Norris reached for his greatcoat and paused for a heartbeat, his gaze on the bloodstains. He pulled it on anyway. A glimpse outside, at the frost on the grass, told him that today he would need every layer of warmth he could recruit from his meager wardrobe. — If you'll excuse me, I need to salvage what I can of this day. I need to explain my absence to Dr. Crouch. Is he still at the hospital? —
— Norris, if you go to the hospital, I must warn you what to expect. —
Norris turned to face him. — What? —
— There's talk, you see, among the patients and staff. People are wondering about you. They're afraid. —
— They think I killed her? —
— The trustees have been speaking with Mr. Pratt. —
— They aren't listening to his rubbish? —
— They have no choice but to listen. They're responsible for enforcing order in the hospital. They can discipline any doctor on the staff. Certainly they can banish a lowly medical student from the wards. —
— Then how would I learn? How would I pursue my studies? —
— Dr. Crouch is trying to reason with them. And Dr. Grenville has argued against the ban as well. But there are others —
— Others? —
— Rumors, among the patients' families. And on the streets as well. —
— What are they saying? —
— The fact that her tongue was removed has convinced some that the killer is a medical student. —
— Or someone who's butchered animals, — said Norris. — And I am both. —
— I just came to tell you how things stood. That people are well, afraid of you. —
— And why aren't you afraid of me? Why do you assume I'm innocent? —
— I don't assume anything. —
Norris gave a bitter laugh. — Oh, there's a loyal friend. —
— Damn it, this is exactly what a friend would do! He'd tell you the truth. That your future's in jeopardy. — Wendell turned toward the door. There he paused and looked at Norris. — You have more bull-headed pride than any son of wealth I've ever met, and you use it to paint the whole world black. I don't need a friend like you. I don't even want a friend like you. — He yanked open the door.
— Wendell. —
— You'd be wise to speak to Dr. Crouch. And give him credit for defending you. Because he, at least, deserves it. —
— Wendell, I'm sorry, — said Norris. And he sighed. — I'm not accustomed to assuming the best of people. —
— So you assume the worst? —
— I'm seldom disappointed. —
— Then you need a better circle of acquaintances. —
At that, Norris laughed. He sat down on the bed and rubbed his face. — I daresay you're right. —
Wendell closed the door and came toward him. — What are you going to do? —
— Against rumors? What can I do? The more I insist I'm innocent, the more guilty I look. —
— You have to do something. This is your future. —
And it hung by a thread. All it took was a few doubts, a few whispers, and the hospital trustees would ban him permanently from the wards. How easily a reputation is soiled, thought Norris. Suspicion would cling to him like a bloodstained cloak, frightening away all prospects, all opportunities, until the only path left to him was back to his father's farm. To a home shared with a cold and joyless man.
— Until this killer is caught, — said Wendell, — everyone's eyes will be on you. —
Norris looked down at his stained greatcoat, and with a chill, he remembered the creature standing above the riverbank, staring down at him. I did not imagine him.
Rose Connolly saw him, too.
Fifteen
ANOTHER WEEK of this bitter cold, thought Wall-eyed Jack, and the soil will be too frozen to dig. Soon they'd be storing the corpses in vaults above the ground, awaiting the spring thaw. There'd be heavy locks to get past, groundskeepers to bribe, a whole new set of complications to match the change in the weather. For Jack, it wasn't the blooming of apple blossoms or the autumn tumble of leaves that marked the cycling of the seasons; no, it was the quality of the dirt. In April, there was mud to contend with, so thick and greedy it would suck the boots right off your feet. In August, the clods were dry and crumbled easily to warm dust in his fist, a good time to dig, except that every scoop of the shovel would stir up an angry cloud of mosquitoes. In January, the shovel would ring like a bell if you hacked at the frozen ground, and the impact, pounding through the handle, would make your hands ache. Even a tended fire set upon the grave could take days to thaw the soil. Few corpses were buried in January.
But at the end of autumn, there were still riches to harvest.
So he guided his dray through the thickening dusk, the wooden wheels crackling over a thin crust of frozen mud. At this hour, on this lonely road, he met no one. Across a cornfield littered with brown and broken stalks, he saw a glimmer of candlelight in a farmhouse window, but no movement, and he heard no sounds save for the clop of the horse's hooves and the snapping of ice beneath the wagon wheels. This was farther than he liked to journey on such a bitter night, but he'd been left few choices. Grave watchers were now stationed at the Old Granary burying grounds, and at Copp's Hill on the North Side. Even the lonely cemetery at Roxbury Crossing was now patrolled. Every month, it seemed, he was forced farther and farther afield. There'd been a time when he'd needed to travel no farther than the Central Burying Ground on the Common. There, on a moonless night, with a team of fast diggers, he had his choice of paupers and papists and old soldiers. Whether rich or poor, a corpse was a corpse, and all brought the same coin. The anatomists did not care whether the flesh they cut was well fed or consumptive.
But the medical students had since spoiled that source, as well as most of the other nearby burying grounds, with their careless digging, their sloppy attempts at concealment. They showed up at cemeteries fueled with drink and bravado, and they left behind ruined graves and trampled earth, the evidence of desecration so blatant that even the paupers soon guarded their dead. Those damn students had ruined it for the professionals. Once, he could make a good living. But tonight, instead of a quick snatch, Jack was forced to drive on this endless back road, dreading the labors ahead. And all alone, too; with so few pickings these days, he was loath to pay a partner. No, tonight, he'd have to do it all by himself. He only hoped that any fresh grave he found was the work of diggers too lazy to bury their charge the full six feet.
There'd be no such shoddy grave for his body.
Wall-eyed Jack knew exactly how he'd be buried. He'd planned it well. Ten feet down, with an iron cage around him, and a watcher hired to guard him for thirty days. Long enough for his flesh to spoil. He had seen the work of the anatomists' knives. He'd been paid to dispose of the remains after they'd finished their hacking and sawing, and he had no desire to be reduced to a heap of severed limbs. No doctor would ever touch his body, he thought; already he was saving for his own burial, and he kept his treasure stashed in a box beneath the bedroom floor. Fanny knew what sort of grave he wanted, and he'd leave her enough to see it was done right, done proper.
If you had enough money, you could buy anything. Even protection from a man like Jack.
The low wall of the cemetery was ahead. He pulled his horse to a halt and paused in the road, scanning the shadows. The moon had fallen behind the horizon, and only stars lit the graveyard. He reached back for his shovel and lantern, and jumped off the dray. His boots crunched onto frost-heaved dirt. His legs were stiff from the long ride, and he felt clumsy as he scrambled over the stone wall, the lantern and shovel clanging together.