“I’ll try to preserve your child’s life,” said Dr. Berry. “But I need you to lie perfectly still, madam. Do you understand?”
Aurnia managed a weak nod.
The two nurses tied down Aurnia’s hands, then stationed themselves on either side of the bed, each grasping a leg.
“You, girl! Take her shoulders,” Nurse Poole ordered Rose. “Keep her pressed to the bed.”
Rose moved to the head of the bed and placed her hands on Aurnia’s shoulders. Her sister’s milk-white face stared up at her, long red hair spilling across the pillow, green eyes wild with panic. Her skin gleamed with sweat and fear. Suddenly her face contorted in pain and she tried to rock forward, her head lifting off the bed.
“Hold her still! Hold her!” ordered Dr. Berry. Grasping his monstrous forceps, he leaned in between Aurnia’s thighs, and Rose was grateful that she did not have to witness what he did next. Aurnia shrieked as though her very soul was being wrenched from her body. A burst of red suddenly splattered the young doctor’s face and he jerked back, his shirt sprayed with blood.
Aurnia’s head flopped back against the pillow and she lay panting, her screams now reduced to whimpers. In the sudden quiet, another sound rose. A strange mewing that steadily crescendoed to a wail.
The child. The child is alive!
The doctor straightened, and in his arms he held the newborn girl, the skin bluish and streaked with blood. He handed the baby to Nurse Robinson, who quickly wrapped the crying infant in a towel.
Rose stared at the doctor’s shirt. So much blood. Everywhere she looked—the mattress, the sheets—she saw blood. She looked down into her sister’s face and saw that her lips were moving, but through the wails of the newborn she could not hear the words.
Nurse Robinson brought the swaddled infant to Aurnia’s bed. “Here’s your little girl, Mrs. Tate. See how lovely she is!”
Aurnia struggled to focus on her new daughter. “Margaret,” she whispered, and Rose felt the sudden sting of tears. It was their mother’s name. If only she were alive to see her first grandchild.
“Tell him,” Aurnia whispered. “He doesn’t know.”
“I’ll send for him. I’ll make him come,” said Rose.
“You have to tell him where I am.”
“He knows where you are.” Eben just never bothers to visit.
“There’s too much bleeding.” Dr. Berry thrust his hand between Aurnia’s thighs, and she was now so dazed that she scarcely flinched at the pain. “But I can feel no retained placenta.” He swept aside his soiled instruments, sending the forceps thudding to the floor. Pressing his hands on Aurnia’s belly, he kneaded the flesh, vigorously massaging the abdomen. The blood continued to soak into the sheets, seeping in a wider and wider stain. He glanced up, and his eyes now reflected the first glint of panic. “Cold water,” he ordered. “As cold as you can get it! We’ll need compresses. And ergot!”
Nurse Robinson set the swaddled infant in the crib and scurried from the room to fetch what he had asked for.
“He doesn’t know,” Aurnia moaned.
“She must lie quiet!” Dr. Berry ordered. “She exacerbates the hemorrhage!”
“Before I die, someone must tell him he has a child…”
The door flew open and Nurse Robinson hurried back in, carrying a basin of water. “It’s as cold as I could make it, Dr. Berry,” she said.
The doctor soaked a towel, wrung it out, and placed the frigid compress on the patient’s abdomen. “Give her the ergot!”
In the cradle, the newborn cried harder, her wail more piercing with each breath. Nurse Poole suddenly blurted: “For pity’s sake, take that baby out of here!” Nurse Robinson reached for the infant, but Nurse Poole snapped: “Not you! I need you here. Give it to her.” She looked at Rose. “Take your niece and quiet her down. We need to attend to your sister.”
Rose took the screaming infant and reluctantly crossed toward the door. There she stopped and looked back at her sister. Aurnia’s lips were even paler now, the last remnants of color slowly draining from her face as she whispered silent words.
Please be merciful, God. If you hear this prayer, let my sweet sister live.
