The Bone Garden Page 14

  Oh, yes, this was a grim view, but it was also what fed his ambition. He was driven not by the lure of endless platters of oysters or a taste for fine calfskin shoes or velvet collars. No, it was this view in the other direction, over the precipice, to where one might fall.

  I must study, he thought. There’s still time tonight, and I’m not so drunk that I can’t read just one more chapter in Wistar’s, cram a few more facts into my head.

  But when he climbed the narrow stairs to his freezing attic room, he was too exhausted to even open the cover of the textbook, which sat on the desk by the window. To save on candlelight, he stumbled around in the dark. Better not to waste the light and wake up early, when his brain was fresh. When he could read by daylight. He undressed in the faint glow of the window, staring out across the hospital common as he untied his cravat, unbuttoned his waistcoat. In the distance, beyond the black swath of the common, lights flickered in hospital windows. He imagined the shadowy wards, echoing with coughs, and the long rows of beds where patients now slept. So many years of study lay before him, yet he had never doubted that he was meant to be here. That this moment, in this cold attic, was part of the journey he’d begun years ago as a boy, when he’d first watched his father slice open a slaughtered pig. When he’d beheld its heart still quivering in the chest. He had pressed his hand to his own chest, and felt his own beating heart, and had thought: We are alike. Pig and cow and man, the machine is the same. If I can only understand what drives the furnace, what keeps the wheels turning, I will know how to keep that machine working. I will know how to cheat Death.

  He slipped off his suspenders, stepped out of his trousers, and draped them over the chair. Shivering, he climbed under the blanket. With a full stomach, and his head still swimming from brandy, he fell asleep almost instantly.

  And almost instantly was awakened by a knocking on the door.

  “Mr. Marshall? Mr. Marshall, are you there?”

  Norris rolled out of bed and stumbled in a daze across the attic. Opening the door, he saw the elderly hospital groundsman, his face lit eerily by a flickering lantern.

  “They need you, up at the hospital,” said the old man.

  “What’s happened?”

  “A carriage has turned over near the Canal Bridge. We’ve got injured comin’ in, and we can’t find Nurse Robinson. They’ve sent for other doctors, but with you being so close, I thought I should fetch you, too. Better a medical student than nothing.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Norris, ignoring the unintended slight. “I’ll be right there.”

  He dressed in the dark, fumbling for trousers and boots and waistcoat. He did not bother with a topcoat. If the scene were bloody, he would have to shed it anyway to keep it clean. He pulled on an overcoat against the chill and made his way down the dark steps, into the night. The wind blew from the west, thick with the stink of the river. He cut directly across the common, and his trouser legs were soon soaked from the wet grass. Already, his heart was pounding in anticipation. An overturned carriage, he thought. Multiple injuries. Would he know what to do? He didn’t quail from the sight of blood; he’d seen his share of it in the slaughtering shed on the farm. What he feared was his own ignorance. He was so focused on the crisis ahead that at first he did not understand what he was hearing. But a few paces later he heard it again, and stopped.

  It was a woman’s moan, and it came from the riverbank.

  A sound of distress, or merely a whore servicing a client? On other nights he had spied such couplings along the river, in the shadow of the bridge, had heard the whimpers and grunts of furtive ruttings. This was no time to spy on whores; the hospital waited for him.

  Then the sound came again, and he stopped. That was no carnal moan.

  He ran to the riverwalk and called out: “Hello? Who’s there?” Staring down at the river’s edge, he saw something dark lying close to where the water lapped. A body?

  He scrambled over the rocks, and his shoes sank into black mud. It sucked at his soles, the cold seeping into cracked and rotting leather. As he slogged toward the water, his heart suddenly pounded faster, his breaths accelerating. It was a body. In the darkness, he could just make out the shape of a woman. She was lying on her back, her skirts submerged to the waist in the water. Hands numb with cold and panic, he grabbed her beneath the arms and dragged her up the bank until she was well free of the river. By then he was gasping from exertion, his own trousers soaked and dripping. He crouched down beside her and felt her chest for a heartbeat, a breath, any sign of life.

