Exodus 34:7 King James Version (KJV)…Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children's children, unto the third and to the fourth generation.
Ezekiel 18:17 (KJV) …That hath taken off his hand from the poor, that hath not received usury nor increase, hath executed my judgments, hath walked in my statutes; he shall not die for the iniquity of his father, he shall surely live.
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Oh, Bloody HELL…!
Inspector Thomas Brackenreid slapped the newspaper down hard in front of him, tossed his glasses on the grey pages and surveyed his domain. The sudden expletive drew little interest from constables trickling in to get relieved by the day shift at eight o'clock. Across the bullpen the detective's office was dark. Brackenreid checked his time piece: quarter-after-seven. That's early even for Murdoch...he thought...except when he and Dr. Ogden are on the outs. Brackenreid exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose since that thought brought home the state of his own marriage. Early to work has become familiar to me since Margaret threw me out.
Murdoch had been out of line for barking at him so bluntly about his domestic situation, but also had been right, at least some of it.
He sighed again. Murdoch and his fetish for the truth…he thought uncharitably. I had thought I'd just wait Margaret out, add a bit of sweetening and an apology, then the old girl would come 'round.
The truth was, he was sorry he had not explained to Margaret why he went to St. Mary's in the first place without telling her, which she interpreted as deceit or worse: betrayal. Problem was, he'd done it because he'd known how she would react to the announcement that he was going to see a former lover: Poorly. She would have wanted to know why he was going, and if he still had feelings for her...
And I've never been able to lie to her. Exhaling sharply, he rubbed his temples...too early for a drink.
And I do indeed hope my sons understand that marriages are a complicated business, and will take into account that their mother has to be open to not only accepting my apology, but to listening to my side of the story too.
He glanced at his desk top and the source of a more immediate frustration, the Toronto Gazette's blaring two-inch headline: "Decades' Old Gruesome Death Linked to Toronto Copper." Just below and only slightly smaller read: "Detective William Murdoch's father involved in 1870 kidnapping and death of Penhurst Infant." Several column inches went on and on about the case, reasonably accurately, without managing to also say that Murdoch was the one who solved the murder and brought the guilty to justice in the first place. Unfortunately, dragging Murdoch's name through the mud sold copies, he mused, and capitalizing on the angle of 'sins of the father being visited upon the sons,' kept the masses asking for more about the detective's family connections.
He looked down at the headlines on his desk. Families…bah! Maybe now Murdoch will agree they are not all they're cracked up to be!
Before he could go any further down that hole, a rap on his door brought his eyes up to see a woman standing there.
"Miss Hart? You are in early." He motioned her forward.
"Inspector," she greeted. "I have my final, official, report on the Penhurst baby as you asked." She stepped into the office and handed over one folder.
"Anything unexpected?" Brackenreid flipped through the file, noting it appeared to be in order and was signed off by Dr. Ogden as well.
"No, sir. There were only skeletal remains, even with the body being buried in a small wooden chest and a full four feet deep. Roots from a nearby tree infiltrated the casket, confirming the likely window of time for the burial in the 1870's, and I was able to separate the bones away. I was then able to make a positive identification using the buttons which were found with the body: they match the original description from the July 1870 missing person's report. There is no obvious evidence of foul play, no pre-morbid broken bones, and the hyoid bone is intact. There is nothing to suggest anything inconsistent with an accidental suffocation of an infant in bed-clothes as Mr. Nelson's confession suggested. I have already shared these results with Detective Murdoch."
"Good work." Brackenreid shook his head at a photograph of the Penhurst family from days gone by, and a second photograph of the aforementioned buttons included in the folder. He knew this case would be high profile so there was no room for error, hence Dr. Ogden weighing in. "Still a murder, poor little bugger. Is there anything else?"
Violet Hart stood a little stiffer, bringing up a second file folder. "Harry Murdoch's final autopsy, Inspector. He was intoxicated, which I understand is not surprising, and he was strangled, I think with a rope or cord as I was able to recover a few fibers. Then his body was set on fire. I still only have an approximate time of death due to the condition of the remains."
"Thank you Miss Hart. You can leave that with me, I will pass them both on to Detective Murdoch." When she did not relinquish the second folder, he raised his eyebrows. "Is there something else?"
"Harry Murdoch was not a robust specimen, Inspector. When I examined his lungs to see if there was any soot from the fire, I also discovered several, quite large tumors. He had advanced lung cancer and I don't think he had very long to live, perhaps a few weeks at most…"
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"Over here, sir!" George somehow found an open seam through the crowd of reporters blocking the back door at Station House No. 4, and pulled William roughly through it, then slammed the door shut behind them. The wooden slab barely muffled shouted questions.
William was a little rattled by the ferocity of the press. "Thank you, George. I got away from the ones at my door this morning…Miss Cherry among them." He crooked his mouth. "Julia was not pleased."
