The Bone Garden: A Novel (6 page)

“A fractured skull and a quick burial? That sounds an awful lot like murder to me.”

She looked at him. “I think so, too.”

They said nothing for a moment. The mist had almost lifted now, and in the trees, birds chirped. Not crows this time, but songbirds, flitting gracefully from twig to twig. Odd, she thought, how the crows have simply vanished.

“Is that your phone ringing?” he asked.

Suddenly aware of the sound, she glanced toward the house. “I’d better get that.”

“It was nice meeting you!” he called out as she ran up the steps to her porch. By the time she made it into her kitchen, he was moving on, dragging the reluctant McCoy after him. Already she’d forgotten his last name. Had he or had he not been wearing a wedding band?

It was Vicky on the phone. “So what’s the latest installment of
Home Improvement
?” she asked.

“I tiled the bathroom floor last night.” Julia’s gaze was still on her garden, where Tom’s brown sweater was now fading into the shadows beneath the trees. That old sweater must be a favorite of his, she thought. You didn’t go out in public wearing something that ratty unless you had a sentimental attachment to it. Which somehow made him even more appealing. That and his dog.

“…and I really think you should start dating again.”

Julia’s attention snapped back to Vicky. “What?”

“I know how you feel about blind dates, but this guy’s really nice.”

“No more lawyers, Vicky.”

“They’re not all like Richard. Some of them do prefer a real woman to a blow-dried Tiffani. Who, I just found out, has a daddy who’s a big wheel at Morgan Stanley. No wonder she’s getting a big splashy wedding.”

“Vicky, I really don’t need to hear the details.”

“I think someone should whisper in her daddy’s ear and tell him just what kind of loser his baby girl’s getting married to.”

“I have to go. I’ve been in the garden and my hands are all dirty. I’ll call you later.” She hung up and immediately felt guilty for that little white lie. But just the mention of Richard had thrown a shadow over her day, and she didn’t want to think about him. She’d rather shovel manure.

She grabbed a garden hat and gloves, went back out into the yard, and looked toward the streambed. Tom-in-the-brown-sweater was nowhere in sight, and she felt a twinge of disappointment.
You just got dumped by one man. Are you so anxious to get your heart broken again?
She collected the shovel and wheelbarrow and moved down the slope, toward the ancient flower bed she’d been rejuvenating. Rattling through the grass, she wondered how many times old Hilda Chamblett had made her way down this overgrown path. Whether she’d worn a hat like Julia’s, whether she’d paused and looked up at the sound of songbirds, whether she’d noticed that crooked branch in the oak tree.

Did she know, on that July day, that it would be her last on earth?

That night, she was too exhausted to cook anything more elaborate than a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. She ate at the kitchen table with the photocopied news clippings about Hilda Chamblett spread out in front of her. The articles were brief, reporting only that the elderly woman had been found dead in her backyard and that foul play was not suspected. At ninety-two, you are already living on borrowed time. What better way to die, a neighbor was quoted as saying, than on a summer’s day in your garden?

She read the obituary:

Hilda Chamblett, lifelong resident of Weston, Massachusetts, was found dead in her backyard on July 25. Her death has been ruled by the medical examiner’s office as “most likely of natural causes.” Widowed for the past twenty years, she was a familiar figure in gardening circles, and was known as an enthusiastic plantswoman who favored irises and roses. She is survived by her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine, and her niece Rachel Surrey of Roanoke, Virginia, as well as two grandnieces and a grandnephew.

The ringing telephone made her splash tomato soup on the page. Vicky, no doubt, she thought, probably wondering why I haven’t called her back yet. She didn’t want to talk to Vicky; she didn’t want to hear about the lavish plans for Richard’s wedding. But if she didn’t answer it now, Vicky would just call again later.

Julia picked up the phone. “Hello?”

A man’s voice, gravelly with age, said: “Is this Julia Hamill?”

“Yes, it is.”

“So you’re the woman who bought Hilda’s house.”

Julia frowned. “Who is this?”

“Henry Page. I’m Hilda’s cousin. I hear you found some old bones in her garden.”

Julia turned back to the kitchen table and quickly scanned the obituary. A splash of soup had landed right on the paragraph listing Hilda’s survivors. She dabbed it away and spotted the name.

…her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine…

“I’m quite interested in those bones,” he said. “I’m considered the family historian, you see.” He added, with a snort, “Because no one else gives a bloody damn.”

“What can you tell me about the bones?” she asked.

“Not a thing.”

Then why are you calling me
?

