River of Bones Read online

  I opened the door and saw…nothing.

  Zach stepped around me and moved the lid of the privy seat aside. I pushed the door open farther to let more light in.

  ‘There you are.’ Zach stuck his arms into the privy and lifted a dishevelled and terrified scrap of a boy out. ‘You’re lucky no one’s used this thing for years.’

  ‘I thought it was all filled up with soil?’

  ‘Still enough space for a small boy to squeeze in, it seems.’ The child clung to Zach like a barnacle, his face tucked firmly against the grown man’s throat.

  Unspeaking, we returned to the table. Klara spread butter on a slice of bread and plopped it on the boy’s plate. Margery cut thick slices of salami and pushed them over to him. He stuffed the food into his mouth with dirty fingers, streaks of old tears smudging his face. After the third sandwich was devoured, I tapped my knuckles on the table. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

  He made a tentative gesture at Klara’s cheek.

  ‘Did you apologise to her?’

  His chin trembled and his gaze was darting around the table. Zach made an effort to appear busy with a smattering of breadcrumbs on the tablecloth, and Margery meticulously arranged her butter knife parallel to her plate.

  Abruptly, the boy grasped Klara’s hand and shook it.

  ‘It’s all right. It doesn’t hurt anymore,’ she squeaked.

  I nearly choked on my own spittle. Up until that day, the rare one-word sentence was all she’d ever said. Zach and Margery were frozen in mid-movement. I scrambled to find words.

  Klara poked a finger at the boy. ‘We said no hiding in the privy. It’s gross! People pooped in it.’

  My cheeks were aching. A chuckle burst from my mouth, and within a heartbeat, we were holding our bellies with laughter.

  ‘Well, I’m glad no one’s pooped in it for a decade or so.’ Zach wiped his eyes. ‘And you, young man, will take a bath now.’

  * * *

  Later, Klara read to the boy, whose gaze bounced between her mouth and the letters on the page. Suddenly, she stopped and asked his name.

  He clenched his jaw and shook his head.

  ‘But I want to know!’

  His eyes narrowed as he thrust his chin toward the book in her lap. He tapped the pages, demanding that she keep reading.

  ‘Mama?’

  ‘I wish you could tell us your name,’ I said to the boy.

  He shook his head, flopping his wet hair. Margery had made him bathe twice that day. She’d combed his head for lice, and made sure his infected skin was covered from head to toe with an unguent I’d prepared.

  I hated that we kept calling him the boy. Grasping at straws, I said the first thing that came to my mind, ‘You could pick a name for the time being. Like the heroes of old. They got to pick their own names, too.’

  He squinted at my mouth. His expression brightened a little.

  ‘You don’t need to know your letters. Just point at pictures,’ I continued as goose bumps flitted over my skin. ‘Björn is the bear. Arne is the eagle and Eikar the oak. Take your time and choose well. A name has power.’

  * * *

  Zach had managed to fix my bicycle, so I was again enjoying the freedom it offered. After spending part of the morning at Ward Six, I rode to the morgue to inquire about results of the examination of the bones. The mortician informed me that none of the medical examiners was present and that a preliminary report had been sent to the detective investigating the case. Mr Fournier pinched his walrus moustache. ‘But if you wish to speak to the microscopist, you’ll find him in the laboratory.’

  ‘I love microscopes!’ I blurted.

  Mr Fournier puffed up his cheeks and showed the way.

  The microscopist was a hovering over his instrument like a heron over a frog. A small, bright electrical lamp served as the only light source, casting long shadows into the gloom. He merely grunted when we entered the small room. His eyes and left hand kept going to and fro between the microscope and a notebook.

  ‘It might take a while,’ Fournier whispered in my ear, and left.

  I watched as drawing after drawing blossomed on the pages of his notebook, his short hair growing more and more disorderly with each absentminded scratching of pencil against scalp. On his workbench lay a flat white stone. A small shape was drawn on it. Intrigued, I picked it up. No, nothing had been drawn on it. It had been fashioned. ‘A caddisfly larva,’ I muttered.

