Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— What? — Dr. Berry asks, impatient to get beneath her skirts.

— It's the river. That girl was killed down there. —

Of course Dr. Berry already knows this. After all, he knew and worked with Mary Robinson. But any sorrow he may feel over her death is secondary to the urgency of his current need. — Don't worry, — he assures the whore. — I'll protect you. Come on. —

— You ain't him, are you? The West End Reaper? —

— Of course not! I'm a doctor. —

— They're sayin' he could be a doctor. That's why he's killin' nurses. —

By now, Dr. Berry is getting desperate for relief. — Well, you're not a nurse, are you? Come along, and I'll make it worth your while. — He tugs her a few feet farther, but once again she pulls to a stop.

— How do I know you won't slice me open like those poor ladies?'

— Look, the whole tavern just saw us leave together. If I were really the Reaper, do you think I'd take such a risk in public? —

Swayed by his unassailable logic, she allows him to lead her to the river. Now that he's so close to his goal, all he can think of is plunging deep into her. Mary Robinson does not even cross his mind as he practically drags the whore toward the water, and why should she? Dr. Berry feels no apprehension as he and the whore head toward the shadow of the bridge, where they cannot be seen.

But they can most certainly be heard.

The sounds rise from the darkness and drift up to the riverbank. The rustle of a skirt being yanked up, the heated breathing, the grunts of climax. In only a few minutes it is over, and the girl scurries back up the bank, a bit more disheveled perhaps, but a half eagle richer. She fails to notice the figure in the shadows as she hurries back to the tavern to troll for another client.

The oblivious girl just keeps walking, and does not even glance back toward the bridge where Dr. Berry lingers, fastening his trousers. She doesn't see what glides down the bank to meet him.

By the time Dr. Berry's final gasp of agony rises from the river, the whore is already back in the tavern, laughing in the lap of a sailor.

— YOU WISHED to speak to me, Dr. Grenville? — said Norris.

Dr. Grenville gazed across his desk, and his face, backlit by the morning sun, gave away nothing. The blow is about to fall, thought Norris. For days he'd been tormented by the rumors, by innuendo. He'd heard whispers in the halls, had caught the glances of his fellow students. As he stood facing Grenville, he prepared to hear the inevitable. Better to know the answer now, he thought, than to suffer through days or weeks of whispers before the final blow.

— You have seen the latest article in the Daily Advertiser ? — asked Grenville. — About the West End murders? —

— Yes, sir. — Why delay it any longer, he thought. Better to get it over with. He said, — I wish to know the truth, sir. Am I or am I not to be expelled from this college?'

— That's why you think I've called you here? —

— It is a reasonable assumption. Considering… —

— The rumors? Ah, yes, they are flying thick and furious. I've heard from the families of a number of our students. They're all concerned about the reputation of this college. Without our reputation, we are nothing. —

Norris said nothing, but dread had settled like a stone in his stomach.

— The parents of those students are also worried about the wellbeing of their sons. —

— And they think I am a threat. —

— You can understand why, can't you? —

Norris looked him straight in the eye. — All they have to convict me is circumstance. —

— Circumstance is a powerful voice. —

— A misleading voice. It drowns out the truth. This medical college prides itself on its scientific method. Isn't that method all about seeking answers based on facts, not hearsay? —

Grenville leaned back in his chair, but his gaze remained fixed on Norris. Displayed in the office was evidence of how highly Grenville valued the study of science. On his desk, a grotesquely deformed human skull sat beside a normal one. In a corner hung a dwarf's skeleton, and on the shelves of the bookcase were specimens preserved in jars of whiskey: a severed hand with six fingers. A nose half eroded by tumor. A newborn with a single Cyclops eye. All these were silent testament to his fascination with anatomical oddities.

— I'm not the only one who's seen the killer, — said Norris. — Rose Connolly has seen him, too. —

— A monster with black wings and a skull's face? —

— There is something evil at work on the West End. —

— Attributed by the Night Watch to the work of a butcher. —

— And that's the real charge against me, isn't it? That I'm the son of a farmer. If I were Edward Kingston or your own nephew Charles, or the son of any prominent gentleman, would I still be a suspect? Would there be any doubt of my innocence? —

After a silence, Grenville said: — Your point is well taken. —

— Yet it changes nothing. — Norris turned to leave. — Good day, Dr. Grenville. I see I have no future here. —

— Why would you not have a future here? Have I dismissed you from this school? —

Norris's hand was already on the doorknob. He turned back. — You said my presence was a problem. —

— It is indeed a problem, but it's one that I'll deal with. I'm fully aware that you face a number of disadvantages. Unlike so many of your classmates, you did not come straight from Harvard, or indeed from any college. You're self-taught, yet both doctors Sewall and Crouch are impressed by your skills. —

For a moment Norris could not speak. — I— I don't know how to thank you. —

— Don't thank me yet. Things may still change. —

— You won't regret this! — Again, Norris reached for the door.

— Mr. Marshall, there's one more thing. —

— Sir? —

— When was the last time you saw Dr. Berry? —

— Dr. Berry? — This was a completely unexpected question, and Norris paused, perplexed. — It was yesterday evening. As he was leaving the hospital. —

Grenville turned his troubled gaze to the window. — That was the last time I saw him, too, — he murmured.

— Though there has been much speculation as to its etiology, — said Dr. Chester Crouch, — the cause of puerperal fever remains open to debate. This is a most evil disease, which steals the lives of women just as they achieve their heart's desire, the gift of motherhood… — He stopped and stared.

So did everyone else, as Norris walked into the auditorium. Yes, the infamous Reaper had arrived. Did he terrify them? Were they all worried that he'd sit next to them, and his evil would rub off?

— Do find a seat, Mr. Marshall! — said Crouch.

— I'm trying to, sir. —

— Over here! — Wendell stood. — We've saved a seat for you, Norris. —

Acutely aware that he was being stared at, Norris squeezed his way up the row, past young men who seemed to flinch as he brushed past. He settled into the empty chair between Wendell and Charles. — Thank you both, — he whispered.

— We were afraid you might not be coming at all, — said Charles. — You should have heard the rumors this morning. They were saying— —

— Are you gentlemen quite finished with your conversation? — Crouch demanded, and Charles flushed. — Now. If you will allow me to continue. — Crouch cleared his throat and began once again to pace the stage. — We are, at this moment, experiencing an epidemic in our lying-in ward, and I fear there are more cases to come. So we shall devote this morning's program to the subject of puerperal fever, otherwise known as childbed fever. It strikes a woman in the bloom of her youth, at precisely the time when she has the most to live for. Though her child might be safely delivered, and even thriving, the new mother still faces danger. It may manifest during labor, or the symptoms may develop hours, even days after the delivery. First, she feels a chill, sometimes so violent that her shaking will rattle the bed. This is followed inevitably by a fever that causes the skin to flush, the heart to race. But the true torment is the pain. It begins in the pelvic area and progresses to excruciating tenderness as the abdomen swells. Just to touch it, even a mere stroke of the skin, can induce screams of agony. There is often a bloody discharge, too, of a most foul and malodorous nature. The clothes, the bedsheets, indeed, even the entire sickroom may reek of the stench. You cannot imagine the mortifying distress of a gentlewoman, accustomed to the most scrupulous hygiene, who now finds the mere whiff of her body so repellent. But the worst is yet to come. —