The Bone Garden: A Novel

Nineteen

EARLY IN THE EVENING, Wall-eyed Jack had already singled him out. The sailor sat alone at a table, talking to no one, his gaze fixed only on the rum that Fanny set before him. Three drinks was all he had money for. He downed the last drink, and as Fanny waited, he rummaged through his pockets for more coins, but came up empty-handed. Jack could see Fanny's lips tighten, her eyes narrow. She had no patience for freeloaders. As far as she was concerned, if a man took up space at a table and enjoyed the feeble warmth of her hearth, he had better be able to afford to keep the rum flowing. Either you paid for another round, or you moved on. Even though the Black Spar was better than half empty tonight, Fanny allowed no exceptions. She didn't distinguish between the long-term patrons and the blowins; if they had no cash, they got no drinks, and out into the cold with them. That was the problem, thought Jack, watching Fanny's face turn ugly. That was why the Black Spar was a failing enterprise. Walk a ways down the street, into that new tavern, the Mermaid, and you'd find a laughing young barmaid and a generous fire that would put to shame the stingy flames in Fanny's hearth.

You'd also find a crowd, many of them Fanny's old regulars who'd fled the Black Spar. And no wonder; given a choice between a cheery barmaid and Fanny's scowl, any man in his right mind would head for the Mermaid. Already, he knew what she'd do next. First, she'd demand that the hapless sailor buy another round. And when he could not, she'd start in with her harangue. You think that table's free? You think I can afford to let you sit here all night, taking a paying customer's place? As if a line of paying customers stood waiting for the table. I have the rent to pay and the tradesmen's bills. They don't work for free, and neither do I. He could see her jaw tighten, her stout arms flexing for battle.

Before she could speak, Jack caught her gaze. He gave her a warning shake of his head. Leave that one alone, Fanny.

She stared at Jack for a moment. Then, with a nod of comprehension, she went behind the bar and poured a glass of rum. She came back to the sailor's table and set the glass before him.

The drink did not last long. A few gulps and it was all down his throat.

Fanny set another drink before him. She did it silently, calling no attention to the man's bottomless glass. This was not a crowd that was likely to notice anyway. In the Spar, a wise man kept to himself and minded his own drink. No one counted the number of times Fanny whisked away an empty glass and replaced it with a full one. No one cared that the man began to slump forward, his head resting on his arms.

One by one, as their pockets emptied, the customers staggered out into the cold, until there was only one man left, the snoring seaman at the corner table.

Fanny crossed to the door, barred it shut, and turned to look at Jack.

— How much did you give him? — he asked.

— Enough to drown a horse. —

The seaman gave a great rattling snore.

— He's still plenty alive, — Jack said.

— Well, I can't very well pour it down his throat. —

They stared down at the sleeping man, watching drool spill from his lips in a long, slimy strand. Above the frayed coat collar, his neck was grimy with coal dust. A fat louse, swollen with blood, crawled through a tangled net of blond hair.

Jack gave the shoulder a nudge; the man snored on, unaware.

Fanny snorted. — You can't expect them all to keel over nice and easy. —

— He's a young one. Healthy looking. — Too healthy.

— I just poured him a fortune's worth of free liquor. I'll never get it back. —

Jack gave a harder shove. Slowly, the man tumbled out of the chair and thumped onto the floor. Jack stared at him for a moment, then bent down and rolled him onto his back. Damn it all. He was still breathing.

— I want my rum money out of this, — insisted Fanny.

— Then you do it. —

— I'm not strong enough. —

Jack looked at her arms, thick and muscular from hefting trays and barrels. Oh, she was strong enough to strangle a man, all right. She just didn't want the responsibility.

— Go ahead, then, — she insisted.

— I can't leave any marks on his neck. It'll raise questions. —

— All they want's a body. They don't care where it comes from. —

— But a man who's obviously been murdered— —

— Coward. —

— I'm just telling you, it has to look natural. —

— Then we'll make it look natural. — Fanny stared down at the man for a moment, her eyes narrowed. Oh, you never wanted a woman like Fanny to look at you that way. Jack wasn't afraid of many things, but he knew Fanny well enough to know that when she set her mind against you, you were doomed. — Wait here, — she said.

As if he was going anywhere.

He listened to her footsteps thumping up the stairs to their bedroom. A moment later she returned, carrying a threadbare cushion and a filthy rag. He understood at once what she had in mind, but even when she handed him the benign-looking instruments of death, he didn't move. He had dug up corpses with flesh falling off their bones. He had fished them out of the river, pried them out of coffins, shoved them into pickling barrels. But actually making a corpse was always a different matter. A hanging matter.

Still. Twenty dollars was twenty dollars, and who would miss this man?

He lowered himself onto creaking knees beside the drunken seaman and balled up the rag. The jaw had fallen slack, the tongue lolling to one side. He shoved the rag into the gaping mouth, and the man jerked his head and sucked in through his nostrils a whimpering breath. Jack lowered the cushion and pressed it over the mouth and nose. All at once the man came awake and clawed at the pillow, trying to tear it away, to breathe.

— Hold his arms! Hold his arms! — yelled Jack.

— I'm trying, damn it! —

The man bucked and twisted, boots pounding against the floor.

— I'm losing my grip! He won't lie still! —

— Then sit on him. —

— You sit on him! —

Fanny pulled up her skirts and planted her hefty bottom on the squirming man's hips. As he bucked and twisted, she rode him like a whore, her face red and sweating.

— He's still fighting, — said Jack.