  The chair screeched on the floor, as the man jerked back. ‘Godalmighty, you gave me a heart attack.’ Rubbing his chest, he glared at me.

  ‘My apologies. Dr Elizabeth Arlington is my name. I’m assisting Inspector McCurley. Are you looking at samples from the Mystic River man?’

  ‘Who is that Inspector…’ He twirled a hand in the air. ‘…McCurley?’

  ‘The detective leading the case.’

  ‘Oh.’ He picked up his notebook, held it close to his face and leafed through the pages. ‘Ah. Yes. Inspector Quinn McCurley. Leading Detective. Short. Blue eyes. Moustache. Prominent scar on right side of face. Grumpy.’ When he looked back up, I noticed that the eyepieces of his microscope had left imprints around his eyes. I swallowed a laugh.

  ‘My brain has no room for names. What was yours again? Mine is Allston. Actually, Dr Allston, but the PhD certificate looks like someone smeared ink on toilet paper. So Allston will suffice.’ He wiped his hand on his trousers and thrust it out to me.

  ‘Elizabeth Arlington. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Are you? Strange. What was it that you wanted? I’m rather busy.’ He moved both hands back to the microscope, half turning away, ready to dismiss me.

  I pinched my lips together to hide a grin. ‘I used to own a Zeiss a few years back. The stacked lenses produced a clarity and sharpness I’ve yet to see elsewhere.’

  He blinked at me. Then at his microscope. With a small cough, he offered me his chair. I sat down and looked through the two eyepieces. ‘Lung tissue. HE stained?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. I’ve always thought of it as an art. Preparing and staining tissues and cells for microscopy, I mean.’ He did not reply, and I took my time scanning the lung tissue sections shining brilliantly in shades of red and blue. ‘Looks healthy. What about the liver? Were glycogen and glucose present?

  ‘Of course.’ His clothes rustled as he shifted and leant back against the wall behind him.

  ‘The man died on the spot. Had a pretty big hole in his head, after all.’ I pushed back from the microscope and looked at Dr Allston. ‘You catalogued the insect developmental stages, I heard. Did you find anything interesting?’

  Here, he lit up. Even his disorderly hair seemed to stand up with glee. ‘This time of year, the eggs of houseflies and blowflies are deposited in open wounds and soft parts like mouth and eyes within minutes. Then come the Sacrophaga — flesh flies. Excellent parents, all of them, if you ask me. Better than some humans. Flies secure optimum conditions and sufficient nutrition for their offspring for far longer than they need for their development. Certain beetle and moth species are still happy to gnaw on the fibrous leftovers months later. Er… What was your question again?’

  ‘If you found anything—’

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember now. I found the usual suspects. Nothing that would help pinpoint where he died or where his body was kept until someone dumped it by the river. But!’ He held up a finger, then pointed it to the flat white pebble I’d held in my hand earlier. ‘There were several of those in his pockets. For whatever reasons. He must have picked them up by the river because on three of the stones I found partial tubes of caddisfly larvae. Polycentropodidae to be precise.’

  I brushed my finger over the pebble in his hand. ‘He was skipping stones.’

  ‘Skipping stones? Why would anyone do that?’

  * * *

  The officer at the receiving desk informed me that Inspector McCurley was not available. I left him a message, asking for a meeting at my home when convenient.

  Margery was pickling cucumbers when I returned. The boy cut onions and Klara ground mustard seeds in a mortar. She was giggling when I entered the kitchen. ‘Arthur makes the onions naked!’

  Margery groaned and rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘God’s nightgown.’

  It seemed as if, once Klara started speaking in whole sentences, the floodgates stood open. She placed the pestle aside and ran loops around the kitchen table, singing ‘Arthur makes the onions go naked!’ Every time she passed by him, she slapped him on the bum. He was grinning.

  ‘You chose a good name,’ I said when he caught my gaze.

  He pointed at Klara.

  ‘She picked your name?’

  A nod and a smile.

  ‘You want to keep it?’

  The smile broadened.

  ‘King Arthur.’ I produced a bow. ‘I brought you something. But please, finish disrobing the onions first.’

  He squinted at my mouth. Perhaps he didn’t know the word disrobing.