George struggled not to laugh. "I imagine not. She chased them off I assume?"
"Indeed," he said flatly. William placed his hat on the rack then went to his desk to turn on his reading lamp, not yet ready to be humoured by George.
"You have seen today's papers then." George's face settled into a sympathetic wince, his eyes sliding through the office's windows across the bull pen towards the right. "The Inspector will not be pleased, either."
William nodded. "The inspector will need us to work fast. I know you are seeking eye-witnesses to break Mr. Vassar's alibi, George, but what we need is direct physical evidence he killed my fa…"
"Murdoch! Crabtree..! My office!"
Both men jumped slightly at Brackenreid's bellowed command. "And here we go…" the detective finished under his breath.
William entered the inspector's office while George went to grab his notebook. William stood formally in front of Brackenreid's desk, making only the briefest nod and eye contact with his superior. Things were not quite smoothed out between them after his rather pointed insubordination and then attempt at an apology yesterday in the cemetery. William had been suffering a sore spot in his mind ever since; several in fact. Stealing a second glance at Brackenreid, he appreciated new worry lines in the man's face. William thought he knew what was rubbing himself the wrong way; he wondered just exactly what else was agitating his superior so early in the morning besides the newspaper headlines decorating his desk and the rabble outside his door.
"Gentlemen, sit. Both of you," Brackenreid ordered as George entered. He did not wait for them to get comfortable. "We have two intertwined investigations. Your father's death, Murdoch, and the Penhurst kidnapping and death. Mr. Nelson has already met with the Crown Prosecutor for his confession and evidence against his two remaining co-conspirators. He may even escape being hanged by giving testimony, for all he wanted to atone for his sins."
"And my father's murder?"
Brackenreid was blunt. "The fire marshall speculates that the blaze was set by a burning cigarette on the bed, aided by a splash of alcohol perhaps."
"A smoker falling asleep and starting a fire is not unusual," George observed, "especially a known, er... drinker." He glanced at the detective uncomfortably. "Sorry sir. Leonard Vassar must have hoped for a ruling of accidental death."
William agreed. "And it also gives Mr. Vassar a sort of delayed-timer for the fire, which could have smoldered and gone unnoticed for quite a while, allowing him to establish an alibi."
"Yes," the inspector made a sour sound. "Unfortunately, the whole thing will drag out or actually go to trial since we have not yet obtained written confessions from Mr. Vassar for his various sins nor Miss Kelly for her role in the kidnapping. I am hoping they fold under the right pressure and will implicate each other."
William stood straighter when Brackenreid eyed him. "The new fly in the ointment is those two are trying to argue they were entrapped by Murdoch here, and their words were coerced at gunpoint."
"But sir! The whole thing was supposed to be a set up to get them to confess," George complained as he got his notebook out. "You and I are witnesses to Mr. Vassar saying: Quote: You'll die just like your father, trying to be a hero, except this time no one will find the body. Unquote. What we did was not illegal and the detective did not lead them to commit a crime."
"Seems that Murdoch's performance of threatening to shoot them was a little too convincing," Brackenreid countered. "At least this time you did not break a man's face…"
"My pistol was empty, therefore no one was ever in the slightest danger." William objected before Brackenreid could make any more allusions to another 'performance,' i.e., punching Mr. Falcone to unconsciousness nearly seven years ago to convince the Black Hand that Anna Fulford was dead.
The detective went on quickly. "We had a very specific and well thought out plan. I needed Miss Kelly and Mr. Vassar to believe I was unhinged at them for tarnishing my father's memory and therefore homicidal..." William paused to clear his throat. It had not been difficult at all to summon up rage about Harry to fuel mock vitriol for the kidnappers' benefit. "Since I have always had an unsentimental regard for my father there was no basis for any new outrage on my part. I will be able to testify that there is evidence, his telegram, that my father planned to meet me, and was going to show the constabulary where the body was buried because of the location of that meeting place. It corroborates what Mr. Nelson told us."
Brackenreid agreed. "And gives us Mr. Vassar's motive for killing your father: with no corpus delecti, and the only other witness a career criminal, Mr. Vassar and Miss Kelly could just deny it all, no matter what Daniel Nelson said. They can pretend to be surprised at such allegations etcetera, etcetera."
"They can even continue the fiction that my father was a kind, inoffensive man and none of them had any involvement in the whole thing," William found himself complaining as well.
"Instead, now the prosecution can make the case that both Mr. Nelson and your father were going to come clean and take responsibility," George showed a pitying face, "giving some peace and justice to the Penhurst family."
"Sounds rather noble when you put it that way," the inspector said. "Well, that is the story that the crown hopes to sell. Problem is, Murdoch, we only have Mr. Nelson's statement that your father was considering confessing." He handed a file folder to the detective. "Here is the new development: Miss Hart says your father was dying; maybe only a few weeks to live at most. He'd never have seen a trial, let alone the noose if it came to that."