Rose stepped out of the room. There in the gloomy hallway, she rocked the crying infant, but the baby would not be comforted. She slipped her finger into little Margaret’s mouth, and toothless gums clamped down as she began to suck. At last, silence. A cold wind had found its way into the dark passage, and two of the lamps had blown out. Only a single flame glowed. She stared at the closed door, shut off from the one soul whom she held dear.
No, there’s another to love now, she thought, looking down at baby Margaret. You.
Standing beneath the single flickering lamp, Rose studied the baby’s pale and downy hair. The eyelids were still swollen from the travails of birth. She examined five little fingers and marveled at the hand’s plump perfection, marred only by a heart-shaped strawberry mark on the wrist. So this is what a brand-new life feels like, she thought, looking down at the sleeping child. So rosy, so warm. She placed her hand on the tiny chest and through the blanket felt the beating of her heart, quick as a bird’s. Such a sweet girl, she thought. My little Meggie.
The door suddenly swung open, spilling light into the hall. Nurse Poole came out of the room, closing the door behind her. She halted and stared at Rose, as though surprised to see her still there.
Fearing the worst, Rose asked: “My sister?”
“She still lives.”
“And her condition? Will she—”
“The bleeding has stopped, that’s all I can tell you,” snapped Nurse Poole. “Now take the baby to the ward. It’s warmer there. This hall is far too drafty for a newborn.” She turned and hurried away down the corridor.
Shivering, Rose looked down at Meggie and thought: Yes, it’s far too cold here for you, poor thing. She carried the baby back to the lying-in ward and sat down in her old chair beside Aurnia’s empty bed. As the night wore on, the baby fell asleep in her arms. Wind rattled the windows and sleet ticked against the glass, but there was no word of Aurnia’s condition.
From outside came the rumble of wheels over cobblestones. Rose crossed to the window. In the courtyard, a horse and phaeton rolled to a stop, the canopy concealing the face of the driver. The horse suddenly gave a panicked snort, its hooves dancing nervously as it threatened to bolt. A second later Rose saw the reason for the beast’s alarm: merely a large dog, which trotted across the courtyard, its silhouette moving purposefully across cobblestones that glistened with rain and sleet.
“Miss Connolly.”
Startled, Rose turned to see Agnes Poole. The woman had slipped into the ward so quietly Rose had not heard her approach.
“Give me the baby.”
“But she sleeps so soundly,” said Rose.
“Your sister cannot possibly nurse the baby. She’s far too weak. I’ve taken the liberty of making other arrangements.”
“What arrangements?”
“The infant asylum is here to fetch her. They’ll provide a wet nurse. And most certainly, a fine home.”
Rose stared at the nurse in disbelief. “But she’s not an orphan! She has a mother!”
“A mother who most likely will not live.” Nurse Poole held out her arms, and her hands looked like unwelcoming claws. “Give her to me. It’s for the baby’s own good. You certainly cannot care for her.”
“She has a father, too. You haven’t asked him.”
“How can I? He hasn’t even bothered to show up.”
“Did Aurnia agree to this? Let me speak to her.”
“She’s unconscious. She can’t say anything.”
“Then I’ll speak for her. This is my niece, Miss Poole, my own family.” Rose hugged the baby tighter. “I’ll give her up to no stranger.”
Agnes Poole’s face had gone rigid in frustration. For a dangerous moment she appeared ready to wrench the baby from Rose’s arms. Instead, she turned and swept out of the wa
rd, her skirt snapping smartly with every stride. A door slammed shut.
Outside, in the courtyard, the horse’s hooves clattered nervously on the stones.
Rose went back to the window and watched as Agnes Poole materialized from the shadows of the walkway and crossed to the waiting phaeton to speak to the occupant. A moment later the driver snapped the whip and the horse clopped forward. As the vehicle drove out the gate, Agnes Poole stood alone, her silhouette framed by the glistening stones of the courtyard.
Rose looked down at the baby in her arms and saw, in the sleeping face, a miniature in flesh of her own dear sister. No one will ever take you from me. Not while I still breathe.
