"Murdoch!" Inspector Brackenreid called from the door to his office. "Get in here!"
Detective Murdoch looked up with an expression of surprise from the report he was reading. The inspector's shout, though loud, sounded less of abbrasiveness and more of simple concern. Something was obviously troubling him, but what?
"Murdoch!" He yelled again, with more impatience in his tone.
Rising from his desk, the detective headed smoothly yet fairly briskly towards Brackenreid's office.
"Sir?" He questioned as he knocked on the frame and waited in the doorway.
"Come in, Murdoch," Brackenreid turned briefly away from the decanter he held. "And shut the door. Scotch?"
"No, thank you," Murdoch waved a hand in polite dismissal. "What can I do for you, sir?"
Brackenreid sighed heavily, as he turned back, scotch in hand. "Sit down Murdoch, I want to talk to you about tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, sir?" Murdoch raised an eyebrow.
"James Gillies' trial."
"What of it, Inspector?" Murdoch replied calmly - too calmly in Brackenreid's opinion.
"Well, it's personal, isn't it?"
"Personal, sir?"
"Don't act dumb, Murdoch," Brackenreid frowned. "He abducted you, tried to kill you, he framed Doctor Ogden for murder. How many more reasons do you need?"
"Believe me, Inspector, I'm more than aware of what he did, but the evidence is sound, he will hang this time and I will be there to see it."
"So you are angry?" Brackenreid nodded, satisfied. "It wouldn't hurt to show it."
"To whom, sir?"
"The jury, Murdoch! Good grief, man! You may have a unique mind for solving crimes, but at understanding people, you are a novice!"
"Sir, I don't understand," Murdoch began. "The evidence will..."
"Evidence, be damned, Murdoch! You have to show the jury that this man is evil! That he singled you out because you bested him... twice! That he has a personal vendetta, that he's dangerous!"
"And for this, you need me to act, sir? Surely the film alone..."
"If you get up on that stand and describe your ordeal like you're reading a report, the jury will doubt your word."
"Sir! I have no desire to dress my testimony for the entertainment of the jury!"
"He tried to kill Doctor Ogden, twice!"
"I know that, sir!" Murdoch was on his feet, slapping his hand down on the desk.
Brackenreid smiled, happy to have finally jarred loose some of his detective's pent up and long concealed emotion at the trauma he suffered.
"Remember that feeling, Murdoch," Brackenreid nodded. "That toe rag hurt you in ways nobody else could. It won't hurt the case to show it. Let the jury see what an evil little bastard he is."
"Sir," Murdoch lowered his eyes. "I'm not sure I..."
Brackenreid placed comforting hand on the detective's shoulder.
"I know," he sighed. "I know you prefer to maintain a professional stance, but in this case, you're not just the detective, you're the victim. The jury are honest, ordinary men and it wouldn't hurt to let them see that you are too."
"I understand, sir," Murdoch's voice had dropped to half its normal volume. Clearly troubled by recent events, he was trying hard to maintain his composure.
"What about Doctor Ogden?"
"What about her, sir?" Murdoch replied his eyes still lowered and his voice hushed.
"How is she faring?"
"I believe she's doing well."
"You believe?"
"Yes, sir," Murdoch replied, growing ever more uncomfortable. "Sir, I have a lot of work, may I return to my office?"
"Go home, Murdoch," Brackenreid shook his head with a resigned sigh. "Get a good night's sleep. Busy day tomorrow."
"Maybe that would be best, sir," Murdoch nodded, grateful to escape the lecture. "I'll see you tomorrow at the court house."
"Eight sharp. And Murdoch?" He added as the detective reached the doorway.
"Sir?" He asked turning back to face the inspector.
"Think about what I said."
Merely nodding his agreement, Murdoch headed back to his office in silence. Reaching for his hat, his expression showed that his thoughts were a long way from the station house.
"George?" He began in a lacklustre tone as he emerged at the door to his office once more.
"Sir," the young constable replied, rising immediately to his feet.
"I'm going home, George. I'll see you tomorrow at the court house."
"Yes, sir," Crabtree replied with a moment's hesitation on his lips. "Sir, we will get him this time."
"Thank you, George. I believe we will."
Murdoch headed for the main doors, his mind weighed down by a multitude of thoughts.
"I wish he did," Inspector Brackenreid remarked, approaching Crabtree's side as Murdoch walked past the front desk.
"You wish he believed it?" Crabtree queried. "I suppose you're right, sir. This is the third time Gillies has faced very serious charges. But he can't hope to escape again this time, and sir, the evidence is from his own lips, surely he'll hang?"