William grabbed the file, flipping through to the pathology report.
"The crown prosecutor can say that's an even more powerful motivation to right a terrible wrong, doesn't it?" George asked. "Like a deathbed confession of some sort?"
Brackenreid frowned to think of an answer, but William beat him to it. "That assumes Harry knew he was dying and feared God. There is no evidence he was ever particularly devout. Even if he knew he was dying, perhaps he was just setting a cat among the pigeons, figuring he'd never have to pay any consequence, or, knowing Harry, even angling for a reward to spend on a last hurrah. The defense can use it against us."
"Certainly not, sir?" George was appalled. "I thought you came to believe your father wanted to set a few things right. If he knew the end was near that must be why he came."
The detective started to protest against this. Brackenreid waved them both quiet, trying to sound conciliatory. "Murdoch, your father was a right old prick and unfortunately this mess will hang around your neck, one way or another. We have to make the best of it. Sticking to the story that he was trying to do the right thing will get justice done."
William glared at Brackenreid. "Harry always left a mess to clean up…"
Brackenreid glared back before blinking once. "I can see why you are bitter and I am sorry about that, but we have a murder here - two murders. You will just have to adjust your attitude for the sake of the case."
"You don't know my father…." William's voice rasped so he held his tongue, shaking his head.
"There must be something good you can say, to defend your father's actions?" George tried to rescue the situation. William's lips remained closed.
Brackenreid's irritation about the situation started escaping. "Why are you being so pigheaded, Murdoch? It is our job to investigate and then support the prosecution at trial. We know what the truth is. You will testify to the facts."
"Why is everyone trying to rewrite my history for me?" William's sharpness took all three of them by surprise. He took a deep breath and clamped his lips shut again when he saw George and the inspector's eyes get rounder. "I will do what is necessary. The rest is a private matter."
That closed, stubborn look on his detective was familiar but the inspector knew what it might take to jar it open. This is not going to be pretty, he told himself, but it was a risk he decided to take. "The three of us will be called to testify. Crabtree and myself will not have any trouble being convincing. Are you saying you will sabotage the case?"
William gripped the arms of the chair, his teeth grinding together. "Sir. Daniel Nelson wants me to believe my father never got drunk until after the kidnapping and baby's death, evidence of his feeling so guilty all these years. Rather, I know by my own experience from as early as I can remember, Harry was drunk anytime he was on dry land. Mr. Vassar and Miss Kelly regaled me with stories about my visit with my father and how kind and helpful and funny he was. Well perhaps he was kind and helpful when he was not at home with his wife and children; after all, a con-man needs a certain slick bon ami. More likely it was only the pair of them inserting themselves into our investigation to confuse the issue. They tried to get me to doubt myself…doubt my memories. Mr. Nelson, Mr. Vassar and Miss Kelly…all of them needed me to see my father in a certain way for their own ends." He turned to his superior. "Even the law now wants me to bend my recollections to its needs."
Brackenreid was really frustrated now, slamming his hand on the desk. You will go to court and you will swear under oath to the truth about the investigation. End-of!" "
"Truth?" William's eyes narrowed. "What truth besides that he was an awful, useless man who helped kidnap and therefore caused the depraved death of an innocent baby? An infant he then buried in the woods in an unmarked grave?" He stared at both of his companions. "There is no evidence he was actually going to stick around after telling me where the infant was buried, if he was actually going to do so. You both have seen the papers…I will be asked about his character. Asked about the likelihood he was going take responsibility by both the crown and the defense. What can I possibly say?"
"Leading you to the spot he buried that child was evidence he was going to do the right thing," George suggested.
"My father never took responsibility for anything a day in his life!" It took effort for William to restrain himself from shouting. "I wanted to believe... Julia encouraged me to see that the desire for reconciliation was enough…" He stuttered to a stop and dropped his eyes, his pulse pounding in his ears.
"You don't have to forgive him, you don't have to like the bastard," Brackenreid pointed out more reasonably. "You just have to convince a judge and jury he might have been willing to set one thing right."
"My father?" William's voice came out from some hollow place in his chest and he tasted bile on the back of his tongue. "Easing the suffering of others out of compassion or the fear of God? Oh! But that was not Harry's style." It was such a painful memory welling up, an ache deep in his very soul. He was angry with Harry. Angry with the inspector. Angry with there being no way out of how he was thinking and feeling. "By asking me what Harry's intention was or character, the prosecution will open the door for the other side to do the same. I will be damned if I do and damned if I don't…"
"For the love of God, Murdoch, what is getting so stuck in your craw?" Brackenreid shot back across his desk, red faced and furious.
"He killed my mother!"
The truth erupted out of William's lips as if racing up from a caldera of shame as he left his chair. He felt his heart pound and balled his fists to hide the shaking in his hands and body. George's eyebrows disappeared into his hair and the inspector's face drained to white. No one spoke.
