Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— When do you plan to tell your uncle? — said Edward.

Fresh laughter exploded at the other end of the room, where a student's hat had found its way onto a dead woman's head. But Charles's gaze remained on Paddy, whose deformed left arm and crooked spine were mute testimony to a life of pain.

— Come on, Charlie, — encouraged Wendell, and he held out a knife to him. — It's not so bad once you get started. Let's not allow this poor Paddy to go to waste. He has so much to teach us. —

— You would say that, Wendell. You love this sort of thing. —

— We've already peeled away the omentum. You can resect the small bowel. —

As Charles stared at the offered knife, someone jeered from across the room: — Charlie! Don't faint on us again! —

Flushing a bright red, Charles took the knife. Grim-faced, he began to cut. But this was no skillful resection; these were savage slashes, his blade mangling the bowel, releasing a stench so awful that Norris lurched backward, lifting his arm to his face to stifle the smell.

— Stop, — said Wendell. He grabbed Charles's arm, but his friend kept hacking away. — You're making a mess of it! —

— You told me to cut! You told me to get my hands bloody! That's what my uncle keeps telling me, that a doctor is worthless unless he's willing to gets his hands bloody! —

— We're not your uncle, — said Wendell. — We're your friends. Now stop . —

Charles threw down the knife. Its thud was lost in the high-spirited bedlam of young men let loose upon a task so gruesome, the only sane response was perverse frivolity.

Norris picked up the knife and asked, quietly: — Are you all right, Charles? —

— I'm fine. — Charles released a deep breath. — I'm perfectly fine. —

A student stationed at the door suddenly hissed out a warning: — Sewall's coming back! —

Instantly the room fell quiet. Hats came off corpses. Cadavers resumed their positions of dignified repose. When Dr. Sewall walked back into the room, he saw only diligent students and serious faces. He crossed straight to Norris's table and came to a halt, staring at the slashed intestines.

— What the devil is this mess? — Appalled, he looked at the four students. — Who is responsible for this butchery? —

Charles appeared to be on the verge of tears. For Charles, every day seemed to bring some fresh humiliation, some new chance to reveal his incompetence. Under Sewall's gaze, he now seemed dangerously close to shattering.

Edward said, too eagerly: — Mr. Lackaway was trying to resect the small bowel, sir, and— —

— It's my fault, — Norris cut in.

Sewall looked at him in disbelief. — Mr. Marshall? —

— It was— it was a bit of horseplay. Charles and I— well, it got out of hand, and we sincerely apologize. Don't we, Charles? —

Sewall regarded Norris for a moment. — In light of your obvious skill as a dissector, this poor conduct is doubly disappointing. Do not let it happen again. —

— It won't, sir. —

— I'm told that Dr. Grenville wishes to see you, Mr. Marshall. He waits in his office. —

— Now? On what matter? —

— I suggest you find out. Well, go. — Sewall turned to the class. — As for the rest of you, there will be no more tomfoolery. Proceed, gentlemen! —

Norris wiped his hands on his apron and said to his companions, — I'll have to leave you three to finish old Paddy. —

— What's this about you and Dr. Grenville? — asked Wendell.

— I have no idea, — said Norris.

— Professor Grenville? —

The dean of the medical college looked up from his desk. Backlit by the gloomy daylight through the window behind him, his silhouette resembled a lion's head, with its mane of wiry gray hair. As Norris paused on the threshold, he felt Aldous Grenville studying him, and he wondered what blunder on his part could have precipitated this summons. During his long walk down the hallway, he had searched his memory for some incident that might have called his name to Dr. Grenville's attention. Surely there'd been something, since Norris could think of no reason why the man would even notice, among the several dozen new students, a mere farmer's son from Belmont.

— Do come in, Mr. Marshall. And please close the door. —

Uneasy, Norris took a seat. Grenville lit a lamp and the flame caught, casting its warm glow across the gleaming desk, the cherry bookshelves. The silhouette transformed to an arresting face with bushy side-whiskers. Though his hair was as thick as a young man's, it had gone silver, lending distinguished authority to his already striking features. He sank back into his chair, and his dark eyes were two strange orbs, reflecting the lamplight.

— You were there, at the hospital, — said Grenville. — The night Agnes Poole died. —

Norris was taken aback by the abrupt introduction of this grim subject, and he could only nod. The murder had been six days ago, and since then there had been wild gossip in town about who— or what— could have killed her. The Daily Advertiser had described a winged demon. Whispers about papists had been inevitable, no doubt launched from the lips of Watchman Pratt. But there had been other rumors as well. A preacher in Salem had spoken of evil afoot, of foul creatures and devil-worshiping foreigners who could only be combated by the righteous hand of God. Last night, the outrageous tales had inspired a drunken mob to chase a hapless Italian man down Hanover Street, forcing him to seek refuge in a tavern.

— You were the first to find the witness. The Irish girl, — said Grenville.

— Yes. —

— Have you seen her since that night? —

— No, sir. —

— You are aware that the Night Watch is looking for her? —

— Mr. Pratt told me. I know nothing about Miss Connolly. —

— Mr. Pratt led me to believe otherwise. —

So this was why he'd been called here. The Night Watch wanted Grenville to press him for information.

— The girl hasn't been seen at her lodging house since that night, — said Grenville.

— Surely she has family in Boston. —

— Only her sister's husband, a tailor named Mr. Tate. He told the Night Watch that she was unstable, and prone to outrageous claims. She'd even accused him of base acts against her. —

Norris remembered how Rose Connolly had dared to question the opinion of the eminent Dr. Crouch, an astonishingly bold act by a girl who should have known her place. But unstable? No, what Norris had seen on the ward that afternoon was a girl who'd merely stood her ground, a girl protecting her dying sister.

— I saw nothing unsound about her, — he said.

— She made some rather startling claims. About that creature in the cape. —

— She called it a figure, sir. She never said that it was in any way supernatural. It was the Daily Advertiser that called it the West End Reaper. She may have been frightened, but she was not hysterical. —

— You can't tell Mr. Pratt where she might be? —

— Why does he think I can? —

— He suggested that you might be better acquainted with her…people. —

— I see. — Norris felt his face tighten. So they think that a farm boy in a suit is still just a farm boy. — May I ask why it's suddenly so urgent that he find her? —

— She's a witness, and she's only seventeen years old. There's her safety to consider. And the safety of her sister's child. —

— I hardly imagine that Mr. Pratt cares one whit about their welfare. Is there another reason he seeks her? —

Grenville paused. After a moment, he admitted, — There is a matter, which Mr. Pratt would prefer not to see in the press. —