The Bone Garden: A Novel (19 page)

“That’s why you changed your name? It had nothing to do with this?” The Englishman reached into his pocket and pulled out something that gleamed in the lamplight. It was Aurnia’s necklace. “I believe you pawned this several weeks ago. Something that did not belong to you.”

She stared at him in silence.

“So you
did
steal it.”

She could not let that charge go unanswered. “Aurnia gave it to me!”

“And you so blithely rid yourself of it?”

“She deserved a decent burial. I had no other way to pay for it.”

The Englishman glanced at Eben. “You didn’t tell me that. She had a good reason to pawn it.”

“It still wasn’t hers,” said Eben.

“And it sounds like it wasn’t yours, either, Mr. Tate.” The man looked at Rose. “Did your sister ever tell you where she got this necklace?”

“I used to think it was Eben. But he’s too cheap.”

The Englishman ignored Eben’s glower and kept his focus on Rose. “So she never told you where she got it?” he asked.

“Why does it matter?” she shot back.

“This is a valuable piece of jewelry, Miss Connolly. Only someone of means could have afforded it.”

“Now you’ll claim Aurnia stole it. You’re with the Night Watch, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Who are you?”

Eben gave her a hard slap on the shoulder. “Show some respect!”

“For a man who won’t even tell me his name?”

For her impudence, Eben raised his hand to deliver another blow, but the Englishman cut in: “There’s no need for violence, Mr. Tate!”

“But you see what kind of girl she is! That’s what I’ve had to put up with.”

The Englishman moved toward Rose, his gaze boring into her face. “I’m not with the local authorities, if that’s any reassurance.”

“Then why do you ask me these questions?”

“I work for a client who shall remain nameless. I’m charged with the gathering of information. Information that, I’m afraid, only you can provide.”

She gave a disbelieving laugh. “I’m a seamstress, sir. Ask me about buttons or bows, and I’ll have an answer for you. Other than that, I don’t see how I can help.”

“But you can help me. You’re the only one.” He moved in so close she could smell sweet tobacco on his breath. “Where is your sister’s child? Where is the baby?”

“He doesn’t deserve her.” She glanced at Eben. “What sort of father signs away the rights to his own daughter?”

“Just tell me where she is.”

“She’s safe and she’s fed. That’s all he needs to know. Instead o’ paying a pretty penny for a fancy lawyer, he could’ve bought his girl milk and a warm crib.”

“Is that what you think? That I’m in Mr. Tate’s employ?”

“Aren’t you?”

The Englishman gave a startled laugh. “Heavens, no!” he said, and she saw the angry flush of Eben’s face. “I work for someone else, Miss Connolly. Someone who wants very much to know where the child is.” He brought his face even closer, and she drew away, her back pressing into the chair. “Where is the baby?”

Rose sat silent, suddenly thinking of that day in St. Augustine’s cemetery, when Aurnia’s grave had yawned at her feet. Mary Robinson had appeared like a ghost from the mist, her face pale and taut, her gaze ceaselessly scanning the graveyard.
There are people inquiring about the child. Keep her hidden. Keep her safe.

“Miss Connolly?”

She felt her own pulse throbbing in her neck as his gaze bore even deeper. She remained silent.

To her relief, he straightened and wandered to the other end of the room, where he casually ran a finger across a bookshelf and looked at the dust he’d picked up. “Mr. Tate tells me you’re a clever girl. Is that true?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“I think you’re entirely too modest.” He turned and looked at her. “What a shame that a girl with your intelligence is forced to live so close to the edge. Your shoes look as if they’re falling apart. And that cloak—when was it last washed? Surely, you deserve better.”

“So do many others.”

“Ah, but
you
are the one being offered an opportunity here.”

“Opportunity?”

“A thousand dollars. If you bring me the child.”

She was stunned. That much money could buy a room in a fine lodging house with hot meals every night. New clothes and a warm coat, not this cloak with its tattered hem. All the tempting luxuries she could only dream about.