It took a while for William to find his voice again. "You see, Harry also needed me to see him in a certain way for his own ends. My own father tried to tell me I was responsible for her death when I was just a boy!"
Both men stood in stunned silence: George was at a loss on how to respond, and Brackenreid was uncomfortable at how close to home this whole thing was getting as well as Murdoch's uncharacteristic outbursts.
William steadied himself with his fingers on the edge of the desk before squaring his shoulders and pulling at the bottom of his suit jacket, small efforts to regain a control he didn't feel. He look directly forward, not really seeing. "I have decided that was actually just Harry looking out for himself. So. Sir. I will do my duty, but do not ask for more," he stated slowly, flatly. With that he turned on his heel and walked out to his own office, not bothering to close the door.
"Good Lord!" George finally gasped when he got his mouth to work. "What an awful thing!"
"Christ…" Brackenreid muttered, disgust written across his face. "And, damn Murdoch...his father's murderer will walk…" the inspector directed to no one in particular.
"Sir, I don't think Detective Murdoch should have much else to do with this case...not only is it unwise because one of the perpetrators and the victim was his father, but I don't think the detective is his normal self because of…" George gestured then trailed off; the reason was unspeakable.
Groaning as he took a seat at his desk, he pulled out his scotch, setting it down with a heavy thud. "Damn the time" he muttered to no one. "Agreed, Crabtree. See if you can get Watts to do some digging and find something we can use against our suspects, but get them to turn on one another about Harry Murdoch's death!" he commanded, taking a pull of his drink. "Miss Hart says the man was sick, weak. She also thinks he was strangled with a rope or cord, and that means…"
"It would not have taken very much strength to get the job done." George's keen mind picked up the idea, recalling who showed up in Harry Murdoch's room, then equipped themselves with a pistol for a memorial service in the woods.
"We could also use more information about the 1870 kidnapping. Crabtree, you check the old case files out to see if anyone who worked on it is still alive and sensible. Find Mr. Nelson's old alibi. Lay out the evidence that connects to Miss Kelly and Mr. Vassar, as well as Nelson to the scheme. Get statements from all the witnesses you can, then Watts can decide on interviews."
"Sir."
"As for our kidnappers... If they distrusted each other so much, then the four of them would have had trouble sneaking around to pick up the ransom. Someone saw them. Get a bloody chalk board for one of Murdoch's minute by minute charts if you have to…" He smiled. "Find out where Vassar and Miss Kelly lived, and follow the money…" Brackenreid never tired of that piece of wisdom. "Even if Nelson did not spend his ill gotten gains, the other three most surely did, so tie the cash to them like a ball and chain, 'till we don't even need Nelson's or Harry Murdoch's word on it."
"Yes, sir." George agreed that was the way to head the investigation. That was not what concerned him. "I must say, it's all rather unnerving, I'm not used to seeing the Detective like this...the last time was last year when he and Dr. Ogden had just lost their baby...he did not handle it well, sir," George opined, not sure what his point was.
Yet it seemed the inspector understood, as he grunted in agreement. "Yes, Crabtree. I'll call in Dr. Ogden in for a chat...see if she has some insight, or can help him," he added as the younger man left and he turned toward the window, taking another sip of his drink.
Murdoch was a man who had always kept his secrets, hadn't really shared much over the years, unlike him to do so. Yet it's all spilling out now, me old mucker.
He hadn't cared much for his old man either, but at least he hadn't been a killer. Poor Murdoch… he thought as he drained his drink and poured another.
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When Julia received a phone call from Tom Brackenreid asking her in for a drink, she had no doubt that he wanted to discuss William's uncharacteristic behavior, and seek tips for dealing with it.
You and me both, Inspector.
Still, she finished her rounds and left the hospital, taking a carriage not to the Station House, but to a tavern a few blocks from there. No doubt the Inspector didn't want William to know about this meeting.
While the room was dark and smelled of stale smoke as she walked in, she saw that this was a finer establishment than the Tipsy Ferret that was much closer to the Station House, her eyes taking a moment to adjust. Scanning the room, she saw that the establishment was largely empty at this time of day, as most of its clientele were still at work. Therefore it was quiet and she quickly found Tom as he sat in a secluded corner.
"Apologies, doctor. We can go somewhere else if you prefer. I wanted us to speak in secrecy, however, I've realized too late that with my newfound status as a single man, perhaps it was not wise to ask my friend's wife to a bar, unaccompanied," he shrugged.
Shaking her head, she laughed. "It's no worry, Inspector. If William asks where I've been, I will tell him. I don't believe you've asked me here for a secret assignation," she laughed.
Chuckling, he shook his own head. "No. I have enough issues with women right now, and I don't want to add to them. Perhaps this discussion is better had at a park?" He proposed, tossing back his drink and standing.