"Don't underestimate Gillies, Crabtree. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he hadn't planned in advance for this very scenario."
"A scary thought, sir," Crabtree agreed.
"And unfortunately a very likely one. Is there still a constable watching Doctor Ogden's home?"
"Yes, sir. In fact there are two tonight. Nothing can happen, sir, she's quite safe."
"Not until that bastard is swinging from a noose," Brackenreid replied with his tone a mixture of hatred and disgust.
*
"Gillies!" A gruff voice bellowed, raising little more than an eyebrow from the cell's occupant. "On your feet!"
Lightly swinging his legs over the side of the bunk, James Gillies rose to his feet, a superior smirk fixed on his lips.
"You've got nothing to smile about, Gillies," the prison guard scoffed. "Your trial starts tomorrow and you're as guilty as sin! You're going to hang."
"Why, Penrose..."
"Mr Penrose to you!"
Gillies' smile broadened and he aimed an otherwise cold, hard stare at the guard. His gaze almost seemed to focus on an area a few inches behind the guard's eyes - it was unnerving to say the least.
"Mr Penrose," Gillies repeated through gritted teeth. "I wouldn't suggest you place a wager. You're liable to lose. And that might not be all you lose."
"Don't try to threaten me, Gillies."
"Threaten?" He chuckled. "Why, Mr Penrose, it's no threat, I assure you. Now, do I have a visitor?"
"If you don't believe you'll hang, why ask for a priest?"
"I do believe that's my business, don't you?" Gillies cocked his head, almost trying to bait the guard. "But, of course, you're finished for the day, so I won't have the pleasure of your company again."
"Don't be so cocky, Gillies, you'll be back here tomorrow."
"No, Mr Penrose, you won't see me again; that, I can promise you. Now, the priest, if you will?"
*
A cold shiver ran down Dr Julia Ogden's back. It was a warm, almost stifling evening and yet the chill she felt was very real. It was almost as if she could feel something evil closing in on her and of course, there was. Tomorrow was the trial. She had to face the man who had almost caused her death on two occasions and had come oh so close to murdering Detective Murdoch. Even at the asylum she had never encountered anyone quite like James Gillies. He was a true psychopath who murdered on a whim; apparently without motive, because it served his purpose, or simply because he thought the idea interesting. He was possibly the most terrifyingly dangerous man she had ever encountered and, as strong as she was, she felt a very real fear of stepping into the court house and reliving her experience. The risk of breaking down in front of people, especially William, filled her with dread. She was a doctor, a strong, confident woman, but right now all she felt was afraid and alone. Somewhere, out there, William Murdoch would probably be thinking about her too and she cursed herself for keeping him at arms length since the death of her husband. She had so wanted to be free to marry her true love, but the circumstances of his death filled her with guilt. Added to that, the disgrace of being courted by a man while she was supposed to still be in mourning would ruin what respectability and reputation she retained. It infuriated her that she was held by such ridiculous restraints. She was free. Why couldn't she simply enjoy it? There was no such stigma attached to William, neither had there been any associated with Darcy, even though he had blatantly courted other women. They were technically both adulterers, true, but it seemed that only she was guilty. Now on the eve of the trial with the weight of the world on her shoulders, she wished that she had been more considerate of her own needs, and of William's too. She had scarcely explained her situation and had no real idea what he thought of their relationship now. It was a confusing time. Glancing over to the phone, it was time to rectify the situation.
"Operator? Police, Station House Four, please," she asked politely into the mouthpiece.
"Putting you through, ma'am," came the leaden reply.
"Station House Four," a more alert and cheery voice answered.
"May I speak with Detective Murdoch, please?" She asked, her voice only faltering for a second.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, he's gone home for the evening and I believe he's at the court house all day tomorrow. Is it urgent? Would you like to speak to someone else?"
"No," Julia sighed her disappointment. "No, it's quite all right. Goodnight, constable."
"Would you like to leave a message? I'll tell him you called, ma'am."
"No, thank you. I'll be at the court house myself tomorrow, I'll speak to him then."
"Right you are, ma'am. Goodnight!"
Replacing the earpiece on the cradle, Julia took a deep breath.
"We'll, you only have yourself to blame," she sighed, chastising herself.
