The Bone Garden: A Novel

— You just let me know, and I'll see you get paid. —

— Who's providing the fee? Who's paying you? —

Jack shook his head. — Believe me, Mr. Tate, — he said. — You're better off not knowing. —

BODY OF DR. BERRY FOUND

A most shocking turn of events has transpired in the search for the West End Reaper. On Sunday afternoon at one o'clock, two young boys playing along the Charles River discovered a man's body beneath the West Boston Bridge. Authorities have identified the corpse as none other than Dr. Nathaniel Berry, who vanished from his post as house physician earlier this month. A most appalling and clearly deliberate wound to his abdomen has been accepted as proof that this was not a suicide.

Dr. Berry was the subject of an extensive manhunt from Maine to Georgia, in connection with the recent slayings of two nurses at the hospital where he was employed. The sheer brutality of their deaths has evoked terror throughout the region, and the sudden disappearance of the doctor was interpreted by Constable Lyons of the Night Watch as a convincing indication of Dr. Berry's guilt in the matter. Dr. Berry's death now raises the disturbing likelihood that the West End Reaper remains at large.

This reporter can reveal on good authority that another suspect is currently under investigation, one who has been described as a young man in possession of both surgical and butchering skills. This gentleman, moreover, resides in the West End. Rumors that he is currently enrolled as a student at the Boston Medical College cannot be confirmed.

From gentleman to leper in the span of a single day, thought Norris, as he watched the front page of the Daily Advertiser flutter past him down the street. Was there anyone of consequence in Boston who had not read that damning article? Anyone who could not guess the identity of the — young man in possession of both surgical and butchering skills —? This morning, when he had walked into the auditorium for morning lectures, he'd noticed the startled glances and heard the sharp intakes of breath. No one had directly challenged his attendance. How could they, when he had not been formally charged with any crime? No, the gentleman's way of dealing with scandal was with whispers and innuendo, both of which he must now endure. Soon, his ordeal would end one way or another. After the Christmas holiday, Dr. Grenville and the school trustees would render their decision and Norris would know if he still had a place in the college

For now he was reduced to this: skulking on Park Street, spying on the one man who might know the Reaper's identity.

He and Rose had been watching the house all afternoon, and now the fading light took with it the day's last blush of color, leaving only dreary shades of gray. Across the street was Number Five, one of eight imposing row houses that faced the skeletal trees of the snow-blanketed Common. So far they had caught not even a glimpse of Mr. Gareth Wilson or of any visitors. Wendell's inquiries about the man had turned up little information, only that he'd recently returned from London, and that his Park Street home stood vacant for most of the year.

Who is your client, Mr. Wilson? Who paid you to track down a baby, to terrify a friendless girl?

The door to Number Five suddenly opened.

Rose whispered: — It's him. It's Gareth Wilson. —

The man was warmly dressed in a black beaver hat and a voluminous greatcoat. He paused outside his front door to pull on black gloves, then began to walk briskly up Park Street in the direction of the State House.

Norris's gaze followed the man. — Let's see where he goes. —

They allowed Wilson to reach the end of the block of row houses before falling into step behind him. At the State House, Wilson turned west and began to make his way up into the maze of the Beacon Hill neighborhood.

Norris and Rose followed him past stately brick homes and winter-bare linden trees. It was quiet here, too quiet, and only an occasional carriage rattled past. Their quarry gave no indication that he realized he was being followed, and walked at a leisurely pace, leaving behind the fine homes of Chestnut Street to wend his way into more modest territory? not where a gentleman with an affluent Park Street address would normally be wandering.

When Wilson abruptly turned into narrow Acorn Street, Norris wondered if the man had suddenly realized he was being followed. Why else would Wilson visit this tiny alley, occupied by mere coachmen and retainers?

In the dim light of dusk, Wilson was almost invisible as he walked down the shadowy passage. He stopped at a door and knocked. A moment later the door opened, and they heard a man say: — Mr. Wilson! It's a pleasure to see you back in Boston after all these months. —

— Have the others arrived? —

— Not everyone, but they'll be here. This dreadful business has made us all quite anxious. —

Wilson stepped into the house, and the door swung shut.

It was Rose who made the next move, walking boldly up the alley as though she belonged there. Norris followed her to the doorway, and they stared up at the house. It was neither distinctive nor grand, just one in a row of anonymous brick houses. Above the doorway was a massive lintel, and in the fading light, Norris could just make out the symbols carved in the granite.

— Someone else is coming, — whispered Rose. Quickly she looped her arm in his, and they walked away, bodies pressed together like lovers, their backs turned to the man who had just entered the alley behind them. They heard a knock on the door.

The same voice that had greeted Gareth Wilson now said: — We wondered if you'd make it. —

— I apologize for the state of my apparel, but I came straight from a patient's sickbed. —

Norris came to a halt, too shocked to take another step. Slowly, he turned. Though he could not see the man's face through the shadows, he could make out a familiar silhouette, the broad shoulders filling out the generous greatcoat. Even after the man had stepped into the house, and the door swung shut, Norris stood rooted to the spot. It cannot be.

— Norris? — Rose tugged on his arm. — What is it? —

He stared up the alley at the doorway through which the new visitor had just entered. — I know that man, — he said.

Dim Billy is an apt name for the boy who now shambles down the alley, his shoulders hunched forward, his neck extended like a stork's as he stares at the ground, as though in search of some treasure that he's lost. A penny perhaps, or a stray bit of tin, something that no one else would give a second glance to. But Billy Piggott is not like anyone else, or so Jack Burke said. A useless half-wit, Burke called the boy, a stray who wanders the streets always in search of a free meal, just like the equally stray black mutt who so often trots at the boy's heels. A half-wit the boy might be, but he is not entirely useless.

He is the key to finding Rose Connolly.

Until recently, Billy had lodged with Rose in a rathole on Fishery Alley. The boy must know where to find her.

And tonight, Dim Billy will almost certainly talk.

The boy suddenly stops and his head jerks up. Somehow he's sensed the presence of another in his alley, and his gaze seeks out a face. — Who's there? — he calls out. But his attention isn't focused on the shadow in the doorway; instead he looks at the far end of the alley, where a silhouette has just appeared, backlit by the glow of a streetlamp.

— Billy! — a man calls.

The boy stands still, facing the encroaching intruder. — What d'ya want with me? —

— I just want to talk to you. —

— About what, Mr. Tate? —

— About Rose. — Eben moves closer. — Where is she, boy? —

— I don't know. —

— Come on, Billy. You do know. —

— No I don't! And you can't make me tell you! —