The Bone Garden: A Novel

by Tess Gerritsen

  — Aren't you going in? — said Billy.

  She gazed up at Mrs. O'Keefe's lodging house. Her tired feet had automatically brought her to this door, through which she had walked so many times before. Up the stairs would be her narrow bed, tucked into the curtained alcove in the room she'd shared with Aurnia and Eben. The thin curtain had not been barrier enough to muffle the sounds from the other bed. Eben's grunts of lovemaking, his snores, his hacking cough in the morning. She remembered his hands groping at her thighs tonight, and with a shudder she turned and walked away.

  — Where are you going? — Billy said.

  — I don't know. —

  — Aren't you going home? —

  — No. —

  He caught up to her. — You're going to stay awake? All night? —

  — I need to find someplace to sleep. Someplace warm, where Meggie won't get cold. —

  — Isn't Mrs. O'Keefe's house warm? —

  — I can't go there tonight, Billy. Mr. Tate is angry with me. Very, very angry. And I'm afraid he might — She halted and stared at the mist, which coiled at her feet like grasping hands. — Oh, God, Billy, — she whispered. — I'm so tired. What am I going to do with her? —

  — I know a place you could take her, — he said. — A secret place. But you can't tell anyone about it. —

  Dawn had not yet lifted the darkness when Wall-eyed Jack harnessed his horse and climbed up onto the buckboard. He guided the dray out of the stable yard and onto icy cobblestones that gleamed like glass under the lamplight. At this hour, his was the only wagon on the street, and the clip-clop of the horse's hooves, the rattle of the wheels, were unnervingly noisy in the otherwise silent street. Those stirring awake in their beds, hearing the rattle of his wagon rolling past, would assume it was just a tradesman passing by. A butcher hauling carcasses to market, perhaps, or the mason with his stones, or the farmer delivering bales of hay to the stableman. It would not occur to those drowsy people in their warm beds what sort of cargo would soon be loaded onto the wagon that now rolled past their windows. The living had no wish to dwell on the dead, and so the dead were invisible, nailed into pine boxes, sewn into shrouds, moved furtively on rattling carts under cover of night. What no one else has the stomach for, here I am, thought Jack with a grim smile. Oh, there was money to be made in the snatching trade. The clop of the horse's hooves pounded out the poetry of those words again and again as his dray rolled northwest, toward the Charles River.

  There's money to be made. There's money to be made.

  And that's where you'd find Jack Burke.

  In the fog ahead, a crouching figure suddenly materialized right in front of the horse. Jack pulled up sharply on the reins and the horse halted with a snort. A teenage boy scampered into view, zigzagging back and forth in the street, long arms waving like octopus tentacles.

  — Bad pup! Bad pup, you come to me now! —

  The dog gave a yelp as the boy pounced and grabbed him around the neck. Straightening, the struggling dog now firmly in his grip, the boy stared wide-eyed as he suddenly saw Jack glaring at him through the mist.

  — You damn half-wit, Billy! — snapped Jack. Oh, he knew this boy well enough, and what a nuisance he was, always underfoot, always searching for a free meal, a place to bed down. More than once, Jack had had to chase Dim Billy out of his own stable yard. — Get outta the road! I could've run right over you. —

  The boy just gaped at him. He had a mouthful of crooked teeth and a head too small for his gangly teenage body. He grinned stupidly, the mutt struggling in his arms. — He doesn't always come when I call. He needs to behave. —

  — Can't even look after yourself, and you got a damn dog? —

  — He's my friend. His name's Spot. —

  Jack eyed the black mutt, who as far as he could see had no spots anywhere. — Now, there's a right clever name I've never heard before. —

  — We're out lookin' for a bit o' milk. Babies need milk, y'know, and she drank up all I got for her last night. She'll be hungry this morning, and when they get hungry, they cry. —

  What was the fool boy babbling about? — Get outta my way, — said Jack. — I got business to attend to. —

  — All right, Mr. Burke! — The boy moved aside to let the horse pass. — I'm gonna get myself some business, too. —

  Sure ya will, Billy. Sure ya will. Jack snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward. The horse took only a few paces before Jack abruptly pulled him to a stop. He turned to look back at Billy's spindly figure, half hidden in the mist. Though the boy had to be sixteen or seventeen, he was only bones and sinew, about as sturdy as some clackety wooden puppet. Still, he'd be an extra pair of hands.

