“Description alone will not do it justice. Perhaps we should send for Constable Lyons? Surely someone in the Watch has the stomach to do his duty?”
Pratt flushed an angry red. Only then did he finally approach the table, to stand beside Wendell. He took one glimpse into the gaping abdomen and quickly averted his gaze. “All right. I’ve seen it.”
“But do you see the pattern, how bizarre it is? A slice straight across the abdomen, from flank to flank. And then a perpendicular slice, straight up the midline, toward the breastbone, lacerating the liver. They are so deep, either one of these cuts would have caused death.” He reached into the wound with bare hands and lifted out the intestines, painstakingly examining the glistening loops before he let them slide into a bucket at the side of the table. “The blade had to be quite long. It has sliced all the way to the backbone and nicked the top of the left kidney.” He glanced up. “Do you see, Mr. Pratt?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Pratt was not even looking at the body; his gaze seemed to be fixed, almost desperately, on Norris’s blood-streaked apron.
“And then there is this vertical slice. It, too, is savagely deep.” He lifted up the rest of the small bowel in one mass, and Wendell quickly positioned the bucket to catch it as it came tumbling over the side of the table. Next came other abdominal organs, resected one by one. The liver, the spleen, the pancreas. “The blade incised the descending aorta here, which accounts for the great volume of blood on the steps.” Crouch looked up. “She would have died quickly, from exsanguination.”
“Ex—what?” asked Pratt.
“Quite simply, sir, she bled to death.”
Pratt swallowed hard and finally forced himself to gaze down at the abdomen, now little more than a hollowed-out cavity. “You said it had to be a long blade. How long?”
“To penetrate this deep? Seven, eight inches at the least.”
“A butcher’s knife, perhaps.”
“I would certainly classify this as an act of butchery.”
“He could also have used a sword,” said Wendell.
“Rather conspicuous, I would think,” said Dr. Crouch. “To be clattering around town with a bloody sword.”
“What makes you think of a sword?” asked Pratt.
“It’s the nature of the wounds. The two perpendicular slashes. In my father’s library, there is a book on strange customs of the Far East. I’ve read of wounds just like these, inflicted in the Japanese act of seppuku. A ritualistic suicide.”
“This is hardly a suicide.”
“I realize that. But the pattern is identical.”
“It is indeed a most curious pattern,” said Dr. Crouch. “Two separate slashes, perpendicular to each other. Almost as if the killer were trying to carve the sign of…”
“The cross?” Pratt looked up with sudden interest. “The victim wasn’t Irish, was she?”
“No,” Crouch said. “Most definitely not.”
“But many of the patients in this hospital are?”
“It is the hospital’s mission to serve the unfortunate. Many of our patients, if not most, are charity cases.”
“Meaning Irish. Like Miss Connolly.”
“Now, look here,” said Wendell, speaking far more forthrightly than he should have. “Surely you’re reading too much into these wounds. Just because it resembles a cross doesn’t mean the killer is a papist.”
“You defend them?”
“I’m merely pointing out the defects in your reasoning. One can’t possibly draw such a conclusion as you’re doing, merely because of the peculiarity of these wounds. I’ve offered you just as likely an interpretation.”
“That some fellow from Japan has jumped ship with his sword?” Pratt laughed. “There’s hardly such a man in Boston. But there are plenty of papists.”
“One could just as likely conclude the killer wants you to blame the papists!”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Crouch, “perhaps you should refrain from telling the Night Watch how to do its job.”
“Its job is to learn the truth, not make unfounded assumptions based on religious bigotry.”
Pratt’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “Mr. Holmes, you are related, are you not, to the Reverend Abiel Holmes? Of Cambridge?”
There was a pause, during which Norris glimpsed a shadow of discomfort pass across Wendell’s face.
“Yes,” Wendell finally answered. “He is my father.”
“A fine, upstanding Calvinist. Yet his son—”
Wendell retorted: “His son can think for himself, thank you.”