“I’ve been looking into it,” he said. “When Hilda died, she left about thirty boxes of old papers and books. No one else wanted them, so they came to me. I admit, I just shoved them aside and haven’t looked at them for the past year. But then I heard about your mysterious bones, and I wondered if there might be something about them in these boxes.” He paused. “Is this at all interesting to you, or should I just shut up and say goodbye?”

“I’m listening.”

“That’s more than most of my family does. No one cares about history anymore. It’s always
hurry, hurry, hurry
on to the hot new thing.”

“About those boxes, Mr. Page.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve come across some interesting documents with historical significance. I’m wondering if I’ve found the clue to who those bones belong to.”

“What’s in these documents?”

“There are letters and newspapers. I have them all right here in my house. You can look at them, anytime you want to come up to Maine.”

“That’s an awfully long drive, isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re really interested. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other whether you are. But since this is about your house, about people who once lived there, I thought you might find the history fascinating. Certainly I do. The tale sounds bizarre, but there’s a news article here to substantiate it.”

“What news article?”

“About the brutal murder of a woman.”

“Where? When?”

“In Boston. It happened in the autumn of 1830. If you come up to Maine, Miss Hamill, you can read the documents for yourself. About the strange affair of Oliver Wendell Holmes and the West End Reaper.”

Six

1830

R
OSE DRAPED HER SHAWL
over her head, wrapped it tight against the November chill, and stepped outside. She had left baby Meggie nursing greedily at the breast of another new mother in the lying-in ward, and tonight was the first time in two days she’d left the hospital. Though the night air was damp with mist, she inhaled it with a sense of relief, grateful to be away, if only for a short time, from the odors of the sickroom, the whimpers of pain. She paused outside on the street, breathing in deeply to wash the miasma of illness from her lungs, and smelled the river and the sea, heard the rumble of a carriage passing in the fog. I’ve been locked away so long among the dying, she thought, I’ve forgotten what it is to walk among the living.

Walk she did, moving swiftly through the bone-chilling mist, her footfalls echoing off brick and mortar as she navigated the warren of streets, toward the wharves. On this inhospitable night, she passed few others, and she hugged her shawl tighter, as though it offered a cloak of invisibility against unseen eyes that might regard her with hostile intent. She picked up her pace, and her breath seemed unnaturally loud, magnified by the thickening fog that grew ever denser as she moved toward the harbor. Then, through the rush of her own breathing, she heard footsteps behind her.

She stopped and turned.

The footsteps moved closer.

She backed away, her heart hammering. In the swirling mist, a dark form slowly congealed into something solid, something that was coming straight at her.

A voice called out: “Miss Rose! Miss Rose! Is that you?”

All the tension drained from her muscles. She released a deep breath as she watched the gangly teenager emerge from the fog. “Dash it all, Billy. I should box your ears!”

“For what, Miss Rose?”

“For scarin’ me half to death.”

From the pathetic look he gave her, you’d think she
had
boxed his ears. “I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered. And of course it was true; the boy couldn’t be blamed for half of what he did. Everyone knew Dim Billy, but no one wanted to claim him. He was a constant and annoying presence on Boston’s West End, wandering from barn to stable in search of a place to bed down, begging a meal here and there from scraps handed out by pitying housewives and fishmongers. Billy wiped a filthy hand across his face and whined, “Now you’re all wrathy at me, ain’t you?”

“What’re you doing out and about at this hour?”

“Lookin’ for my pup. He’s lost.”

More likely ran away, if the pup had any sense. “Well then, I hope you find him,” she said, and turned to continue on her way.

He trailed after her. “Where’re
you
going?”

“To fetch Eben. He needs to come to the hospital.”

“Why?”

“Because my sister is very ill.”

“How ill?”

“She has a fever, Billy.” And after a week in the lying-in ward, Rose understood what lay ahead. Within a day of giving birth to baby Meggie, Aurnia’s belly had begun to bloat, her womb to drain the foul discharge that Rose knew was almost invariably the beginning of the end. She had seen so many of the other new mothers on the ward die of childbed fever. She had seen the look of pity in Nurse Robinson’s eyes, a look that said:
There is nothing to be done.

“Is she going to die?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I don’t know.”

“I’m afraid of dead people. When I was little, I saw my own da dead. They wanted me to kiss him, even though his skin was all burned off, but I wouldn’t do it. Was I a bad boy not to do it?”

“No, Billy. I’ve never known you to be a bad boy.”

“I didn’t want to touch him. But he was my da, and they said I had to.”

“Can you tell me about it later? I’m in a hurry.”