  Warm liquid bathed his hand. Its unexpected heat was so startling that at first he did not register what his own skin was telling him. Then he stared down and saw the oily gleam of blood on his palm.

  Behind him, a pebble clattered on rocks. He turned, and a chill lifted every hair on the back of his neck.

  The creature stood on the bank above him. Its black cape fluttered like giant wings in the wind. Beneath the hood, a death’s-head stared, white as bone. Hollow eyes looked straight at him, as if marking him as the next soul to be harvested, the next to feel the slash of its scythe.

  So frozen in fear was Norris that he could not have fled, even if the creature had swooped at him, even if the blade had, in that instant, come hissing through the air. He could only watch, just as the monster watched him.

  Then, suddenly, it was gone. And Norris saw only a view of the night sky and the moon, winking through a filigree of clouds.

  On the riverwalk, lamplight appeared. “Hallo?” the hospital groundsman shouted. “Who’s down there?”

  His throat shut down by panic, Norris could produce only a choked: “Here.” Then, louder: “Help. I need help!”

  The groundsman came down the muddy bank, lantern swaying. Holding up the light, he stared down at the dead body. At the face of Mary Robinson. Then his gaze lifted to Norris, and the look on the old man’s face was unmistakable.

  It was fear.

  Fourteen

  NORRIS STARED DOWN at his hands, where the coat of dried blood was now cracked and flaking off his skin. He’d been called to assist in a crisis; instead, he had added more blood, more confusion to the chaos. Through the closed door, he could hear a man shrieking in pain, and he wondered what horrors the surgeon’s knife was now performing upon that unfortunate soul.

  No worse a horror than was inflicted upon poor Mary Robinson.

  Only as he’d carried her into the building, into the light, had he seen the full horror of her injuries. He’d brought her into the hall, dripping a trail of blood, and a shocked nurse had mutely pointed him toward the surgery room. But as he’d laid Mary on the table, he already knew that she’d passed beyond the help of any surgeon.

  “How well did you know Mary Robinson, Mr. Marshall?”

  Norris looked up from his blood-encrusted hands and focused on Mr. Pratt from the Night Watch. Behind Pratt stood Constable Lyons and Dr. Aldous Grenville, both of whom had elected to remain silent during the interrogation. They hung back in the shadows, beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp.

  “She was a nurse. I’ve seen her, of course.”

  “But did you know her? Did you have any relationship with her outside your work at the hospital?”

  “No.”

  “None at all?”

  “I’m engaged in the study of medicine, Mr. Pratt. I have little time outside of that.”

  “You live within sight of the hospital. Your lodgings are right at the edge of these grounds, and hers are but a short walk from this very building. You could have encountered Miss Robinson just by stepping out your door.”

  “That hardly counts as a relationship.” Norris looked down at his hands again. This is the most intimate I will ever be with poor Mary, he thought. With her blood clinging to my skin.

  Mr. Pratt turned to Dr. Grenville. “You have examined the body, sir?”

  “I have. I should like Dr. Sewall to examine it as well.”

  “But can you render an opinion
?”

  Norris said, softly: “It’s the same killer. The same pattern. Surely you know that already, Mr. Pratt?” He looked up. “Two incisions. One cut straight across the abdomen. Then a twist of the blade and a slash straight up, toward the sternum. In the shape of a cross.”

  “But this time, Mr. Marshall,” interjected Constable Lyons, “the killer has taken it a step farther.”

  Norris focused on the senior officer of the Night Watch. Though he had never before met Constable Lyons, he knew of the man’s reputation. Unlike bombastic Mr. Pratt, Constable Lyons was soft-spoken, and perhaps easily overlooked. For the past hour, he had allowed his subordinate Pratt complete control of the investigation. Now Lyons moved into the light, and Norris saw a compact gentleman of about fifty, with a trim beard and spectacles.

  “Her tongue is missing,” said Lyons.

