The Bone Garden: A Novel

She paused, confused. — I thought I should stay away until you came home. —

— You've been gone all day? No one has seen you here? —

His words stung her like a slap in the face. All day she'd been hungry to see him, and this was the greeting he gave her? I'm the girl he wants no one to know about, she thought. The embarrassing secret.

She said, — I only came back to tell you what I'm hearing on the street. Dr. Berry is dead. They found his body under the West Boston Bridge. —

— I know. Mr. Pratt told me. —

— Then you know as much as I do. Good night, Mr. Marshall. — She turned.

— Where are you going? —

— I haven't had any supper. — And would probably have none at all tonight.

— I've brought food for you. Won't you stay? —

She paused on the stairs, startled by the unexpected offer.

— Please, — he said. — Come in. There's someone here who wishes to speak to you. —

She still felt the sting of his earlier comment and sheer pride almost drove her to decline the invitation. But her stomach was rumbling, and she wanted to know who this someone might be. She stepped into the attic and focused on the little man standing near the window. He was no stranger; she remembered him from the hospital. Like Norris, Wendell Holmes was a medical student, but she was quick to spot the differences between the two. What she noticed first was the superior quality of Holmes's coat, which had been expertly tailored to his small shoulders, his narrow waist. He had eyes like a sparrow's, bright and alert, and while she studied him, she knew that he was studying her in kind and cannily taking her measure.

— This is my classmate, — said Norris. — Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. —

The little man nodded. — Miss Connolly. —

— I remember you, — she said. Because you look like a wee elf. But she did not think he would appreciate that observation. — I'm the one you wished to see, Mr. Holmes? —

— About the death of Dr. Berry. You've heard about it. —

— I saw a crowd gathered near the bridge. They told me they'd found the doctor's body. —

— This new development greatly confuses the picture, — said Wendell. — By tomorrow, the newspapers will be stoking terror. West End Reaper still at large! The public will once again see monsters everywhere. It puts Mr. Marshall in a most uncomfortable position. Perhaps even a dangerous one. —

— Dangerous? —

— When the public's frightened, it can turn irrational. It may try to mete out justice on its own. —

She said to Norris: — Ah. So that's why you're suddenly willing to listen to me. Because now it affects you. —

Norris gave an apologetic nod. — I'm sorry, Rose. I should have paid more attention to you last night. —

— You were ashamed just to be seen with me. —

— And now I'm ashamed of my behavior toward you. My only excuse is that I had much to consider. —

— Oh, yes. Your future. —

He sighed, a sound so defeated that she almost felt sorry for him. — I have no future. Not anymore. —

— And how can I change that? —

— What matters now, — said Wendell, — is that we learn the truth. —

— The truth only matters to those who're unfairly accused, — she said. — No one else cares. —

— I care, — Wendell insisted. — Mary Robinson and Dr. Berry would have cared. And the killer's future victims will most certainly care. — He came toward her, his eyes so sharply focused on her that she felt he could see straight into her mind. — Tell us about your niece, Rose. The little girl whom everyone is searching for. —

For a moment she said nothing, weighing how much she could trust Oliver Wendell Holmes. And decided that she had no choice but to trust him. She had reached her limit, and now she was nearly faint with hunger.

— I'll tell you, — she said. — But first? — She looked at Norris. — You said you brought me food. —

She ate as she told the story, pausing to rip into a chicken leg or stuff a chunk of bread into her mouth. This was not the way one of those fine ladies might eat, but then this meal didn't come with pretty china or silverware. Her last meal had been that morning, a shriveled scrap of smoked mackerel that the fishmonger had planned to toss to his cat but, out of pity, had handed to her instead. The few coins that Norris had left her that morning had not gone toward a meal for herself. Instead she'd pressed them into Billy's hand and asked him to deliver the money to Hepzibah.

For another week, at least, little Meggie would be fed.

And now, for the first time in days, she, too, could eat her fill. So she did, devouring both meat and cartilage, sucking the marrow, leaving a mound of broken chicken bones, gnawed clean.

— You truly have no idea who fathered your sister's child? — asked Wendell.

— Aurnia said nothing to me. Though she hinted? —

— Yes? —

Rose paused, setting down the bread as her throat closed tight from the memories. — She asked me to fetch the priest for last rites. It was so important to her, but I kept putting it off. I didn't want her to stop fighting. I wanted her to live. —

— And she wanted to confess her sins. —

— Shame kept her from telling me, — Rose said softly.

— And the child's father remains a mystery. —

— Except to Mr. Gareth Wilson. —

— Ah yes, the mysterious lawyer. May I see the card he gave you? —

She wiped her greasy hand and reached in her pocket for Gareth Wilson's calling card, which she handed to Wendell.

— He lives on Park Street. An impressive address. —

— A fine address doesn't make him a gentleman, — she said.

— You don't trust him one whit, do you? —

— Look at the filthy company he keeps. —

— You mean Mr. Tate? —

— He used Eben to find me. Which makes Mr. Wilson no better, no matter how fancy his address. —

— Did he say anything at all about who his client might be? —

— No. —

— Would your brother-in-law know? —

— Fool that he is, Eben wouldn't know a thing. And Mr. Wilson would be even more a fool to tell him. —

— I doubt this Mr. Gareth Wilson is any sort of fool, — said Wendell, looking at the address again. — Have you told any of this to the Night Watch? —

— No. —

— Why not? —

— It's useless to speak to Mr. Pratt. — Her tone of disdain left no doubt what she thought of the man.

Wendell smiled. — I'd have to agree. —

— I think Dim Billy would make a better constable. Mr. Pratt wouldn't believe me, anyway. —

— You're so sure of that? —

— No one believes the likes of me. We Irish need to be watched all the time, or we'll pick your pockets and steal your children. If you doctors didn't slit us open and poke around inside our chests, like in that book over there — ? she pointed to the anatomy text on Norris's desk? — you'd probably think we didn't have hearts that look just like yours. —

— Oh, I have no doubt you have a heart, Miss Connolly. And a generous one at that, to take on such a burden as your niece. —