Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

With a joyful laugh, Rose swept up Meggie from the basket and brought the little face up to hers, breathing in the familiar scents of her hair, her swaddling clothes. Meggie responded with a wet cough, and tiny fingers reached out to grasp a handful of Rose's hair. Mucus gleamed on her upper lip.

— Ah, my darling girl! — said Rose, hugging Meggie to her own empty breasts. Wishing that she could be the one to nourish her. The two gentlemen standing behind her remained strangely silent, watching as she fussed over the baby. She turned to Hepzibah. — Has she been ill? —

— Started coughing last night. You haven't been here in a few days. —

— I sent money today. Billy brought it, didn't he? —

By the faint glow of the hearth, Hepzibah, with her fat neck, looked like an enormous toad planted in the chair. — Aye, the idiot boy brought it. I'll be needing more. —

— More? But it was what you asked. —

— She's keepin' me up now, that one. Coughing. —

Norris said, — May we take a look at the baby? We'd like to confirm that she's healthy. —

Hepzibah eyed him and gave a grunt. — Who might you gentlemen be, to care about some fatherless child? —

— We're medical students, madam. We care about all children. —

— Ooh, fancy that! — Hepzibah laughed. — I can show you ten thousand of 'em, when you're done wi' this one. —

Norris lit a candle at the hearth. — Bring the baby here, Rose. So I can get a better look at her. —

Rose carried Meggie to him. The baby gazed up with trusting eyes as Norris peeled away the blanket and examined her chest, prodded her abdomen. Already he had the sure and confident hands of a doctor, Rose observed, and she imagined him as he would one day look, his hair streaked with gray, his gaze sober and wise. Oh, she hoped she would know him then! She hoped she could watch him gaze down at his own child. Our own child. Thoroughly he inspected Meggie, whose plump thighs were testimony to an adequate diet. But the baby was coughing, and strands of clear mucus trickled from her nostrils.

— She seems to have no fever, — said Norris. — But there is congestion. —

Hepzibah gave a dismissive grunt. — All the little ones have it. Not a child in South Boston who doesn't have snot under his nose. —

— But she's so young. —

— She eats more than enough. And for that as well, I'll need to be paid more. —

Wendell reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of coins, which he placed in the wet nurse's hand. — There'll be more. But the child must stay well fed and healthy. Do you understand? —

Hepzibah stared at the money. And she said, with a new note of respect, — Oh, she will, sir. I'll be sure of it. —

Rose stared at Wendell, stunned by his generosity. — I'll find a way to pay you, Mr. Holmes, — she said, softly. — I swear to you. —

— There's no need to talk of payment, — said Wendell. — If you'll excuse us, Mr. Marshall and I need to speak alone. — He looked at Norris, and the two men stepped outside, into the alley.

— Not just one, but two gentlemen paying your way, eh? — Hepzibah looked at Rose and gave a knowing cackle. — You must be quite a girl. —

— This place is appalling! — said Wendell. — Even if she keeps the child well fed, look at the woman! She's grotesque. And this neighborhood— all these tenements— they're ridden with disease. —

And they're filled with children, thought Norris, looking up the narrow alley at windows where candles flickered. Countless children, every bit as vulnerable as baby Meggie. They stood outside Hepzibah's door, shivering in a night that had fallen significantly colder in just the short time they'd been indoors. — She can't stay here, — he agreed.

— The question is, — said Wendell, — what's the alternative? —

— She belongs with Rose. That's where she'll be best cared for. —

— Rose can't feed her. And if she's right about these murders, if she's truly being hunted, then she needs to stay as far away from the baby as she can get. She knows that. —

— And it's breaking her heart. You can see it. —

— Yet she's clear-eyed enough to realize it's necessary. — Wendell glanced down the alley as a drunken man came tottering out of a doorway and staggered away in the other direction. — She's quite a resourceful girl. She has to be clever, just to keep body and soul together out on the streets. I have a feeling that, no matter the situation, Rose Connolly will find a way to survive. And keep her niece alive as well. —

Norris remembered the wretched lodging house in which he'd visited her. He thought of the room crawling with insects, and the coughing man in the corner, and the floor covered with filthy straw. Could I endure one night in such a place?

— A remarkable girl, — Wendell said.

— I've come to appreciate that. —

— And quite a pretty one, too. Even under all those rags. —

So I've noticed.

— What are you going to do with her, Norris? —

Wendell's question brought Norris up short. What was he going to do with her? This morning, he'd been resolved to send her on her way with a few coins and his best wishes. Now he realized he couldn't turn her out on the street, not when the whole world seemed poised to crush her. And the baby had become his concern as well. Who could not be charmed by such a serene and smiling child?

— No matter what you choose, — said Wendell, — even if you send her away, your fates seem to be tied together. —

— What do you mean? —

— The West End Reaper haunts you both. Rose believes she's stalked by him. The Night Watch believes you are him. Until he's caught, you and Rose won't be safe. — Wendell turned and looked at Hepzibah's door. — Nor will the child. —

NOW, THIS IS THE WAY to make a living, thought Jack Burke as he lumbered up Water Street, wearing his best coat and his clean boots. No mucking around in the dark and dodging bullets. No coming home with his clothes muddy and reeking of cadavers. With winter setting in and the ground frozen hard as rock, all the merchandise would be coming up from the south anyway, crammed into barrels labeled PICKLES or MADEIRA or WHISKEY. What a surprise would lie in store for any thief who hankered for a drink and secretly broke into one of those barrels. Poor thirsty man, to pry off the lid, his lips tingling with anticipation, only to find, instead of whiskey, a naked corpse preserved in brine.

A man might lose his taste for drink over that.

Too many of those barrels were coming up from Virginia and the Carolinas these days. Male or female, black or white, the merchandise found a ready market in all the medical schools, whose ravenous appetite for cadavers seemed only to grow every year. He could see how the business was going. He had seen the barrels in Dr. Sewall's yard and knew they didn't contain cucumber pickles. The competition had grown fierce, and Jack had a vision of endless trains, car after car loaded with just such barrels, bringing the southern dead, at twenty-five dollars apiece, to the dissection parlors of Boston and New York and Philadelphia. How could he compete with that?

Far easier to earn it the way he was doing today, walking in broad daylight, with clean boots, up Water Street. Not the finest neighborhood, but good enough for tradesmen, who were out in this clear, chill morning, their wagons filled with bricks or lumber or dry goods. It was a workingman's street, and the shop he arrived at should certainly cater to a workingman's taste and needs. But displayed behind the dusty glass was an evening coat that no workingman could possibly make use of. It was fashioned from brilliant crimson cloth and trimmed with gold lace, a coat that forced you to stop right there on the street and dream of a better life. A coat that said: Even a man like you can look like a prince . A useless thing for a tradesman, and the tailor certainly knew it, but he had chosen to display it anyway, as if to announce that he was destined for a better neighborhood.