19
Molly Green?”
As the carriage rattled into the drive, a figure stepped into the lantern’s flickering light. Tom stiffened beside her.
“Your aunt has told me so much about you.” It was Dr. Francis LaValle. He wore dress pants of an emerald green, with a vest to match. A dark-blue jacket, its lapels made of the finest silk, completed the ensemble. “I was hoping we might get to know each other a little better.”
Molly felt Tom’s hand land lightly on her arm. “You all right?” His voice was low.
“I’ll be fine.” She let herself down and nodded for him to leave. He waited several seconds, pinning the doctor with his amber stare, unblinking, before obeying. The wagon rattled away into the dark.
“Dr. LaValle.” Molly curtsied, for once remembering her manners.
He laughed. “I see your aunt has trained you well.”
The smoke from his pipe curled lazily about his head, escaping into the night sky. The moon was a crescent, staring at them like a corpse’s barely open eye.
He studied her, and she wondered how they’d managed to avoid one another for the more than two weeks she’d been at Ava’s. Though he did not live with them, the doctor held his classes in the church most days. Despite her aunt’s original insistence that Molly would also help prepare and clean the bodies, she had yet to be summoned back to the cellar. Molly wondered now if this had been intentional.
The girl’s dangerous . . .
She remembered the tightness of Ava’s response. Molly had not heard that same note of tension in her aunt’s voice since. What kind of man, she wondered, did it take to put it there? And why?
“I’m sorry we haven’t seen more of each other.” The doctor lifted a polished boot and tapped the ashes from his pipe with its sole. “I have been extraordinarily . . . busy.” He tucked the pipe into his jacket. “I was hoping tonight we might spend some time together. Would you care to accompany me to dinner?”
“At this hour?”
He grinned. “There are places open if one knows where to look.”
Molly’s pulse quickened. “Will my aunt be joining us?”
“Ah.” The doctor’s face pulled into a frown. “I’m afraid not. Ava is feeling rather unwell.”
She did not know how to say no. “Of course. Let me just change.” She looked at her dirtied dress. It was an informal brown cotton, completely inappropriate for dining.
“Not at all,” the doctor said. “You look absolutely perfect.” He reached up, as if to touch her face. She flinched.
He pulled away. “You seem to have a small wound.”
She’d forgotten about the scrape since Tom had so gently wiped the blood away. Molly moved to dab the cut, but the doctor caught her hand. “Allow me.” Pulling a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, he handed it to her. She felt his eyes on her as she pressed it against the injury.
“There.” He smiled. “As perfect as one of Mount’s maidens.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Whatever kind of man he was, her aunt depended on him for her livelihood. They both did. Swallowing her unease, Molly took it.
LaValle summoned a cab, and together they drove the few blocks to one of the city’s better restaurants, Parkinson’s.
“Did you know,” the doctor said, helping her down, “this place was pitted against New York’s finest in a dinner competition and we Philadelphians came away with the award?” He smiled again, but his eyes were lost in the shadows. “Rumor is, the meal started at six o’clock and did not finish until sunrise the next day. There were four courses of dessert. It even had an Indian temple and a Moorish fountain.”
“How fascinating,” Molly said. Her nerves hummed, making her feel light-headed.
A doorman bowed, turning a gilded handle and opening wide a large glass door to the restaurant.
Sparkling couples, each more exquisitely dressed than the last, were seated at beautifully lit tables. Molly flinched, looking again at her dress.
“Perhaps a change in clothes would be in order after all.” The doctor clapped his hands, and Molly was immediately led away to a small dressing room, where a gown awaited her. She felt gooseflesh rise on her arm. He seemed to have planned this evening down to the smallest detail.
The new dress’s bodice was shockingly tight, the red silk fitting her like paint and dipping to reveal her breastbone. She emerged feeling naked, not to mention conspicuous, the cumbersome skirts rustling so loudly she felt people turning to stare.
“Very nice,” LaValle said as his eyes skimmed her body.
A waiter seated them at a table in the corner and immediately presented them with glasses full of red wine.
“Ah!” said the doctor. “Madeira.” He clicked his fingers, and the waiter reappeared, bottle in hand. He showed the doctor the label. “Fifty years. Not bad.”
Molly took a sip, and the sugary drink laced the back of her throat in a sticky trail. The doctor, it seemed, did not save his sweets for dessert.
Courses began to arrive rapidly, one after the other. Oysters, green turtle soup, canvasback duck. Molly could hardly eat any of it.
