Author's note: All habits start somewhere and if you pull the thread carefully enough, sometimes a small set of circumstances lays out the broader path for future events…I wondered about the origins of some MM quirks and backstory… I understand Murdoch's character may have originally been proposed to have a mustache, then there are the bicycles, George and his shovels, William's sartorial splendor…

Happy New Year! -rg

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The (First) First Rule of Holes

Circa Winter 1885

"Murdoch? Murdoch! Get your arse over here!" Sergeant Phillips bellowed, throwing a battered, rough-handled shovel in the general direction of the new recruit, not bothering to see if he caught it or it beaned him on the head. Not caring either. It's too bloody cold for this shite. Murdoch was fit enough for hard work, with claims to having been ranch hand and logger probably truthful, but the man was prone to questioning everything and the only way to shut him up and escape his palavering was to give him a job and then leave him to it. Phillips grunted and pointed to the frozen ground at his feet.

The object of Phillip's ire grasped the shovel and erased his own annoyed expression in deference to a superior, but could not suppress a sigh. Eight more weeks of probation, he thought sourly. Good Lord, why am I always digging holes? At school he pulled up what felt like acres of sod for new orderly rows of vegetable gardens to feed the students, as the Fathers believed that manual labor assisted spiritual development and implied William had a "knack" for the task. At the logging camps he'd been relegated to latrine digging and garbage duty before proving himself able to work in the trees, and on the ranch he'd dug interminable post holes along nearly a mile of fencing, even if it was with a new patented digging device he begged the landowner to purchase. After that experience he vowed if he never saw another hole again in this life it would be too soon. Here I thought police work would have relieved me of such duties, he caught himself whining and then was disgusted with himself for that.

"Murdoch! About bleedin' time. The inspector wants that body freed up and put on the wagon he is sending over." He stamped his feet, splashing a little bloody dirt on the grotesquely crooked arm that was protruding from the snow. "Well, get to it, don't just stand there…start digging!" He turned around and stalked off, tucking his scarf around his neck more tightly. "I'm going to begin interviews with the detective."

Probationary Constable William Murdoch, newly sworn to the Toronto Constabulary and only a month into the job, waited for his Sergeant to walk away before surreptitiously making the sign of the cross and bending down to study what he could of the corpse. Someone had been on a killing spree and leaving the remains buried in shallow graves. However, the ground was so frozen by now that this victim was only half covered, with last night's thaw and refreeze embedding the body firmly in iron-hard earth. This is all together getting tiresome—three in a week! At least before I did not have to wrestle dirt in my best suit!...William muttered under his breath as something caught his eye. He began a cursory review of the area when an angry, "Don't dawdle. Put your back into it man, get on with it!" was thrown his direction by Phillips.

The coroner's inquest had been quickly called at the discovery of the body and even more rapidly dismissed because of the temperature. No one wanted to wait around until the body was unearthed; there had not been much that was useful to see in any event, considering the snow and then milling people trampling the crime scene stirred up a nice layer of mud, with the body stuck as it was in the ground. William grimaced and picked a likely spot to make his first indentation, or at least attempt it, and grumbled to himself that if things continue the way they have been he'd better get himself a proper shovel with a sharper blade. For a moment he imagined what tool he'd like to have… Maybe the edge could have serrations in it? before coming back to the problem at hand.

He glanced down at his smart new wool uniform coat (the cost of it painfully coming out of his weekly pay packet). It was already bearing woeful signs of strain along the shoulder seams and wear at the sleeves. He leaned the shovel against a nearby tree and hung the coat on a branch before considering his hand-me-down brass-buttoned tunic. Just yesterday his landlady mentioned that perhaps laundry was not going to be included with room and board after all since he'd come home on several occasions with his uniform impossibly crusted with soil and all manner of stains. He blew out a deep breath. I've already been chastised by the Sargent at morning inspection for having my uniform out of order.

William shrugged and evaluated the situation; he wasn't after a reputation as a shirker. There was no breeze and he'd worked in colder weather than this before, so he took a deep breath and sent the ill-fitting tunic to another branch, grateful for the scratchy union-suit underneath his clothing, before shoving the business end of his shovel towards the ground about a six inches from the corpse, and putting his right heel to the foot-rest while pushing with all his might.

The metal tip skittered wildly on the icy surface, pulling William off balance and causing him to slip sideways in what felt like a slow motion cartwheel. All William could think as he careened over, was that it was a good thing that the Jesuits taught practical knowledge such as how to get a white garment clean, along with the Latin, and that he should have taken the suggestion and sprung for the cost of a second shirt when he had the opportunity. He landed with a jarring splat just in time for the morgue wagon to arrive with a witness to his humiliation. Embarrassment was mitigated only by this knowledge: At least I avoided landing directly on the body…

"Oy! Murdoch. Laying down on the job? Could you use some help?" The voice that was laughing at William's predicament belonged to Constable Seymour, the one man at the station house with whom he scraped an acquaintance.

William's face flamed as the other man came over to hand him up, and he shook his head in stubborn refusal. Unfortunately the muck and ice gave him no purchase and he landed on his rump twice before giving in, eventually laughing bitterly at himself and allowing Seymour to haul him upright.