  And he'd be cheap.

  — Hey, Billy! — Jack called. — You want to earn a ninepence? —

  The boy hurried up to him, arms still in a stranglehold around his unfortunate pet. — What for, Mr. Burke? —

  — Leave the dog and climb in. —

  — But we need to find milk. —

  — You want your ninepence or what? You can buy milk with it. —

  Billy dropped the dog, who immediately trotted away. — You go home now! — Billy ordered it. — That's right, Spot! —

  — Get in, boy. —

  Billy scrabbled aboard the dray and settled his bony arse on the buckboard. — Where are we going? —

  Jack snapped the reins. — You'll see. —

  They rolled through drifting fingers of mist, past buildings where candlelight was starting to appear in windows. Except for the distant barking of dogs, the only noise was the horse's hooves and the sound of their wheels, rumbling down the narrow street.

  Billy glanced back at the wagon. — What's under the tarp, Mr. Burke? —

  — Nothing. —

  — But there's somethin' there. I can see it. —

  — You want your ninepence, then shut up. —

  — All right. — The boy was silent for about five seconds. — When do I get it? —

  — After you help me move something. —

  — Like furniture? —

  — Yeah. — Jack spat onto the street. — Just like furniture. —

  They were almost to the Charles River now, rattling up North Allen Street. Daylight was gaining on them, but the fog still hung thick. As he neared his destination, it seemed to swirl ever closer, drifting in off the river to wrap them in its protective cloak. When at last they pulled to a stop, Jack could not see more than a few yards ahead of him, but he knew exactly where he was.

  So did Billy. — Why are we at the hospital? —

  — Wait here, — Jack ordered the boy. He jumped off the dray, his boots landing hard on the stones.

  — When do we move the furniture? —

  — Gotta see if it's here first. — Jack swung open the gate and walked into the hospital's rear courtyard. He needed to go only a few paces before he spotted what he'd been hoping to find: a coffin, with the lid newly nailed on. The name A. TATE had been scrawled on it. He lifted one end to test the weight, and confirmed that, yes, it was occupied and would soon be on its way. To potter's field, no doubt, judging by the rough pine.

  He got to work prying up the lid. It did not take long, for there were only a few nails. No one cared if a pauper was properly secured in his coffin. He pulled off the lid, revealing the shrouded body within. Not so large, from the looks of it; even without Dim Billy, he could have dealt with this one.

  He returned to the dray, where the boy was still waiting.

  — Is it a chair? A table? — asked Billy.

  — What're you babbling about? —

  — The furniture. —

  Jack went around to the wagon and whisked off the tarp. — Help me move this. —

  Billy slithered off the buckboard and came around to the rear. — It's a log. —

  — You are so clever. — Jack grabbed one end and dragged it from the wagon.

  — Is it firewood? — asked Billy, grabbing the other
end. — Don't it need to be split? —

  — Just move it, eh? — They carried the log to the coffin and set it down. — Now help me lift this out, — Jack ordered.

  Billy took one look into the coffin and froze. — There's somebody in there. —

  — Come on, pick up that end. —

  — But it— it's someone dead. —

  — You want your ninepence or not? —

  Billy looked up at him, eyes enormous in the wan and skinny face. — I'm afraid o' dead people. —

  — They can't hurt you, idiot. —

  The boy backed away. — They come after you. The ghosts do. —

  — Ain't never seen a ghost. —

  The boy was still retreating, moving toward the gate.

  — Billy. You get your arse back here. —

  Instead, the boy turned and fled from the courtyard, fading like a jerky marionette into the mist.

  — Useless, — grunted Jack. He took a breath, hauled up the shrouded body, and rolled it out of the coffin. It thudded onto the cobblestones.