Though the dishes were beautifully presented, she found the food itself dry and unseasoned. Whether this was because she didn’t want to be there or the fault of the cuisine itself, it was hard to say.
“How are you doing in your new profession?” A large, bloody steak arrived, and the doctor snapped his fingers again, then waited, watching, as the waiter cut it for him.
“It’s fine,” Molly said. “I’m grateful to have the opportunity.”
The doctor laughed. “Ava told me you were smart. But you don’t have to kowtow to me, my dear. Tell me how you’re really getting along.”
She loosened a bit, the wine and the doctor’s seemingly genuine interest in her putting her somewhat at ease. “I’m growing used to it.”
“Yes, well. I suppose that’s the best that can be expected for right now. Though I do hope you come to enjoy it.”
“Why does my aunt need you?” The question was out of Molly’s mouth before she could stop it.
“Pardon?” A cloud shifted across the doctor’s face.
“She says you rent the church and material from her.” Molly hesitated, thinking of Tom’s disclosure that Ava sold corpses not just in Philadelphia but across the nation. “Surely, my aunt could make enough money selling elsewhere so that she wouldn’t have to put herself at the risk of having you conduct your lectures at her home.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Ava and I share in the export business.” Molly heard something like amusement in his voice. “I trust you don’t think your aunt could manage such a large endeavor alone?”
“I suspect she could,” Molly said, heart hammering at her boldness.
The doctor laughed. “Ava is a very special woman. But the fact remains she needs me, and I, her. We each fulfill our roles.”
Molly let it go. Trying to get information out of this man made as much sense as asking a dead man his name.
At the end of their meal, a large dessert was set between them. A three-tiered cake covered with caramel sauce.
Molly placed a small bite in her mouth, but the sugar was so cloying she had to spit it covertly into her napkin.
The doctor grinned. “We’re still catching up on our cuisine in America, I’m afraid. Most food is a dreadful imitation of the French. Thankfully, our anatomy schools are now second to none.” He finished his drink and gestured to the waiter. “Or will be. Soon.”
Molly just wanted the meal to be over. She didn’t dislike the man, but she didn’t like him either. He made her uncomfortable, his eyes crawling over her bare skin like a snake.
“Now. Let us get down to business. If your aunt insists on your working for us, I want to be sure for myself that you can handle all of our work’s necessary unpleasantness. That I can trust you.”
“What do you mean?” Molly sat back, surprised. “I can assure you I’ve done everything she’s asked. It’s been hard at times, but I’ve never left a body—never.”
She’d whispered the last sentence, her voice dropping so that it was barely audible on the word body.
“Of course not.” The doctor smiled kindly.
“What more do you need me to do?” Molly asked.
“Your aunt may have told you that we sometimes deal in anomalies.”
“Yes. I was at your lecture the other night.”
He looked intrigued. “Were you? How delightful. But I don’t mean that.” He waved his hand as if sweeping away the idea. “No.” He leaned closer. “I mean miracles. Real ones.”
Miracles. The same word James had used.
“You mean people,” Molly said, thinking of Kitty.
His eyes danced in the candlelight. “Special ones, yes. They hold the link to everything we are . . . everything we could be.”
“And they’re worth more,” Molly dared to say.
Dr. LaValle grinned. “They’re worth everything.”
Her heart sped. “There’s a man . . . the Tooth Fairy. I’ve heard he collects things like that too. Sells them.”
LaValle’s expression darkened. “Stay away from him.”
“Is he the Knifeman?”
LaValle studied her, then his eyes darted away. “He’s dangerous. That’s all you need to know.”
She realized he had neatly evaded her question.
The doctor took another sip of his newly filled glass, then leaned forward suddenly, a threatening lilt in his voice. “What exactly has your aunt told you?”
Molly stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Their waiter started forward with a carafe of coffee, but the doctor motioned him away impatiently. He searched for something in her face, eyes running over every inch of it.
Molly did not look away.
Finally, wiping his hand across his mouth, he sat back, slamming the empty wineglass down on the table.
“Nothing. I only wanted you to know that there will be oddities coming your way. Be ready to collect them.”
“Of course.” She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort.
The doctor raised his hand and the poor waiter hurried over. “We’re finished here.”
The waiter nodded, scurrying away to retrieve their coats.