“Mr. Holmes,” cautioned Dr. Crouch. “Your attitude is not particularly helpful.”
“But it is certainly noted,” said Pratt. And not forgotten, his gaze clearly added. He turned to Dr. Crouch. “How well acquainted were you with Miss Poole, Doctor?”
“She administered to many of my patients.”
“And your opinion of her?”
“She was competent and efficient. And most respectful.”
“Had she any enemies that you’re aware of?”
“Absolutely not. She was a nurse. Her role here was to ease pain and suffering.”
“But surely there was the occasional dissatisfied patient or family member? Someone who might turn his anger on the hospital and its staff?”
“It’s possible. But I can think of no one who—”
“What about Rose Connolly?”
“The young lady who found the body?”
“Yes. Had she any disagreements with Nurse Poole?”
“There may have been. The girl is headstrong. Nurse Poole did complain to me that she was demanding.”
“She was concerned about her sister’s care,” said Norris.
“But that is no excuse for disrespect, Mr. Marshall,” said Dr. Crouch. “On anyone’s part.”
Pratt looked at Norris. “You defend the girl.”
“She and her sister appear to be quite close, and Miss Connolly has reason to be upset. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Upset enough to commit violence?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“How, exactly, did you happen to find her tonight? She was outside, in the courtyard, was she not?”
“Dr. Crouch asked us to meet him in the lying-in ward, for a fresh crisis. I was on my way here, from my lodgings.”
“Where are your lodgings?”
“I rent an attic room, sir, at the end of Bridge Street. It’s on the far side of the hospital common.”
“So to reach the hospital, you cross the common?”
“Yes. And that’s the way I came tonight, across the lawn. I was almost to the hospital when I heard screams.”
“Miss Connolly’s? Or the victim’s?”
“It was a woman. That’s all I know. I followed the sound, and discovered Miss Connolly in the courtyard.”
“Did you see this creature she so imaginatively describes?” Pratt glanced at his notes. “‘A caped monster like the Grim Reaper, with a black cape that flapped like the wings of a giant bird.’” He looked up.
Norris shook his head. “I saw no such creature. I found only the girl.”
Pratt looked at Wendell. “And where were you?”
“I was inside, assisting Dr. Crouch. I heard the screams as well, and ventured outside with a lantern. I found Mr. Marshall in the courtyard, along with Miss Connolly, who was cowering there.”
“Cowering?”
“She was clearly frightened. I’m sure she thought one of us was the killer.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about her? Other than the fact she appeared frightened?”
“She was frightened,” said Norris.
“Her clothing, for instance. The condition of her dress. Did you not notice it was badly ripped?”
“She’d just fled a killer, Mr. Pratt,” said Norris. “She had every right to be disheveled.”
“Her dress was torn, as though she’d been viciously grappling with someone. Not one of you?”
“Why don’t you just ask her how it happened?” suggested Norris.
“I have.”
“And what did she say?”
“She claimed it happened earlier in the evening. When her sister’s husband attempted to molest her.” He shook his head in disgust. “These people are like animals, breeding in the tenements.”
Norris heard the ugly note of prejudice in the man’s voice. Animals. Oh, yes, he’d heard that name used for the Irish, those immoral beasts who were always whoring, always procreating. To Pratt, Rose was just another Bridget, a filthy immigrant like the thousands who crammed the tenements of South Boston and Charlestown, whose unclean habits and snot-nosed offspring had touched off citywide epidemics of smallpox and cholera.
Norris said, “Miss Connolly is hardly an animal.”
“You know her well enough to say that?”
“I don’t believe that any human being deserves such an insult.”
“For a man who scarcely knows her, you rise quickly to her defense.”
“I feel sorry for her. Sorry that her sister is dying.”
“Oh, that. That is over with.”
“What do you mean?”
“It happened earlier this evening,” said Pratt, and he closed his notebook. “Rose Connolly’s sister is dead.”
Eight
WE HAD NO CHANCE to say goodbye.
