The Bone Garden: A Novel (28 page)

Thirty

1830

T
HE 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.

But what of Norris? Where did he sleep tonight? Was he cold and hungry? Why had she heard no news?

Though the supper hour had come and gone, Dr. Grenville had not returned. Rose had waited all evening with her ear cocked, but had heard neither his voice nor his footstep. “It’s the nature of his profession, girl,” Mrs. Furbush had said. “A doctor can’t be expected to work regular hours. Patients are always bringing him out into the night, and there are times he doesn’t come home till dawn.”

Long after the rest of the household had retired, Dr. Grenville still had not returned. And Rose lay awake. The coals in the hearth had lost their glow and were fading to ash. Through the kitchen window, she could see a tree, silhouetted by moonlight, and could hear the branches sway in the wind.

And now she heard something else: footsteps creaking on the servants’ stairway.

She lay still, listening as the creaks drew closer, as the footsteps moved into the kitchen. One of the maids, perhaps, here to restoke the fire. She could just make out the shadowy figure, slipping through the darkness. Then she heard a chair tip over, and a voice muttered: “
Blast
it all!”

A man
.

Rose rolled out of bed and scrambled to the hearth, where she fumbled in the darkness to light a candle. As the flame flared to life, she saw the intruder was a young man in a nightshirt, his fair hair in a tangled swirl from sleep. He froze at the sight of her, clearly as startled to see her as she was to see him.

It’s the young master, she thought. Dr. Grenville’s nephew, whom she’d been told was recuperating upstairs in his bedroom. A bandage encased the stump of his left wrist, and he swayed, unsteady on his feet. She set down the candle and ran forward to catch him as he sagged sideways.

“I’m all right, I’m fine,” he insisted.

“You should not be up, Mr. Lackaway.” She righted the chair that he had just overturned in the darkness and gently lowered him into it. “I’ll fetch your mother.”

“No, don’t. Please!”

That desperate entreaty made her stop.

“She’ll only fuss at me,” he said. “I’m tired of being fussed at. I’m tired of being trapped in my room, just because she’s terrified I’ll catch a fever.” He looked up at her with pleading eyes. “Don’t wake her. Just let me sit here for a while. Then I’ll go back up to bed, I promise.”

She sighed. “As you please. But you shouldn’t be up all alone.”

“I’m not alone.” He managed a weak smile. “You’re here.”

She felt his gaze follow her as she crossed to the hearth to stir the coals back to life and add more wood. Flames leaped up, throwing their welcome warmth into the room.

“You’re that girl all the maids are talking about,” he said.

She turned to look at him. The rekindled fire cast new light on his face, and she saw finely etched features, a refined brow and lips that were almost girlish. Illness had sapped its color, but it was a handsome, sensitive face, more boy than man.

“You’re Norris’s friend,” he said.

She nodded. “My name’s Rose.”

“Well, Rose. I’m his friend, too. And from what I hear, he needs every friend he can get.”

The gravity of what Norris faced suddenly weighed so heavily on her shoulders that Rose sank into a chair at the table. “I’m so afraid for him,” she whispered.

“My uncle knows people. People of influence.”

“Even your uncle has his doubts now.”

“But you don’t?”

“Not a one.”

“How can you be so sure of him?”

She looked Charles straight in the eye. “I know his heart.”

“Truly?”

“You think I’m a moonstruck girl.”

“It’s just that one reads so many poems about devotion. But seldom do we actually encounter it.”

“I wouldn’t waste my devotion on a man I didn’t believe in.”

“Well, Rose, if ever I face the gallows, I’ll count myself lucky to have a friend like you.”

She shuddered at his mention of the gallows and turned to stare at the hearth, where flames were rapidly consuming the log.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. They’ve given me so much morphine, I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.” He looked down at his bandaged stump. “I’m no good for anything these days. Can’t even get around on my own two feet.”

“It’s late, Mr. Lackaway. You shouldn’t be out of bed at all.”

“I only came down for a nip of brandy.” He gave her a hopeful look. “Would you fetch it for me? It’s in that cupboard over there.” He pointed across the kitchen, and she suspected that this was not the first time he’d made a nocturnal raid on the brandy bottle.

She poured him only a knuckle’s worth, which he drank down in one gulp. Though he clearly expected more, she put the bottle back in the cupboard and said firmly: “I’ll help you back to your room.”

With her candle to light their way, she guided him up the steps to the second floor. She had not been upstairs before, and as she helped him down the hallway, her gaze was drawn to all the marvels revealed by candlelight. She saw richly patterned carpet and a gleaming hall table. On the wall was a gallery of portraits, distinguished men and women rendered with such life-like detail that she felt their eyes following her as she guided Charles to his room. By the time she helped him to his bed, he was starting to stumble, as though that small bit of brandy, on top of all the morphine, had tipped him into full intoxication. He flopped onto his mattress with a sigh.

“Thank you, Rose.”

“Good night, sir.”

“He’s a lucky man, Norris is. To have a girl who loves him as much as you do. The sort of love that poets write about.”

“I don’t know anything about poetry, Mr. Lackaway.”

“You don’t have to.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “You know the real thing.”

She watched as his breaths deepened, as he sank into sleep.
Yes, I know the real thing. And now I could lose it.

Carrying the candle, she left his room and stepped back into the hallway. There she suddenly halted, her gaze frozen on a face that stared back at her. In the gloom, with only the glow of the flame to illuminate the hall, the portrait seemed so startlingly real that she stood rooted before it, stunned by the unexpected familiarity of those features. She saw a man with a thick mane of hair and dark eyes that reflected a lively intelligence. He seemed eager to engage her in debate from his perch on the canvas. She stepped closer so that she might examine every shadow, every curve of that face. So entranced was she by the image, she did not hear the approaching footsteps until they were only a few feet away. The nearby creak made her whirl, so startled that she almost dropped the candle.

“Miss Connolly?” said Dr. Grenville, frowning at her. “May I ask why you are wandering about the house at this hour?”

She heard the note of suspicion in his voice and flushed. He assumes the worst, she thought; about the Irish, they always assume the worst. “It was Mr. Lackaway, sir.”