  Watchman Pratt turned to Grenville. “The killer sliced it out?”

  Grenville nodded. “It would not be a difficult excision. All it requires is a sharp knife.”

  “Why would he do such a grotesque thing? Was it punishment? A message?”

  “For that answer, you’d have to ask the killer.”

  Norris didn’t like the way Pratt immediately turned to look at him. “And you say you saw him, Mr. Marshall.”

  “I saw something.”

  “A creature with a cape? With a face like a skull’s?”

  “He was exactly as Rose Connolly described him. She told you the truth.”

  “Yet the hospital groundsman saw no such monster. He told me he saw only you, bending over the body. And no one else.”

  “It was standing there for only an instant. By the time the groundsman came upon me, the creature was gone.”

  Pratt studied him for a moment. “Why do you think the tongue was taken?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a monstrous thing to do. But if one were a student of anatomy, it might make sense to collect a body part. For scientific reasons, of course.”

  “Mr. Pratt,” cut in Grenville, “you have no grounds on which to suspect Mr. Marshall.”

  “A young man who happened to be in the proximity of both murders?”

  “He’s a medical student. He would be found near this hospital.”

  Pratt looked at Norris. “You grew up on a farm, did you not? Have you any experience slaughtering animals?”

  “These questions have gone far enough,” said Constable Lyons. “Mr. Marshall, you’re free to go.”

  “Sir,” Pratt protested, indignant that his authority had just been usurped. “I don’t believe we’ve pursued this far enough at all.”

  “Mr. Marshall isn’t a suspect, and he shouldn’t be treated as such.” Lyons looked at Norris. “You may go.”

  Norris stood and crossed to the door. There he paused and looked back. “I know you didn’t believe Rose Connolly,” he said. “But now I’ve seen the creature, too.”

  Pratt gave a snort. “The Grim Reaper?”

  “He’s real, Mr. Pratt. Whether you believe me or not, something is out there. Something that chilled my very soul. And I hope to God I never see it again.”

  Again, someone was pounding on his door. What a nightmare I’ve had, thought Norris as he opened his eyes and saw daylight shining through his window. This is what comes from eating too many oysters, drinking too much brandy. It brings on dreams of monsters.

  “Norris? Norris, wake up!” called Wendell.

  Rounds with Dr. Crouch. I’m late.

  Norris threw off his blanket and sat up. Only then did he see his greatcoat, draped over the chair, the fabric stained with broad smears of blood. He looked down at the shoes, which he’d left next to his bed, and saw mud-encrusted leather. And yet more blood. Even the shirt he was now wearing had splatters of brick red on the cuffs, the sleeves. It had not been a nightmare. He had fallen asleep with Mary Robinson’s blood on his clothes.

  Wendell pounded on the door. “Norris, we must talk!”

  Norris stumbled across the room and opened the door to find Wendell standing in the dim stairway.

  “You look awful,” said Wendell.

  Norris crossed back to the bed and sat down, groaning. “It was an awful night.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Wendell stepped inside and shut the door. As he looked around at the wretched little garret, he did not say a thing, nor did he need to; his opinion was plain on his face as he took in the rotting beams and the sagging floor and the straw-filled mattress set atop the bed frame of weathered planks. A mouse darted from the shadows, claws skittering across the floor, and it disappeared beneath the desk where a stained copy of Wistar’s Anatomy lay open. It was so cold on this late-November morning that a fan of ice had formed inside the window.

  “I imagine you’re wondering why I didn’t turn up at rounds,” said Norris. He felt painfully exposed, sitting only in his shirt, and when he looked down, he saw his bare thighs stippled with goose bumps.

  “We know why you didn’t turn up. It’s all they’re talking about at the hospital. What happened to Mary Robinson.”

  “Then you know that I’m the one who found her.”

  “That’s one of the versions, anyway.”

  Norris looked up. “There’s another?”

  “There are all sorts of rumors flying. Hideous rumors, I’m sorry to say.”

