The Bone Garden: A Novel (25 page)

The boy suddenly stops and his head jerks up. Somehow he’s sensed the presence of another in his alley, and his gaze seeks out a face. “Who’s there?” he calls out. But his attention isn’t focused on the shadow in the doorway; instead he looks at the far end of the alley, where a silhouette has just appeared, backlit by the glow of a streetlamp.

“Billy!” a man calls.

The boy stands still, facing the encroaching intruder. “What d’ya want with me?”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“About what, Mr. Tate?”

“About Rose.” Eben moves closer. “Where is she, boy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Billy. You do know.”

“No I don’t! And you can’t make me tell you!”

“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

“T
HESE 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.”

“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!”

“Are you really feeling better?” asked Norris.

“My uncle says all the signs are good. I haven’t had a fever since Tuesday. Dr. Sewall looked at it this morning and he’s satisfied with the wound.” He regarded his bandaged wrist and said, “He saved my life.”

At the mention of Dr. Sewall’s name, neither Wendell nor Norris said a word.

“So now,” said Charles, brightening as he looked at his friends. “Tell me the latest. What news is there?”

“We miss you in class,” said Norris.

“Fainting Charlie?
No wonder you all miss me. I can always be counted on to make everyone else look brilliant by comparison.”

“You’ll have all this time to study, lying here in bed,” said Wendell. “When you come back to class, you’ll be the most brilliant of us all.”

“You know I’m not coming back.”

“Of course you are.”

“Wendell,” said Norris quietly. “It’s kinder to be honest, don’t you think?”

“Really, this will all work out for the better,” Charles said. “I was never meant to be a doctor. Everyone knows it. I have neither the talent nor the interest. It’s always been about my uncle’s hopes, my uncle’s expectations. I’m not like you. Lucky you, always knowing exactly what you wanted to be.”

“And what do you want to be, Charlie?” asked Norris.

“Ask Wendell. He knows.” Charles pointed to his boyhood friend. “We were both members of the Andover Literary Club. He’s not the only one prone to bursts of poetic verse.”

Norris gave a startled laugh. “You want to be a
poet
?”

“My uncle hasn’t accepted it yet, but now he’s going to have to. And why shouldn’t I choose a literary life? Look at Johnny Greenleaf Whittier. He’s already finding success with his poems. And that writer fellow from Salem, Mr. Hawthorne. He’s but a few years older than I, and I’ll lay odds that he’ll soon make a name for himself. Why not pursue what I’m passionate about?” He looked at Wendell. “What did you call it once? The drive to write?”

“The intoxicating pleasure of authorship.”

“Yes, that’s it! The intoxicating pleasure!” Charles sighed. “Of course, there’s hardly a living to be made at it.”

“Somehow,” said Wendell drily as he looked around the well-appointed bedroom, “I doubt you need to be concerned about that.”

“The problem is that my uncle thinks poems and novels are merely frivolous diversions, with no real significance.”