— She belongs with her family. I'll raise her myself, if I have to. —
— You? — He laughed. — You're just months off the boat, and all you know is a needle and thread. —
— I know enough to look after my own flesh and blood. — Rose grabbed his arm. — Get up. You will come with me. —
He shook her off. — Leave me alone. —
— Get up, you bastard. — With both hands, she hauled on his arm, and he stumbled to his feet. — She has but a few hours left. Even if you have to lie to her, even if she can't hear you, you will tell her you love her! —
He shoved her away and stood swaying, drunk and unsteady. The tavern had fallen silent, save for the crackle of flames in the fireplace. Eben glanced around at all the eyes watching him in disapproval. They'd all heard the conversation, and clearly there was no sympathy for him here.
He drew himself up straight and managed a civil tone. — No need to rail at me like a harpy. I'll come. — He gave his jacket a tug, neatened his collar. — I was only finishing up my drink. —
With head held high, he walked out of the Mermaid, stumbling over the threshold as he stepped out the door. She followed him outside, into a mist so penetrating, the dampness seemed to seep straight into her bones. They'd walked only a dozen paces when Eben abruptly turned around to face her.
His blow sent her reeling backward. She staggered against a building, her cheek throbbing, the pain so terrible that for a few seconds the world went black. She did not even see the second blow coming. It whipped her sideways and she fell to her knees, felt icy water soaking into her skirt.
— That's for talking back to me in public, — he snarled. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her across the cobblestones, into the mud of a narrow alley.
Another blow slammed into her mouth and she tasted blood.
— And that's for the four months I've had to put up with you. Always taking her side, always lined up against me, the two of you. My prospects ruined, all because she got herself knocked up. You think she didn't beg me for it? You think I had to seduce her? Oh, no, your saintly sister wanted it. She wasn't afraid to show me what she had. But it was spoiled goods. —
He wrenched her to her feet and shoved her up against a wall.
— So don't play the innocent with me. I know what kind of trash runs in your family. I know what you want. The same thing your sister wanted. —
He rammed up against her, pinning her against the bricks. His mouth closed over hers, his breath sour with rum. The blows had left her so dazed she could not summon the strength to push him away. She felt the hardening against her pelvis, felt his hand groping at her breasts. He yanked up her skirt and clawed at her petticoat, her stockings, tearing through fabric to reach naked flesh. At the touch of his hand on her bare thigh, her spine snapped taut.
How dare you!
Her fist caught him beneath the chin, and she felt his jaw slam shut, heard teeth smack together. He screamed and staggered backward, his hand clapped to his mouth.
— My tongue! I've bit my tongue! — He looked down at his hand. — Oh, God, I'm bleeding! —
She ran. She darted out of the alley, but he lunged after her and grabbed a handful of her hair, scattering pins across the stones. She twisted away and stumbled over her torn petticoat. The thought of his hand on her thigh, his breath on her face, sent her scrambling back to her feet. Hiking her skirt above her knees, she bolted headlong into the disorienting mist. She did not know which street she was on, or in which direction she was headed. The river? The harbor? All she knew was that the fog was her cloak, her friend, and the deeper she plunged into it, the safer she would be. He was too drunk to keep up, much less navigate the maze of narrow streets. Already his footsteps seemed more distant, his curses fading, until all she could hear was the pounding of her own feet, her own pulse.
She rounded a corner and came to a halt. Through the rush of her own breathing, she heard the clattering wheels of a passing carriage, but no footsteps. She realized she was on the Cambridge road, and that she'd have to double back to return to the hospital.
Eben would expect her to go there. He'd be waiting for her.
She leaned down and ripped away the entangling strip of petticoat. Then she started walking north, staying to the side streets and alleys, pausing every few paces to listen for footsteps. The fog was so thick, she could see only the outline of a wagon passing on the road; the clop of horse's hooves seemed to come from all directions at once, the echoes fractured and scattered in the mist. She fell in step behind the wagon, trotting after it as it moved up Blossom Street, in the direction of the hospital. If Eben attacked, she would scream her lungs out. Surely the wagon's driver would stop and come to her aid.
Suddenly the wagon turned right, away from the hospital, and Rose was left standing alone. She knew the hospital was straight ahead of her, on North Allen, but she could not yet see it through the fog. Eben was almost certainly waiting to pounce. Staring up the street, she could sense the threat that loomed ahead, could picture Eben hulking in the shadows, anticipating her arrival.
She turned. There was another way into the building, but she would have to trudge across the damp grass of the hospital common to the rear entrance. She paused at the edge of the lawn. Her route was obscured by fog, but she could just make out, through fingers of mist, the glow of hospital windows. He would not expect her to hike across this dark field. Certainly he himself would not go to such an effort if it meant soiling his shoes in the mud.
