The Bone Garden: A Novel

— She's my own family. I only want to speak to her. —

— You hit her. You're mean to her. —

— Is that what she told you? And you believe her? —

— She only tells me the truth. —

— That's what she'd have you believe. — Eben's voice turns smooth, coaxing. — There's money in it for you if you help me find her. Even more if you help me find the baby. —

— She says if I tell, they'll kill Meggie. —

— So you do know where she is. —

— She's just a baby, and babies can't fight back. —

— Babies need milk, Billy. They need tender care. I can buy it for her. —

Billy backs away. Idiot though he is, he can hear the insincerity in Eben Tate's voice. — I ain't talking to you. —

— Where is Rose? — Eben advances. — Come back here! —

But the boy scrabbles away, quick as a crab. Eben makes a desperate lunge and stumbles in the dark. He goes sprawling facedown as Billy makes his escape, his footsteps receding into the darkness.

— Little bastard. Wait till I get my hands on you. — Eben grunts as he rises to his knees. He is still on all fours when his gaze suddenly fixes on the shadowy doorway right beside where he has fallen. On the gleam of two leather shoes, planted almost in front of his nose.

— What? Who? — Eben scrambles to his feet as the figure emerges from the doorway, black cape sweeping across the icy stones.

— Good evening, sir. —

Eben gives an embarrassed grunt and pulls himself up straight, swiftly reclaiming his dignity. — Well! This is not a place I'd expect to find? —

The thrust of the knife drives the blade so deep it strikes spine, and the handle transmits the impact against bone, a thrilling ache of ultimate power. Eben sucks in a breath as his body goes rigid, his eyes bulging in shock. He does not cry out; in fact, he makes no sound at all. The first stab is almost always met with the silence of the stunned.

The second slash is swift and efficient, releasing a gout of entrails. Eben collapses to his knees, hands pressed to the wound as though to hold back the waterfall of offal, but it spills from his belly and would have tripped him had he tried to flee. Had he been able to take even a single step.

Eben's is not the face the Reaper expected to stare down upon this night, but such are the vagaries of providence. Though it's not Billy's blood that funnels its way into the gutter and trickles between the cobblestones, there is a purpose yet for this harvest. Every death, like every life, has its use.

There is one more slice to make. Which part this time, which bit of flesh?

Ah, the obvious choice. By now, Eben's heart has ceased to beat. Only a little blood spills as the blade slits into the scalp and begins to peel away its prize.

Twenty-seven

— THESE ACCUSATIONS are extremely dangerous, — said Dr. Grenville. — Before you take them any further, gentlemen, I advise you to consider the possible consequences. —

— Norris and I both saw him come out of that building last night, on Acorn Street, — said Wendell. — It was Dr. Sewall. And there were others at that house, others we recognized. —

— And what of it? A gathering of gentlemen is hardly an extraordinary occurrence. — Grenville gestured to the room in which they now sat. — We three are now having a meeting in my parlor. Is this to be taken as a suspicious gathering? —

— Consider who those men were, — said Norris. — One was Mr. Gareth Wilson, recently returned from London. A most mysterious individual with few friends in town. —

— You've been inquiring into Mr. Wilson's affairs, all because of what some silly girl told you? A girl I have yet to lay eyes on? —

— Rose Connolly strikes us both as a reliable witness, — said Wendell.

— I can't judge the reliability of a girl I've never met. Neither can I allow you to slander a man as respected as Dr. Sewall. Good God, I know his character! —

Wendell asked, quietly: — Do you, sir? —

Grenville rose from his chair and paced in agitation to the hearth. There he stood with his back turned to them, his gaze on the fire. Outside, Beacon Street had fallen silent in the deepness of night, and the only sounds were the crackling flames and the occasional creak of servants' footsteps. They heard such footsteps now, approaching the drawing room, and there was a soft knock on the door. A parlor maid appeared, carrying a tray of cakes.

— I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, — she said. — But Mrs. Lackaway asked me to bring this in for the young gentlemen. —

Grenville didn't even turn from the fire, just said, brusquely: — Leave it. And close the door behind you. —

The girl set the tray on a side table and quickly withdrew.

Only when her footsteps had receded down the hall did Grenville finally say: — Dr. Sewall saved my nephew's life. I owe him for my sister's happiness, and I refuse to believe he's involved in any way with these murders. — Grenville turned to Norris. — You, better than anyone, know what it's like to be a victim of rumors. Based on all the tales now circulating about you, you possess horns and cloven hooves. Do you think it's been easy for me to be your champion? To defend your place in our college? Yet I have done so because I refuse to be swayed by malicious gossip. I tell you now, it'll take far more than this to rouse my suspicions. —

— Sir, — said Wendell, — you haven't heard the names of the other men at that meeting. —

Grenville turned to him. — And you spied on them as well? —

— We simply took note of who came and went from Acorn Street. There was also a gentleman who seemed familiar to me. I followed him to an address at Twelve Post Office Square. —

— And? —

— It was Mr. William Lloyd Garrison. I recognized him, because I heard him speak this past summer, at the Park Street church. —

— Mr. Garrison, the abolitionist? Do you feel it's a crime to advocate the freeing of slaves? —

— Not at all. I find his position a most noble one. —

Grenville looked at Norris. — Do you? —

— I'm in complete sympathy with the abolitionists, — said Norris. — But there are disturbing things being said about Mr. Garrison. A shopkeeper told us? —

— A shopkeeper? Now that is a reliable source indeed. —

— He told us that Mr. Garrison is often seen out late at night, moving in a most furtive manner in the vicinity of Beacon Hill. —

— I, too, am often out late at night, due to the needs of my patients. Some might call my movements furtive as well. —

— But Mr. Garrison is no physician. What would draw him out at all hours of the night? Acorn Street in particular seems to attract visitors not from the neighborhood. There are reports of eerie chanting heard in the night, and last month, bloodstains were found on the cobblestones. All these things have deeply alarmed people in the neighborhood, but when they complained to the Night Watch, Constable Lyons resisted any investigation. Even odder, he issued orders that the Watch is to avoid Acorn Street entirely. —

— Who told you this? —

— The shopkeeper. —

— Consider your source, Mr. Marshall. —