All I have to do is surrender Meggie.

“I can’t help you,” she said.

Eben’s blow came so quickly that the other man had no time to intervene. The impact made Rose’s head snap sideways and she cringed in the chair, her cheek throbbing.

“That was not necessary, Mr. Tate!”

“You see how she is, though?”

“You can get more cooperation with a carrot than with a stick.”

“Well, she just turned down the carrot.”

Rose lifted her head and stared at Eben with undisguised hatred. No matter what they offered her, be it a thousand or ten thousand dollars, she would never give away her own flesh and blood.

The Englishman now stood before her, eyeing her face, where a bruise was surely starting to form. She didn’t fear a blow from him; this man, she guessed, was far more accustomed to using words and cash as his tools of persuasion, and left the violence to other men.

“Let’s try again,” he said to Rose.

“Or you’ll have him hit me again?”

“I do apologize for that.” He looked at Eben. “Leave the room.”

“But I know her better than anyone! I can tell you when she’s—”

“
Leave the room
.”

Eben shot Rose a poisonous look, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The man reached for a chair and dragged it over to Rose’s. “Now, Miss Connolly,” he said, sitting down to face her. “You know it’s only a matter of time until we find her. Save us all the trouble and you’ll be well rewarded.”

“Why is she so important to you?”

“Not to me. To my client.”

“Who
is
this client?”

“Someone who cares about the child’s welfare. Who wants her to stay alive and healthy.”

“Are you saying Meggie’s in danger?”

“Our concern is that
you
may be. And if something happens to you, we’ll never find the child.”

“Now you’re threatening me?” She forced a laugh, displaying a recklessness she did not really feel. “You’ve given up on the carrot, and you’re back to the stick.”

“You mistake my meaning.” He leaned forward, his face deadly serious. “Both Agnes Poole and Mary Robinson are dead. You do know that?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“You were a witness the night Agnes Poole died. You saw the killer. And he certainly knows that.”

“Everyone knows who the killer is,” she said. “I heard it yesterday, on the streets. Dr. Berry has fled town.”

“Yes, that’s what the newspapers have reported. Dr. Nathaniel Berry lived in the West End. He knew the two victims. He tried to kill a third—a prostitute, who claims she had to flee for her life. Now Dr. Berry’s gone missing, so of course he must be the Reaper.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Do you believe everything you hear on the street?”

“But if he isn’t the killer…”

“Then the West End Reaper may still be in Boston, and he could very well know your identity. After what happened to Mary Robinson, I’d be looking over my shoulder if I were you. We were able to find you, and so could anyone else. Which is why I’m so concerned about your niece’s welfare. You’re the only one who knows the baby’s whereabouts. If anything happened to you…” He paused. “A thousand dollars, Miss Connolly. It would help you leave Boston. Help you find a comfortable new home. Give us the child, and the money’s yours.”

She said nothing. Mary Robinson’s last words to her kept echoing in her head:
Keep her hidden. Keep her safe.

Weary of her silence, the man finally stood. “Should you change your mind, you can find me here.” He placed a calling card in her hand, and she stared down at the printed name.

Mr. Gareth Wilson

5 Park Street, Boston

“You’d do well to consider my offer,” he said. “And to consider, too, the welfare of the child. In the meantime, Miss Connolly, do be careful. You never know what monster might be searching for you.” He walked out, leaving her alone in that cold and dusty room, her gaze still fixed on the card.

“Are you insane, Rose?”

She looked up at the sound of Eben’s voice, and saw him standing in the doorway.

“That’s more money than you’ll ever see! How dare you refuse it?”

Staring into his eyes, she suddenly understood why he cared. Why he was involved. “He promised you money, too, didn’t he?” she said. “How much?”

“Enough to make it worth it.”

“Worth giving up your child?”

“Haven’t you figured it out? She’s not
my
child.”

“Aurnia would never—”

“Aurnia
did.
I thought it was mine, and that’s the only reason I married her. But time tells the truth, Rose. It told me what kind of woman I really married.”