"Perhaps, Inspector. But allow me a drink of my own. I believe I know what you want to discuss," she replied, as they walked toward the bar. Signaling the barkeep, she ordered and quickly drank a fine scotch, neat.
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"It's a good thing that William doesn't have a refined palette," she muttered to herself as she tasted the soup with a grimace. Perhaps Mrs. Kitchen's cooking is responsible for his low culinary expectations she thought as added more salt and tasted it again. Unfortunately, it was now salty, but still largely flavorless.
She missed the easy meal planning of the hotel, where she only had to make a phone call and settle the bill each month. But it wasn't the only thing she missed; she also missed her typical William as well: mild, patient, measured, and steady. Sighing as she turned off the heat, she strode into the living room and walked to her drink cart to pour a whiskey. Looking out the window and noting the steady rain, she decided to start the fire so that William wouldn't have to.
She said she would give cooking a try. She never said it would be particularly good. She wondered when William would agree to a housekeeper who would also cook dinner for them, but it was not long before her thoughts turned to her husband's uncharacteristic anger never directed towards her, but simmering underneath the surface nonetheless
Of course she suspected that the anger had always been there, but the damage inflicted was so old, he was typically better able to keep it under control. He's had two very difficult encounters within just a couple weeks: first Brother Duvalier and now his own father. That would be enough to unlock the past for anyone. If only he would talk to me…
Laughing, she shook her head. Since when has William ever been particularly good at talking about his feelings? He was far better at communicating with his eyes (which spoke volumes) and even more so with his body.
I can hardly hope to seduce him out of this dilemma, can I? Even Tom is at a loss...And I wasn't much of a help for him. Exhaling sharply, she finished her drink and contemplated another, before deciding that given William's father's history with alcohol, perhaps this was not the night to imbibe much.
But her time for thinking was over, as she heard the door open behind her, and heard his tread even before he appeared. She simply didn't know what else to do. She didn't know what to say.
At the door, hanging his hat and coat up, William stood, wet from the rain, looking forlorn and almost lost. She couldn't tell if he had been crying or not.
Getting up, she walked toward him and divested him of the rest of his clothes, fastening her mouth upon his, her tongue quickly finding his as her hands worked to undress him. She wasn't sure if this was an entirely effective therapeutic technique, but she would do anything to help him understand that he was loved and wanted regardless of his past or actions of his family.
It was all she could do.
Noting the tremble of his body from the cold (or was it his emotions), she led him to the bathroom where he finished disrobing while she drew his bath. Deciding that a bit of tenderness was in order, she helped him into the water and rolling up her sleeves, she began to wash him. Leaning back in the tub, he sighed contentedly as she splashed the hot water on his torso and and massaged his chest as she soaped up his body.
"Thank you, Julia. Truly…" he smiled, stilling her hand. "It means a lot to me," he murmured, closing his eyes as he relaxed.
She said nothing, but lightly massaged the furrow in his brow with one hand as her other hand drifted south. She relished his moan as her hand found its target.
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Though she was not entirely awake, she was not totally surprised to find that William was no longer in bed with her. A quick glance at the window showed that he was not there either. "The study then," she mumbled to herself as she took care to not make noise as she padded through the house.
He sat in silence in his armchair, with no book in hand, staring into embers of the fire she'd started earlier. Absentmindedly, he toyed with a daguerreotype and slim stack of old photos through his fingers. No doubt images of his past - pictures he'd never shown her.
He didn't register her sigh as she approached (a sure sign he was very deep in thought) and he didn't register her presence until she stood right in front of him and sank down on his lap. "It appears that someone is lost in their own mind once again," she teased as she settled on him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Julia, I'm afraid I'm not the greatest of company right now," he murmured, touching one of her curls. "Not that you did not do your best to distract me earlier." He kissed her hand. "It was lovely…"
"I'm not looking to be entertained right now," she replied with a shrug, "I'm looking for my husband and wondering how I can help him."
Shaking his head, "Julia, I am not…" he began before she cut him off.
"Not your normal, controlled self? Not in full command of your emotions? I don't care William, I know you have your dark places as you call them, and I've told you before that they don't frighten me, even if they frighten you," she stated, squeezing a bicep. "I know you'll never tell me what they are, but I acknowledge that they exist, and that I love you not in spite of them, but because of them," she whispered, pulling his chin up so that he would have to acknowledge her words.
William found it hard to meet her eyes. She'd never asked how his day had been, just skipped dinner, bathed him, and then seduced him into bed. It had been exactly what he needed. Unfortunately, later on he woke up abruptly, unable to go back to sleep, but unwilling to wake Julia up to..what? Confess? Share stories of my miserable childhood? Now, when he met her gaze, the connection was so deep he felt guilty for holding back. So much guilt! He resettled her on his lap to cover up a shiver, then coughed to prepare himself. "This case is not coming together as expected. Miss Kelly and Mr. Vassar are accusing me of forcing their statements through threats and coercion. On top of that, the inspector expects me to give what amounts to a character reference for my father, in court, under oath."
