Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

A bell tinkled as Jack walked into the shop. Inside, far more commonplace items were displayed: cotton shirts and pantaloons and a dark cloth roundabout coat. Even a tailor with delusions of grandeur must cater to the practical needs of his clientele. While Jack stood breathing in the smell of wool and the acrid tang of dye, a dark-haired man with a neatly trimmed mustache emerged from the back room. The man looked Jack up and down, as if mentally taking his measure for a suit. He was smartly dressed, his jacket well fitted to his trim waist, and although he was not particularly tall, he had the ramrod posture of one who has an exaggerated impression of his own stature.

— Good morning, sir. May I be of service? — the tailor inquired.

— Are you Mr. Eben Tate? — asked Jack.

— Yes, I am. —

Though Jack was wearing his good coat and a clean shirt, he had the distinct feeling that Mr. Tate had judged his clothes and found them wanting.

Eben said: — A good selection of reasonably priced woolen cloth has just come in from the Lowell mills. It would do quite nicely for a new greatcoat. —

Jack looked down at his own coat and saw no reason why he would want a new one.

— Or perhaps you're in need of a topcoat or shirt? I can offer you some quite practical styles, something that would suit your profession. Which is…? —

— I'm not in the market for anything, — growled Jack, offended that with just one look, this stranger had pegged him as a customer in need of something practical and reasonably priced . — I'm here to ask you about a certain someone. Someone you know. —

Eben's attention remained focused on Jack's barrel chest, as though he was estimating how many yards of cloth were required.

— I'm a tailor, Mr.— —

— Burke. —

— Mr. Burke. If you're interested in a shirt or pantaloons, I can certainly help you. But I make it a point to avoid needless gossip, so I doubt I'm the one you want to speak to. —

— It's about Rose Connolly. Do you know where I can find her? —

To Jack's surprise, Eben gave a laugh. — You, too, eh? —

— What? —

— Everyone seems to be interested in Rose. —

Jack was confused. How many others had been hired to find her? How much competition did he have? — Well, where is she? — he asked.

— I don't know and I don't care. —

— Wasn't she your wife's sister? —

— I still don't care. I'm embarrassed to admit she's any relation of mine. A piece of trash, that one, spreading lies about me. And a thief, too. That's what I told the Night Watch. — He paused. — You're not with the Watch, are you? —

Jack avoided the question. — How can I find her? —

— What's she done now? —

— Just tell me where to find her. —

— Last I knew, she was staying in some rathole down in Fishery Alley. —

— She's not there anymore. Hasn't been there in days. —

— Then I can't help you. Now, if you'll excuse me. — Eben turned and vanished into the back room.

Jack remained where he was, frustrated by this impasse. And worried about the possibility that some other party might track down the girl before he did. Would he still be paid the finder's fee? Or would he have to be satisfied with what he'd already received? A generous sum, to be sure, but it wasn't enough.

It was never enough.

He stared at the doorway through which that prig of a tailor had retreated. — Mr. Tate? — he called.

— I've told you what I know! — came the answer, but not the man.

— There's money in it for you. —

That was the magic word. In two heartbeats, Eben was out of the back room. — Money? —

How quickly two men can have a meeting of the minds. Their gazes met, and Jack thought: Here's a fellow who understands what's important.

— Twenty dollars, — said Jack. — Find her for me. —

— For twenty dollars, it's hardly worth my time. Anyway, I told you. I don't know where she is. —

— Does she have any friends? Anyone who might know? —

— Just that half-wit. —

— Who? —

— Skinny boy. Everyone knows him. Hangs around the West End, begging for pennies. —

— You mean Dim Billy. —

— That's the one. He was lodging with her over on Fishery Alley. Came around here looking for her. Brought her bag over, thinking she'd be with me. —

— So Billy doesn't know where she is, either? —

— No. But he's got a nose on him. — Eben laughed. — May be a half-wit, but he's good at finding things. —

And I know where to find Billy, thought Jack as he turned to leave.

— Wait, Mr. Burke! You said there was money involved. —

— For useful information. But it has to be useful. —

— What if I found her myself? —

— You just let me know, and I'll see you get paid. —

— Who's providing the fee? Who's paying you ? —

Jack shook his head. — Believe me, Mr. Tate, — he said. — You're better off not knowing. —

BODY OF DR. BERRY FOUND

A most shocking turn of events has transpired in the search for the West End Reaper. On Sunday afternoon at one o'clock, two young boys playing along the Charles River discovered a man's body beneath the West Boston Bridge. Authorities have identified the corpse as none other than Dr. Nathaniel Berry, who vanished from his post as house physician earlier this month. A most appalling and clearly deliberate wound to his abdomen has been accepted as proof that this was not a suicide.

Dr. Berry was the subject of an extensive manhunt from Maine to Georgia, in connection with the recent slayings of two nurses at the hospital where he was employed. The sheer brutality of their deaths has evoked terror throughout the region, and the sudden disappearance of the doctor was interpreted by Constable Lyons of the Night Watch as a convincing indication of Dr. Berry's guilt in the matter. Dr. Berry's death now raises the disturbing likelihood that the West End Reaper remains at large.

This reporter can reveal on good authority that another suspect is currently under investigation, one who has been described as a young man in possession of both surgical and butchering skills. This gentleman, moreover, resides in the West End. Rumors that he is currently enrolled as a student at the Boston Medical College cannot be confirmed.

From gentleman to leper in the span of a single day, thought Norris, as he watched the front page of the Daily Advertiser flutter past him down the street. Was there anyone of consequence in Boston who had not read that damning article? Anyone who could not guess the identity of the — young man in possession of both surgical and butchering skills —? This morning, when he had walked into the auditorium for morning lectures, he'd noticed the startled glances and heard the sharp intakes of breath. No one had directly challenged his attendance. How could they, when he had not been formally charged with any crime? No, the gentleman's way of dealing with scandal was with whispers and innuendo, both of which he must now endure. Soon, his ordeal would end one way or another. After the Christmas holiday, Dr. Grenville and the school trustees would render their decision and Norris would know if he still had a place in the college

For now he was reduced to this: skulking on Park Street, spying on the one man who might know the Reaper's identity.

He and Rose had been watching the house all afternoon, and now the fading light took with it the day's last blush of color, leaving only dreary shades of gray. Across the street was Number Five, one of eight imposing row houses that faced the skeletal trees of the snow-blanketed Common. So far they had caught not even a glimpse of Mr. Gareth Wilson or of any visitors. Wendell's inquiries about the man had turned up little information, only that he'd recently returned from London, and that his Park Street home stood vacant for most of the year.