Five
The present
“THANK YOU for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Isles.” Julia took a seat in the medical examiner’s office. She’d come straight from the summer heat into the frigid building, and now she looked across the desk at a woman who seemed perfectly at home in this chilly environment. Except for the framed floral prints on the wall, Maura Isles’s office was all business: files and textbooks, a microscope, and a desk that looked ruthlessly organized. Julia shifted uneasily in the chair, feeling as if she were the one now under the microscope lens. “You probably don’t get many requests like mine, but I really need to know. For my own peace of mind.”
“Dr. Petrie’s the one you should be talking to,” said Isles. “The skeleton is a forensic anthropology case.”
“I’m not here about that skeleton. I’ve already spoken to Dr. Petrie, and she had nothing new to tell me.”
“Then how can I help you?”
“When I bought the house, the real estate agent told me that the previous owner was an elderly woman who’d died on the property. Everyone assumed it was a natural death. But a few days ago, my next-door neighbor mentioned there’d been several burglaries in the area. And last year, a man was seen driving up and down the road, as if he was casing the houses. Now I’m starting to wonder if…”
“If it wasn’t a natural death?” said Isles bluntly. “That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?”
Julia met the medical examiner’s gaze. “Yes.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t perform that particular autopsy.”
“But there’s a report somewhere, isn’t there? It would give a cause of death, wouldn’t it?”
“I’d have to know the name of the deceased.”
“I have it right here.” Julia reached into her purse and took out a bundle of photocopies, which she handed to Isles. “It’s her obituary, from the local paper. Her name was Hilda Chamblett. And these are all the news clippings I could find about her.”
“So you’ve already been digging into this.”
“It’s been on my mind.” Julia gave an embarrassed laugh. “Plus, there’s that old skeleton in my backyard. I’m feeling a little uneasy that two different women have died there.”
“At least a hundred years apart.”
“It’s the one last year that really bothers me. Especially after what my neighbor said, about the burglaries.”
Isles nodded. “I suppose it would bother me, too. Let me find the report.” She left the office and returned moments later with the file. “The autopsy was done by Dr. Costas,” she said as she sat down at her desk. She opened the file. “‘Chamblett, Hilda, age ninety-two, found in the backyard of her Weston residence. Remains were found by a family member who had been away and had not checked on her for three weeks. Time of death is therefore uncertain.’” Isles flipped to a new page and paused. “The photos aren’t particularly pleasant,” she said. “You don’t need to see these.”
Julia swallowed. “No, I don’t. Maybe you could just read me the conclusions?”
Isles turned to the summary and glanced up. “You’re sure you want to hear this?” At Julia’s nod, Isles once again began to read aloud. “‘Body was found in a supine position, surrounded by tall grass and weeds, which concealed it from view beyond only a few feet…’”
The same weeds I’ve been battling, thought Julia. I’ve been pulling up the same grass that hid Hilda Chamblett’s body.
“‘No skin or soft tissue is found intact on any exposed surfaces. Shreds of clothing, consisting of what appears to be a sleeveless cotton dress, still adhere to parts of the torso. In the neck, cervical vertebrae are clearly visible and soft tissues are lacking. Large and small bowel are largely missing, and remaining lungs, liver, and spleen have defects with serrated margins. Of interest are fluffy, shredded strands, presumed to be nerve and muscle fibers, found in all limb joints. Periosteum, including skull, ribs, and limb bones, also have similar fluffy strands. Noted around the corpse are numerous bird droppings.’” Isles looked up. “‘Assumed to be from crows.’”
Julia stared at her. “You’re saying crows did that?”
“These findings are classical for crow scavenging. Birds in general have been known to cause postmortem damage. Even cute little songbirds will peck and pull at a corpse’s skin. Crows are considerably larger and carnivorous, so they can skeletonize a corpse quickly. They devour all soft tissues, but they can’t quite pull off nerve fibers or tendons. Those strands remain attached to the joints, where they get frayed by repeated pecking. That’s why Dr. Costas described the strands as fluffy—because they’d been so thoroughly shredded by the crows’ beaks.” Isles closed the folder. “That’s the report.”