Rose washed Aurnia’s body with a damp cloth, gently wiping away the smudges of dirt and dried sweat and tears from a face that was now strangely smooth of all worry lines. If there was a heaven, she thought, surely Aurnia was already there, and could see the trouble Rose was in. I am afraid, Aurnia. And Meggie and I have nowhere to go.
Aurnia’s neatly brushed hair gleamed in the lamplight, like coppery silk draped across the pillow. Though she was now bathed, the stench remained, a fetid odor clinging to the body that had once embraced Rose, once had shared a girlhood bed with her.
You are still beautiful to me. You will always be beautiful.
In a little basket beside the bed, baby Meggie slept soundly, unaware of her mother’s passing, of her own precarious future. How clear it is that she is Aurnia’s child, thought Rose. The same red hair, the same sweetly curving mouth. For two days, Meggie had been nursed on the ward by three new mothers, who had willingly passed the child among them. They had all witnessed Aurnia’s agonies, and they knew that but for the whims of providence any one of them might also be a client for the coffin maker.
Rose glanced up as a nurse approached. It was Miss Cabot, who had assumed authority since Nurse Poole’s death.
“I’m sorry, Miss Connolly, but it’s time to transfer the deceased.”
“She’s only just passed on.”
“It’s been two hours now, and we have need of the bed.” The nurse handed a small bundle to Rose. “Your sister’s belongings.”
Here were the pitifully few possessions that Aurnia had brought with her to the hospital: her soiled night frock and a hair ribbon and the cheap little ring of tin and colored glass that had been Aurnia’s good-luck charm since her girlhood. A charm that had, in the end, failed her.
“Those go to the husband,” Nurse Cabot said. “Now she must be moved.”
Rose heard the squeaking of wheels, and she saw the hospital groundsman pushing in a wheeled cart. “I’ve not had enough time with her.”
“There can be no further delay. The coffin is ready in the courtyard. Have arrangements been made for burial?”
Rose shook her head. Bitterly, she said, “Her husband has arranged for nothing.”
“If the family is unable to pay, there are options for a respectful interment.”
A pauper’s burial was what she meant. Crammed into a common grave with nameless peddlers and beggars and thieves.
“How much time do I have to make arrangements?” asked Rose.
Nurse Cabot impatiently glanced up the row of beds, as though considering all the other work she had to do. “By tomorrow noon,” she said, “the wagon will come to pick up the coffin.”
“So little time?”
“Decay does not wait.” The nurse turned and gestured to the man who had stood quietly waiting, and he pushed the cart to the bedside.
“Not yet. Please.” Rose pulled at the man’s sleeve, trying to tug him away from Aurnia. “You can’t put her out in the cold!”
“Please don’t make this difficult,” said the nurse. “If you wish to arrange a private burial, then you’d best see to the arrangements before tomorrow noon, or the city will take her to the South Burying Ground.” She looked at the groundsman. “Remove the deceased.”
He slid burly arms beneath Aurnia’s body and lifted her from the bed. As he placed the corpse into the handcart, a sob escaped Rose’s throat and she plucked at her sister’s gown, at the skirt, now crusted brown with dried blood. But no cries, no pleading, could alter the course of what would happen next. Aurnia, clothed only in linen and gauze, would be wheeled out into the frigid courtyard, fragile skin bumping against splintery wood as the cart rolled across the cobblestones. Would he be gentle as he placed her into the coffin? Or would he merely roll her in, dropping her like a carcass of meat, letting her head thump against bare pine boards?
“Let me stay with her,” she pleaded, and reached for the man’s arm. “Let me watch.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to see, miss.”
“I want to be sure. I want to know she’s treated right.”
He gave a shrug. “I treat ’em all right. But you can watch if you want, I don’t care.”
“There’s another issue,” said Nurse Cabot. “The child. You can’t possibly take adequate care of it, Miss Connolly.”
