The Bone Garden: A Novel

— We would be more skeptical, — said Wendell, — except there was one more familiar face that emerged from the house. It was Constable Lyons himself. —

For the first time, Dr. Grenville was stunned silent. He stared at the young men in disbelief.

— Whatever is going on in that house is being shielded at the highest levels, — said Norris.

Grenville gave a sudden laugh. — Do you realize, Mr. Marshall, that Constable Lyons is the only reason you are not in custody? His dimwit associate, Mr. Pratt, was ready to arrest you, but Lyons stayed his hand. Even with all the rumors, the whispers against you, Lyons has been your ally. —

— You know this to be fact? —

— He told me. He's under pressure from all sides? the public, the press, everyone is braying for an arrest, any arrest. He knows full well that Mr. Pratt covets his position, but Lyons won't be rushed. Not without evidence. —

— I had no idea, sir, — said Norris quietly.

— If you want to remain at liberty, I suggest you not antagonize your defenders. —

— But Dr. Grenville, — said Wendell, — there are so many unanswered questions. Why did they meet at such a modest address? Why would men of such diverse occupations come together late at night? Finally, the residence itself is interesting. Or, rather, one detail of that residence. — Wendell looked at Norris, who removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.

— What is this? — asked Grenville.

— These symbols are carved on the granite lintel above the doorway, — said Norris. He gave the sheet to Grenville. — I went back this morning, to examine it by daylight. You can see two pelicans facing each other. And between them, there's a cross. —

— You'll find many a cross on buildings in this city. —

— That's not just any cross, — said Wendell. — This one has a rose at its center. This isn't a papist symbol. It's the cross of the Rosicrucians. —

Abruptly Grenville crumpled the sheet. — Absurd. You're chasing phantoms. —

— The Rosicrucians are real. A society so secret, no one knows the identity of its members. There are reports, here and in Washington, that their influence is growing. That they indulge in sacrifices. That among their victims are children, whose innocent blood is spilled in secret rituals. This child that Rose Connolly protects seems to be at the center of this mystery. We assumed the baby's sought by the man who fathered her. Now we witness these secret meetings on Acorn Street. We hear reports of blood on the cobblestones. And we wonder if another motive entirely is at work here. —

— Child sacrifice? — Grenville threw the drawing into the fire. — This is thin evidence indeed, Mr. Marshall. When I meet with the trustees after Christmas, I'll need more than this to defend you. How can I support your enrollment if my sole argument is an outlandish conspiracy theory, hatched by a girl I've never met? A girl who refuses to meet with me? —

— She trusts few people, sir. Even fewer since we spotted Constable Lyons on Acorn Street. —

— Where is she? Who shelters her? —

Norris hesitated, embarrassed to reveal the scandalous fact that he, an unmarried man, allowed the girl to sleep only a few feet from his own bed.

He was grateful when Wendell interjected smoothly: — We have arranged for her lodgings, sir. I assure you, she's in a safe place. —

— And the baby? If this child is in such danger, can you guarantee its safety? —

Norris and Wendell looked at each other. Little Meggie's welfare was, in fact, a matter that worried them both.

— She, too, remains hidden, sir, — said Wendell.

— And her circumstances? —

— Far from ideal, I admit. She's fed and cared for, but in the most unclean surroundings. —

— Then bring her here, gentlemen. I should like to see this mysterious child whom everyone seems so intent upon. I assure you she'll be safe, and in the healthiest of households. —

Again, Norris and Wendell exchanged glances. Could there be any doubt that Meggie would be far better off here than in Hepzibah's filthy hovel?

But Norris said, — Rose would never forgive us if we made such a decision without her. She's the one who cares most about the child. She's the one who must choose. —

— You cede a great deal of authority to a seventeen-year-old-girl. —

— She may be only seventeen. But she deserves respect, sir. Against all the odds, she's survived, and she's kept her niece alive as well. —

— You would stake a child's life on this girl's judgment? —

— Yes. I would. —

— Then your own judgment is in question, Mr. Marshall. A mere girl cannot be trusted with such a grave responsibility! —

A knock on the door made them all turn. Eliza Lackaway, looking concerned, stepped into the room. — Is everything all right, Aldous? —

— Yes, yes. — Grenville released a deep breath. — We're just having a spirited discussion. —

— We could hear you upstairs, which is why I've come down. Charles is awake now and would dearly love to see his friends. — She looked at Wendell and Norris. — He wanted to make sure you didn't leave without saying hello. —

— We wouldn't dream of it, — said Wendell. — We were hoping he'd be up to seeing visitors. —

— He's desperate for visitors. —

— Go. — Grenville brusquely waved the young men out of the room. — Our conversation is at an end. —

Eliza frowned at her brother's rude dismissal of their visitors, but she refrained from commenting on it as she led Norris and Wendell out of the parlor and up the stairs. Instead, she spoke of Charles.

— He wanted to come downstairs to see you, — she said, — but I insisted he stay in bed, as he's not yet steady on his feet. This is still a delicate time in his recovery. —

They reached the top of the stairs, and once again, Norris caught a fleeting glimpse of the Grenville family portraits hanging in the second-floor hallway, a gallery of both young and old, men and women. He recognized Charles among them, posed in a dapper suit, standing beside a desk. His left elbow was propped jauntily on a stack of books with his hand draped over the leather spines, a hand he no longer possessed.

— Here are your friends, darling, — said Eliza.

They found Charles looking pale, but with a smile on his face. His left wrist stump was discreetly hidden beneath the sheets.

— I could hear my uncle's voice booming through the floor, — said Charles. — It sounded like quite a lively discussion downstairs. —

Wendell drew up a chair to sit beside the bed. — Had we known you were awake, we'd have come up sooner. —

Charles tried to sit up, but his mother protested: — No, Charles. You need to rest. —

— Mother, I've been resting here for days and I'm sick of it. I'll have to get up sooner or later. — With a grimace, he leaned forward, and Eliza quickly propped pillows behind his back.

— So how are you, Charlie? — asked Wendell. — Is it still so very painful? —

— Only when the morphine wears off. But I try never to let that happen. — Charles managed a tired smile. — Still, I am better. And look at the bright side. I'll never have to apologize for not learning the piano! —

Eliza sighed. — That's not funny, dear. —

— Mother, would you mind if I had some time alone with my friends? It feels like an eternity since I saw them. —

— I'll take that as a sign you're feeling better. — Eliza stood. — Gentlemen, please don't exhaust him. I'll check on you in a bit, darling. —

Charles waited until his mother had left the room, then he gave an exasperated sigh. — God, she smothers me! —