The Bone Garden: A Novel

— Why have you never shown me that letter? —

— You were too young. Only eleven. —

— I was old enough to understand. —

— It's long gone now. I burned it. But I can tell you what it said. I'm not good at reading, you know that. So I asked Mrs. Comfort to look at it, too, just to be sure I understood. — Isaac swallowed and looked straight at the lamp. — She said she couldn't be married to me any longer. She'd met a man, and they were leaving for Paris. Go on with your life. —

— There must have been more. —

— There was nothing more. Mrs. Comfort can tell you. —

— She explained nothing? She gave no details, not even his name? —

— I tell you, that's all she wrote. —

— Was there nothing about me? She must have said something! —

Isaac said, quietly: — That's why I never showed it to you, boy. I didn't want you to know. —

That his own mother hadn't even mentioned his name. Norris could not meet his father's gaze. Instead, he stared down at the scarred table, the table where he and Isaac had shared so many silent meals, listening only to the howl of the wind, the scrape of their forks against the plates. — Why now? — he asked. — Why did you wait all these years to tell me? —

— Because of her. — Isaac looked toward the upstairs bedroom, where Rose was sleeping. — She has her eye on you, boy, and you have your eye on her. You make a mistake now, and you'll live with it for the rest of your life. —

— Why do you assume she's a mistake? —

— Some men can't see it, even when it's staring them in the face. —

— Mother was your mistake? —

— And I was hers. I watched her grow up. For years, I'd see her in church, sitting there in her pretty hats, always friendly enough to me, but always beyond me, too. And then one day, it's as if she suddenly sees me. And decides I'm worth a second glance. — He reached for the jug and refilled his glass. — Eleven years later, she's trapped on this stinking farm with a sick boy. Of course it's easier to run away. Leave this behind and take up a fancy life with a new man. — He set down the jug, and his gaze lifted toward the bedroom where Rose was sleeping. — You can't take 'em at their word, that's all I'm telling you. The girl comes with a sweet enough face. But what does it hide? —

— You misjudge her. —

— I misjudged your mother. I only want to save you from the same heartache. —

— I love this girl. I plan to marry her. —

Isaac laughed. — I married for love, and see what came of it! — He lifted his glass, but his hand paused in midair. He turned and looked toward the door.

Someone was knocking.

They exchanged startled looks. It was deep into the night, not an hour for a neighborly visit. Frowning, Isaac picked up the lamp and went to open the door. The wind gusted in and the lamp almost went out as Isaac stood in the doorway, staring at whoever now faced him from his porch.

— Mr. Marshall? — a man said. — Is your son here? —

At the sound of that voice, Norris rose at once in alarm.

— What do you want with him? — asked Isaac. He suddenly stumbled backward as two men forced their way past him, into the kitchen.

— There you are, — said Mr. Pratt, spotting Norris.

— What is the meaning of this? — demanded Isaac.

Watchman Pratt nodded to his companion, who stepped behind Norris, as though to cut off his escape. — You're returning with us to Boston. —

— How dare you push your way into my home! — said Isaac. — Who are you? —

— The Night Watch. — Pratt's gaze remained on Norris. — The carriage is waiting, Mr. Marshall. —

— You're arresting my son? —

— For reasons he should already have explained to you. —

— I'm not going until you tell me the charges, — said Norris.

The man behind him shoved Norris so hard that he stumbled against the table. The jug of apple brandy toppled to the floor and shattered.

— Stop it! — cried Isaac. — Why are you doing this? —

— The charges are murder, — said Pratt. — The murders of Agnes Poole, Mary Robinson, Nathaniel Berry. And now, Mr. Eben Tate. —

— Tate? — Norris stared at him. Rose's brother-in-law murdered as well? — I know nothing about his death! I certainly did not kill him! —

— We have all the proof we need. It's now my duty to return you to Boston, where you will face trial. — Pratt nodded to the other Watchman. — Bring him. —

Norris was forced forward, and had just reached the doorway when he heard Rose cry out: — Norris? —

He turned and saw her panicked gaze. — Go to Dr. Grenville! Tell him what's happened! — he managed to shout just before he was shoved out the door and into the night.

His escorts forced him into the carriage, and Pratt signaled the driver with two hard raps on the roof. They rolled away and headed down the Belmont road toward Boston.

— Even your Dr. Grenville can't protect you now, — said Pratt. — Not against this evidence. —

— What evidence? —

— You can't guess? A certain item in your room? —

Norris shook his head, perplexed. — I have no idea what you're talking about. —

— The jar, Mr. Marshall. I'm amazed you'd keep such a thing. —

The other Watchman, sitting across from them, stared at Norris and muttered: — You're a sick bastard. —

— It's not every day one finds a human face sloshing about in a jar of whiskey, — said Pratt. — And in case there's any doubt left at all, we found your mask, as well. Still splattered with blood. Played it close to the edge with us, didn't you? Describing the same mask that you yourself wore? —

The mask of the West End Reaper, planted in my room?

— I'd say it's the gallows for you, — said Pratt.

The other Watchman gave a chuckle, as though he looked forward to a good hanging, just the sort of entertainment to enliven the dreary winter months. — And then your good doctor friends can have a go at you, — he added. Even in the gloom of the carriage, Norris could see the man run his finger down his chest, a gesture that needed no interpretation. Other dead bodies traveled secret and circuitous routes to the anatomist's table. They were dug from graves under cover of night, by resurrectionists who risked arrest with every nocturnal foray into the cemetery. But the bodies of executed criminals went directly to the autopsy table with the full approval of the law. For their crimes, the condemned paid not only with their lives, but with their mortal remains as well. Every prisoner who stood on the gallows knew that execution was not the final indignity; the anatomist's knife would follow.

Norris thought of old Paddy, the cadaver whose chest he had split open, whose dripping heart he had held in his hands. Who would hold Norris's heart? Whose apron would be spattered with his blood as his organs splashed into the bucket?

Through the carriage window, he saw moonlit fields, the same farms along the Belmont road that he always passed on his journeys into Boston. This would be the last time he saw them, his last view of the countryside he'd spent his boyhood trying to escape. He'd been a fool to believe that he ever could, and this was his punishment.

The road took them east from Belmont, and the farms became villages as they rolled ever closer to Boston. Now he could see the Charles River, glittering beneath moonlight, and he remembered the night he had walked along the embankment and stared across those waters, toward the prison. That night he had counted himself lucky compared with the miserable souls behind bars. Now he came to join them, and his only escape would be the hangman.