She shook her head, still not willing to believe it.

“Whoever the father is,” said Eben, “he wants that child. And he has enough to pay whatever it takes.”

Money enough for a lawyer, she thought. Money enough to buy his mistress a fine necklace. Maybe even enough to buy silence. For what fine gentleman wants it known that he’s fathered a child with a poor seamstress only a year out of Ireland?

“Take the money,” said Eben.

She stood. “I’d starve before I give her up.”

He followed her out of the room, to the front door. “You don’t have much choice! How’re you going to feed yourself? Keep a roof over your head?”

As she stepped outside, he yelled: “This time they were gentle with you, but next time you won’t be so lucky!”

To her relief, Eben didn’t follow her. The night had grown even colder, and she shivered as she retraced her steps to Fishery Alley. The streets were deserted, and invisible fingers of wind swept the snow in swirling furrows before her feet. Suddenly she halted and looked back. Had she just heard footsteps? She peered into the stinging mist, but saw no one behind her.
Don’t go near Meggie, not tonight. They may be watching you.
Quickening her pace, she continued toward Fishery Alley, eager to escape the wind. What a fool she’d been to let Eben lure her from the relative comfort, poor though it was, of her lodging house. Poor Dim Billy was a better man, a truer friend, than Eben would ever be.

She made her way into the maze of South Boston. The cold had swept all sensible people off the streets, and as she passed a tavern, she heard the voices of men who’d gathered inside to escape the cold. Through the steamed windows she saw their silhouettes against the firelight. She did not linger, but walked on, hoping that old Porteous and his daughter had not already barred the door. Even her poor pile of straw, her patch of floor among the unwashed bodies, seemed a luxury this night, and she should not have so easily surrendered it. The sounds of the tavern faded behind her and she heard only the whistle of the wind through the narrow passage and the rush of her own breath. Fishery Alley was just around the next corner, and like a horse who has sighted its stable and knows that shelter lies ahead, she quickened her pace and almost skidded across the stones. She caught herself against a wall, and was just straightening when she heard the sound.

It was the rattle of a man clearing his throat.

Slowly, she approached the corner and peered around the building, into Fishery Alley. At first, all she saw were shadows and the dim glow of candlelight through a window. Then a man’s silhouette emerged from the shelter of a doorway. He paced the alley, clapping his shoulders to stay warm. Clearing his throat again, he spat on the stones, then returned to the doorway and vanished back into shadow.

Silently she backed away from the corner. Perhaps the man’s had too much to drink, she thought. Perhaps he’ll soon be on his way home.

Or perhaps he’s watching for
me.

She waited, her heart thumping, as the minutes went by, as the wind flapped at her skirt. Again she heard him cough and spit, then there was a pounding on a door, and she heard Porteous’s voice: “I told you, she’s not likely to come back tonight.”

“When she does, you send me word. No delay.”

“I told you I would.”

“You’ll get your fee then. Only then.”

“I’d better,” said Porteous, and the door slammed shut.

Rose quickly ducked between buildings and watched from the shadows as the man emerged from Fishery Alley and walked right past her. She could not make out his face, but she could see his hulking silhouette and heard him wheeze in the cold. She waited long enough for him to be well away; only then did she emerge from her hiding place.

I do not have even a pitiful pile of straw to return to.

She stood shivering in the road, staring in desolation at the darkness into which the man had just vanished. She turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Twenty-One

The present

T
HE JOURNEY WAS
familiar to Julia now, the same road north, the same ferry ride, even the same dense fog hiding her view of the crossing to Islesboro. This time, though, she was prepared for the damp weather, and was dressed in a sweater and jeans as she dragged her small roll-aboard suitcase up the dirt driveway to Stonehurst. When the weathered house suddenly loomed into view through the mist, she had the strange impression that it was welcoming her home, a surprising thing to feel considering her last visit with the irascible Henry. But there had been warm moments between them, too. A moment when, tipsy on wine, she’d looked across at his scowl, his weathered face, and thought: As cranky as Henry can be, there’s an integrity to this man, an honesty that runs so deep, I know I can believe every word that comes out of his mouth.