  Norris stared down again at his bare knees. “Would you hand me my trousers, please? It’s bloody freezing in here.”

  Wendell tossed him the pants, then turned and looked out the window. As Norris dressed, he noticed bloodstains on the cuff of his trousers. Everywhere he looked, he saw Mary Robinson’s blood on his clothes.

  “What are they saying about me?” he asked.

  Wendell turned to face him. “What a coincidence it is that you came so soon upon both death scenes.”

  “I wasn’t the one who found Agnes Poole’s body.”

  “But you were there.”

  “So were you.”

  “I’m not accusing you.”

  “Then what are you doing here? Come to take a peek at where the Reaper lives?” Norris rose to his feet, pulling on his suspenders. “It makes for good gossip, I imagine. Delicious tidbits to tell your Harvard chums over Madeira.”

  “You don’t really think that about me, do you?”

  “I know what you think of me.”

  Wendell crossed toward him. He was far shorter, and he stared up at Norris like an angry little terrier. “You’ve had a chip on your shoulder since the day you arrived. The poor farmer’s boy, always on the outs. No one wants to be your friend because your coat isn’t good enough, or you don’t have enough spare change in your pocket. You really think that’s my opinion of you? That you’re not worthy of my friendship?”

  “I know my proper place in your circle.”

  “Don’t presume to read my mind. Charles and I made every attempt to include you, to make you feel welcome. Yet you hold us at arm’s length, as though you’ve already decided any friendship is destined to fail.”

  “We’re classmates, Wendell. Nothing more. We share a preceptor and we share old Paddy. Perhaps we share a round of drinks now and then. But take a look around this room. You can see we have little else in common.”

  “I have more in common with you than I’ll ever have with Edward Kingston.”

  Norris laughed. “Oh, yes. Just look at our matching satin waistcoats. Name one thing we have in common, other than poor old Paddy on the table.”

  Wendell turned to the desk, where Wistar’s lay open. “You’ve been studying, for one thing.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “That was my answer. You sit here in this freezing attic, burning your candles down to the last puddle of tallow, and you’re studying. Why? Just so you’ll someday be able to wear a top hat? Somehow, I don’t think so.” He turned to Norris. “I think you study for the same reason I do. Because you believe in science.”

 
“Now you’re presuming to read my mind.”

  “That day on the ward, with Dr. Crouch. There was a woman who had been laboring for far too long. He advocated bleeding her. Do you remember?”

  “What of it?”

  “You challenged him. You said you’d experimented on cows. That bleeding them had shown no benefit.”

  “And for that I was soundly ridiculed.”

  “You must’ve known you would be. Yet you said it anyway.”

  “Because it was true. It’s what the cows taught me.”

  “And you’re not too proud to take your lessons from cows.”

  “I’m a farmer. Where else should I take my lessons?”

  “And I’m a minister’s son. Do you think the lessons I heard from my father’s pulpit were nearly as useful? A farmer knows more about birth and death than you’ll ever learn while sitting in a church pew.”

  With a snort, Norris turned and reached for his topcoat, the one item of clothing that had been spared from Mary Robinson’s blood, only because he had left it behind last night. “You have some odd notions about the nobility of farmers.”

  “I recognize a man of science when I see one. And I’ve seen your generosity as well.”

  “My generosity?”

  “In the anatomy room, when Charles made such a bloody mess of old Paddy. We both know Charlie’s just one slip away from being booted out of school. But you stepped forward and covered for him when Edward and I didn’t.”

  “That was hardly generosity. I just couldn’t stand the thought of seeing a grown man cry.”

  “Norris, you’re not like most of the others in our class. You have the calling. Do you think Charlie Lackaway cares about anatomy, about materia medica? He’s here only because his uncle expects it of him. Because his late father was a doctor, and his grandfather, too, and he hasn’t the spine to resist his family. And Edward, he doesn’t even bother to hide his disinterest. Half the students are here to please their parents, and most of the others just want to learn a trade, something that will earn them a comfortable living.”

  “And why are you here? Because you have the calling?”