The Bone Garden: A Novel

— You were there, at the hospital, — said Grenville. — The night Agnes Poole died. —

Norris was taken aback by the abrupt introduction of this grim subject, and he could only nod. The murder had been six days ago, and since then there had been wild gossip in town about who— or what— could have killed her. The Daily Advertiser had described a winged demon. Whispers about papists had been inevitable, no doubt launched from the lips of Watchman Pratt. But there had been other rumors as well. A preacher in Salem had spoken of evil afoot, of foul creatures and devil-worshiping foreigners who could only be combated by the righteous hand of God. Last night, the outrageous tales had inspired a drunken mob to chase a hapless Italian man down Hanover Street, forcing him to seek refuge in a tavern.

— You were the first to find the witness. The Irish girl, — said Grenville.

— Yes. —

— Have you seen her since that night? —

— No, sir. —

— You are aware that the Night Watch is looking for her? —

— Mr. Pratt told me. I know nothing about Miss Connolly. —

— Mr. Pratt led me to believe otherwise. —

So this was why he'd been called here. The Night Watch wanted Grenville to press him for information.

— The girl hasn't been seen at her lodging house since that night, — said Grenville.

— Surely she has family in Boston. —

— Only her sister's husband, a tailor named Mr. Tate. He told the Night Watch that she was unstable, and prone to outrageous claims. She'd even accused him of base acts against her. —

Norris remembered how Rose Connolly had dared to question the opinion of the eminent Dr. Crouch, an astonishingly bold act by a girl who should have known her place. But unstable? No, what Norris had seen on the ward that afternoon was a girl who'd merely stood her ground, a girl protecting her dying sister.

— I saw nothing unsound about her, — he said.

— She made some rather startling claims. About that creature in the cape. —

— She called it a figure, sir. She never said that it was in any way supernatural. It was the Daily Advertiser that called it the West End Reaper. She may have been frightened, but she was not hysterical. —

— You can't tell Mr. Pratt where she might be? —

— Why does he think I can? —

— He suggested that you might be better acquainted with her…people. —

— I see. — Norris felt his face tighten. So they think that a farm boy in a suit is still just a farm boy. — May I ask why it's suddenly so urgent that he find her? —

— She's a witness, and she's only seventeen years old. There's her safety to consider. And the safety of her sister's child. —

— I hardly imagine that Mr. Pratt cares one whit about their welfare. Is there another reason he seeks her? —

Grenville paused. After a moment, he admitted, — There is a matter, which Mr. Pratt would prefer not to see in the press. —

— Which matter? —

— Concerning an item of jewelry. A locket that was briefly in the possession of Miss Connolly, before it found its way to a pawnshop. —

— What's the significance of this locket? —

— It did not belong to her. By all rights, it should have gone to her sister's husband. —

— You are saying that Miss Connolly is a thief? —

— I'm not saying it. Mr. Pratt is. —

Norris thought about the girl and her fierce loyalty toward her sister. — I cannot imagine her to be such a criminal. —

— How did she strike you? —

— A clever girl. And forthright. But not a thief. —

Grenville nodded. — I'll pass along that opinion to Mr. Pratt. —

Norris, believing the interview to be over, started to rise, but Grenville said, — A moment more, Mr. Marshall. Unless you have another engagement? —

— No, sir. — Norris settled back into the chair. Sat, uncomfortably, as the other man quietly regarded him.

— You are satisfied thus far with your course of study? — asked Grenville.

— Yes, sir. Quite. —

— And with Dr. Crouch? —

— He's an excellent preceptor. I'm grateful he took me on. I've learned a great deal about midwifery at his side. —

— Although I understand you have strong opinions of your own on the subject. —

Suddenly Norris was uneasy. Had Dr. Crouch complained about him? Was he now to face the consequences? — I did not mean to question his methods, — he said. — I only wished to contribute— —

— Shouldn't methods be questioned if they do not work? —

— I should not have challenged him. I certainly don't have Dr. Crouch's experience. —

— No. You have a farmer's experience. — Norris flushed, and Grenville added, — You think I have just insulted you. —

— I don't presume to know your intentions. —

— I meant no insult. I've known many a clever farm boy. And more than a few idiot gentlemen. What I meant by my comment regarding farmers is that you've had practical experience. You've observed the process of gestation and birth. —

— But as Dr. Crouch quite plainly pointed out to me, a cow cannot be compared to a human being. —

— Of course not. Cows are far more companionable. Your father must agree, or he would not hide himself away on that farm. —

Norris paused, startled. — You are acquainted with my father? —

— No, but I know of him. He must be proud of you, pursuing such a demanding course of study. —

— No, sir. He's unhappy with my choice. —

— How can that be? —

— He had thought to raise a farmer. He considers books a waste of time. I would not even be here, at the medical college, were it not for the generosity of Dr. Hallowell. —

— Dr. Hallowell in Belmont? The gentleman who wrote your letter of recommendation? —

— Yes, sir. Truly, there's no kinder man. He and his wife always made me feel welcome in their home. He personally tutored me in physics and encouraged me to borrow books from his own library. Every month, it seemed, there'd be new ones, and he gave me complete access. Novels. Greek and Roman history. Volumes by Dryden and Pope and Spenser. It's an extraordinary collection. —

Grenville smiled. — And you made good use of it. —

— Books were my salvation, — said Norris, and was suddenly embarrassed that he'd used a word so revealing. But salvation was precisely what books had meant to him during the bleak nights on the farm, nights when he and his father had little to say to each other. When they did speak, it was about whether the hay was still too wet, or how close the cows were to calving. They did not speak of what tormented them both.

And they never would.

— It's a pity that your father did not encourage you, — said Grenville. — Yet you've come so far with such little advantage. —

— I've found…employment here, in the city. — Disgusting though his work with Jack Burke might be. — It's enough to pay for tuition. —

— Your father contributes nothing? —

— He has little to send. —

— I hope he was more generous with Sophia. She deserved better. —

Norris was startled by the mention of that name. — You know my mother. —

— While my wife Abigail was still alive, she and Sophia were the dearest of friends. But that was years ago, before you were born. — He paused. — It was a surprise to us both when Sophia suddenly married. —