She hauled her suitcase up the steps to the porch and knocked on the door. This time, she resolved to be patient and wait until he appeared. After a few moments, when he did not answer, she tried the front door and found it unlocked. Poking her head inside, she called out: “Henry?” She brought her suitcase into the house and yelled up the stairs: “Henry, I’m here!”

She heard no answer.

She walked into the library, where the sea windows admitted the gloomy light of another fog-bound afternoon. She saw papers scattered across the table, and her first thought was:
Henry, you’ve really made a mess of things now
. Then she spotted the cane lying on the floor, and the two skinny legs that poked out from behind the stack of boxes.

“
Henry!
”

He was lying on his side, his trousers soaked in urine. Frantic, she rolled him onto his back and bent close, to see if he was breathing.

He opened his eyes. And whispered: “I knew you’d come.”

“I think he may have had an arrhythmia,” said Dr. Jarvis. “I find no signs of a stroke or heart attack, and his EKG looks normal at the moment.”

“At the moment?” asked Julia.

“That’s the problem with arrhythmias. They can come and go without warning. Which is why I want to keep him on a monitored unit for the next twenty-four hours, so we can watch what his heart does.” Jarvis looked across the room at the closed curtain, which hid their view of Henry’s hospital bed, and he dropped his voice. “But we’re going to have a hard time convincing him to stay that long. That’s where you come in, Ms. Hamill.”

“Me? I’m just his houseguest. You need to talk to his family.”

“I’ve already called them. His grandnephew’s driving up from Massachusetts, but he won’t get here till midnight at the earliest. Until then, maybe you can talk Henry into staying in that bed.”

“Where else is he going to go? The ferry’s stopped running.”

“Ha, you think that’d stop Henry? He’d just call some friend with a boat to bring him home.”

“You sound like you know him pretty well.”

“The whole medical staff knows Henry Page. I’m the only doctor he hasn’t fired yet.” Jarvis sighed and closed the hospital chart. “And I may be about to lose that exclusive status.”

Julia watched Dr. Jarvis walk away and thought: When did I sign up for
this
? But
this
was the burden she’d taken on when she’d found Henry lying on his library floor. She was the one who’d called the ambulance, who’d accompanied him during the ferry ride to the mainland. For the past four hours, she’d sat in Penobscot Bay Medical Center, waiting for the doctors and nurses to finish their evaluation. Now it was nine
PM
, she was starving, and she had no place to sleep except the waiting room couch.

Through the closed curtain came Henry’s complaining voice: “Dr. Jarvis told you I didn’t have a heart attack. So why am I still here?”

“Mr. Page, don’t you dare disconnect that monitor.”

“Where is she? Where’s my young lady?”

“She’s probably left by now.”

Julia took a deep breath and crossed to his bed. “I’m still here, Henry,” she said, and stepped through the curtain.

“Take me home now, Julia.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Why not? What’s to stop you?”

“The ferry, for one thing. It stopped running at five.”

“Call my friend Bart in Lincolnville. He has a boat with radar. He can get us across in the fog.”

“No, I’m not going to. I refuse.”

“You
refuse
?”

“Yes. And you can’t make me.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Well,” he huffed, “someone’s grown a spine.”

“Your grandnephew’s on his way. He’ll be here later tonight.”

“Maybe he’ll do what I want.”

“If he gives a damn about you, he’ll say no.”

“And what’s
your
reason for saying no?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “Because a corpse can’t help me go through those boxes,” she said and turned to leave.

“Julia?”

She sighed. “Yes, Henry?”

“You’ll like my grandnephew.”

Through the closed curtain, Julia heard a doctor and nurse conferring, and she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She had dozed off in the chair by Henry’s bed, and the paperback novel she’d been reading had fallen on the floor. She picked up the book and glanced at Henry. He, at least, was sleeping comfortably.

