprentices here? Were you with them the entire evening? —

— No, we were not, — said Wendell, rather too casually.