“I know. Because you want to fetch Mr. Tate.”

“Go look for your pup now, why don’t you?” She quickened her pace, hoping that this time the boy would not follow her.

“He’s not at the lodging house.”

It took her a few paces to register what Billy had just said. She stopped. “What?”

“Mr. Tate, he’s not at Mrs. O’Keefe’s.”

“How do you know? Where is he?”

“I seen him over at the Mermaid. Mr. Sitterley gave me a spot of lamb pie, but he said I had to eat it outside in the alley. Then I saw Mr. Tate go in, and he didn’t even say hello.”

“Are you sure, Billy? Is he still there?”

“If you pay me a quarter, I’ll take you.”

She waved him away. “I don’t have a quarter. I know the way.”

“A ninepence?”

She walked away. “Or a ninepence, either.”

“A large cent? A half cent?”

Rose kept walking and was relieved when at last she was able to shake off the pest. Her mind was on Eben, on what she would say to him. All the anger that she’d been holding in against her brother-in-law was now rising to a boil, and by the time she reached the Mermaid, she was ready to spring on him like a cat with claws bared. She paused outside the doorway and took a few deep breaths. Through the window, she saw the warm glow of firelight and heard the rumble of laughter. She was tempted to simply walk away and leave him to his cups. Aurnia would never know the difference.

It’s his last chance to say goodbye. You have to do this.

Rose pushed through the door, into the tavern.

The heat from the fireplace brought prickles to her cold-numbed cheeks. She paused near the entrance, gazing around the room at patrons gathered at tables, huddled at the bar. At a corner table, a woman with wild dark hair and a green dress was laughing loudly. Several men turned to stare at Rose, and the looks they gave her made her pull her shawl tighter, even in that overheated room.

“You want to be served?” a man called out to her from behind the bar. This must be Mr. Sitterley, she thought, the barkeep who’d given Dim Billy a taste of lamb pie, no doubt to shoo the boy out of his establishment. “Miss?” the man asked.

She said. “It’s a man I’m looking for.” Her gaze came to a stop on the woman in the green dress. Sitting beside her was a man who now turned and shot Rose a resentful look.

She crossed to his table. On closer inspection, the woman seated beside him looked thoroughly unappealing, the bodice of her dress soiled with spilled drink and food. Her mouth gaped open, revealing rotting teeth. “You need to come to the hospital, Eben,” said Rose.

Aurnia’s husband shrugged. “Can’t you see I’m busy grieving?”

“Go to her now, while you can. While she still lives.”

“Who’s she talking about, darlin’?” the woman said, tugging on Eben’s sleeve, and Rose caught a nauseating whiff of those rotting teeth.

Eben grunted. “My wife.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a wife.”

“So I’m tellin’ you now.” He took a sip of rum.

“How can you be so heartless?” said Rose. “It’s been seven days since you’ve been to see her. You haven’t even come to see your own daughter!”

“Already signed over my rights to her. Let the ladies at the infant asylum have her.”

She stared at him, appalled. “You can’t be serious.”

“How’m I supposed to care for the brat? She’s the only reason I married your sister. Baby on the way, I did my duty. But she was no cherry, that one.” He gave a shrug. “They’ll find a good home for her.”

“She belongs with her family. I’ll raise her myself, if I have to.”

“You?” He laughed. “You’re just months off the boat, and all you know is a needle and thread.”

“I know enough to look after my own flesh and blood.” Rose grabbed his arm. “Get up. You
will
come with me.”

He shook her off. “Leave me alone.”

“Get up, you bastard.” With both hands, she hauled on his arm, and he stumbled to his feet. “She has but a few hours left. Even if you have to lie to her, even if she can’t hear you, you
will
tell her you love her!”

He shoved her away and stood swaying, drunk and unsteady. The tavern had fallen silent, save for the crackle of flames in the fireplace. Eben glanced around at all the eyes watching him in disapproval. They’d all heard the conversation, and clearly there was no sympathy for him here.

He drew himself up straight and managed a civil tone. “No need to rail at me like a harpy. I’ll come.” He gave his jacket a tug, neatened his collar. “I was only finishing up my drink.”

With head held high, he walked out of the Mermaid, stumbling over the threshold as he stepped out the door. She followed him outside, into a mist so penetrating, the dampness seemed to seep straight into her bones. They’d walked only a dozen paces when Eben abruptly turned around to face her.

His blow sent her reeling backward. She staggered against a building, her cheek throbbing, the pain so terrible that for a few seconds the world went black. She did not even see the second blow coming. It whipped her sideways and she fell to her knees, felt icy water soaking into her skirt.