“This is his most recent EKG?” a man asked.

“Yes. Dr. Jarvis said they’ve all been normal.”

“You’ve seen no arrhythmias on the monitor?”

“Not so far.”

The sound of shuffling paper. “His blood work looks good. Oops, I take that back. His liver enzymes are up a little. He must be into that wine cellar again.”

“Do you need anything else, Dr. Page?”

“Other than a double shot of scotch?”

The nurse laughed. “At least
I
get to go off duty now. Good luck with him. You’ll need it.”

The curtain parted and Dr. Page stepped in. Julia stood to greet him, and her gaze fixed on a startlingly familiar face. “Tom,” she murmured.

“Hi, Julia. I hear he’s been giving you a hard time. On behalf of our whole family, I apologize.”

“But you—” She paused. “
You’re
his grandnephew?”

“Yeah. Didn’t he tell you I lived in your neighborhood?”

“No. He never mentioned it.”

Tom glanced in surprise at Henry, who was still sound asleep. “Well, that’s bizarre. I told him that you and I had met. That’s why he called you.”

She motioned to him to follow her away from the bed. They stepped through the curtain and crossed to the nurses’ station. “Henry called me because of Hilda’s papers. He thought I’d be interested in the history of my house.”

“Right. I told him that you wanted to know more about the bones in your garden. Henry’s sort of our family historian, so I thought he might be able to help you.” Tom glanced toward Henry’s bed. “Well, he
is
eighty-nine. He might forget things.”

“He’s sharp as a tack.”

“Are you talking about his mind or his tongue?”

At that she laughed. “Both. That’s why it was such a shock for me when I found him on the floor. He seems so indestructible.”

“I’m glad you were there. Thank you for everything you did.” He touched her shoulder, and she flushed at the warmth of his hand. “He’s not the easiest person to deal with, which is probably why he never got married.” Tom looked down at the hospital chart. “He looks good on paper.”

“I’d forgotten. Henry told me his grandnephew was a doctor.”

“Yes, but not his. I specialize in infectious disease. Dr. Jarvis said there might be a little trouble with the old ticker.”

“He wants to go home. He asked me to call some guy named Bart about a boat ride.”

“You’re kidding.” Tom looked up. “Bart’s still alive?”

“What are we going to do with him?”

“We?” He closed the chart. “How did Henry manage to rope you into this?”

She sighed. “I feel responsible, in a way. I’m the reason he’s digging through those boxes and getting himself all worked up. Maybe it’s too much for him, and that’s why he collapsed.”

“You can’t make Henry do anything he doesn’t want to do. When I spoke to him last week, he sounded more excited than I’ve heard him in years. Usually he’s crotchety and depressed. Now he’s just crotchety.”

From behind the curtain came Henry’s voice. “I heard that.”

Tom grimaced and set down the chart. He crossed to Henry’s bed and opened the curtain. “You’re awake.”

“Took you long enough to get here. Now let’s go home.”

“Whoa! What’s the rush?”

“Julia and I have work to do. Twenty more boxes at least! Where is she?”

She joined Tom at the curtain. “It’s too late to go home now. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“Only if you promise you’ll take me home tomorrow.”

She looked at Tom. “What do you think?”

“That’s up to Dr. Jarvis,” he said. “But if he clears it, I’ll help you get him home in the morning. And I’ll hang around for a few days, just to make sure everything’s okay.”

“Oh, good!” said Henry, clearly delighted. “You’ll be staying!”

Tom smiled in surprise at his granduncle. “Why Henry, it’s so nice to be appreciated.”

“
You
can bring up all the boxes from the cellar.”

It was late the next afternoon when they brought Henry home on the ferry. Though Dr. Jarvis had ordered him to go straight to bed, of course Henry did no such thing. Instead, he stationed himself at the top of the cellar steps, shouting orders as Tom carried boxes up the stairs. By the time Henry finally retired to his bedroom that night, it was Tom who was exhausted.