"Holy Mother of God, Murdoch, you are a right mess," Seymour commented, looking at the brown-spattered and bedraggled rookie, scraggly mustache and all. "Good thing I came along or you'll miss Confession. No morgue attendants, just me." He stretched his tall, thin form. "I suppose we should work on this together." He gestured to the corpse. "I have a pick axe and another shovel so we'll get her up in no time." Seymour looked over his shoulder to mark where the Detective and Phillips were knocking on doors. Satisfied they were out of range he said sharply, "Er…you didn't let them catch you offering the blessing again, did you?"

William shook his head, grateful to have help and the companionship of a co-religionist, since discovering Toronto, unlike his previous habitations, could be rather unwelcoming to Catholics. The first time he crossed himself when approaching a body his coworkers first stared and then snickered rather uncomfortable at him.

As they dug, careful not to damage the body, Seymour chatted on about his new passion for bicycles and encouraged William to invest in one come springtime, warming to the topic as they warmed their limbs by hacking at the frozen ground with their arms and stomping the blades of the shovels into the turf to free up the corpse. William was skeptical about the scheme until he considered the speed of travel, plus the financial benefit of not paying for the trolley or, worse yet an occasional hansom, and got interested in how the mechanics of the wheeled contraptions worked.

William, in turn, quizzed the patient Seymour on police methods and pointed out observations he made as the body was uncovered, even digging deeper under where the corpse had lain, when his shovel seemed to hit something with a metallic echo. "Seymour, do you think this might be important?" He extracted a broken knife blade. "All the bodies were stabbed and this is in the hole under the last one. What if the killer threw it in before tossing the body?"

"Could be, I suppose. Good call, Constable Murdoch," Seymour grinned. They were both sweating from exertion despite the frigid air. Putting the body in canvass they carried it to the wagon and climbed in, with William retrieving his clothing and wrapping himself in a blanket before taking the reins. As they travelled, Seymour accepted William's nattering on about distress to his uniform, hopes he could hide from next morning's inspection what grime wouldn't wash out, and his dire need for a change of clothes if he were to get to church. Seymour punched William's arm to quiet the litany of grievances. "You seem a bit disgruntled, Murdoch. You're young and strong and the least senior, so you'd better get used to the scut work of the constabulary. Digging holes and making tea for the Inspector is your first order of business."

"But how can I learn the most modern methods if I am not allowed to do any actual police work?" William complained. His knowledge so far came from reading everything in the station house reference library (a scant seven very old volumes) and pestering his workmates with questions, not all of whom were as accommodating as the slightly older constable.

Seymour eyed his companion. "Tell me, Murdoch. Who do you think got to spend the most time with the corpse and the crime scene?" He saw the young man's face frown. "And who was it that may have discovered a crucial piece of evidence?"

Seymour waited while William's frown changed to a flatter line and his brown eyes held glimmer of enlightenment.

"And who will soon get to help the coroner arrange the body for autopsy, and offer a few astute observations for the doctor to consider?" Seymour continued.

Now a cunning smile. Looks like Murdoch is catching on, Seymour thought.

William cut in with an even more smug expression and asked expectantly, "And who will get credit for these observations?" He puffed out a bit in satisfaction, unaware as yet exactly how disheveled and ridiculously dirty he actually was—looking like a muddy rabbit.

Seymour's eyes got wide and he belted out a huge laugh. "Oh, not you. No, goodness no! The detective will get the credit; that is if the Inspector doesn't appropriate it."

William's face fell again and he blushed. "Oh, well… er…that doesn't seem quite fair." He sighed and recalled his teachers' admonitions about pride, and flushed deeper, ashamed of himself for forgetting his lessons. "I am aware all work has dignity."

"That's all right, Murdoch. I reckon you have a natural talent for this. Eventually you'll rise in the ranks if I don't miss my guess. Just remember that someday you will not be digging the holes; someone else will. But they will be getting the benefits you are now getting – so take advantage of it while you can."

William digested this bit of advice, before settling back in the seat and chucking the horses' pace forward. "Fecit potentiam in bracchio suo, dispersit superbos mente cordis sui. Deposuit potentes de sede et divites dimisit inanes."

Seymour looked a little uncomprehending. "I get some of that…"

"It is from Bach's Magnificat. It's about God using the power of his arm to lower the haughty and raise the lowly." He smiled at the other man. "I'll just have to use the power of my arms for a while, eh?"

Seymour smiled back. Murdoch is full of surprises, isn't he? "Yes. I think so… but lose the priest-talk, Murdoch. The lads won't take too kindly to your spouting off what they can't understand. And Murdoch, if you can take another piece of unsolicited advice? That old-fashioned mustache doesn't do you any favors and certainly does not make you look any more, um…mature. I know everyone else has them, almost part of the uniform, but… You might want to do without it—go for a more modern look. To go with your modern approach?"

William ran a hand over his face to his carefully-tended facial hair, reflecting on pride again, while unwittingly dragging even more dirt over his skin. He was used to taking counsel from his elders and betters, and assumed the advice Seymour offered was well-meaning. He felt a strong kinship with the man but would have to weigh this a bit before he decided to act on it, a habit he found with all things. Seymour had been correct about getting the extra shirt…he thought ruefully.

"I'll consider it," he said as they rounded towards the back entrance of the morgue, "if you will tell me more about this Toronto Bicycle Club…"

*END*

Reviews welcome & encouraged, as are other suggestions for filling in backstory….rg