The Bone Garden: A Novel

let Norris go to his grave as the West End Reaper? When you know he's innocent? —

Constable Lyons looked at him. — There are other innocents to consider, Mr. Holmes. Young Charles, for example. It's painful enough for him that his mother chose to end her own life, and so publicly. Would you also force him to live with the stigma of having a murderess as a mother? —

— It's the truth, isn't it? —

— The public is not owed the truth. —

— But we owe it to Norris. To his memory. —

— He's not here to benefit from any such redemption. We'll lay no accusations at his feet. We'll simply remain silent, and allow the public to draw its own conclusions. —

— Even if those conclusions are false? —

— Whom does it harm? No one who still breathes. — Lyons sighed. — At any rate, there's still a trial to come. Mr. Jack Burke will almost certainly hang for the murder of Billy Piggott, at the very least. The truth may well be revealed then, and we can't suppress it. But we need not advertise it, either. —

Wendell looked at Dr. Grenville, who had remained silent. — Sir, you would allow such an injustice against Norris? He deserved better. —

Grenville said, softly: — I know. —

— It's a false honor your family clings to, if it requires you to blacken the memory of an innocent man. —

— There is Charles to think of. —

— And that's all that matters to you? —

— He is my nephew! —

A voice suddenly cut in: — And what of your son, Dr. Grenville? —

Startled, Wendell turned to stare at Rose, now standing in the parlor doorway. Grief had drained her face of all color, and what he saw bore little resemblance to the vibrant young girl she once was. In her place he saw a stranger, no longer a girl but a stone-faced woman who stood straight and unyielding, her gaze fixed on Grenville.

— Surely you knew you fathered another child, — she said. — He was your son. —

Grenville gave an anguished groan and dropped his head in his hands.

— He never realized, — she said. — But I saw it. And you must have, too, Doctor. The first time you laid eyes on him. How many women have you taken advantage of, sir? How many other children have you fathered out of wedlock, children you don't even know about? Children who are even now struggling just to stay alive? —

— There are no others. —

— How could you know? —

— I do know! — He looked up. — What happened between Sophia and me was a long time ago, and it was something we both regretted. We betrayed my dear wife. Never again did I do so, not while Abigail lived. —

— You turned your back on your own son. —

— Sophia never told me the boy was mine! All those years he was growing up in Belmont, I didn't know. Until the day he arrived at the college, and I saw him. Then I realized? —

Wendell looked back and forth between Rose and Grenville. — You can't be speaking of Norris? —

Rose's gaze was still fixed on Grenville. — While you lived in this grand house, Doctor, while you rode in your fine carriage to your country home in Weston, he was tilling fields and slopping pigs. —

— I tell you, I didn't know! Sophia never said a word to me. —

— And if she had, would you have acknowledged him? I don't think so. And poor Sophia had no choice but to marry the first man who'd have her. —

— I would have helped the boy. I would have seen to his needs. —

— But you didn't. Everything he accomplished was by his efforts alone. Does it not make you proud, that you fathered such a remarkable son? That in his short life, he rose so far above his station? —

— I am proud, — said Grenville softly. — If only Sophia had come to me years ago. —

— She tried to. —

— What do you mean? —

— Ask Charles. He heard what his mother said. Mrs. Lackaway told him she didn't want another one of your bastards suddenly showing up in the family. She said that ten years ago, she was forced to clean up your mess. —

— Ten years ago? — said Wendell. — Isn't that when? —

— When Norris's mother vanished, — said Rose. She drew in a shaky breath, the first hint of tears breaking her voice. — If only Norris had known! It would have meant everything to him, to know that his mother loved him. That she didn't abandon him, but was instead murdered. —

— I have no words in my own defense, Miss Connolly, — said Grenville. — I have a lifetime of sins to atone for, and I intend to. — He looked straight at Rose. — Now it seems there is a little girl somewhere in need of a home. A girl whom I swear to you will be given every comfort, every advantage. —

— I'll hold you to that promise, — said Rose.

— Where is she? Will you take me to my daughter? —

Rose met his gaze. — When the time is right. —

In the hearth, the fire had guttered out. The first light of dawn was brightening the sky.

Constable Lyons rose from his chair. — I leave you now, Aldous. As for Eliza, this is your family, and how much you choose to acknowledge is your decision. At the moment, the public's eyes are on Mr. Jack Burke. He is their current monster. But soon, I'm sure, there'll be another one to catch their attention. This much I know about the public: Their hunger for monsters is insatiable. — He nodded farewell and left the house.

After a moment, Wendell, too, rose to depart. He had intruded upon the household far too long, and had spoken his mind too bluntly. So it was with a note of apology in his voice that he took his leave of Dr. Grenville, who did not stir but remained in his chair, staring at the ashes.

Rose followed Wendell into the foyer. — You have been a true friend, — she said. — Thank you, for all that you've done. —

They embraced, and there was no awkwardness despite the wide gulf of class that separated them. Norris Marshall had brought them together; now grief over his death would forever bind them. Wendell was about to step out the door when he paused and looked back at her.

— How did you know? — he said. — When Norris himself did not? —

— That Dr. Grenville is his father? —

— Yes. —

She took his hand. — Come with me. —

She led him up the stairs to the second floor. In the dim hallway she paused to light a lamp and carry it toward one of the portraits hanging on the wall. — Here, — she said. — This is how I knew. —

He stared at the painting of a dark-haired young man who stood beside a desk, his hand resting atop a human skull. His brown eyes gazed straight at Wendell, as though in direct challenge.

— It's a portrait of Aldous Grenville when he was nineteen years old, — said Rose. — That's what Mrs. Furbush told me. —

Wendell could not tear his gaze from the painting. — I did not see it until now. —

— I saw it at once. And I had no doubt. — Rose stared at the young man's portrait, and her lips curved into a sad smile. — You always recognize the one you love. —

Thirty-six