  ‘Make the onions naked, Arthur,’ I added with a grin.

  Klara ran another couple of rounds, squeaking her song, and Margery huffed yet another ‘God’s nightgown’ toward the ceiling.

  * * *

  A little while later, Arthur and I sat on the steps of the porch. I pulled the white stone from my pocket and held it in my palm for him to see. He gulped and produced a shocked hiccup.

  ‘You know this?’

  He nodded.

  I made a sweeping gesture with my arm. ‘Did he make the stones dance over the water?’

  Another small nod.

  ‘You liked him, didn’t you?’

  His nostrils flared. Silver was pooling in his eyes. Sniffing, he looked out into the garden. I waited, l
istening to the birds, saddened that he’d never hear them.

  Finally, he gave me a nod.

  ‘Inspector McCurley and I are trying to find out what happened to him. Can you help us?’

  His gaze darted away. Again, I waited until his chin dipped. I touched my elbow to his side. ‘Thank you. I will ask you a few questions. Let me know when you don’t understand or if you want to take a break.’

  He seemed to age in a heartbeat.

  ‘Did he tell you his name?’

  He opened his mouth and formed a word that I couldn’t make out. Why did no one deem it necessary to teach him sign language?

  ‘Another question, then. Did you see how he died?’

  A nod. And a dark flicker in his eyes.

  ‘Did he jump?’

  He shook his head no.

  ‘Fall?’

  A pause. Again he shook his head. He lifted both hands, index and middle fingers pointed down, miming two persons running. One followed by the other. Climbing steps of a stair or a ladder. Bumping into one another. One falling. One staying behind.

  He dropped his hands in his lap and curled them to fists. I reached out, but he scooted away from me. This was so hard. So many questions and so few ways to ask and answer them.

  Sighing, I knelt in front of him and told him that I was sorry. I asked if he’d like to tell me more, or if he’d rather ask Klara to read a chapter of King Author’s story to him. He put his palms together, then slowly opened them. I want to read.

  * * *

  I found Margery in the kitchen and asked if anyone had answered the job advertisement I’d put in the papers the previous day.

  ‘Two men called. Zachary didn’t like them. And then there was a governess who insisted on living here. I didn’t like her.’

  ‘Hum. If we can’t find a tutor, we have to send the boy back to the school for deaf children. And I doubt that’s a good idea. One of the teachers brought him to the police stations for…well, crying.’

  ‘Any muffins left?’ Zach rumbled through the door. Margery pointed him to the bread basket. ‘Don’t worry, Liz,’ he mumbled through his full mouth. ‘They’ll come. It’s still more than an hour to dinner time.’

  A dishtowel smacked against Zach’s behind. ‘You always think in mealtimes!’ Margery hissed.

  He grinned. ‘Because I’m married to someone who—‘

  The bell rang.

  ‘…wields magic in the kitchen,’ Zach muttered after Margery, who had already left the kitchen to get the door.

  ‘That’ll be the next applicant for the tutor job,’ he said, at the same moment I said, ‘That’ll be Inspector McCurley.’

  But instead, a tall, handsome man stepped into the kitchen.

  7

  His wavy black hair was longer than the last time I’d seen him. The set of his shoulders was stiff, as was his gait. He looked a bit frayed around the edges, and I wondered if he was still suffering repercussions from the stunt he’d pulled three months before.

  ‘Warren, it’s…good to see you.’ I was too surprised by his unexpected visit to know what to say.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Yes, it has. Shall we go to the—’

  ‘Sitting room. I’ll bring tea,’ Margery interrupted. I shot her an irritated glance. She’d been in a strangely pushy mood since Arthur had moved in with us.

  I motioned for Warren to go ahead. Too tall for the doorway, he had to stoop a little as he entered the sitting room. He found an armchair and folded himself onto it, then scanned my face. ‘You never came. Not once. Why?’

  I perched on the armrest of the couch, regarding him quizzically. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘The Freaks’ nights. Was it…’ Frowning, he drew a thumb across his brow. ‘Was it so easy to forget us?’

  ‘You thought I would go back to normal in a matter of days?’

