The Bone Garden: A Novel

1830

THE GRUESOME OBJECT had been steeping for two days in whiskey, and at first, Rose did not recognize what the jar contained. All she saw was a flap of raw meat submerged in a tea-colored brew. Mr. Pratt turned the jar and held it up to Rose's face, forcing her to take a closer look.

— Do you know who this is? — he asked.

She gazed into the jar, where the object preserved in that unsavory bath of liquor and old blood suddenly bobbed up against the glass, which magnified every feature. Rose recoiled in horror.

— It's a face you should recognize, Miss Connolly, — said Pratt. — It was stripped from a body found two nights ago in a West End alley. A body carved with the sign of the cross. The body of your brother-in-law, Mr. Eben Tate. — He set the jar down on Dr. Grenville's table.

Rose turned to Grenville, who looked equally shocked by the evidence in his parlor. — That jar was never in Norris's room! — she said. — He wouldn't have asked me to come here if he didn't believe in you, Dr. Grenville. Now you have to believe in him. —

Pratt reacted with an unperturbed smile. — I think it's quite clear, Doctor, that your student Mr. Marshall deceived you. He is the West End Reaper. It's only a matter of time before he's apprehended. —

— If he's not already drowned, — said Grenville.

— Oh, we know he's still alive. This morning, we found footprints in the mud, coming out of the water near the docks. We will find him, and justice will be served. This jar is all the proof we need. —

— All you have is a specimen pickled in whiskey. —

— And a bloodstained mask. A white mask, just as certain witnesses — ? he looked at Rose? — have described. —

Rose said, — He's innocent! I'll testify? —

— Testify to what, Miss Connolly? — Pratt gave a dismissive snort.

— You planted that jar in his room. —

Pratt advanced on her with a look of such fury that she flinched. — You little whore. —

— Mr. Pratt! — said Grenville.

But Pratt's gaze remained on Rose. — You think your testimony will be worth anything? I know full well that you've been living with Norris Marshall. That he even took his strumpet home for Christmas to meet his dear old dad. Not only do you lie underneath him, now you're lying for him. Did he kill Eben Tate as a favor to you? Did he take care of your troublesome brother-in-law? — He placed the jar back in its cloth-lined evidence box. — Oh, yes, a jury will certainly believe your testimony! —

Rose said to Grenville: — The jar was not in his room. I swear to it. —

— Who authorized the search of Mr. Marshall's room? — asked Grenville. — How did the Night Watch even think to look there? —

For the first time, Pratt appeared uneasy. — I only did my duty. When a report comes in? —

— What report? —

— A letter, advising the Night Watch that we might find certain items of interest in his room. —

— A letter from whom? —

— I am not at liberty to say. —

Grenville gave a comprehending laugh. — Anonymous! —

— We found the evidence, didn't we? —

— You would stake a man's life on that jar? On that mask? —

— And you, sir, should think twice before you stake your fine reputation on a killer. It should be obvious by now that you've sorely misjudged the young man, and so has everyone else. — He lifted the evidence box and added, with a note of satisfaction, — Everyone but me. — He gave a curt nod. — Good night, Doctor. I'll see myself out. —

They listened to Pratt's footsteps as he walked down the hall, and then the front door closed behind him. A moment later, Dr. Grenville's sister, Eliza, swept into the parlor.

— Has that awful man finally left? — she asked.

— I'm afraid it looks quite grim for Norris. — Grenville sighed and sank into a chair by the fire.

— Is there nothing you can do to help him? — asked Eliza.

— This has gone beyond even my influence. —

— He counts on you, Dr. Grenville! — said Rose. — If both you and Mr. Holmes defend him, they'll be forced to listen. —

— Wendell will testify in his defense? — asked Eliza.

— He's been in Norris's room. He knows that jar wasn't there. Or the mask, either. — She looked at Grenville. — It's all my fault. It's all to do with me, with Meggie. The people who want her, they'd do anything. —

— Including send an innocent man to the gallows? — said Eliza.

— That's the least of it. — Rose approached Grenville, her hands outstretched in a plea for him to believe her. — The night Meggie was born, there were two nurses and a doctor in the room. Now they're all dead, because they knew my sister's secret. They learned the name of Meggie's father. —

— A name you've never heard, — said Grenville.

— I wasn't in the room. The baby was crying, so I carried her out. Later, Agnes Poole demanded I give her up, but I refused. — Rose swallowed and said softly. — And I've been hunted ever since. —

— So it's the child they want? — said Eliza. She looked at her brother. — She needs protection. —

Grenville nodded. — Where is she, Miss Connolly? —

— Hidden, sir. In a safe place. —

— They could find her, — he said.

— I'm the only one who knows where she is. — She looked him in the eye and said, evenly: — And no one can make me tell. —

He met her gaze, taking her measure. — I don't doubt you for an instant. You've kept her safe from harm this long. You, better than anyone, know what's best. — Abruptly he stood. — I must go out. —

— Where are you going? — Eliza asked.

— There are people I need to consult in this matter. —

— Will you be home for supper? —

— I don't know. — He walked into the hallway and pulled on his greatcoat.

Rose followed him. — Dr. Grenville, what shall I do? How can I help? —

— Remain here. — He looked at his sister. — Eliza, see to the girl's needs. While she's under our roof, she must not come to harm. — He walked out, and an icy gust of wind blew in, stinging Rose's eyes. She blinked away sudden tears.

— You don't have anywhere to go, do you? —

Rose turned to Eliza. — No, ma'am. —

— Mrs. Furbush can make a bed for you, in the kitchen. — Eliza's gaze swept Rose's patched dress. — And a change of clothes, certainly. —

— Thank you. — Rose cleared her throat. — Thank you for everything. —

— My brother's the one you need to thank, — said Eliza. — I only hope this business does not ruin him. —

It was the grandest house Rose had ever set foot in, certainly the grandest house she'd ever slept in. The kitchen was warm, the coals in the fireplace still aglow and throwing off heat. Her blanket was of heavy wool, not like the threadbare cloak with which she'd wrapped herself on so many cold nights, a sorry old rag that smelled of every lodging house, every filthy straw bed she'd ever slept in. The briskly efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Furbush, had insisted on tossing that cloak, along with the rest of Rose's worn clothing, into the fire. As for the girl herself, Mrs. Furbush had called for soap and a great deal of hot water, because Dr. Grenville insisted that a clean household was a healthy household. Now bathed and wearing a fresh gown, Rose lay in unaccustomed comfort in a cot near the fireplace. She knew that Meggie, too, was warm and safe tonight.