"And that will be a problem?" Julia nodded at him to continue.
"Solving this kidnapping case and my father's murder revolves around proving he was involved in a heinous crime and at the end of his life, decided he wanted to make a sacrificial gesture to ease the suffering of the Penhurst family as well as his own conscience. Unfortunately there is only circumstantial evidence for that. It is all conjecture."
"What will you say?"
"I can testify that my father asked to meet me at the burial site of the Penhurst child, which corroborates Daniel Nelson's testimony that he urged my father to confess, and that of the four kidnappers, only my father knew where the child was buried." William had no hesitation with this being the truth. "Anything that my father may have wanted to say to me by that wall, about the kidnapping or his co-conspirators, is all speculation since he was already dead while I waited for him."
"You don't have to make those arguments; that is for the crown prosecutor to address," Julia countered.
"Quite," he agreed. "However, Mr. Nelson can only offer hearsay about what he discussed with my father. And even if it is accepted, he can only say that my father told him he was not yet ready to confess, was merely open to the possibility. So we have to rely on what can be extrapolated about my father's intentions. Mr. Nelson, as a co-conspirator, can hardly offer credible character references," he said with a dose of sarcasm. "I will be asked, then, to offer testimony to show that Harry was likely to have had a change of heart and taken responsibility."
"Which you feel you cannot, in good conscience, do." Julia had gotten the gist of the Inspector's concern, which had been equal parts the case and worry over his detective being able to do his job. Tom had said something odd about Harry Murdoch blaming William for his mother's death. That must certainly be at the heart of William's anguish. She considered telling him about her drink with the inspector, then decided to hold her peace.
William continued, unaware of his wife's concerns. "No. Not in good conscience. Under oath, I cannot. Julia…" He wanted to tell her, to relieve himself of the shame that still clung to his sense of himself. He took courage from her face, looking so tenderly at him. "Recall the last time he was in Toronto?" When she nodded he went on. "I confronted him on the death of my mother…"
William told his story simply, with Julia listening intently until he ran out of words.
She kissed his brow when he fell silent. "After all, you were only an eight year old boy, playing with the Limberjack toy he brought you. Your father started the row. He was in that room with your mother, and she was defending you, which is why you always felt guilty regarding her death, it's very common for a child to think events are their fault. Even if your mother did trip on a piece of firewood, you only have his word he did not push or hit her on that particular day, causing her fall. You said she threatened to take you away. That could have enraged him."
He nodded. "I could have misinterpreted what I saw, I know that. It could have been a genuine accident, no one at fault... But my memory is so clear." William's jaw tightened. "I think I was...influenced to...to accept his version of events, which was that I messed up the wood pile, causing her to fall and die..." The images were so potent, the sadness overwhelmed him.
"Now, you have changed your mind, concluding Harry desired to shift all the blame off of himself, to improve your opinion of him when he needed you to help him get out of the trouble he was in," Julia summarized. She brushed the side of his face with her hand. "So instead of holding Harry responsible, you believed you were the reason for her death these last twelve years. Oh, William, I am so sorry…"
And she truly was. She had a sudden insight about why her husband never did anything that was not purposeful, why he struggled to be spontaneous. William Murdoch never 'played' another day in his life after his mother's death-she'd bet all her training in psychiatry on it, and that tragic realization pierced her heart with a physical jolt. She mourned the loss of the boy he was prior to that horrid day and contemplated how that shaped the man she knew. "So sorry…" she repeated softly.
For his part, William just knew his wife was warm and soft and with him. The small fire was dying down, throwing a deep red glow on their forms bundled up in his chair. He found and kissed her hand. "I appreciate that."
"Your reputation will get dragged through the press. It already is. At least you can be satisfied you are a man of honour, unlike your father."
"With all due respect, Julia. You don't know what I'm capable of, how much like my father I am fully capable of being," he whispered back, head hung in shame. "There's a side of me I never want you to witness firsthand, I'm more like him than I want to admit."
"Are you talking about your brushes with physicality?" She asked, voice pointed. "I may not have witnessed them firsthand, but I've seen the busted knuckles, the cuts and scrapes...I'm not naive. I know how you got them, and it wasn't by going to Mass," she interjected, raising her hand so that he wouldn't interrupt. "We're not so different, William. I've done things I'm not so proud of either, many of which you are aware, yet there's no doubt that your fellow combatants were hardly good, moral men...and they were men...you've never struck a woman or child, am I correct?"
"Yes, only men, but I should have restrained myself. I know better," he countered.
"I know you better than anyone, William. I may not know all the details, but I know you're not your father any more than I am mine. However, I suppose we both have more in common with our them than we care to admit," she conceded.
"No, I am not my father and thank God you are not yours," he laughed before sobering. "As you said, my reputation will be sullied, and there are people who will try to say that I'm the same as my father. Are you prepared for that?" he asked.