But before Molly could stand, LaValle reached across the table and grabbed her hand. In the candlelight, the jagged cut on her palm from Kitty’s grave was on full display, the healing skin, where the scab had peeled, puckered and ugly. Coming straight from work, she had not had time to put on Ginny’s gloves. But rather than seeming disgusted, LaValle examined her palm as if studying a particularly interesting specimen.
“You know, my dear,” he said, turning her hand over in his own and tracing a finger up the torn flesh. “I quite wonder what you’re capable of.”
The rest of the week passed in a blur. Molly taught herself how to play chess, from one of the library’s books, and alternated her time between studying anatomy drawings, stealing bodies, and moving the tiny gold skeletons back and forth across the board of Ava’s unusual chess set. On Saturday morning, a note waited for her, pinned to her breakfast tray.
Thank you for the lovely evening. I wait with great anticipation for the next.
In the meantime, I humbly beg a very small favor . . .
Please collect a special delivery for me. You may find it at the lovely establishment at which we dined. It is being kept for you in the ice chest.
Wear the dress.
Warm regards,
Dr. Francis LaValle
Rather than reading the anatomy books for pleasure, she now found herself seeking all the horrible ailments that a person might suffer and then imagining them decomposing in a freezer. By the time Tom came for her, she was nearly as tense as she’d been on her first night.
It did not help that he’d worn a new white shirt with the button sleeves rolled up along his sinewy arms, which revealed a smattering of freckles across the skin. She did not know why, but she found those freckles exceedingly distracting.
“Figured I wouldn’t be doing much in the way of digging tonight,” he explained, seeing her stare. She thought for a minute that she saw him blush, but she must have been imagining it.
Tom Donaghue never blushed.
“Place like that won’t even let me in the front door.”
“You look nice,” Molly said. She’d worn Ma’s old coat for comfort, wrapping it tightly around her, hoping Tom would not notice what was beneath.
The restaurant began its dinner service at six o’clock, and so when Tom helped her into the wagon, the sun was still hanging on by its last thread of life, bloody rays clinging to the sky.
“Is this where the doctor took you the other night?” Tom asked.
Molly nodded.
“Some women find him quite attractive, I hear.”
Molly was so startled she did not know how to respond. “He’s nearly twice my age.”
“A lot of girls wouldn’t mind about that. He’s still a bachelor, and I’m told he does very well for himself.”
Molly laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “He’s my employer. Same as yours. Nothing more.”
For the first time that night, a grin broke across Tom’s face. In his white shirt, he looked more like a carefree boy than she’d ever seen him. His scarred face was turned away from her, so that in that instant she saw his face as it had once been, before whatever had happened to him.
“The other night,” she began, hesitant.
He stayed silent.
She waited. Perhaps she shouldn’t push. If he wanted to tell her the rest of it, he would do so in his own time.
“You want to know what happened to me,” he said finally. “My scar.” He looked at her fully, and there he was again, that dangerous beauty melded with innocence. Because he was beautiful. She had not fully realized this before. He’d only ever been her partner. But in another light, in another life, he would have been as handsome and well-groomed as James Chambers.
“It’s going to be a bad night.” Tom lifted his gaze to the overcast sky, the sun almost completely gone. “They say there could be more snow before morning.”
She thought he’d leave it there. But then he spoke.
“She was only eight when she died.” He stared straight ahead, guiding the carriage through the darkening streets. “I was thirteen. Old enough to have known better.”
“Your sister?”
He nodded. “Bridget.”
There was so much bound up in that single word it hurt to hear it spoken. The name broke open from him like a wound. She thought of Tom lying down, body pressed against the ground, staring at the dark sky, and imagining he was dead.
“What was she like?” Molly asked softly.
He smiled, and some of the pain lifted. “Ah, she was a wild one.” He gave a whistle as one of the horses pulled too close to a curb. “Reminds me some of you.”
“Me?” Molly said, surprised. “I’m the most boring person you ever met.”
Tom laughed. “You? Boring?” He turned to look at her. “Molly Green, you’re many things, but never boring.” His voice was low. “How many other girls do you know go digging dead bodies for a living?”
“That’s just because I have to,” Molly said.
“Nah. You bring those books along with you too.”
She stared.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Always poking your head into something or talking about the way brains work. And you care more about how the folks we take the bodies from feel than any other grave robber out there, I’ll guarantee you that. You’re clever and you’re brave, and you’re kind. Those things don’t usually go together.”
Molly looked away, ears burning. She’d never thought of herself as anything near to that, and it astonished her that Tom did.
