The Bone Garden: A Novel

only one gets to sleep next to Miss Rose. She promised. —

— I wouldn't dream of taking your place, Billy, — said Norris. He stood and brushed straw from his trousers. — I'm sorry to take up your time, Miss Connolly. Thank you for speaking to me. — He pulled aside the curtain and started down the stairs.

— Mr. Marshall? — Rose scrambled to her feet and followed him. Already he was at the foot of the stairs, his hand on the door. — I must ask that you not inquire at my place of work again, — she said.

He frowned up at her. — I'm sorry? —

— You threaten my livelihood if you do. —

— I've never been to your place of employment. —

— A man was there today, asking where I lived. —

— I don't even know where you work. — He opened the door, letting in a blast of wind that tugged at his coat and rippled the hem of Rose's skirt. — Whoever inquired about you, it wasn't me. —

On this cold night, Dr. Nathaniel Berry is not thinking about death.

He's thinking instead about finding some willing quim, and why wouldn't he? He is a young man and he works long hours as the house physician at the hospital. He has no time to court women in the manner expected of a gentleman, no time for polite chitchat at soirees and musicales, no free afternoons for companionable walks on Colonnade Row. His life this year is all about serving the patients of Massachusetts General, twenty-four hours a day, and seldom is he allowed an evening away from the hospital grounds.

But tonight, to his surprise, he was offered a rare night of freedom.

When a young man must suppress too long his natural urges, those very urges are what drive him when at last he's let loose. And so when Dr. Berry leaves his hospital quarters, he heads directly toward the disreputable neighborhood of the North Slope, to the Sentry Hill Tavern, where grizzled seamen rub shoulders with freed slaves, where any young lady who walks through the door can be safely assumed to be in search of more than a glass of brandy.

Dr. Berry is not long inside the tavern.

After no more time than it takes to drink two rum flips, he comes walking back out again, with the chosen object of his lust laughing giddily at his side. He could not have chosen a more obvious whore than this disheveled tart with her tangled black hair, but she will serve his purposes just fine, so he leads her toward the river, where such assignations regularly take place. She goes along willingly, if a bit unsteadily, her drunken laughter echoing back along the narrow street. But as she catches sight of the water straight ahead, she suddenly halts, feet planted like a balky donkey's.

— What? — Dr. Berry asks, impatient to get beneath her skirts.

— It's the river. That girl was killed down there. —

Of course Dr. Berry already knows this. After all, he knew and worked with Mary Robinson. But any sorrow he may feel over her death is secondary to the urgency of his current need. — Don't worry, — he assures the whore. — I'll protect you. Come on. —

— You ain't him, are you? The West End Reaper? —

— Of course not! I'm a doctor. —

— They're sayin' he could be a doctor. That's why he's killin' nurses. —

By now, Dr. Berry is getting desperate for relief. — Well, you're not a nurse, are you? Come along, and I'll make it worth your while. — He tugs her a few feet farther, but once again she pulls to a stop.

— How do I know you won't slice me open like those poor ladies?'

— Look, the whole tavern just saw us leave together. If I were really the Reaper, do you think I'd take such a risk in public? —

Swayed by his unassailable logic, she allows him to lead her to the river. Now that he's so close to his goal, all he can think of is plunging deep into her. Mary Robinson does not even cross his mind as he practically drags the whore toward the water, and why should she? Dr. Berry feels no apprehension as he and the whore head toward the shadow of the bridge, where they cannot be seen.

But they can most certainly be heard.

The sounds rise from the darkness and drift up to the riverbank. The rustle of a skirt being yanked up, the heated breathing, the grunts of climax. In only a few minutes it is over, and the girl scurries back up the bank, a bit more disheveled perhaps, but a half eagle richer. She fails to notice the figure in the shadows as she hurries back to the tavern to troll for another client.

The oblivious girl just keeps walking, and does not even glance back toward the bridge where Dr. Berry lingers, fastening his trousers. She doesn't see what glides down the bank to meet him.

By the time Dr. Berry's final gasp of agony rises from the river, the whore is already back in the tavern, laughing in the lap of a sailor.

Eighteen

— YOU WISHED to speak to me, Dr. Grenville? — said Norris.

Dr. Grenville gazed across his desk, and his face, backlit by the morning sun, gave away nothing. The blow is about to fall, thought Norris. For days he'd been tormented by the rumors, by innuendo. He'd heard whispers in the halls, had caught the glances of his fellow students. As he stood facing Grenville, he prepared to hear the inevitable. Better to know the answer now, he thought, than to suffer through days or weeks of whispers before the final blow.

— You have seen the latest article in the Daily Advertiser? — asked Grenville. — About the West End murders? —

— Yes, sir. — Why delay it any longer, he thought. Better to get it over with. He said, — I wish to know the truth, sir. Am I or am I not to be expelled from this college?'

— That's why you think I've called you here? —

— It is a reasonable assumption. Considering? —

— The rumors? Ah, yes, they are flying thick and furious. I've heard from the families of a number of our students. They're all concerned about the reputation of this college. Without our reputation, we are nothing. —

Norris said nothing, but dread had settled like a stone in his stomach.

— The parents of those students are also worried about the wellbeing of their sons. —

— And they think I am a threat. —

— You can understand why, can't you? —

Norris looked him straight in the eye. — All they have to convict me is circumstance. —

— Circumstance is a powerful voice. —

— A misleading voice. It drowns out the truth. This medical college prides itself on its scientific method. Isn't that method all about seeking answers based on facts, not hearsay? —

Grenville leaned back in his chair, but his gaze remained fixed on Norris. Displayed in the office was evidence of how highly Grenville valued the study of science. On his desk, a grotesquely deformed human skull sat beside a normal one. In a corner hung a dwarf's skeleton, and on the shelves of the bookcase were specimens preserved in jars of whiskey: a severed hand with six fingers. A nose half eroded by tumor. A newborn with a single Cyclops eye. All these were silent testament to his fascination with anatomical oddities.

— I'm not the only one who's seen the killer, — said Norris. — Rose Connolly has seen him, too. —

— A monster with black wings and a skull's face? —

— There is something evil at work on the West End. —

— Attributed by the Night Watch to the work of a butcher. —

— And that's the real charge against me, isn't it? That I'm the son of a farmer. If I were Edward Kingston or your own nephew Charles, or the son of any prominent gentleman, would I still be a suspect? Would there be any