“That’s for talking back to me in public,” he snarled. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her across the cobblestones, into the mud of a narrow alley.

Another blow slammed into her mouth and she tasted blood.

“And that’s for the four months I’ve had to put up with you. Always taking her side, always lined up against me, the two of you. My prospects ruined, all because she got herself knocked up. You think she didn’t beg me for it? You think I had to seduce her? Oh, no, your
saintly
sister wanted it. She wasn’t afraid to show me what she had. But it was spoiled goods.”

He wrenched her to her feet and shoved her up against a wall.

“So don’t play the innocent with me. I know what kind of trash runs in your family. I know what you want. The same thing your sister wanted.”

He rammed up against her, pinning her against the bricks. His mouth closed over hers, his breath sour with rum. The blows had left her so dazed she could not summon the strength to push him away. She felt the hardening against her pelvis, felt his hand groping at her breasts. He yanked up her skirt and clawed at her petticoat, her stockings, tearing through fabric to reach naked flesh. At the touch of his hand on her bare thigh, her spine snapped taut.

How dare you!

Her fist caught him beneath the chin, and she felt his jaw slam shut, heard teeth smack together. He screamed and staggered backward, his hand clapped to his mouth.

“My tongue! I’ve bit my tongue!” He looked down at his hand. “Oh, God, I’m bleeding!”

She ran. She darted out of the alley, but he lunged after her and grabbed a handful of her hair, scattering pins across the stones. She twisted away and stumbled over her torn petticoat. The thought of his hand on her thigh, his breath on her face, sent her scrambling back to her feet. Hiking her skirt above her knees, she bolted headlong into the disorienting mist. She did not know which street she was on, or in which direction she was headed. The river? The harbor? All she knew was that the fog was her cloak, her friend, and the deeper she plunged into it, the safer she would be. He was too drunk to keep up, much less navigate the maze of narrow streets. Already his footsteps seemed more distant, his curses fading, until all she could hear was the pounding of her own feet, her own pulse.

She rounded a corner and came to a halt. Through the rush of her own breathing, she heard the clattering wheels of a passing carriage, but no footsteps. She realized she was on the Cambridge road, and that she’d have to double back to return to the hospital.

Eben would expect her to go there. He’d be waiting for her.

She leaned down and ripped away the entangling strip of petticoat. Then she started walking north, staying to the side streets and alleys, pausing every few paces to listen for footsteps. The fog was so thick, she could see only the outline of a wagon passing on the road; the clop of horse’s hooves seemed to come from all directions at once, the echoes fractured and scattered in the mist. She fell in step behind the wagon, trotting after it as it moved up Blossom Street, in the direction of the hospital. If Eben attacked, she would scream her lungs out. Surely the wagon’s driver would stop and come to her aid.

Suddenly the wagon turned right, away from the hospital, and Rose was left standing alone. She knew the hospital was straight ahead of her, on North Allen, but she could not yet see it through the fog. Eben was almost certainly waiting to pounce. Staring up the street, she could sense the threat that loomed ahead, could picture Eben hulking in the shadows, anticipating her arrival.

She turned. There was another way into the building, but she would have to trudge across the damp grass of the hospital common to the rear entrance. She paused at the edge of the lawn. Her route was obscured by fog, but she could just make out, through fingers of mist, the glow of hospital windows. He would not expect her to hike across this dark field. Certainly he himself would not go to such an effort if it meant soiling his shoes in the mud.

She waded into the grass. The field was saturated with rain, and icy water soaked through her shoes. The lights from the hospital intermittently faded out in the mist and she had to stop to regain her bearings. There they were again—off to the left. In the darkness, she had veered away from her goal, and now she corrected course. The lights glowed brighter now, the fog thinning as she climbed the gentle slope toward the building. Her sodden skirts clung to her legs, slowing her down, making every stride an effort. By the time she stumbled out of the grass, onto cobblestones, she was clumsy on cold-numbed feet.

Chilled and shivering now, she started up the back stairway.

Suddenly her shoe slid across a step slick with something black. She stared up at what looked like a dark waterfall that had cascaded down the stairs. Only as her gaze lifted to the source of that waterfall did she see the woman’s body draped across the stairs above, her skirts splayed, one arm flung out, as though to welcome Death.

At first Rose heard only the drumming of her own heart, the rush of her own breath. Then she heard the footstep, and a shadow moved above her like an ominous cloud blotting out the moon. The blood seemed to freeze in Rose’s veins. She looked at the looming creature.