Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— Cowering? —

— She was clearly frightened. I'm sure she thought one of us was the killer. —

— Did you notice anything unusual about her? Other than the fact she appeared frightened? —

— She was frightened, — said Norris.

— Her clothing, for instance. The condition of her dress. Did you not notice it was badly ripped? —

— She'd just fled a killer, Mr. Pratt, — said Norris. — She had every right to be disheveled. —

— Her dress was torn, as though she'd been viciously grappling with someone. Not one of you? —

— No, — said Wendell.

— Why don't you just ask her how it happened? — suggested Norris.

— I have. —

— And what did she say? —

— She claimed it happened earlier in the evening. When her sister's husband attempted to molest her. — He shook his head in disgust. — These people are like animals, breeding in the tenements. —

Norris heard the ugly note of prejudice in the man's voice. Animals . Oh, yes, he'd heard that name used for the Irish, those immoral beasts who were always whoring, always procreating. To Pratt, Rose was just another Bridget, a filthy immigrant like the thousands who crammed the tenements of South Boston and Charlestown, whose unclean habits and snot-nosed offspring had touched off citywide epidemics of smallpox and cholera.

Norris said, — Miss Connolly is hardly an animal. —

— You know her well enough to say that? —

— I don't believe that any human being deserves such an insult. —

— For a man who scarcely knows her, you rise quickly to her defense. —

— I feel sorry for her. Sorry that her sister is dying. —

— Oh, that. That is over with. —

— What do you mean? —

— It happened earlier this evening, — said Pratt, and he closed his notebook. — Rose Connolly's sister is dead. —

WE HAD NO CHANCE to say goodbye.

Rose washed Aurnia's body with a damp cloth, gently wiping away the smudges of dirt and dried sweat and tears from a face that was now strangely smooth of all worry lines. If there was a heaven, she thought, surely Aurnia was already there, and could see the trouble Rose was in. I am afraid, Aurnia. And Meggie and I have nowhere to go.

Aurnia's neatly brushed hair gleamed in the lamplight, like coppery silk draped across the pillow. Though she was now bathed, the stench remained, a fetid odor clinging to the body that had once embraced Rose, once had shared a girlhood bed with her.

You are still beautiful to me. You will always be beautiful.

In a little basket beside the bed, baby Meggie slept soundly, unaware of her mother's passing, of her own precarious future. How clear it is that she is Aurnia's child, thought Rose. The same red hair, the same sweetly curving mouth. For two days, Meggie had been nursed on the ward by three new mothers, who had willingly passed the child among them. They had all witnessed Aurnia's agonies, and they knew that but for the whims of providence any one of them might also be a client for the coffin maker.

Rose glanced up as a nurse approached. It was Miss Cabot, who had assumed authority since Nurse Poole's death.

— I'm sorry, Miss Connolly, but it's time to transfer the deceased. —

— She's only just passed on. —

— It's been two hours now, and we have need of the bed. — The nurse handed a small bundle to Rose. — Your sister's belongings. —

Here were the pitifully few possessions that Aurnia had brought with her to the hospital: her soiled night frock and a hair ribbon and the cheap little ring of tin and colored glass that had been Aurnia's good-luck charm since her girlhood. A charm that had, in the end, failed her.

— Those go to the husband, — Nurse Cabot said. — Now she must be moved. —

Rose heard the squeaking of wheels, and she saw the hospital groundsman pushing in a wheeled cart. — I've not had enough time with her. —

— There can be no further delay. The coffin is ready in the courtyard. Have arrangements been made for burial? —

Rose shook her head. Bitterly, she said, — Her husband has arranged for nothing. —

— If the family is unable to pay, there are options for a respectful interment. —

A pauper's burial was what she meant. Crammed into a common grave with nameless peddlers and beggars and thieves.

— How much time do I have to make arrangements? — asked Rose.

Nurse Cabot impatiently glanced up the row of beds, as though considering all the other work she had to do. — By tomorrow noon, — she said, — the wagon will come to pick up the coffin. —

— So little time? —

— Decay does not wait. — The nurse turned and gestured to the man who had stood quietly waiting, and he pushed the cart to the bedside.

— Not yet. Please. — Rose pulled at the man's sleeve, trying to tug him away from Aurnia. — You can't put her out in the cold! —

— Please don't make this difficult, — said the nurse. — If you wish to arrange a private burial, then you'd best see to the arrangements before tomorrow noon, or the city will take her to the South Burying Ground. — She looked at the groundsman. — Remove the deceased. —

He slid burly arms beneath Aurnia's body and lifted her from the bed. As he placed the corpse into the handcart, a sob escaped Rose's throat and she plucked at her sister's gown, at the skirt, now crusted brown with dried blood. But no cries, no pleading, could alter the course of what would happen next. Aurnia, clothed only in linen and gauze, would be wheeled out into the frigid courtyard, fragile skin bumping against splintery wood as the cart rolled across the cobblestones. Would he be gentle as he placed her into the coffin? Or would he merely roll her in, dropping her like a carcass of meat, letting her head thump against bare pine boards?

— Let me stay with her, — she pleaded, and reached for the man's arm. — Let me watch. —

— Ain't nothin' to see, miss. —

— I want to be sure. I want to know she's treated right. —

He gave a shrug. — I treat 'em all right. But you can watch if you want, I don't care. —

— There's another issue, — said Nurse Cabot. — The child. You can't possibly take adequate care of it, Miss Connolly. —

The woman in the next bed said: — They came by when you were out, Rose. Someone from the infant asylum, wantin' to take her. But we wouldn't allow it. The nerve of those people, tryin' to make off with your niece when you weren't even here! —

— Mr. Tate has signed away his parental rights, — said Nurse Cabot. — He, at least, understands what's best for his baby. —

— He doesn't care about the baby, — said Rose.

— You're far too young to raise it yourself. Be sensible, girl! Give it to someone who can. —

In answer, Rose snatched up Meggie from her basket and held her tightly against her breast. — Give her to a stranger? I'd have to be on my deathbed first. —

Nurse Cabot, faced with Rose's clearly insurmountable resistance, at last gave a sigh of exasperation. — Suit yourself. It'll be on your conscience when the child comes to grief. I have no time for this, not tonight, with poor Agnes… — She swallowed hard, then looked at the groundsman, who still waited with Aurnia's body on his cart. — Remove her. —

Still holding tightly to Meggie, Rose followed the man out of the ward, into the courtyard. There, by the yellow glow of his lamp, she stood vigil as Aurnia was laid into the pine box. She watched him pound in the nails, hammer echoing like pistol shots, and with every blow she felt a nail being driven into her own heart. The coffin now sealed, he picked up a lump of charcoal and scrawled on the lid: A. TATE.