The Bone Garden: A Novel (29 page)

“What about my nephew?”

“He came down to the kitchen. I didn’t think he was steady on his feet, so I helped him back to his bed.” She gestured toward Charles’s door, which she had left open.

Dr. Grenville peered into the room at his nephew, who was sprawled uncovered on the bed and snoring loudly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I wouldn’t have come upstairs if he didn’t—”

“No, I’m the one who should apologize.” He sighed. “It’s been a most trying day, and I’m weary. Good night.” He turned.

“Sir?” she said. “Is there news of Norris?”

He stopped. Reluctantly he turned to look at her. “I’m afraid to say there’s little cause for optimism. The evidence is damning.”

“The evidence is false.”

“The court must determine that. But in court, innocence is determined by strangers who’ll know nothing about him. What they know is what they’ve read in the newspaper or heard in the tavern. That Norris Marshall lives in proximity to all four murders. That he was found bending over the body of Mary Robinson. That the excised face of Eben Tate was discovered in his quarters. That he is a skillful anatomist as well as a butcher. Taken separately, these points might be defended against. But when presented in a court of law, his guilt will seem undeniable.”

She stared at him in despair. “Is there no defense we can offer?”

“I’m afraid men have gone to the gallows for less.”

In desperation she recklessly grasped his sleeve. “I cannot see him hanged!”

“Miss Connolly, not all hope is lost. There may be a way to save him.” He took her hand and held it as he looked straight into her eyes. “But I will need your help.”

Thirty-one

“B
ILLY.
Over here, Billy!”

The boy looked around in confusion, searching the shadows for whoever had just whispered his name. A black dog capered at his feet. Suddenly it gave an excited bark and came trotting toward Norris, who was crouched behind a stack of barrels. The mutt, at least, thought no ill of him, and was wagging its tail, delighted to play a friendly game of hide-and-seek with a man it did not even know.

Dim Billy was more cautious. “Who is it, Spot?” he asked, as if fully expecting the dog to answer him.

Norris stepped out from behind the barrels. “It’s me, Billy,” he said, and saw the boy begin to back away. “I won’t hurt you. You remember me, don’t you?”

The boy looked at his dog, who was now licking Norris’s hand, clearly unconcerned. “You’re Miss Rose’s friend,” he said.

“I need you to take her a message.”

“The Night Watch says you’re the Reaper.”

“I’m not. I swear I’m not.”

“They’re searching for you, all up and down the river.”

“Billy, if you’re her friend, you’ll do this for me.”

The boy looked at his dog again. Spot had sat down at Norris’s feet and was wagging its tail as it watched the conversation. While the boy might be a dimwit, he knew enough to trust a dog when it came to judging a man’s intentions.

“I want you to go to Dr. Grenville’s house,” said Norris.

“The big one, on Beacon?”

“Yes. Find out if she’s there. And give her this.” Norris handed him a folded scrap of paper. “Put it into her hands.
Only
her hands.”

“What’s it say?”

“Just give it to her.”

“Is it a love note?”

“Yes,” Norris answered too quickly, impatient for the boy to be off.

“But I’m the one who loves her,” Billy whined. “And I’m goin’ to marry her.” He threw the note down. “I ain’t bringing her your love note.”

Swallowing his frustration, Norris picked up the scrap of paper. “I want to tell her she’s free to go on with her life.” He placed the note back in Billy’s hand. “Take it to her, so she knows. Please.” He added. “She’ll be angry with you if you don’t.”

That did it; Billy’s biggest fear was of displeasing Rose. The boy stuffed the note into his pocket. “I’d do anything for her,” he said.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

“I’m not a half-wit, y’know,” Billy retorted. He walked off into the night, the dog trotting at his heels.

Norris did not linger, but quickly moved on, striding down the dark street in the direction of Beacon Hill. As well meaning as Billy might be, Norris did not trust him to keep a secret, and he had no intention of waiting for the Night Watch to come looking.

Assuming they believed he was still alive and still in Boston these three days later.

The clothes he’d stolen were ill fitting, the trousers too large, the shirt too tight, but the heavy cloak concealed all, and with a Quaker hat shoved down low over his brow, he walked purposefully down the street, neither skulking nor hesitating. I may not be a murderer, he thought. But now I’m most certainly a thief. Already he faced the gallows; the commission of a few more crimes scarcely mattered. Survival was all he cared about, and if it meant lifting a cloak from a tavern hook or snatching trousers and shirt from a drying line, then that’s what a freezing man had to do. If he was going to be hanged anyway, he might as well be guilty of a real crime.

He turned a corner, into narrow Acorn Street. It was the same alley where Gareth Wilson and Dr. Sewall had met, in the home with the pelicans carved on the lintel. Norris chose a dark doorway in which to wait and huddled on the stoop, hidden in shadow. By now, Billy would have reached Grenville’s home; by now, the note should be in Rose’s hand, a note on which he’d written only one line:

Tonight, under the pelicans
.

