Note to readers: I've been writing fanfic on and off for various fandoms since the mid-'80s, but this is the first time I've ever shared any. I discovered Murdoch Mysteries last fall and got completely hooked - it's so finely written and acted, and so meticulously produced. I love playing with such rich, fully formed characters and pressing them to work through what they mean to each other. I started this story in the middle of Season 12, and there are so many spoilers about so many episodes up to then, including the estrangement between the Brackenreids.
Many thanks to everyone who has a hand in making Murdoch, and of course the Murdoch universe belongs to Maureen Jennings and Shaftesbury Films, certainly not me.
I'd love your reviews; like I said, first fanfic ever posted anywhere, so please be kind. Thanks for reading.
Note, March 10, 2019: I missed a chapter while I was uploading. Day Four is now a new chapter, and Day Five is what was Day Four. My apologies!
March 14, 2019: My warmest, most sincere thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far, especially RomanticNerd and RuthieGreen. I've poured a ton into this story and it's just thrilling to hear that people like it. Thanks also to Terry S for the correction - William now blesses, not crosses, himself!
Prologue: Afternoon, August 30, 1906, Toronto
"Dinner? Tonight? Why thank you, sir, that would be lovely," said George Crabtree. "Thank you, yes, I'd be honoured to accept the invitation. Very kind of you. Seven o'clock, then? All right, I will see you and Doctor Ogden at your home at seven." George hung up the phone and grinned.
It had been some time since he had been invited to the Murdoch-Ogden residence as the couple's first dinner guest in their brand new home, and he was always glad for the opportunity to spend time of a purely social nature with them. He was deeply fond of both Detective Murdoch, his cherished mentor, and Doctor Ogden, a remarkable woman whose humour, intellect, and fire never ceased to awe him. An evening with two of the people he admired most in the world would be a mighty improvement on his unpleasant day.
It had been a bad afternoon. The calls started coming in just after 4:00pm: a belligerent, bloodied young man, wearing only a half-opened shirt, trousers, and socks despite the chill in the air, had attacked half a dozen people at random on Cherry Street, near the Port Lands. The hooligan had stabbed at least three of them with a dinner fork, of all things, and clawed wildly at the others, scratching their hands and faces, leaving them stunned and distraught.
Constables Crabtree and Higgins – begging his pardon, Higgins-Newsome – had been on patrol nearby, and were the first of the Constabulary to arrive on the scene. They caught up quickly with the offender, simply following the trail of fresh drops of blood. A struggle had ensued, and the miscreant had managed to drive the fork into George's upper arm before the two constables plus four more reinforcements could subdue him and stuff him in the wagon to the lockup. George was most irritated at having to pull a piece of evidence out of his own person – it was quite painful! – and his ride back to Station House No. 4 was an uncomfortable one. Back at his locker, George retrieved his civilian clothes, and Henry sent him to seek out the attentions of Miss Hart in the morgue to irrigate and bandage the wound. Well, the four small wounds. That done, he resolved to put the incident – nay, work itself! – behind him. He was determined to enjoy himself this evening.
On his way to dinner, he stopped at a florist to pick up a bouquet for his hosts. Stepping back onto the street, he spotted a tailor shop, and remembered with chagrin that he had left the paper bag with his punctured police tunic and union suit on the counter in the morgue. He had wanted to drop them off for repair. Alas; he would collect them in the morning.
Evening, August 30
George stood at his friends' front door and reflected, not for the first time nor for the last, on how very strange their house was. He didn't dislike it, exactly; it was just so odd. The longer the couple lived there, the more he realized how much it suited them. Their deep love for each other and their respective eccentricities were apparent to anyone who met them, and time spent with either or both of them only revealed their tremendous mutual affection and their amiable, unapologetic peculiarity more. It was only fitting that they live in such an unusual abode.
So many features of the home were idiosyncratic to its occupants. A single storey? Neither was ever too far away to hear the other. No wall between the sitting room and dining room? Never a barrier to their conversation and companionship. A hidden sofa? Perfect for the inventor of so many useful gadgets, and also most suitable for a pair who were as obviously smitten with each other as they.
Now, the potato-cooking room – that one was largely due to George and a particular flight his fancy had taken some years ago. He would likely never get over being thrilled that the detective, who so often brushed off George's fantastical imaginings, had brought one of them to fruition, and even built it into his own home! George grinned with anticipation of such agreeable company (and perhaps even another piping hot potato), and knocked on the door.