  Daylight was brightening fast. He had to work quickly, before anyone saw him. He heaved the log into the coffin, positioned the lid, and with a few swings of the hammer nailed it back into place. May you rest in peace, Mr. Log, he thought with a laugh. Then he dragged the corpse, still sewn into its shroud, across the courtyard to his wagon. There he paused, panting, to glance around at the street. He saw no one.

  And no one sees me.

  Moments later he was back on the dray, guiding his horse down North Allen Street. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked his tarp-covered cargo. He had not laid eyes on the corpse itself, but he didn't need to. Whether young or old, male or female, it was fresh, and that's all that mattered. This time, the fee needn't be shared with anyone, not even Dim Billy.

  He'd just saved himself ninepence. That was worth a bit of extra effort.

  Nine

  ROSE AWAKENED to find Meggie sleeping beside her, and she heard the clucking and flapping of chickens, the rustle of straw. None of these sounds was familiar, and it took Rose a moment to remember where she was.

  To remember that Aurnia was dead.

  Grief seized her in its fist, squeezing so hard that for a moment she could not breathe. She stared up at the barn's rough-hewn beams, thinking: This is more pain than I can bear.

  Something nearby beat a steady tattoo, and she turned to see a black dog staring at her, its wagging tail slapping against a bale of hay. It shook itself, sending straw and dust flying, then trotted over to lick her face, leaving a trail of slime on her cheek. Pushing it away, she sat up. The dog gave a bored whine and headed down the stairs. Peering over the edge of the hayloft, she saw it trot past a stabled horse, moving purposefully as though late for an appointment, and it disappeared through the open barn door. In the distance, a rooster crowed.

  She looked around the loft and wondered where Billy had gone.

  So this was where he sheltered. She saw hints of him here and there, amid the bales of hay and the rusting implements. A depression in the straw marked where he had slept last night. A chipped cup and saucer and trencher were set upon an overturned crate, like a place setting for a fine meal. She had to smile at his resourcefulness. Last night, Billy had disappeared for a short time and returned with a precious cup of milk, no doubt squeezed furtively from someone's cow or goat. Rose hadn't questioned his source as Meggie had sucked on the milk-soaked rag; she'd been grateful for anything with which to satisfy the baby's hunger.

  But while the baby had been fed, Rose had eaten nothing since yesterday noon, and her stomach rumbled. She prowled through the hayloft, rooting in the straw until she found a hen's egg, still warm from that morning's laying. She cracked it open and tipped back her head. The raw egg slid down her throat, the yolk so slick and rich that her stomach instantly rebelled. She doubled over, nauseated, fighting to keep the egg down. It may be the only thing I eat today, she thought, and I will not waste it. At last her nausea eased, and as she raised her head, she spotted the little wooden box, tucked into a corner of the loft.

  She lifted the hinged lid.

  Inside were pretty pieces of glass, a seashell, and two whalebone buttons, treasures that Billy had collected as he roamed the streets of the West End. She'd noticed how his gaze was always fixed on the ground, his thin shoulders hunched over like an old man's, all to glean a penny here, a lost buckle there. Every day was a treasure hunt for Dim Billy, and a pretty button was enough to make him happy. For that he was a lucky boy, perhaps the luckiest in all of Boston, to be so easily pleased by a button. But you cannot eat buttons, and you cannot bury the dead and pay for it with worthless glass.

  She shut the box and crossed to the window to peer out through smudged glass. In the yard below, chickens scratched in a garden that was little more than brown stalks and vines, withered in the cold.

  Billy's treasure box suddenly reminded her of something she'd put in her pocket, something she'd completely forgotten until now. She pulled out the locket and chain and felt a sudden flash of grief at the sight of Aurnia's necklace. The locket was heart-shaped and the chain was feathery light, a delicate strand meant for a fine lady's neck. She remembered how it had gleamed around Aurnia's cream-white skin. How beautiful my sister was, she thought, and now she's merely food for worms.

  This was gold. It would buy Aurnia a proper burial.

  She heard voices and peeked out again through the window. A wagon filled with bales of hay had just rolled into the yard, and two men stood dickering over the price.

  It was time to leave.