*
The following morning dawned with an unusual haze that William Murdoch was having trouble clearing from his eyes. Despite everything he had managed to sleep surprisingly easily, tired even before finishing his dinner. Resting on top of his bed, still dressed, he had fallen into such a sound sleep that even his alarm had failed to rouse him. He was proud of his Seth Thomas small bedside alarm, always favouring the most recent technological advances, but today he had no time to consider its failure. Staring bleary-eyed at the hands, his heart plummeted when he saw them only ten minutes away from eight o'clock. He had never slept in. Not ever. But today, when he needed to be at the court house on time - today was the last day he could be late. Scrambling for a clean shirt, he hastily shaved, trying hard not to cut himself as the precious seconds ticked by. Finally racing from the room, he didn't even pause to ponder why Mrs Kitchen hadn't woken him with breakfast.
Pedalling as hard as he could, Detective William Murdoch was alternately fuming and fretting. This had never happened in his entire career, but it had happened today, of all days. The hot blazing sun bore down on him with a heat unusually stifling for so early in the morning, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. The record high temperatures had continued to steadily climb for almost two weeks until it was punishingly hot. Wearing his brown three piece wool suit was proving torturous and his once crisp white shirt clung to his back, already slick with sweat from both the sun and the hard ride.
Why today? Why today, of all days?
He found himself piecing together his most profound of apologies as he clung on to the handlebars, wobbling in the saddle as the front tyre hit a small rut.
He frequently had to appear in court to testify against the many murderers he apprehended, but today, for the first time ever - he was late. Even in his own mind it was unforgivable, but Judge Matthews would almost certainly find him in contempt and would inevitably be harsh toward him on the stand. In the judge's opinion, an unreliable detective made for a poor witness and he would almost certainly instruct the jury to consider that. He couldn't be late, he simply couldn't. They had all worked so hard, for a long time, frequently burning the midnight oil to bring Gillies to justice. He was not about to risk him going free on the whim of a cantankerous judge.
Pushing harder, Murdoch closed his eyes briefly as a sharp but gripping pain seized the inside of his right thigh. Fighting the cramp was difficult but necessary, but the sudden loss of concentration was to cost him dearly. He didn't even see what he had hit, but his bicycle jarred to a sudden stop, throwing him more than ten feet over the handlebars. With a cry of surprise, the shock of it barely had time to register and before he realised what had happened, he was hurtling to the ground, unable to stop his tumbling and rolling as he crashed to a grinding, jarring halt - bruised, tattered, sprawled and unconscious.
One man dropped almost immediately at his side, loosening Murdoch's tie and unbuttoning his collar. A small crowd quickly gathered, but the first man at his side seemed unmoved by either the accident or the detective's dishevelled unconscious form. Discreetly reaching under his jacket, the man plucked the shield from Murdoch's waistcoat, suppressing a smile as another man shouted for an ambulance.
"I'm a doctor," he stated in an authoritative tone. "Don't bother calling for an ambulance. My carriage is over there, outside the bank. I can take him directly to the hospital, please someone help me with him."
Amongst the gathered men and women, two men, unshaven and each wearing dark shirts and caps stepped closer.
"We'll help, if you like?" One of the men began. "What do we do? We don't want to risk hurting him."
"He'll be fine, just take his arms and legs," he gave a thoughtful pause before continuing. "Support his back and head, if you can. Lie him on the floor of the carriage, it'll be easier on him if he is injured."
"Yes, sir," the first man nodded, reaching for the detective's arms, soliciting a weak groan as he did.
"He's alive, at least," the other man commented as he took his legs. "Maybe he's coming to?"
"To my carriage, gentlemen," the man urged. "I fear he may be hurt internally. I must get him to the hospital immediately."
"I've called for the police, doctor," a smartly dressed woman informed him. "Which hospital shall I tell them you've taken him to?"
"York General," the doctor replied hastily.
"Perhaps he has identification on him? He looks like a businessman, we should..."
"Madam!" The man interrupted harshly. "Time is of the essence."
"Of course," she took a step back, chastened by the man's stern glare. "York General; I'll let them know."
"Do that," he replied in a clipped tone, before taking a sharp calming breath. "Thank you."
Turning to see Murdoch loaded into the carriage, the man allowed himself a slight smile.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he nodded as he strode to his carriage. "For your trouble," he added placing a few coins in each of their hands.
"Thank you, sir!" The first man replied eagerly, on seeing the size of his reward.
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," the second added turning a surprised glance toward his companion.
Climbing into the carriage, the man closed the door and tapped his cane on the roof to indicate to the driver to move off.
"Now then, Detective," he smirked. "How many times, do you think, must I help my son evade the noose?"