"George. How wonderful to see you! You're looking most dapper in your suit," said his hostess as she greeted him, radiant as ever, and gave him one of her thousand-watt smiles.
"Doctor Ogden," he answered her warmly, tipping his hat, and presented her with the flowers. "You look lovely, and the house smells quite wonderful."
"Oh come now, George, this is our home. It's Julia." She gave him a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, and gestured him inside, taking his hat as well and laying it on the table next to the door. "Thank you, these are beautiful. I'll get a vase for them." She smells as lovely as she looks, George thought fleetingly, then, not for the first time: Her husband is a very lucky man.
Said husband sailed around a corner to greet their friend as well. "What have you, George?" he asked congenially, in a decade-old habit. No, more than a decade. The phrase was their "hello."
The detective was in a fine mood, having taken the day off to tinker in the workshop that he had been setting up in the second bedroom. His enthusiasm about organizing it had piqued George's curiosity, and the constable was eager to see it. George had great regard for the detective's ingenuity, and had long been fascinated by the man's mind. What better way to see its inner workings than by inspecting his workspace?
"I'm very glad to be here. Thank you so much for inviting me. I have something for you as well," he said, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to hand the detective a potato. All three burst out laughing. It was going to be a very pleasant evening.
Julia gestured George toward one of the armchairs in the sitting room, and then she and William both adjourned to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dinner. George was impressed that the design of the house permitted him to converse with them while they worked. "Sir, I must say I'm surprised to see you engaged in the – shall we say, domestic duties of the household," he began.
Julia's eyes flashed, and William knew enough to hold his tongue. "Well, George," said Julia, "William has been much more engaged in such domestic duties since we discussed the relationship between a person's gender and the relative value placed on their work in the kitchen."
"Is that right, then," said George. "How do you mean?"
William glanced at Julia, and she smiled. "Julia pointed out that professional chefs are all men and are paid handsomely for their labour, while women who work as kitchen maids are paid a relative pittance, and those who cook for their own families are expected to do all the work with no compensation at all." George could practically hear the words in Julia's voice. "We agreed that since we are equals, we will share the household tasks equitably," William continued, and Julia nodded in approval. "Also, I find that I enjoy cooking, and I've learned quite a bit. Some of what I've cooked has turned out to be quite palatable! With regard to the kitchen, Julia's skills…" He paused, and his expression turned mischievous. "Well, shall we say, Julia's considerable skills lie elsewhere."
"William!" she exclaimed, and swatted him with a potholder. George nearly snorted.
"Well then, Julia" – it still felt strange to use her first name, and he wasn't sure he would ever be able to break the habit of calling William Murdoch "sir" – "I suppose you are fortunate in a way. In my experience, the worse you appear at doing something, the less likely you are to be asked to do it. So perhaps in future this current equitable arrangement may shift even further in your favour."
She snickered, and glanced at William in amusement; he was studiously attending to the soup pot on the stove, with his mouth pursed into a smirk as well. "We'll see about that," he muttered.
"George, would you like some wine?" Julia asked, gesturing to a bottle of burgundy on the counter.
"Why thank you, I should like that very much."
The table was set and the meal needed a bit more time, so William and Julia adjourned to the sitting room to join their guest. William asked about goings-on that day at the station house, and so George reported briefly on the misadventure on Cherry Street with the fork-wielding hooligan. The mention of a fork used as a weapon prompted William and Julia to reminisce about the murder of Tobias Pincher several years before, impaled by a pitchfork in the stables of the Imperial Hotel. George thought briefly about mentioning his own injury of the day, but the conversation had moved on and he decided against it, not wishing to dwell on unpleasantness during such a convivial get-together. Really, it was nothing. Irritating more than anything else.
Dinner was a vegetable soup followed by beef bourguignon, with an asparagus salad and some jellies and fresh buns on the side. Despite the warm, engaging banter of his friends, George found himself increasingly out of sorts as the evening progressed. The food was delicious, but he had little appetite, and after a while he could only poke at the contents of his plate. His second glass of wine was nearly untouched. His arm throbbed painfully where the fork had impaled him, and he was developing a headache as well. And was he the only one to notice how very cold the room had become? William had just started to describe his idea for a laundry-drying cabinet when Julia noticed George shiver, and saw the fine sheen of perspiration across his reddening face.