If it fell into the hands of the Night Watch, they’d have no idea what it meant. But Rose would know. Rose would come.

He settled down to wait.

The night deepened. One by one, lamps inside houses were extinguished and the windows on tiny Acorn Street fell dark. Occasionally, he heard the clip-clop of a horse and carriage passing by on much busier Cedar Street, but soon even that traffic faded to silence.

He hugged the cloak more tightly and watched his breath cloud in the darkness. He’d wait here all night, if he had to. If by dawn she had not come, then he’d return tomorrow night. He had enough faith in her to believe that once she knew he waited for her, nothing would keep her away.

His legs grew stiff, his fingers numb. The last of the windows on Acorn Street fell dark.

Then, emerging from around the corner, a figure appeared. A woman, framed from behind by lamplight. She paused in the middle of the alley, as though struggling to see into the darkness.

“Norrie?” she called softly.

At once he stepped from the doorway. “Rose,” he said, and she ran toward him. He swept her into his embrace and felt like laughing as he swung her around, so happy to finally see her again. She felt weightless in his arms, lighter than air, and in that moment he knew they were forever bound to each other. The plunge into the Charles River had been both a death and a rebirth, and this was his new life, with this girl who had no fortune to offer him, no family name, nothing except love.

“I knew you’d come,” he murmured. “I knew.”

“You must listen to me.”

“I can’t stay in Boston. But I can’t live without you.”

“This is important, Norris. Listen!”

He fell still. It was not her command that caused him to freeze; it was the silhouette of a burly figure moving toward them, from the other end of Acorn Street.

The clatter of hooves behind Norris made him swing around, just as a carriage and two horses pulled to a stop, blocking his other escape route. The door swung open.

“Norris, you have to trust them,” said Rose. “You have to trust
me.
”

From the alley behind him came a familiar voice. “It’s the only way, Mr. Marshall.”

Startled, Norris turned to the broad-shouldered man who stood facing him. “Dr. Sewall?”

“I suggest you get into that carriage,” said Sewall. “If you want to live.”

“They’re our friends,” said Rose. She reached for his hand and tugged him toward the carriage. “Please, let’s get in before anyone sees you.”

He had no other choice. Whatever awaited him, Rose had willed it so, and he trusted her with his life. She led him to the carriage and tugged him in after her.

Dr. Sewall, who did not climb in, swung their door shut. “Godspeed, Mr. Marshall,” he said through the window. “I hope we’ll meet again someday, under less trying circumstances.”

The driver slapped the reins, and the carriage rolled away.

Only as Norris settled back for the ride did he focus on the man sitting in the carriage across from him and Rose. The glow of a street lamp illuminated the man’s face, and Norris could only stare in astonishment.

“No, this is not an arrest,” said Constable Lyons.

“Then what is it?” asked Norris.

“It is a favor, to an old friend.”

They rode out of the city, across the West Boston Bridge, and through the village of Cambridge. It was the same route by which Norris had been transported as a prisoner only a few nights earlier, but this was a far different journey, one he traveled not with a sense of doom, but with hope. The entire way, Rose’s small hand stayed entwined with his, a silent reassurance that all was according to plan, that he need not fear betrayal. How could he ever have suspected the worst of her? This lone girl, he thought, has stood by me faithfully and unflinchingly, and I do not deserve her.

The town of Cambridge gave way to dark countryside and empty fields. They drove north, toward Somerville and Medford, past villages of dark houses huddled together beneath the winter moon. It was not until the outskirts of Medford that the carriage finally turned into a cobblestoned yard and slowed to a stop.

“You’ll rest here for a day,” said Constable Lyons, swinging open the door and stepping out. “Tomorrow, you’ll receive directions to the next safe house, in the north.”

Norris climbed from the carriage and stared up at a stone farmhouse. Candlelight glowed in the windows, a flickering welcome to furtive travelers. “What is this place?” he asked.

Constable Lyons did not answer. He led the way to the door and knocked twice, paused, then knocked once more.

After a moment the door opened and an elderly woman wearing a lace night bonnet peered out, holding up a lamp to see her visitors’ faces.

“We have a traveler,” said Lyons.

The woman frowned at Norris and Rose. “These two are most unusual fugitives.”

“These are most unusual circumstances. I bring them at the personal request of Dr. Grenville. Both Mr. Garrison and Dr. Sewall have agreed to it, and Mr. Wilson has given his assent as well.”

The old woman finally nodded and moved aside to let the three visitors enter.

Norris stepped into an ancient kitchen, the ceiling blackened from the soot of countless cooking fires. Dominating one wall was an enormous stone hearth where the night’s embers still glowed. Overhead hung sheaves of herbs, dried bunches of lavender and hyssop, wormwood and sage. Norris felt Rose tug his hand, and she pointed up at the carved emblem, mounted on the crossbeam. A pelican.

