Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— I don't know who they are, but I know they're vicious, Mr. Marshall. I think they're the reason Mary Robinson is dead. And Miss Poole. Now I'm the only one still alive. —

— You needn't worry. I've heard it on the best authority that Dr. Berry has fled Boston. They'll find him soon enough. —

— But I don't believe Dr. Berry is the killer. I think he has fled for his life. —

— Fled from whom? These mysterious people? —

— You don't believe a word I'm saying. Do you? —

— I don't understand what you're saying. —

She turned to him. Beneath the shadow of her hood, her eyes gleamed from light reflected off the snow. — The day my sister was buried, Mary Robinson came to see me in the cemetery. She asked about the baby. She told me to keep her hidden, keep her safe. —

— She was speaking of your sister's child? —

— Yes. — Rose swallowed. — I never saw Mary again. The next I heard, she was dead. And you were the one who found her. —

— What is the connection between these murders and your niece? I fail to see it. —

— I think her very existence is a threat to someone. Living proof of a scandalous secret. — She turned and scanned the dark street. — They're hunting us. They've driven me from my lodgings. I can't go to my job so I can't pay the wet nurse. I don't even dare go near her door, because they might see me there. —

— They? These vicious people you speak of? —

— They want her. But I won't give her up, not for anything. — She turned to him, her eyes burning in the darkness. — In their hands, Mr. Marshall, she may not survive. —

The girl's gone mad. He stared into her eyes and wondered if this was what insanity looked like. He remembered his recent visit to her in that miserable lodging house, when he had thought Rose Connolly was a levelheaded survivor. Since then, something had changed, had driven her over the edge, into a delusional world filled with enemies.

— I'm sorry, Miss Connolly. I don't see how I can help you, — he said, backing away. He turned and started walking again, in the direction of his lodgings, his shoes plowing two furrows through feathery snow.

— I came to you because I thought you were different. Better. —

— I'm only a student. What can I do? —

— You don't care, do you? —

— The West End murders have been solved. It's in all the newspapers. —

— They want you to believe they've been solved. —

— It's the Night Watch's responsibility, not mine. —

— You certainly cared when you were the one they accused. —

He walked on, hoping that she would tire of pursuing him. But she trailed after him like a troublesome dog as he headed north along the Charles River.

— It's all well and good now that you're off the hook, isn't it? — she said.

— I have no authority to delve any deeper into the matter. —

— You yourself saw the creature. You found poor Mary's body. —

He turned to face her. — And do you know how close I came to losing my position because of that? I'd be insane to raise any new questions about the murders. All it takes is a few whispers, and I could lose everything I've worked for. I'd be back on my father's farm! —

— Is it so terrible to be a farmer? —

— Yes! When my ambitions are so much higher! —

— And nothing must get in the way of your ambitions, — she said bitterly.

He gazed in the direction of Dr. Grenville's house. He thought of the champagne he'd drunk, the elegantly dressed girls he'd danced with. Once, his ambitions had been far more modest. To earn the gratitude of his patients. To know the satisfaction of wrestling a sick child from the jaws of a mortal illness. But tonight, in Dr. Grenville's home, he'd glimpsed possibilities he'd never dreamed of, a world of comforts that could one day be his if he made no mistakes, allowed himself no missteps.

— I thought you would care, — she said. — Now I find that what really matters to you are your grand friends in their grand houses. —

Sighing, he looked at her. — It's not that I don't care. There's simply nothing I can do about it. I'm not a policeman. I have no business getting involved. I suggest you walk away from it as well, Miss Connolly. — He turned.

— I can't walk away, — she said. Her voice suddenly broke. — I don't know where else to go… —

He took a few steps and slowed. Stopped. Behind him, she was crying softly. Turning, he saw her slumped wearily against a gate, head bowed in defeat. This was a Rose Connolly he hadn't before seen, so different from the bold girl he'd met in the hospital ward.

— Have you no place to sleep? — he said, and saw her shake her head. He reached into his pocket. — If it's a matter of money, you can take what I have here. —

Suddenly straightening, she glared at him. — I ask nothing for myself! This is for Meggie. It's all for Meggie. — Angrily, she swept her hand across her face. — I came to you because I thought we had a bond, you and I. We've both seen the creature. We both know what it can do. You may not be afraid of it, but I am. It wants the baby. So it hunts me. — She took a deep breath and hugged her cloak tighter, as though to ward off the eyes of the night. — I won't trouble you again, — she said, and turned.

He watched her walk away, a small figure receding into the curtain of falling snow. My dream is to save lives, he thought, to battle heroically at countless sickbeds. Yet when a single friendless girl pleads for my help, I cannot be bothered.

The figure was almost lost now, in the swirl of white.

— Miss Connolly! — he called. — My room is a short walk from here. For tonight, if you need a place to sleep, it might serve you. —

THIS WAS A MISTAKE.

Norris lay in bed, considering what he would do with his guest come morning. In one moment of reckless charity, he had taken on a responsibility he did not need. It's only temporary, he promised himself; this arrangement could not continue. At least the girl had done her best to stay unobtrusive. She had slipped silently up the stairs behind him, alerting no one in the building to the fact that he'd smuggled in a female guest. She'd curled up like an exhausted kitten in the corner and almost immediately fallen asleep. He could not even hear her breathing. Only by looking across the room, seeing her shadowy form on the floor, did he even know she was there. He thought of the challenges in his own life— such minor ones when he considered what Rose Connolly must face every day on the streets.

But there's nothing I can do about it. The world is unjust, and I cannot change the world .

When he rose the next day, she was still sleeping. He thought of rousing her and sending her on her way, but he didn't have the heart. She slept as deeply as a child. By the light of day, her clothing looked even more ragged, the cloak obviously mended many times over, the hem of her skirt streaked with mud. On her finger glittered a ring set with stones of colored glass, a cheap version of the multicolored rings he saw on the hands of so many ladies, even his own mother. But this was a poor imitation, nothing but a tin ornament one would give a child. He found it oddly touching that Rose would so unabashedly wear such a trinket, as though proudly displaying her poverty right there on her finger. Poor though she was, her face was fine-boned and flawless, and her chestnut hair reflected the sun's gleam in coppery streaks. Were she resting on a pillow of fine lace instead of rags, she would rival any beauty from Beacon Hill. But in years to come, long before the bloom had left the cheek of a Beacon Hill girl, poverty would surely dim the glow of Rose Connolly's face.