The woman in the next bed said: “They came by when you were out, Rose. Someone from the infant asylum, wantin’ to take her. But we wouldn’t allow it. The nerve of those people, tryin’ to make off with your niece when you weren’t even here!”
“Mr. Tate has signed away his parental rights,” said Nurse Cabot. “He, at least, understands what’s best for his baby.”
“He doesn’t care about the baby,” said Rose.
“You’re far too young to raise it yourself. Be sensible, girl! Give it to someone who can.”
In answer, Rose snatched up Meggie from her basket and held her tightly against her breast. “Give her to a stranger? I’d have to be on my deathbed first.”
Nurse Cabot, faced with Rose’s clearly insurmountable resistance, at last gave a sigh of exasperation. “Suit yourself. It’ll be on your conscience when the child comes to grief. I have no time for this, not tonight, with poor Agnes…” She swallowed hard, then looked at the groundsman, who still waited with Aurnia’s body on his cart. “Remove her.”
Still holding tightly to Meggie, Rose followed the man out of the ward, into the courtyard. There, by the yellow glow of his lamp, she stood vigil as Aurnia was laid into the pine box. She watched him pound in the nails, hammer echoing like pistol shots, and with every blow she felt a nail being driven into her own heart. The coffin now sealed, he picked up a lump of charcoal and scrawled on the lid: A. TATE.
“Just so there’s no mix-up,” he said, and straightened to look at her. “She’ll be here till noon. Make your arrangements by then.”
Rose laid her hand on the lid. I’ll find a way, darling. I’ll see you properly buried. She wrapped her shawl around both herself and Meggie, then walked out of the hospital courtyard.
She did not know where to go. Certainly not back to the lodging house room that she’d shared with her sister and Eben. Eben was probably there now, sleeping off the rum, and she had no wish to confront him. She’d deal with him in the morning, when he was sober. Her brother-in-law might be heartless, but he was also coldly sensible. He had a business to maintain, and a reputation to uphold. If even a hint of malicious gossip got out, the bell over his tailor shop might fall silent. In the morning, she thought, Eben and I will come to a truce, and he’ll take
us both in. She is his daughter, after all.
But tonight they had no bed to sleep in.
Her footsteps slowed, stopped. She stood exhausted on the corner. Force of habit had sent her in a familiar direction, and now she gazed up the same street that she had walked earlier that evening. A Dearborn carriage clattered past, pulled by a swaybacked horse with a drooping head. Even so poor a carriage, with its rickety wheels and patched canopy, was an unattainable luxury. She imagined sitting with her weary feet propped up on a little stool, protected from the wind and rain while that carriage bore her like royalty. As it rolled past, she suddenly saw the familiar figure that had been standing right across the street from her.
“Did y’hear the news, Miss Rose?” said Dim Billy. “Nurse Poole’s been killed, over at the hospital!”
“Yes, Billy. I know.”
“They said she was slit right up her belly, like this.” He slashed a finger up his abdomen. “Cut off her head with a sword. And her hands, too. Three people saw him do it, and he flew away like a great black bird.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Durkin did, over at the stable. She heard it from Crab.”
“There’s a fool of a boy, Crab is. You’re repeating nonsense, and you should stop it.”
He fell silent, and she realized she had hurt his feelings. His feet were dragging like giant anchors across the cobblestones. Beneath his shoved-down cap, enormous ears protruded like drooping saucers. Poor Billy so seldom took offense, it was easy to forget that even he could be wounded.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what, Miss Rose?”
“You were only telling me what you heard. But not everything you hear is the God’s truth. Some people lie. Some are the devil’s own. You can’t trust them all, Billy.”
“How do you know it’s a lie? What Crab said?”
She’d never heard such a note of petulance in his voice before, and she was tempted to tell him the truth: that she had been the one who’d found Nurse Poole. No, better to stay silent. Whisper a word in Billy’s ear, and by tomorrow who knew how the tale would have changed, and what far-fetched role she would have in it?
The Bone Garden Page 8