Julia held up a hand to stop William, and stared intently at their guest. "George? Are you all right?"
George squeezed his eyes shut before he replied. He was loath to spoil such an agreeable gathering, but he most certainly could not answer honestly in the affirmative. "I… I don't know that I am. I'm finding it very chilly, and I've had quite the headache come on even since we sat down."
"Goodness, that won't do at all," said Julia. "Here, let me take a look at you. You look quite feverish." She stood up from her chair and walked over toward him. "Any other symptoms? She glanced at his plate and noticed it still mostly full. "Loss of appetite, I see. Any muscle aches?"
"Now that you mention it, I am awfully sore. And—"
He broke off suddenly, and began staring off into the middle distance. William and Julia waited for him to finish his sentence, but he had become quite oblivious to them. Julia heard a rustling under the table and peered underneath to see his legs moving, as if he were riding a bicycle. "George? George!" He smacked his lips, and did not respond. Distressed, Julia leapt to her feet.
"William!" she exclaimed. "My God, William, he's having a seizure. Start timing it, and help me get him onto the floor!" William, wide-eyed, took out his pocket watch and noted the time as Julia moved to George's side and pulled him toward herself. She nodded at William, and he dashed to the other side of George's chair, sliding it out from under him as Julia eased him down to the tile. She noted with some alarm that he was radiating heat.
William was at a loss. He had not witnessed a seizure since he was a young teenager, when one of his classmates had fallen to the floor shaking during a science experiment in the school's laboratory. Two teachers had argued about the correct position for the boy and whether to place anything in his mouth to prevent him from choking on his own tongue. William's classmate had eventually come to, very groggy and disoriented, with several teeth broken by the dip pen that had been shoved between them. It had taken him some months to recover his faculties fully, and William had found the whole experience quite unnerving. He flashed back to it as he stared helplessly at his friend. "George? George. Are you with us? George! Julia, what do we do?"
"Have I never explained this to you before? Oh dear. We place him on his side, make sure his airway is clear, and wait until the seizure releases him. Then we get him to the hospital." William nodded, and helped his wife roll George over halfway. Julia, you are splendid.
William crouched on the floor next to George, listening to his own heartbeat roar in his ears as he stared back and forth between his watch and his friend. The watch read exactly two minutes, forty-seven seconds when George's legs stopped moving, and William saw him come back into himself.
Julia had a small light at the ready, and shone it into George's eyes, one at a time. George recoiled in confusion, looking for all the world like a terrified child. "Sir? Where am I? Doctor Ogden? What happened? Why are we all on the floor?"
Julia lifted George's wrist to check his pulse. Her eyes widened as her hand made contact with his skin: he was burning up. Yes, hospital now, she thought.
William exhaled with relief that George was awake, but the feeling was short-lived. Julia's tone was professional but her pitch was much higher than usual. William recognized the effort she was making to conceal her panic. "You've had a seizure, George. You're very flushed and you've a high fever, which is likely what caused it. Come lie down while I examine you and then we'll get you to the hospital."
"Oh, come now, Doctor Ogden, I'm just feeling a little under the weather. I'm sure I'm just fighting something off, I've certainly never had anything even like a seizure. Surely it couldn't have been as bad as all that…"
"George. First, in this house I am Julia and William is William. Second, you most certainly did have a seizure, you frightened the life out of William, and" — she reached out and placed a cool palm on his sweaty forehead — "you are burning up. This is quite serious. Please let me take care of you."
George shook his head to clear it, to no avail. The room spun around him and his shivering became uncontrollable. "All right, that's enough," William announced, a familiar ring of authority in his voice. "George, you are ill, and you are going to lie down now, and you will submit to the doctor's examination, and we will take you to Toronto General, and that is the final word on the matter."
William moved to George's side, reached an arm around him, and supported him to his feet. "I…" George began, and stiffened. All at once the irritation he had felt before the seizure came surging back, and condensed and magnified itself into a roiling ball of fury in his abdomen. Any semblance of awareness left him as the fury suddenly exploded into an overwhelming rush of rage. He cocked his fist and punched his superior officer in the face with all his might. The detective fell backwards, too surprised to catch himself before his head hit the tile with a sickening thud.