The Bone Garden: A Novel

window. Only when Henry turned on a lamp was she able to make out the words.

It was dated November 28, 1830.

WEST END MURDER DESCRIBED AS — SHOCKING AND GROTESQUE —

At 10 PM Wednesday, officers of the Night Watch were called to Massachusetts General Hospital after the body of Miss Agnes Poole, a nurse, was discovered dead in a large puddle of blood on the back steps of the hospital. Her injuries, according to Officer Pratt of the Watch, left no doubt that this was an attack of the most brutal nature, most likely inflicted with a large cutting instrument such as a butcher knife. The lone witness remains unidentified to this reporter, out of concern for her safety, but Mr. Pratt confirms that it is a young woman, who described the assailant as — cloaked in black like the Grim Reaper, with the wings of a bird of prey. —

— This murder took place in Boston, — said Julia.

— A mere half-day carriage ride from your house in Weston. And the murder victim was a woman. —

— I see no connection to my house. —

— Oliver Wendell Holmes may be the connection. He writes to Margaret, who's living in your house. He makes this puzzling reference to her aunt, and to a killer known as the West End Reaper. Somehow, Holmes became involved in this murder case? a case he felt compelled to tell Margaret about over fifty years later. Why? What was this mysterious secret she was never supposed to know? —

The distant bellow of a ship's horn made Julia look up. — I wish I didn't have to catch the ferry. I'd really love to learn the answer. —

— Then don't leave. Why not spend the night? I saw your overnight bag by the front door. —

— I didn't want to leave it in my car, so I brought it over with me. I was planning to check into a motel in Lincolnville. —

— But you can see all the work we have to do here! I have a perfectly nice guest room upstairs, with quite a spectacular view. —

She glanced at the window, at fog that had grown even thicker, and wondered what view he was talking about.

— But perhaps it's not really worth your trouble. It seems I'm the only one who cares about history anymore. I just thought you might feel the same way, since you touched her bones. — He sighed. — Oh, well. What does it matter? Someday, we'll all be just like her. Dead and forgotten. — He turned. — The last ferry leaves at four thirty. You'd better head back to the landing now, if you want to catch it. —

She didn't move. She was still thinking about what he'd said. About forgotten women.

— Mr. Page? — she said.

He looked back, a bent little gnome of a man clutching his knobby cane.

— I think I will spend the night. —

For a man his age, Henry could certainly hold his drink. By the time they'd finished dinner, they were well into a second bottle of wine, and Julia was having trouble focusing. Night had fallen, and in the glow of lamplight everything in the room had blurred to a warm haze. They had eaten their meal at the same table where the papers were spread out, and alongside the remains of roast chicken was a stack of old letters and newspapers she had yet to examine. She could not possibly read them tonight, not the way her head was spinning.

Henry didn't appear to be slowing down at all. He refilled his glass and sipped as he reached for another document, one of an endless collection of handwritten correspondence addressed to Margaret Tate Page. There were letters from beloved children and grandchildren and medical colleagues from around the world. How could Henry still focus on the faded ink after all those glasses of wine? Eighty-nine years old sounded ancient, yet Henry was out-drinking her, and certainly outlasting her through this evening's reading marathon.

He glanced at her over the rim of his glass. — You've given up already? —

— I'm exhausted. And a little tipsy, I think. —

— It's only ten o'clock. —

— I don't have your stamina. — She watched as he brought the letter right up to his spectacles, squinting to read the faded writing. She said, — Tell me about your cousin Hilda. —

— She was a schoolteacher, like you. — He flipped over the letter. Added, absently: — Never got around to having any children of her own. —

— Neither did I. —

— Don't you like children? —

— I love them. —

— Hilda didn't. —

Julia sank back in the chair, looking at the stack of boxes, the only legacy that Hilda Chamblett had left behind. — So that's why she was living alone. She didn't have anyone. —

Henry glanced up. — Why do you think I live alone? Because I want to, that's why! I want to stay in my own house, not some nursing home. — He reached for his glass. — Hilda was like that, too. —

Stubborn? Irascible?

— She died where she wanted to, — he said. — At home, in her garden. —

— I just find it sad that she was lying there for days before anyone found her. —

— No doubt, so will I. My grandnephew will probably find my old carcass sitting right here in this chair. —

— That's a horrible thought, Henry. —

— It's a consequence of liking one's privacy. You live alone, so you must know what I mean. —

She stared at her glass. — It isn't my choice, — she said. — My husband left me. —

— Why? You seem like a pleasant enough young woman. —

Pleasant enough. Right, that would bring the men running. His remark was so unintentionally insulting that she laughed. But somewhere in the middle of that laugh, the tears started. She rocked forward and dropped her head in her hands, struggling to get her emotions under control. Why was this happening now, why here, in front of this man she scarcely knew? For months after Richard left, she hadn't cried at all, and had impressed everyone with her stoicism. Now she could not seem to hold back the tears, and she fought them so hard her body was shuddering. Henry didn't say a word and made no attempt to comfort her. He simply studied her, the way he'd studied those old newspapers, as if this outburst was something new and curious.

She wiped her face and abruptly stood. — I'll clean up, — she said. — And then I think I'll go to bed. — She swept up the dinner plates and turned toward the kitchen.

— Julia, — he said. — What's his name? Your husband. —

— Richard. And he's my ex-husband. —

— Do you still love him? —

— No, — she said softly.

— Then why the hell are you crying over him? —

Leave it to Henry to so logically cut straight to the heart of the matter. — Because I'm an idiot, — she said.

Somewhere in the house, a phone was ringing.

Julia heard Henry shuffle past her bedroom door, his cane thunking as he walked. Whoever was calling knew that he required extra time to reach the phone, because it rang more than a dozen times before he finally picked it up. Faintly she heard his answering — Hello? — Then, a few seconds later, — Yes, she's here right now. We've been going through the boxes. To be honest, I haven't decided yet. —

Decided what? Who was he talking to?

She strained to make out his next words, but his voice had dropped, and all she could hear was an indistinct murmur. After a moment his voice fell silent, and she heard only the sea outside her window, and the creaks and groans of the old house.

The next morning, by the light of day, the call did not seem at all disconcerting.

She rolled out of bed, pulled on jeans and a fresh T-shirt, and went to the window. She saw no view today, either. If anything, the fog looked even thicker, pressed so densely against the glass that she thought, if she poked her hand outside, it would sink into something that felt like gray cotton candy. I drove all the way up to Maine, she