  He shrugged. Then shook his head. An undecided gesture. He hadn’t thought it all through, what he would say to me that first time when we first met again.

  ‘How is everyone?’ I asked.

  He stood and walked over to the bay window, drew the curtain aside and propped a foot on the low sill, his back to me. ‘Well… Uriel’s wife has filed for divorce. Naturally, Jerome is getting his hopes up. Doesn’t help to tell him Uriel is not into buggery. Hattie is about to pop, but you know that. And Father threw me out of my townhouse and cut my allowance to a fraction of what it was. It’s a pittance, really.’ Over his shoulder, he levelled a stare at me. ‘It’s all been quite the catastrophe.’

  I grew cold. ‘You came here to blame me?’

  He reared back, his shoulder nearly colliding with the window pane. ‘Of course not. I blame myself. After all, I was the one who drew your portraits and lost them. My fault the Railway Strangler got his hands on them. You nearly died, for Christ’s sake! You had to go through all this, and I…and I lied to you. I’m a bastard.’ He turned away once more and stared out into the garden. After a long beat of silence, he swivelled his pale blue gaze back at me. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘I am. Thank you. But how about you?’

  He groaned. ‘Enough of the small talk already. Come back to us. The Freaks miss you. I miss you.’

  I dropped my eyes to the rug. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. Uriel’s wife blames me for what happened.’

  ‘I hate to say it, but… She’s planning to take you to court for libel and manslaughter.’

  My heart leapt into my throat. ‘Is she mad?’

  ‘Probably. She still believes that you and Uriel were having an affair, that you somehow manipulated the Railway Strangler case so that her brother would be implicated, and then you made sure he would come to your house so Inspector McCurley could shoot him dead.’

  My brain felt hollow. ‘W-what?’

  ‘She believes the evidence against her brother was fabricated. By you.’

  ‘Does it run in the family? The madness? Her brother blamed me for breaking his nose years ago. Can you imagine that? I never even met the man before he tried to strangle me.’ That last bit was not entirely true. I probably had met him briefly at Harvard Medical School, and then forgot his name and face. I’d been masquerading as a man back then, and had never expected any of my old colleagues to recognise me.

  But Warren didn’t need to know any of that. It was far too complicated and dangerous to explain. ‘He hated me for simply existing! I can’t even… I don’t understand why he killed those women. Why he tried to kill me. He seemed…unstable. Out of his mind. If it’s true what you’re saying, his sister seems to be cultivating the same trait.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s true.’ Warren slumped back into his chair, stretched out his long legs, put his head in his neck, and shut his eyes. ‘You know, we…the Freaks, we… We nearly fell apart after that. Haywood destroyed a marriage, tested friendships. If he weren’t dead, I would punch his balls bloody.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Come back to us, Liz. It’s only Uriel’s stupid wife who blames you. Everyone else blames me. Rightfully so.’

  ‘You didn’t kill anyone, Warren. And…I’m not sure I’m ready. It’s been a hard time. But I promise you, I will join you again soon.’

  He frowned. ‘I can hear another but coming.

  I dipped my head. ‘I’m pretty busy right now. We’ve taken in a young boy, and I’m investigating a…crime.’ History was repeating itself. I couldn’t help but grin.

  ‘Again? Wasn’t the last attempt horrible enough?’

  I was taken aback. ‘What do you mean by attempt? I led the Railway Stranger into a trap. If he hadn’t tried so hard to kill me and escape, he would have been arrested, not shot dead. And what precisely are you trying to tell me anyway?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you to take better care of yourself.’

  ‘Your chivalry is misplaced.’

  His shoulders sagged, and he began worrying his lower lip with his teeth. ‘I came here to apologise for lying to you, and for pretending…’ He motioned at his face. ‘For pretending to be shot. For pretending the Railway Strangler did it. And I w-w-wanted to let you kn-n-ow that I meant what I said when I kissed you.’

  Admitting this was costing Warren. The stutter he’d been fighting since childhood was peeking through. I was about to reply when the doorbell rang. Again. I flicked my gaze toward the corridor, listening for Margery to clonk the kettle against the range and stomp to the door.