— Don't let up the pillow. Press harder! —

Sheer terror had given the victim supernatural strength, and he clawed at Jack's arms, leaving bloody tracks with his nails. How long did it take a man to die, for pity's sake? Why couldn't he just surrender and save them all the trouble? A fingernail scraped across Jack's hand. With a roar of pain, Jack pressed down with all his weight, yet still the man fought him. Damn you, die!

Jack scrambled on top of the chest and sat on the ribs. Now they were both riding him, Fanny and Jack, she planted on his hips, Jack on his chest. Both of them were heavy, and their combined weight at last immobilized him. Only his feet were moving now, the heels of his boots battering the floor in a panicked tattoo. He was still clawing at Jack, but more feebly as the strength drained from his arms. Now the feet slowed their tempo, the boots flopping against the floor. Jack felt the chest give one last shudder beneath him, and then the arms went slack and slid away.

It was another moment before Jack dared to lift the pillow. He stared down at the mottled face, the skin imprinted by the pressure of coarse fabric. He pulled the rag, now soaked with saliva, from the man's mouth and tossed it aside. It landed with a wet thump.

— Well, that's done, — said Fanny. She rose, panting, her hair in disarray.

— We need to strip him. —

They worked together, peeling away the coat and shirt, the boots and trousers, all of it too worn and filthy to keep. No sense running the risk of being caught with a dead man's possessions. Still, Fanny searched the pockets and gave a grunt of outrage when she came up with a handful of coins.

— Look! He had money after all! Took all my free drinks and didn't say a word! — She turned and flung the man's clothes into the fireplace. — If he wasn't already dead, I'd— —

There was a knock on the door, and they both froze. Looked at each other.

— Don't answer it, — whispered Jack.

Another knock, louder and more insistent. — I want a drink! — a slurred voice called out. — Open up! —

Fanny yelled through the door: — We're closed for the night! —

— How can you be closed? —

— I'm tellin' you we are. Go someplace else! —

They heard the man give the door one last angry thump of his fist, and then his curses faded away as he headed up the street, no doubt toward the Mermaid.

— Let's get 'im in the wagon, — said Jack. He grabbed the naked man under the arms, startled by the unfamiliar heat of a newly dead corpse. The cold night would remedy that quick enough. Already, the lice were abandoning their host, swarming from the scalp and weaving their way through tangled hair. As he and Fanny hauled the body through the back room, Jack saw ravenous black dots leaping onto his arms, and he resisted the impulse to drop the corpse right then and there and slap away the insects.

Outside, in the stable yard, they swung the body into the dray and left it there, uncovered in the cold, as Jack harnessed the horse. Wouldn't do to deliver too warm a corpse. Though it probably wouldn't make a difference, as Dr. Sewall had never been one to ask questions.

Nor did he ask them this time. After Jack dropped the body onto Sewall's table, he stood by nervously as the anatomist peeled back the tarp. For a moment Sewall said nothing, though he must have registered the extraordinary freshness of this specimen. Holding a lamp close, he inspected the skin, tested the joints, peered into the mouth. No bruises, Jack thought. No wounds. Just some poor unfortunate sot he'd found collapsed dead on the street. That was the story. Then he noticed, with a flash of alarm, the louse crawling across the chest. Lice did not cling long to the dead, yet this body was still infested with them. Does he see it? Does he know?

Dr. Sewall set down the lamp and left the room. It seemed to Jack that he was gone a long time— far too long. Then Sewall returned, holding a bag of coins.

— Thirty dollars, — he said. — Can you bring me more like this? —

Thirty? This was better than Jack had expected. He took the bag with a smile.

— As many as you can find, — said Sewall. — I've got buyers. —

— Then I'll find more. —

— What happened to your hands? — Sewall was looking at the angry claw marks the dead man had left on Jack's flesh. At once Jack pulled his hands back, into the folds of his coat. — Drowned a cat. He didn't much appreciate it. —

The bag of coins made a pleasant jingle in Jack's pocket as he steered the now empty dray over the cobblestones. What was a few scratches on the hand when you could walk away with thirty dollars? It was more than any other specimen had brought him. Visions of sacks bulging with coins shimmered in his head all the way home. The only problem was the clientele of the Black Spar; there simply weren't enough of them, and if he kept this up, there'd soon be none at all. It was that damn Fanny's fault, driving them away with her foul temper and stingy drinks. That had to be remedied at once. They'd start by showing a bit more generosity. No more watering down the rum, and maybe a bit of free food.

No, the food was a bad idea. It would only take longer to get them drunk. Better just to let the rum flow. What he had to do now was convince Fanny, which was no easy feat. But wave this sack of coins in front of her greedy face, and she'd see the light.

He rounded the corner into the narrow alley that led to his stable yard gate. Suddenly he yanked on the reins, drawing the horse to a stop.

A black-caped figure stood before him, silhouetted against the ice-slick gleam of cobblestones.

Jack squinted to make out a face. The features were shadowed by the hood, and as the figure approached, all he could see was the pale gleam of teeth.

— You've been busy tonight, Mr. Burke. —

— I don't know what you mean. —

— The fresher they are, the more they fetch. —

Jack felt the blood freeze in his veins. We were watched. He sat still, heart thumping, his hands clutching the reins. It only takes this one witness, and I'll swing from the gallows.

— Your wife has let it be known that you seek easier ways to make a living. —

Fanny? What the hell had she gotten him into now? Jack could almost imagine he saw the creature smile, and he shuddered. — What do you want? —

— A small service, Mr. Burke. I want you to find someone. —

— Who? —

— A girl. Her name is Rose Connolly. —