“You haven’t told me the cause of death.”
“Because it was indeterminable. After three weeks, there’s too much scavenger damage and decay.”
“Then you have no idea?”
“She was ninety-two. It was a hot summer, and she was out alone in her garden. It’s reasonable to assume she had a cardiac event.”
“But you can’t be sure.”
“No, we can’t.”
“So it could have been…”
“Murder?” Isles’s gaze was direct.
“She lived alone. She was vulnerable.”
“There’s no mention here of any disturbance in the house. No signs of a burglary.”
“Maybe the killer didn’t care about robbery. Maybe he was just interested in her. In what he could do to her.”
Isles said quietly: “Believe me, I do understand what you’re thinking. What you’re afraid of. In my profession, I’ve seen what people can do to other people. Terrible things that make you question what it is to be human, whether we’re any better than animals. But this particular death just doesn’t ring any alarm bells for me. Common things are common, and in the case of a ninety-two-year-old woman found dead in her own backyard, murder isn’t the first thing that comes to mind.” Isles regarded Julia for a moment. “I can see you’re not satisfied.”
Julia sighed. “I don’t know what to think. I’m sorry I ever bought the house. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I moved in.”
“You haven’t been living there very long. It’s stressful, moving into a new place. Give yourself some time to get used to it. There’s always an adjustment period.”
“I’ve been having dreams,” Julia said.
Isles didn’t look impressed, and why would she? This was a woman who routinely sliced open the dead, a woman who’d chosen a career that would give most people nightmares. “What sort of dreams?”
“It’s been three weeks now, and I’ve had them almost every night. I keep hoping they’ll go away, that it’s just from the shock of finding those bones in my garden.”
“That could give anyone nightmares.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. Really, I don’t. But I feel as if she’s trying to talk to me. Asking me to do something.”
“The deceased owner? Or the skeleton?”
“I don’t know. Someone.”
Isles’s expression remained utterly neutral. If she believed Julia was unhinged, her face didn’t reveal it. But her words left no doubt where she stood on the matter. “I’m not sure I can help you with that. I’m just a pathologist, and I’ve told you
my professional opinion.”
“And in your professional opinion, murder is still a possibility, isn’t it?” insisted Julia. “You can’t rule it out.”
Isles hesitated. “No,” she finally conceded. “I can’t.”
That night, Julia dreamed of crows. Hundreds of them were perched in a dead tree, staring down at her with yellow eyes. Waiting.
She startled awake to the noise of raucous caws and opened her eyes to see the light of early morning through her uncurtained window. A pair of black wings glided past like a scythe wheeling through the sky. Then another. She climbed out of bed and went to the window.
The oak tree they occupied was not dead, as in her dream, but was fully leafed out in the lush growth of summer. At least two dozen crows had gathered there for some sort of corvid convention, and they perched like strange black fruit among the branches, cackling and rattling their glossy feathers. She had seen them in this tree before, and she had no doubt that these were the same birds who had feasted on Hilda Chamblett’s corpse last summer, the same birds who had pecked and pulled with sharp beaks, leaving behind leathery shreds of nerve and tendon. Here they were again, looking for another taste of flesh. They knew she was watching them, and they stared back with eerie intelligence, as if they knew it was only a matter of time.
She turned away and thought: I have to hang some curtains on this window.
In the kitchen, she made coffee and spread butter and jam on toast. Outside, the morning mist was starting to lift, and it would be a sunny day. A good day to spread another bag of compost and dig in another bale of peat moss in the flower bed by the stream. Though her back still ached from laying bathroom tiles the night before, she did not want to waste a single day of good weather. You are allotted only a limited number of planting seasons in your lifetime, she thought, and once a summer is gone, you’ll never get it back. She’d wasted too many summers already. This one is for me.
Outdoors, there was a noisy eruption of cawing and flapping wings. She looked out the window to see the crows suddenly lift simultaneously into the air and fly away, scattering to the four winds. Then she focused on the far corner of her yard, down near the stream, and she understood why the crows had fled so abruptly.
The Bone Garden Page 5