"Yes, I am. I will handle it the same way as you did when my own character was attacked: by your side with my full support," she replied, cupping his face with her hand.
"I don't know what I'd do without you, Julia. I don't know what would have come of me if we hadn't…" he avoided finishing, the idea too bleak to contemplate. He squeezed her hand. "You make me want to be a better man...to be the man my mother wanted me to be…" he whispered.
"And you make me want to be a better woman...be the woman my mother wanted me to be," she whispered back, trailing her thumb over his lips. "Shall we go back to bed? Get some rest?" Julia offered. "We'll come up with a solution in the morning," she promised, deciding not to add just now that the Inspector was going to make Watts the lead detective for both cases. She'd tell him that tomorrow.
############
SIX WEEKS LATER: Toronto Courthouse
"...the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God."
"You may be seated."
William removed his hand from the Bible to take his place in the witness box, bracing himself for the coming examination. In the gallery, George gave him the briefest nod, Julia smiled and the inspector grimaced up at him.
Crown Prosecutor Rupert Bailey approached, placing his own hand on the rail so that the jury could see him to advantage. William had noticed that Bailey always put himself on full view.
"Detective. The Crown has already laid out evidence against the defendant, Susan Kelly, a party to a kidnapping and ransom scheme in 1870, which resulted in the death of the Penhurst infant. Miss Kelly was convicted of manslaughter at trial for that crime, last month."
"Objection, my lord! There is no question in there and Mr. Bailey is poisoning the jury's mind by bringing in irrelevant and prejudicial information about the defendant!" Benjamin Leighton used his voice to match Bailey's pitch, in order to take full advantage of the excellent acoustics in Toronto's newest, ornately decorated courtroom.
"My lord, this is the foundation for our theory of the murder, namely motive, and my line of questioning for this witness." Bailey's parry was blunt, but ended with a slight flourish of his hand towards William.
The judge, Rodger Carr, gave no sign these new theatrics were going to cause any deviations in his courtroom.
So far so good. William took a small breath.
"Objection overruled. Miss Kelly's conviction is common knowledge. Lay your foundation."
Bailey bowed. "Thank you, my lord. Detective, you are aware that two of Miss Kelly's co-conspirators have also been convicted in this case, a Mr. Leonard Vassar and a Mr. Daniel Nelson?"
Here we go… "Yes."
"You are aware she is on trial in this court for the murder of another one of her co-conspirators, Mr. Harry Murdoch."
"Yes."
"It is my understanding you were removed as lead investigator on the kidnapping and death of the Penhurst child as well as the death of Harry Murdoch." Bailey pitched his voice so that even the most hard of hearing old gent stuffed in the back corner was going to get an earful today.
All part of the plan... "Yes, I was."
"Detective Lewellyn Watts took over the cases, I believe."
"Yes." Keep the answers simple.
"Can you please tell the court the reason for this unusual action?"
"Harry Murdoch was my father." Also something that was common knowledge; very common, William knew all too well. Weeks of daily reminders all the papers. By now, there was not even a small murmur from the spectators.
"Was that to make certain there could be nothing, prejudicial, not even the appearance of a conflict of interest, in how the case was pursued and prosecuted?"
"Yes."
"So as not to give the defense any opportunity to find fault with how the investigation was handled?"
"Yes," William answered yet again. The Penhurst family was not too keen on myself, son of their scion's killer, being involved, but that was kept hush hush from everyone, at least so far.
"Was that all?"
William prayed crown prosecutor Bailey was about to set the bait out in a manner, irresistible to Mr. Leighton. "No," he answered. "It was also because I possess material evidence for both cases, therefore as a potential witness it was decided I needed to recuse myself from the cases after a certain point."
Bailey smiled at the jury as he presented a small rectangle of paper to the court. "My lord, if it please you, the crown would like to introduce this telegram into evidence."
"So ordered." Judge Carr handed the page to the bailiff who brought it briefly to the defense table, then back to Bailey's hand.
"Detective Murdoch. Is this the telegram you received from the victim, your father, Harry Murdoch, asking him to meet you at a certain location on the outskirts of town on September the eleventh at 2 in the afternoon?"
William studied the page, before returning it to the prosecutor. "Yes."
"Did your father make the meeting?" Bailey started a rhythmic pacing, back and forth, in the available space, his shoes making no sound.
"No, he did not."
"To the best of your knowledge, why not?"
"He was deceased."
"Yes, we have already heard testimony from the coroner that your father, Harry Murdoch, was killed sometime between approximately one and three P.M. that day."
William knew Bailey was playing to the jury again, reminding them of the timeline so carefully crafted to prove Miss Kelly's guilt.
"Detective, where, exactly did your father ask you to meet him?" He came to the rail corralling the jury and swung back. Step. Step.
"At an old homestead, east of Mount Pleasant Cemetery, along the railway right-of-way."