  She scooped up the sleeping baby and made her way down the steps. Quietly, she slipped out the barn door.

  By the time the two men finally agreed to the price of hay, Rose Connolly was already well away, shaking the straw from her skirt as she carried Meggie toward the West End.

  A freezing mist clung to the ground of St. Augustine's cemetery, hiding the legs of the mourners who seemed to float, unattached to the earth, their torsos drifting only on fog. There are so many here today, thought Rose; but their sorrow was not for Aurnia. She watched the procession trail behind a small coffin that skimmed above the mist, and she could hear every sniffle, every sob, the sounds of heartbreak trapped and magnified, as though the air itself were weeping. The child's funeral moved past, black skirts and cloaks churning the mist into silvery whirlpools. No one glanced at Rose. Holding Meggie in her arms, she stood in a forlorn corner of the cemetery, beside the newly turned mound of earth. To them, she was but a ghost in the fog, her grief invisible to those blinded by their own.

  — She's 'bout deep enough, miss. —

  Rose turned to look at the two gravediggers. The older one dragged a sleeve across his face, leaving streaks of mud on his cheek, where the skin was deeply seamed from years of exposure to sun and wind. Poor man, she thought, you're too old to still be wielding a shovel, to be hacking away at the frozen ground. But we all need to eat. And what would she be doing when she was his age, when she could no longer see well enough to thread her needle?

  — Will there be no one else to see her laid to rest? — he asked.

  — No one else, — she said, and looked down at Aurnia's coffin. This was Rose's loss, hers alone, and she was too selfish to share it with anyone. She fought the sudden impulse to tear off the lid, to gaze once again on her sister's face. What if, by some miracle, she was not dead? What if Aurnia were to stir and open her eyes? Rose reached toward the coffin, then forced her hand back to her side. There are no miracles, she thought. And Aurnia is gone.

  — Shall we finish, then? —

  She swallowed her tears and gave a nod.

  The old man turned to his partner, a blank-faced teenager who'd shoveled with lackadaisical effort, and who now stood slouched and indifferent. — Help me put her in. —

  Ropes creaked as they lowered the coffin, dislodging clots of dirt that thudded into the hole. I have paid for a grave all your own, darling, thought
Rose. A private place of rest that you'll not need to share with some husband who paws you, some beggar who stinks. For once you'll sleep alone, a luxury that escaped you while you lived.

  The coffin gave a jolt as it hit bottom. The boy had let his attention wander, and had played out the rope too quickly. Rose caught the look the old man gave the boy, a look that said, I'll deal with you later. The boy didn't even notice, and simply yanked his rope out of the hole. It came slithering up like a cobra, and the end slapped smartly against the pine box. Their task almost completed, the boy worked with more alacrity now as they filled the hole. Perhaps he was thinking of his lunch by a warm fire, and how all that kept him from it was this one grave. He had not seen the occupant of the coffin, nor did he seem to care. All that mattered was that this hole must be filled, and so he put his back into it, shovel after shovel full of soggy earth landing on the coffin.

  At the other end of the cemetery, where the child was being laid to rest, a loud wail rose from the mourners, a woman's cry so ragged with pain that Rose turned and looked toward the other grave. Only then did she see the ghostly silhouette approaching them through the fog. The figure emerged from its veil of mist, and Rose recognized the face peering out from beneath the hood of the cape. It was Mary Robinson, the young nurse from the hospital. Mary paused and looked over her shoulder, as though sensing that someone was behind her, but Rose saw no one except the other mourners, who stood like a circle of statues around the child's grave.

  — I didn't know where else to find you, — said Mary. — I'm sorry for your sister. God rest her soul. —

  Rose wiped her eyes, smearing tears and mist across her cheek. — You were kind to her, Miss Robinson. Far kinder than — She stopped, not wanting to invoke Nurse Poole's name. Not wanting to speak ill of the dead.

  Mary moved closer. As Rose blinked away tears, she focused on the young nurse's tense face, her pinched eyes. Mary leaned in, and her voice dropped to a whisper, her words almost lost in the scrape of the gravediggers' shovels.