“Bridget was like that. Remarkably smart, just like you. Used to tell me and my brothers and sisters stories every night that would leave us hanging off our seats. Even me, and I was five years older than her.” He shook his head, grinning. “And not flowery stuff, neither. I remember one time she had a pirate fighting an eight-legged creature from the deep, and the only way to defeat him was to climb down his throat and pluck out his heart.”
Molly smiled. “Now, there’s something I’d be interested to see—an octopus’s heart. They have three of them, you know. I saw it in an anatomy book.”
Tom grinned again. “That’s just what I mean.”
He pulled the wagon to a stop outside the restaurant. The dinner crowds were only just beginning to come. “You sure you’re all right to do this on your own?”
Molly wanted to sit with him in the wagon longer. To hear him tell her about Bridget. About herself. Instead, she ran through the list of horrible diseases again, wondering just how bad what awaited her inside would be.
“I think so.”
“If you need me, I’m here.”
Tom came around and helped her carefully down from the wagon. “Thank you,” she said.
Tom looked surprised. “For what?”
“For telling me about Bridget.”
He looked away. He’d never said what happened. To his sister or himself. But he was thinking it. Whatever it was. He was finishing the story for himself now, and she could tell by his face it was a painful one.
“Go on, now,” he said, voice gruff. “I’ll be waiting.”
The waiters were just setting up service, and only two tables were occupied, both by portly businessmen who hardly looked up when Molly entered. She saw the man who’d waited on her the other night and made her way to him. He did not look pleased to see her.
“May I take your coat?”
Molly looked sheepishly at its tattered wool. But she didn’t want anyone staring at her in that dress. “No, I . . .”
The man took her arm. “Let’s get you in the back before everyone else sees you. I suppose I know what you’re here for.”
It was astounding, Molly thought, how differently a man thought he could speak to a woman when she was alone. She yanked her arm away. “I can walk myself, thank you very much.”
Grumbling, the man led her back to the kitchen.
The heat was intense. Steam rose from large bubbling pots while cooks stirred and seasoned, sliding past one another in the cramped quarters. The space smelled intensely of rosemary. The waiter led her toward a large ice chest in the corner, steel doors leading up to the ceiling. “Wait here.”
He disappeared inside and returned with a wax-wrapped package, no bigger than a baby doll. Molly’s heart lurched. “What is it?”
The waiter shrugged. “None of my concern. The doctor said you’d be by for this is all. Here.” He shoved it at her, and she took the frozen bundle in her arms. “Now get out.”
She made her way past the restaurant patrons, the disconcertingly small shape of the thing in her hands playing tricks with her mind.
It was far too little to be an adult.
When she emerged, Tom drove the wagon to a secluded spot nearby, where traffic was less.
“We have to look.”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t want to.”
“We have to, Molly. Someone could have stuck a side of beef in there, and we’d be no wiser, the doctor’s money lost. We have to check what it is.”
He reached for it, but Molly stopped him. “I’ll do it. It’s my package, after all.”
After hesitating, Tom finally sat back, crossing his arms.
Molly lifted the package, hands trembling. The smell of rosemary clung to the paper. She began to peel it carefully away.
A pink skull appeared. Then two tiny blue eyes confirmed her fears: she was looking at the body of a child.
She unwrapped the rest of it.
Not one head, but two. Sweet, soft skin, joined in one body, with two heads.
But the skulls were misshapen, and there were bits of fur stuck to the edges. And a long tail.
“Monkeys,” Tom said. “Fetal, probably, and conjoined.”
“Why would he want this?” Molly asked, sickened. She thought of Kitty’s unborn baby. “Is he going to hold a lecture with it?”
“Nah, it’s for a private collector, probably.”
“No,” Molly said, shoving the paper back over the faces, the body still frozen from the ice chest. “He wanted me to see it. To test me. I don’t know why, but he wanted me afraid.”
Tom waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. “Here.” She handed him the package. “You take it.”
He laid it tenderly in the back of the wagon, placing it in a special wood box with a large padlock. They’d used it before, to keep their bribery money locked away.
Turning to her, he took both of her hands in his. Though it was almost March, the air smelled of snow, and it lifted the leathery pine scent of Tom to her nose.
“I have one question left to ask you,” he said.
Her heart began to speed beneath her dress. “Yes?”
“Do you want to quit?”
So that was all. The same question he asked every night. She felt a flicker of disappointment.
“No.”
“Good. Then there’s somewhere I need to take you.”