With a sigh, Tom sank into an armchair by the fireplace and said: “He may be eighty-nine, but he can still make me jump through hoops. And if I dare ignore him, he’s got that lethal-looking cane.”

Julia looked up from the box of papers she’d been sorting through. “Has he always been this way?”

“As long as I can remember. Which is why he lives alone. No one else in the family wants to deal with him.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I’m the one he keeps calling. He never had any children. By default, I guess I’m it.” Tom looked at her hopefully. “Want to adopt a used uncle?”

“Not even if he comes with four hundred bottles of vintage wine.”

“Oh. So he’s introduced you to his wine cellar.”

“We made a good dent in it last week. But the next time a man gets me drunk, I’d like him to be on the other side of seventy.” She turned her attention to the documents they’d pulled out of box number fifteen that afternoon. It was a sheaf of old newspapers, most of them dating to the late 1800s and not relevant to the story of Norris Marshall. If pack rat behavior was genetic, then Hilda Chamblett had inherited it from her great-great-grandmother Margaret Page, who, it seemed, could not throw away anything, either. Here were old editions of
The Boston Post
and the
Evening Transcript
and recipe clippings so brittle that they crumbled at a touch. There were also letters, dozens of them, addressed to Margaret. Julia was sucked into reading every single one, intrigued by this glimpse into the life of a woman who, more than a hundred years ago, had lived in her house, had walked the same floors, climbed the same stairs. Dr. Margaret Tate Page had lived a long and eventful life, judging by the letters she’d collected through the years. And such letters! They came from eminent physicians around the world, and from adoring grandchildren traveling in Europe, describing the meals served, the dresses worn, the gossip shared. What a shame no one today has time to write such letters, Julia thought as she devoured the tale of a grandchild’s flirtation. A hundred years after I am dead, what will anyone know about me?

“Anything interesting?” asked Tom. She was startled to find him standing right behind her, looking over her shoulder.

“This should all be interesting to you,” she said, trying to focus on the letter and not on his hand, which was now resting on the back of her chair. “Since it’s about your family.”

He went around the table and sat down across from her. “Are you really here because of that old skeleton?”

“You think there’s another reason?”

“This must be taking a lot of time away from your own life. Digging through all these boxes, reading all these letters.”

“You don’t know what my life’s like right now,” she said, staring down at the documents. “This has been a welcome distraction.”

“You’re talking about your divorce, aren’t you?” When she looked up at him, he said: “Henry told me about it.”

“Then Henry told you entirely too much.”

“I’m amazed how much he learned about you in just one weekend.”

“He got me drunk. I talked.”

“That man I saw you with last week, in your garden. Was that was your ex-husband?”

She nodded. “Richard.”

“If I may say so, it didn’t sound like a friendly conversation.”

She slumped back in her chair. “I’m not sure divorced couples
can
be friendly.”

“It should be possible.”

“Are you talking from personal experience?”

“I’ve never been married. But I’d like to think that two people who once loved each other would always have that bond between them. No matter what goes wrong.”

“Oh, it sounds good, doesn’t it? Eternal love.”

“You don’t believe in it.”

“Maybe I did seven years ago, when I got married. Now I think Henry has the right idea. Stay single and collect wine instead. Or get a dog.”

“Or plant a garden?”

She set down the letter she’d been reading and looked at him. “Yes. Plant a garden. It’s better to watch something growing, not dying.”

Tom leaned back in his chair. “You know, I get the strangest feeling when I look at you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like we’ve met somewhere before.”

“We did. In my garden.”

“No, before that. I swear, I remember meeting you.”

She stared at the reflected firelight dancing in his eyes.
A man as attractive as you? Oh, I would have remembered
.

He looked at the stack of documents. “Well, I suppose I should give you a hand here, and stop distracting you.” He pulled a few pages off the top. “You said we’re looking for any reference to Rose Connolly?”