Constable Lyons saw what they were staring at, and he said: “That is an ancient symbol, Mr. Marshall, and one we revere. The pelican represents self-sacrifice for the greater good. It reminds us that as we give, so shall we receive.”

The old woman added, “It’s the seal of our sisterhood. The order of the Roses of Sharon.”

Norris turned to look at her. “Who are you? What is this place?”

“We’re members of the Rose Cross, Sir. And this is a way station for travelers. Travelers in need of sanctuary.”

Norris thought of the modest town house on Acorn Street, with the pelicans carved into the lintel. He remembered that William Lloyd Garrison had been one of the gentlemen in the house that night. And he remembered, too, the whisperings of nearby shopkeepers, of strangers moving about in the neighborhood after dark, a neighborhood that Constable Lyons had decreed off limits to Night Watch patrols.

“They’re abolitionists,” said Rose. “This is a house of hiding.”

“A way station,” said Lyons. “One of many stops the Rosicrucians have established between the south and Canada.”

“You shelter slaves?”

“No man is a slave,” said the old woman. “No man has the right to own another. We’re all free.”

“Now you understand, Mr. Marshall,” said Constable Lyons, “why this house and the house on Acorn Street must never be spoken of. Dr. Grenville assured us that you are a supporter of the abolitionist movement. If you are ever captured, you must not say a word about these outposts, for you’ll endanger untold lives. People who have suffered miseries enough for ten lifetimes.”

“I swear to you, I’ll reveal nothing,” said Norris.

“It’s a dangerous business we’re in,” said Lyons. “Never more than now. We can’t afford to have our network revealed, not when so many would root us out and destroy us if they could.”

“You are all members of the order? Even Dr. Grenville?”

Lyons nodded. “Again, a secret not to be revealed.”

“Why are you helping me? I’m not a fugitive slave. If you believe Mr. Pratt, I’m a monster.”

Lyons gave a snort. “And Pratt is a toad. I would have him tossed out of the Night Watch if I could, but he has maneuvered his way into the public eye. Open up a newspaper these days, and all you’ll read are the deeds of
heroic
Mr. Pratt,
brilliant
Mr. Pratt. In truth, the man is an imbecile. Your arrest was to be his crowning triumph.”

“And this is why you help me? Merely to deny him that triumph?”

“That would hardly be worth the trouble I’ve gone to. No, we help you because Aldous Grenville is utterly convinced of your innocence. And to let you be hanged would be a grave injustice.” Lyons looked at the old woman. “I leave him here with you now, Mistress Goode. Tomorrow, Mr. Wilson will return with provisions for his journey. There was no time tonight to make such arrangements. In any event, it will be dawn soon, and it’s best that Mr. Marshall waits till tomorrow nightfall to start his next leg.” He turned to Rose. “Come, Miss Connolly. Shall we return to Boston?”

Rose looked stricken. “Can I not stay with him?” she asked, her eyes bright with tears.

“A lone traveler moves more quickly and safely. It’s important that Mr. Marshall is unencumbered.”

“But we part so suddenly!”

“There is no choice. Once he’s safely away, he will send for you.”

“I’ve only just found him again! Can’t I stay with him, just tonight? You said Mr. Wilson will come tomorrow. I’ll return to Boston with him then.”

Norris grasped her hand more tightly and said, to Lyons: “I don’t know when I’ll see her again. Anything could happen. Please, allow us these last few hours together.”

Lyons gave a sigh and nodded. “Mr. Wilson will be here before noon tomorrow. Be ready to leave then.”

They lay in darkness, their bed illuminated only by the moonglow through the window, but it was enough light for Rose to see his face. To know that he was looking at her as well.

“You promise you’ll send for me and Meggie?” she said.

“As soon as I’ve reached a safe place, I’ll write to you. The letter will come from another name, but you’ll know it’s from me.”

“If only I could go with you now.”

“No, I want you to stay safe in Dr. Grenville’s house, not suffer on some godforsaken road with me. And what a comfort to know that Meggie’s cared for. Truly, you’ve found the best place possible.”

“The one place I knew you’d tell me to hide her.”

“My clever Rose! You know me so well.”

He cupped her face, and she sighed at the warmth of his hands. “The best is yet to come for us. You have to believe that, Rose. All these trials, all these miseries, will just make our future so much the sweeter.” Gently he pressed his lips to hers, a kiss that should have made her heart soar. Instead it brought a sob to her throat, for she did not know when, if ever, they would meet again. She thought of the journey that lay ahead for him, of secret way stations and wintry roads, all leading toward what? She couldn’t picture the future, and that’s what frightened her. Always before, as a girl, she’d been able to imagine what was to come: her years working as a seamstress, the young man she would meet, the children she would bear. But now, when she looked ahead, she saw nothing, not a home with Norris, nor children, nor happiness. Why had the future suddenly vanished? Why could she not see beyond this night?