She waded into the grass. The field was saturated with rain, and icy water soaked through her shoes. The lights from the hospital intermittently faded out in the mist and she had to stop to regain her bearings. There they were again off to the left. In the darkness, she had veered away from her goal, and now she corrected course. The lights glowed brighter now, the fog thinning as she climbed the gentle slope toward the building. Her sodden skirts clung to her legs, slowing her down, making every stride an effort. By the time she stumbled out of the grass, onto cobblestones, she was clumsy on cold-numbed feet.
Chilled and shivering now, she started up the back stairway.
Suddenly her shoe slid across a step slick with something black. She stared up at what looked like a dark waterfall that had cascaded down the stairs. Only as her gaze lifted to the source of that waterfall did she see the woman's body draped across the stairs above, her skirts splayed, one arm flung out, as though to welcome Death.
At first Rose heard only the drumming of her own heart, the rush of her own breath. Then she heard the footstep, and a shadow moved above her like an ominous cloud blotting out the moon. The blood seemed to freeze in Rose's veins. She looked at the looming creature.
What she saw was the Grim Reaper himself.
Her voice mute and choked with terror, she stumbled backward and almost fell as she hit the bottom step. Suddenly the creature swooped toward her, black cape billowing like monstrous wings. She whirled to flee, and saw empty lawn ahead, roiling with mist. A place of execution. If I run there, I will surely die.
She pivoted to the right and sprinted alongside the building. She could hear the monster in pursuit, its footsteps closing in behind her.
She darted into a passage and found herself in a courtyard. She ran to the nearest door, but it was locked. Pounding on it, she shrieked for help, but no one opened it.
I am trapped.
Behind her, gravel clattered across the stones. She spun around to face her attacker. In the darkness she could make out only the movement of black on black. She backed up against the door, her breaths coming out in sobs. She thought of the dead woman, and the waterfall of blood on the stairs, and she crossed her arms over her chest in a feeble shield to protect her heart.
The shadow closed in.
Cringing, she turned her face in anticipation of the first slash. Instead she heard a voice, asking a question that she did not immediately register.
— Miss? Miss, are you all right? —
She opened her eyes to see the silhouette of a man. Behind him, through the darkness, a light winked and slowly became brighter. It was a lantern, swaying in the grasp of a second man, now approaching. The man with the lantern called: — Who's out here? Hello? —
— Wendell! Over here! —
— Norris? What's all the commotion? —
— There's a young woman here. She seems to be hurt. —
— What's the matter with her? —
The lantern swung closer, and the light dazzled Rose's eyes. She blinked and focused on the faces of the two young men who were now staring at her. She recognized them both, just as they recognized her.
— It it's Miss Connolly, is it not? — said Norris Marshall.
She gave a sob. Her legs suddenly went out from under her and she slid down the wall, to land on her rump against the cobblestones.
Seven
THOUGH NORRIS had never before met Mr. Pratt of Boston's Night Watch, he had known other men just like him, men too puffed up on authority to ever acknowledge the undeniable fact, recognized by everyone else, that they are stupid. It was Pratt's arrogance that Norris found most annoying, right down to the man's walk, his chest thrust out, arms swinging in a martial beat as he strutted into the hospital dissection room. Though not a large man, Mr. Pratt gave the impression that he thought he was. His only impressive feature was his mustache, the bushiest Norris had ever seen. It looked like a brown squirrel that had sunk its claws into his upper lip and refused to let go. As Norris watched the man taking notes with a pencil, he could not help staring at that mustache, picturing that imaginary squirrel suddenly leaping away and Mr. Pratt giving chase after his fugitive facial hair.
Pratt finally looked up from his pad of paper and regarded Norris and Wendell, who stood beside the draped body. Pratt's gaze moved on to Dr. Crouch, who was clearly the medical authority in the room.
— You say you have examined the body, Dr. Crouch? — asked Pratt.
— Only superficially. We took the liberty of bringing her into the building. It did not seem right to leave her lying there on the cold steps, where anyone might trip over her. Even if she were a stranger, which she is not, we owe her at least that small modicum of respect. —
— Then you are all acquainted with the deceased? —
— Yes, sir. Only when we brought out the lantern did we recognize her. The victim, Miss Agnes Poole, is the head nurse of this institution. —
Wendell interjected: — Miss Connolly must have told you this. Didn't you already question her? —
— Yes, but I find it necessary to confirm everything she's told me. You know how it is with these flighty girls. Irish girls in particular. They're likely to change their story depending on which way the wind blows. —
Norris said, — I'd hardly call Miss Connolly a flighty girl. —
Watchman Pratt fixed his narrowed gaze on Norris. — You know her? —
— Her sister is a patient here, in the lying-in ward. —
— But do you know her, Mr. Marshall? —
He didn't like the way Pratt was studying him. — We've spoken. In regard to her sister's care. —
Pratt's pencil was scribbling on the pad again. — You are studying medicine, is that correct? —
— Yes. —
Pratt eyed Norris's clothing. — You have blood on your shirt. Are you aware of that? —
— I helped move the body from the steps. And I assisted Dr. Crouch earlier in the evening. —
Pratt glanced at Crouch. — Is this true, Doctor? —
Norris felt his face redden. — You think I would lie about it? In Dr. Crouch's presence? —
— My only duty is to uncover the truth. —
You're too stupid to recognize the truth when you hear it.
