Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— Norris and I both saw him come out of that building last night, on Acorn Street, — said Wendell. — It was Dr. Sewall. And there were others at that house, others we recognized. —

— And what of it? A gathering of gentlemen is hardly an extraordinary occurrence. — Grenville gestured to the room in which they now sat. — We three are now having a meeting in my parlor. Is this to be taken as a suspicious gathering? —

— Consider who those men were, — said Norris. — One was Mr. Gareth Wilson, recently returned from London. A most mysterious individual with few friends in town. —

— You've been inquiring into Mr. Wilson's affairs, all because of what some silly girl told you? A girl I have yet to lay eyes on? —

— Rose Connolly strikes us both as a reliable witness, — said Wendell.

— I can't judge the reliability of a girl I've never met. Neither can I allow you to slander a man as respected as Dr. Sewall. Good God, I know his character! —

Wendell asked, quietly: — Do you, sir? —

Grenville rose from his chair and paced in agitation to the hearth. There he stood with his back turned to them, his gaze on the fire. Outside, Beacon Street had fallen silent in the deepness of night, and the only sounds were the crackling flames and the occasional creak of servants' footsteps. They heard such footsteps now, approaching the drawing room, and there was a soft knock on the door. A parlor maid appeared, carrying a tray of cakes.

— I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, — she said. — But Mrs. Lackaway asked me to bring this in for the young gentlemen. —

Grenville didn't even turn from the fire, just said, brusquely: — Leave it. And close the door behind you. —

The girl set the tray on a side table and quickly withdrew.

Only when her footsteps had receded down the hall did Grenville finally say: — Dr. Sewall saved my nephew's life. I owe him for my sister's happiness, and I refuse to believe he's involved in any way with these murders. — Grenville turned to Norris. — You, better than anyone, know what it's like to be a victim of rumors. Based on all the tales now circulating about you, you possess horns and cloven hooves. Do you think it's been easy for me to be your champion? To defend your place in our college? Yet I have done so because I refuse to be swayed by malicious gossip. I tell you now, it'll take far more than this to rouse my suspicions. —

— Sir, — said Wendell, — you haven't heard the names of the other men at that meeting. —

Grenville turned to him. — And you spied on them as well? —

— We simply took note of who came and went from Acorn Street. There was also a gentleman who seemed familiar to me. I followed him to an address at Twelve Post Office Square. —

— And? —

— It was Mr. William Lloyd Garrison. I recognized him, because I heard him speak this past summer, at the Park Street church. —

— Mr. Garrison, the abolitionist? Do you feel it's a crime to advocate the freeing of slaves? —

— Not at all. I find his position a most noble one. —

Grenville looked at Norris. — Do you? —

— I'm in complete sympathy with the abolitionists, — said Norris. — But there are disturbing things being said about Mr. Garrison. A shopkeeper told us— —

— A shopkeeper? Now that is a reliable source indeed. —

— He told us that Mr. Garrison is often seen out late at night, moving in a most furtive manner in the vicinity of Beacon Hill. —

— I, too, am often out late at night, due to the needs of my patients. Some might call my movements furtive as well. —

— But Mr. Garrison is no physician. What would draw him out at all hours of the night? Acorn Street in particular seems to attract visitors not from the neighborhood. There are reports of eerie chanting heard in the night, and last month, bloodstains were found on the cobblestones. All these things have deeply alarmed people in the neighborhood, but when they complained to the Night Watch, Constable Lyons resisted any investigation. Even odder, he issued orders that the Watch is to avoid Acorn Street entirely. —

— Who told you this? —

— The shopkeeper. —

— Consider your source, Mr. Marshall. —

— We would be more skeptical, — said Wendell, — except there was one more familiar face that emerged from the house. It was Constable Lyons himself. —

For the first time, Dr. Grenville was stunned silent. He stared at the young men in disbelief.

— Whatever is going on in that house is being shielded at the highest levels, — said Norris.

Grenville gave a sudden laugh. — Do you realize, Mr. Marshall, that Constable Lyons is the only reason you are not in custody? His dimwit associate, Mr. Pratt, was ready to arrest you, but Lyons stayed his hand. Even with all the rumors, the whispers against you, Lyons has been your ally. —

— You know this to be fact? —

— He told me. He's under pressure from all sides— the public, the press, everyone is braying for an arrest, any arrest. He knows full well that Mr. Pratt covets his position, but Lyons won't be rushed. Not without evidence. —

— I had no idea, sir, — said Norris quietly.

— If you want to remain at liberty, I suggest you not antagonize your defenders. —

— But Dr. Grenville, — said Wendell, — there are so many unanswered questions. Why did they meet at such a modest address? Why would men of such diverse occupations come together late at night? Finally, the residence itself is interesting. Or, rather, one detail of that residence. — Wendell looked at Norris, who removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.

— What is this? — asked Grenville.

— These symbols are carved on the granite lintel above the doorway, — said Norris. He gave the sheet to Grenville. — I went back this morning, to examine it by daylight. You can see two pelicans facing each other. And between them, there's a cross. —

— You'll find many a cross on buildings in this city. —

— That's not just any cross, — said Wendell. — This one has a rose at its center. This isn't a papist symbol. It's the cross of the Rosicrucians. —

Abruptly Grenville crumpled the sheet. — Absurd. You're chasing phantoms. —

— The Rosicrucians are real. A society so secret, no one knows the identity of its members. There are reports, here and in Washington, that their influence is growing. That they indulge in sacrifices. That among their victims are children, whose innocent blood is spilled in secret rituals. This child that Rose Connolly protects seems to be at the center of this mystery. We assumed the baby's sought by the man who fathered her. Now we witness these secret meetings on Acorn Street. We hear reports of blood on the cobblestones. And we wonder if another motive entirely is at work here. —

— Child sacrifice? — Grenville threw the drawing into the fire. — This is thin evidence indeed, Mr. Marshall. When I meet with the trustees after Christmas, I'll need more than this to defend you. How can I support your enrollment if my sole argument is an outlandish conspiracy theory, hatched by a girl I've never met? A girl who refuses to meet with me? —

— She trusts few people, sir. Even fewer since we spotted Constable Lyons on Acorn Street. —

— Where is she? Who shelters her? —

Norris hesitated, embarrassed to reveal the scandalous fact that he, an unmarried man, allowed the girl to sleep only a few feet from his own bed.

He was grateful when Wendell interjected smoothly: — We have arranged for her lodgings, sir. I assure you, she's in a safe place. —

— And the baby? If this child is in such danger, can you guarantee its safety? —