"Did you subsequently become aware of the significance of that location, detective?" The prosecutor's voice was just ever so slightly sing-song.
"Yes. It was where the Penhurst child's remains were later recovered."
"Those remains were positively identified by the coroner's office. I offer that report as the prosecution's next piece of evidence." Mr. Bailey never stopped moving, never stopped talking, while his co-counsel delivered a file to the bench. "Four people, including your father, are believed to have conspired to kidnap and hold the Penhurst child for ransom, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"According to sworn statements from two other surviving conspirators, Harry Murdoch was the only one who knew where the body was buried. I also offer those documents for the court's approval, my lord."
The eyes of each person in the room were drawn to the crown prosecutor's pendulum-like pattern of movement and oration-including everyone at the defense table...
"So, if your father was going to reveal that location, the location of the body, to you, an officer of the law, would that not seriously threaten the remaining conspirators?"
"Objection! My lord, that calls for speculation." Mr. Leighton cried out, disrupting the flow of questioning.
Got him! William observed that the spectators, and jury, appeared annoyed. Good...he thought, but William did not let himself relax.
Mr. Leighton continued. "My lord, the defense objects. The witness is being asked to reveal what is in another person's mind."
William exhaled while no one was looking in his direction, except for George, Julia and the inspector. This was actually going to work…
############
Julia waited outside of the courtroom for William, giving him a brilliant smile in greeting. They walked arm in arm along a pleasant hall, then down the steps to street level before speaking. "That was brilliant theatre," Julia giggeled. "Did you notice Mr. Bailey seems familiar with the principles of hypnosis? And Mr. Leighton did not even reserve the right to recall you as a witness."
He interlaced her hand in his, pulled it up to kiss her fingers. "Indeed. I managed to convince Mr. Bailey that if he could get the defense to object to that line of questioning, it also meant that Mr. Leighton was going to be unable to use it for his purposes either."
"Sort of cancelling each other out," Julia sounded pleased.
"Precisely, Julia," he paused to place a kiss on her cheek. "Just as you suggested. Mr. Bailey got to present, plainly to the jury, a common sense motive for Miss Kelly killing my father. The whole case hangs on that motive. Mr. Bailey did it all without needing to have me or anyone else delve into either Harry's past behavior, character, or wondering what he was intending to do when he spoke to me. He can call Mr. Nelson and Mr. Vassar to the stand for what they believed about Harry revealing the burial location and planning to confess."
William was rather proud of her for the solution: it preserved the truth while averting a dangerous ethical dilemma for him. For weeks, William had been embroiled in a tussle over the case. Mr. Bailey, the inspector, the chief constable, even Detective Watts and George were all at loggerheads over witnesses and how the evidence was going to be presented once it became clear it was actually Miss Kelly who was his father's killer and not Mr. Vassar. Julia had interrupted a heated conference one of those days and gotten pulled into the discussion.
William could still see everyone's astonished faces when she piped up, saying: "Then, gentlemen, since you are convinced it will be ultimately fatal to your case, turn the double-bind around on the defense!"
At the moment, William felt lighter than he had in a few months. Having dealt with two particularly painful traumas of his childhood, he felt free to pursue the future without the weight of the past. He decided that it had been too long since he had last surprised Julia. "Shall we have supper out somewhere, to celebrate?" He wanted to demonstrate one more time his appreciation.
William? Being spontaneous? Julia laughed in glee. I wonder what else he has up his sleeve? "Not just to avoid my cooking?" She laughed harder when she saw his confused face collapse a bit. "I'm sorry," she rushed to reassure him. "I was only teasing. Yes, please. I would enjoy that very much." She kept her voice warm and gently teasing. "How about we partake at the first restaurant we come a cross? No matter what?"
He was totally captured by her dancing eyes and the challenge in her voice. What do I really have to lose?
"Why, yes. I'd be delighted…"
-END-
Dear Reader-please review! And tell us what you thought about Harry Murdoch & that episode… we love to hear from you :)
A/N: Ruthie Green always knew Harry Murdoch was a piece of work, and hated him for leaving William with the impression that, absent his 8-year-old-self "messing the wood pile" (ie: he was a using a piece of wood to play Limberjack, the articulated wooden toy you see the young William playing with as his drunken father comes into the house), his mother might still be alive. So rg got to have the last word on that! She also thinks Julia would indeed have seen through the blustering, posturing & legal BS with her psychological eye and find an elegant solution to the presumed dilemma. -rg
FB: I've also thought that Harry blaming W for the death of his mother was a bit too convenient, and I never believed it either. Rather than accept responsibility for any of his poor decisions, Harry always blamed his misdeeds on others. Even his own young son was no exception. However, I always thought of Harry Murdoch as a ne'er do well, a con man of sorts...but not a kidnapper and murderer - a bit of a stretch. Alas, it was what was presented to us and since it is canon, this is our attempt to give it some closure.—