Dr. Crouch said, — Mr. Holmes and Mr. Marshall are my apprentices. They assisted me earlier this evening on Broad Street, at a difficult delivery. —
— What were you delivering? —
Dr. Crouch stared at Pratt, clearly thunderstruck by the man's question. — What do you think we were delivering? A cart of bricks? —
Pratt slapped his pencil down on the pad. — There is no need for sarcasm. I simply wish to know everyone's whereabouts tonight. —
— I find this outrageous. I am a physician, sir, and I have no need to account for my activities. —
— And your two apprentices here? Were you with them the entire evening? —
— No, we were not, — said Wendell, rather too casually.
Norris looked at his fellow student in surprise. Why offer this man any unnecessary information? It would only feed his suspicions. Indeed, Watchman Pratt now looked like a mustachioed cat at the mouse hole, ready to pounce.
— When were you not in each other's company? — asked Pratt.
— Would you like an account of my visits to the pisspot? Oh, and I do believe I took a crap as well. How about you, Norris? —
— Mr. Holmes, I do not appreciate your foul brand of humor. —
— Humor is the only way to deal with questions as absurd as these. We're the ones who summoned the Night Watch, for God's sake. —
The mustache twitched. The squirrel was now getting agitated. — I see no need for blasphemy, — he said coldly, and slipped his pencil into his pocket. — Now then. Show me the body. —
Dr. Crouch said, — Shouldn't Constable Lyons be present? —
Pratt shot him an irritated look. — He will get my report in the morning. —
— But he should be here. This is serious business. —
— At this moment, I am in authority. Constable Lyons will be advised of the facts at a more reasonable hour. I see no reason to rouse him from his bed. — Pratt pointed to the draped body. — Uncover her, — he ordered.
Pratt had assumed a nonchalant pose, jaw thrust out in the attitude of a man too cocky to be rattled by anything so minor as the sight of a corpse. But when Dr. Crouch pulled off the sheet, Pratt could not suppress a gasp, and he suddenly flinched away from the table. Although Norris had already viewed the corpse and had, in fact, helped carry it into the building, he, too, was shocked yet again by the mutilations performed on Agnes Poole. They had not undressed her; they scarcely needed to. The blade had slashed open the front of her dress, laying bare her injuries, injuries so grotesque that Watchman Pratt remained frozen and unable to utter a sound, his face as pale as curdled milk.
— As you can see, — said Dr. Crouch, — the trauma is horrific. I have waited to complete the examination until an official could be present. But all it takes is a cursory glance to see that the killer has not merely sliced open the torso. He has done far, far more. — Crouch rolled up his sleeves, then glanced at Pratt. — If you wish to see the damage, you'll have to step up to the table. —
Pratt swallowed. — I can see it well enough from here. —
— I doubt that. But if your stomach is too weak to handle it, there's no sense in your getting sick all over the corpse. — He pulled on an apron and tied the strings behind his back. — Mr. Holmes, Mr. Marshall, I'll need your assistance. It's a good opportunity for you both to get your hands dirty. Not every student is so fortunate this early in his education. —
Fortunate was not the word that came to Norris's mind as he stared into the gaping torso. Growing up on his father's farm, he was no stranger to the smell of blood or the butchering of pigs and cows. He had gotten his hands dirty, all right, helping the farmhands as they scooped out offal and stripped away the hides. He knew what death looked like and smelled like, for he had labored in its presence.
But this was a different view of death, a view that was too intimate and familiar. This was not a pig's heart or a cow's lungs that he stared at. And the slack-jawed face was one that, only hours ago, had been suffused with life. To see Nurse Poole now, to look into her glazed eyes, was to catch a glimpse of his own future. Reluctantly, he took an apron from the wall hooks, tied it on, and took his place at Dr. Cro
uch's side. Wendell stood on the other side of the table. Despite the bloody corpse that lay between them, Wendell's face revealed no revulsion, only a look of intent curiosity. Am I the only one who remembers who this woman was? Norris wondered. Not a pleasant human being, to be sure, but she was more than a mere carcass, more than an anonymous corpse to be dissected.
Dr. Crouch soaked a cloth in a basin of water and gently sponged blood away from the incised skin. — As you can see here, gentlemen, the blade must have been quite sharp. These are clean cuts, very deep. And the pattern the pattern is most intriguing. —
— What do you mean? What pattern? — asked Pratt in a strangely muffled and nasal voice.
— If you would approach the table, I could show you. —
— I'm busy taking notes, can't you see? Just describe it for me. —
— 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. —
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