Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— What arrangements? —

— The infant asylum is here to fetch her. They'll provide a wet nurse. And most certainly, a fine home. —

Rose stared at the nurse in disbelief. — But she's not an orphan! She has a mother! —

— A mother who most likely will not live. — Nurse Poole held out her arms, and her hands looked like unwelcoming claws. — Give her to me. It's for the baby's own good. You certainly cannot care for her. —

— She has a father, too. You haven't asked him. —

— How can I? He hasn't even bothered to show up. —

— Did Aurnia agree to this? Let me speak to her. —

— She's unconscious. She can't say anything. —

— Then I'll speak for her. This is my niece, Miss Poole, my own family. — Rose hugged the baby tighter. — I'll give her up to no stranger. —

Agnes Poole's face had gone rigid in frustration. For a dangerous moment she appeared ready to wrench the baby from Rose's arms. Instead, she turned and swept out of the ward, her skirt snapping smartly with every stride. A door slammed shut.

Outside, in the courtyard, the horse's hooves clattered nervously on the stones.

Rose went back to the window and watched as Agnes Poole materialized from the shadows of the walkway and crossed to the waiting phaeton to speak to the occupant. A moment later the driver snapped the whip and the horse clopped forward. As the vehicle drove out the gate, Agnes Poole stood alone, her silhouette framed by the glistening stones of the courtyard.

Rose looked down at the baby in her arms and saw, in the sleeping face, a miniature in flesh of her own dear sister. No one will ever take you from me. Not while I still breathe.

The present

— THANK YOU for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Isles. — Julia took a seat in the medical examiner's office. She'd come straight from the summer heat into the frigid building, and now she looked across the desk at a woman who seemed perfectly at home in this chilly environment. Except for the framed floral prints on the wall, Maura Isles's office was all business: files and textbooks, a microscope, and a desk that looked ruthlessly organized. Julia shifted uneasily in the chair, feeling as if she were the one now under the microscope lens. — You probably don't get many requests like mine, but I really need to know. For my own peace of mind. —

— Dr. Petrie's the one you should be talking to, — said Isles. — The skeleton is a forensic anthropology case. —

— I'm not here about that skeleton. I've already spoken to Dr. Petrie, and she had nothing new to tell me. —

— Then how can I help you? —

— When I bought the house, the real estate agent told me that the previous owner was an elderly woman who'd died on the property. Everyone assumed it was a natural death. But a few days ago, my next-door neighbor mentioned there'd been several burglaries in the area. And last year, a man was seen driving up and down the road, as if he was casing the houses. Now I'm starting to wonder if… —

— If it wasn't a natural death? — said Isles bluntly. — That's what you're asking, isn't it? —

Julia met the medical examiner's gaze. — Yes. —

— I'm afraid I didn't perform that particular autopsy. —

— But there's a report somewhere, isn't there? It would give a cause of death, wouldn't it? —

— I'd have to know the name of the deceased. —

— I have it right here. — Julia reached into her purse and took out a bundle of photocopies, which she handed to Isles. — It's her obituary, from the local paper. Her name was Hilda Chamblett. And these are all the news clippings I could find about her. —

— So you've already been digging into this. —

— It's been on my mind. — Julia gave an embarrassed laugh. — Plus, there's that old skeleton in my backyard. I'm feeling a little uneasy that two different women have died there. —

— At least a hundred years apart. —

— It's the one last year that really bothers me. Especially after what my neighbor said, about the burglaries. —

Isles nodded. — I suppose it would bother me, too. Let me find the report. — She left the office and returned moments later with the file. — The autopsy was done by Dr. Costas, — she said as she sat down at her desk. She opened the file. — ‘Chamblett, Hilda, age ninety-two, found in the backyard of her Weston residence. Remains were found by a family member who had been away and had not checked on her for three weeks. Time of death is therefore uncertain.' — Isles flipped to a new page and paused. — The photos aren't particularly pleasant, — she said. — You don't need to see these. —

Julia swallowed. — No, I don't. Maybe you could just read me the conclusions? —

Isles turned to the summary and glanced up. — You're sure you want to hear this? — At Julia's nod, Isles once again began to read aloud. — ‘Body was found in a supine position, surrounded by tall grass and weeds, which concealed it from view beyond only a few feet…' —

The same weeds I've been battling, thought Julia. I've been pulling up the same grass that hid Hilda Chamblett's body.

— ‘No skin or soft tissue is found intact on any exposed surfaces. Shreds of clothing, consisting of what appears to be a sleeveless cotton dress, still adhere to parts of the torso. In the neck, cervical vertebrae are clearly visible and soft tissues are lacking. Large and small bowel are largely missing, and remaining lungs, liver, and spleen have defects with serrated margins. Of interest are fluffy, shredded strands, presumed to be nerve and muscle fibers, found in all limb joints. Periosteum, including skull, ribs, and limb bones, also have similar fluffy strands. Noted around the corpse are numerous bird droppings.' — Isles looked up. — ‘Assumed to be from crows.' —

Julia stared at her. — You're saying crows did that? —

— These findings are classical for crow scavenging. Birds in general have been known to cause postmortem damage. Even cute little songbirds will peck and pull at a corpse's skin. Crows are considerably larger and carnivorous, so they can skeletonize a corpse quickly. They devour all soft tissues, but they can't quite pull off nerve fibers or tendons. Those strands remain attached to the joints, where they get frayed by repeated pecking. That's why Dr. Costas described the strands as fluffy — because they'd been so thoroughly shredded by the crows' beaks. — Isles closed the folder. — That's the report. —

— You haven't told me the cause of death. —

— Because it was indeterminable. After three weeks, there's too much scavenger damage and decay. —

— Then you have no idea? —

— She was ninety-two. It was a hot summer, and she was out alone in her garden. It's reasonable to assume she had a cardiac event. —

— But you can't be sure. —

— No, we can't. —

— So it could have been… —

— Murder? — Isles's gaze was direct.

— She lived alone. She was vulnerable. —

— There's no mention here of any disturbance in the house. No signs of a burglary. —

— Maybe the killer didn't care about robbery. Maybe he was just interested in her . In what he could do to her . —

Isles said quietly: — Believe me, I do understand what you're thinking. What you're afraid of. In my profession, I've seen what people can do to other people. Terrible things that make you question what it is to be human, whether we're any better than animals. But this particular death just doesn't ring any alarm bells for me. Common things are common, and in the case of a ninety-two-year-old woman found dead in her own backyard, murder isn't the first thing that comes to mind. — Isles regarded Julia for a moment. — I can see you're not satisfied. —