If you're reading this, thanks for getting past the bad summary!
I've done my best to stay true to the characters in spite of the fact that this story is designed to veer downhill very quickly. Please be aware that, while I've attempted to write this like a typical Murdoch episode in terms of dialogue and development, there will be mentions of blood, gore, and details the likes of which they don't usually cover in the show (whether visually or in characters' conversation). A friend gave me a wonderful descriptor for what you're about to read: Murdoch Mysteries meets Penny Dreadful.
I also (obviously) do not own Murdoch Mysteries. I've been pondering what it would be to write an episode of the show but with very dark undertones for some timet, and was inspired by 2018's Halloween special to finally write this.
Please enjoy! Comments/thoughts/critiques/suggestions are always welcomed. :)
Constable George Crabtree had seen his fair share of violence. It came with the profession. The doors to Toronto's Station House No 4 should have been replaced a dozen times over with revolving ones at the rate they opened and closed. Every day a new case stumbled through them in the form of a drunken idiot or concerned parent or grieving widow, and on some days it was enough to make him consider the harsh realities of the world.
George was one for the fantastical. He loved writing books and imagining what, precisely, he would do if an alien invasion occurred. (Most likely, he would play ambassador and suss out the aliens' true intentions before treating them to some of the city's finest sights). The murders they dealt with on a daily basis would have affected him long ago were it not for his sprawling imagination and cheerful disposition.
On rare occasions, even his whimsy was tested, however, and this was one such occasion.
"Please, you must help me!" came a woman's voice from the front desk, loud enough that it attracted the attention of just about everyone in the bullpen, and even the Inspector himself.
George, looking up from the cup of water he'd just obtained from the cooler, frowned at the lady as she made quite a show of throwing her person at the front desk. He supposed she hoped to launch herself over it at one of the attending constables to garner more attention than she was already receiving.
"It's my husband, he's been murdered!"
While the statement was heavy-hitting, George found himself taking a sip of his water and returning to his desk. Sitting down, he regarded his co-worker and friend, Henry Higgins, with raised eyebrows.
"Like her husband's the only one who's ever died," Henry said good-naturedly.
The two shared a small laugh, then went back to their work.
A sense of humour, however bleak, was always good in their line of work. The commotion continued out front, but George tuned it out. Several hours later, he had his report typed up with due diligence, had slid it into a folder, and brought it into his superior's office.
"Sir?"
"Ah, what have you, George?"
Detective William Murdoch won the title of George's best friend with extreme ease. The two had been through thick and thin together and their bond was like no other.
"The report for the Simons case, sir."
"Thank you, George."
William took the folder and set it just-so on his immaculately organized desk, then returned to—
"What in the blazes is that, sir?" George exclaimed when his gaze landed on the contraption William was presently examining.
"I have yet to determine its use..."
The thing was large, or large enough to occupy about half the worktable in William's office. Predominantly metal, it stood about a foot wide and two high, shiny, wooden panels, and more than a few different glass circles that George could only describe as lenses.
"It looks to have come straight out of a comic book, sir!"
William laughed softly; George's antics always amused him.
"It very well could have, George. Though I think you'll find—" and here he turned the thing onto its side, revealing a small plate on the bottom, "—that it is a human-made curiosity."
George stepped forward for a closer look. Squinting, for it was a very tiny font, he read aloud:
"'J.P. & Company, Toronto'... Well that only begs more questions, sir. What did this company have in mind when making this?"
The older man smiled and righted the thing, box-like in structure, but with several more facets.
"A puzzle, George."
George stared in response.
"You see," William tried again, demonstrating how the little glass lenses turned and slid, "it was fabricated with a highly intricate and complex locking mechanism. A... a combination lock, of sorts. One must turn and slide the dials in precisely the right order to open the box and reveal what's been hidden inside."
Suitably impressed, George leaned in again and took another look. Sure enough, the tiny glass lenses had markings on them; Some numbers, others shapes, and others strange symbols that George assumed were fabricated.
"Well whoever designed this has read a great many comic books, I'd wager," he declared almost proudly.
"James Pendrick," William replied with a smirk, not looking up from the box.
"Oh of course it was, of course it was Mr. Pendrick," George lamented, throwing his arms up in the air.
James Pendrick had a knack of showing up—out of the blue, unexpected, and usually unwanted, but George had to admit that the man brought a delightful amount of chaos and ingenuity wherever he went.
"Has he put something inside of it?"
"We'll have to get it open to find out."
A series of clicking noises resounded from within the box and one of the many panels shifted position slightly.
"Oh very well done, sir!" George congratulated, beaming at his friend.
William, however, shook his head with something of a mournful sigh.
"That is the third time I've managed to do that, but whenever I begin tampering with other dials it slides back into place."
"Well don't lose hope, sir. I have yet to see a case stump the great Detective Murdoch."
"And is the great Detective Murdoch aware that he missed lunch?"
The two men looked up from the transfixing puzzle box at the sound of a woman's voice.
"Really, William, we only go out for lunch once a week," she said, but though her tone was chastising, she wore a smile.
"I know, and I'm sorry, Julia," William apologized.
Julia Ogden was another of George's long-time friends, (there were truly very few people George worked with whom he did not call friend). She worked at the city morgue across the way from the constabulary and was a regular consultant on murder investigations. He liked her quick wit and morbid sense of humour almost as much as he thought the Detecive, her husband, did.
"And how are you today, George?"
"Oh very well, thank you, Doctor. Yourself?"
"Fine, thank you... though admittedly curious," she added, pointing to the box.
"Ah!"
William was alight with a revived excitement at getting to explain the puzzle box to someone new, and so George left them to it.
After all, he still had three more reports to write.
. . .
"And you can't get it to move past here?"
"Precisely."
Julia circled the table, inspecting the box as she went. She jiggled the panel that had slid out, tested a few others, and eventually decided to examine the dials instead.
"James Pendrick has certainly outdone himself this time," she remarked, turning a dial this way and that until another panel shifted.
"How did you do that?"
William was instantly back at her side after having admitted defeat only moments ago.
"I turned the one opposite to the same number," she explained, pointing to the first panel that had moved, and then to the second.
"Then it stands to reason that, should one coordinate the numbers or symbols opposite each other, the rest will open."
"Presumably..."
He set to work, and his wife smiled as she looked on. She loved him always, but at times like this she thought perhaps she loved him a little bit more.
A series of clicks and whirrs and a slight buzzing later, all of the panels had slid apart. There was about an inch of space between them all, and William huffed.
"I must have missed something—one extra dial to open it up," he surmised.
"Or," Julia suggested, "perhaps if you simply–"
She placed a hand on each of the top two panels, and gently slid them aside. This created a cascade effect wherein the other panels followed suit and collapsed down, revealing a small interior box. William flipped up the lid and plucked the envelope from within.
"A letter?" Julia inquired, stepping around the table to stand behind William.
Peering over his shoulder, she read:
Detective,
I hope you have enjoyed figuring out my latest invention. By the time you read this, more like it will already be available in shops the world over. Pendrick's Personal Household Safe', a more secure place to store your valuables and hard-earned dollars than the bank, and all in the comfort of your own home.
No doubt you are wondering at its fabrication. The box you have just worked through was one of the prototypes and, as such, disassembles in order that you may view the inner mechanisms. They are a marvel!
All of the locks are adaptable. Should you wish to change the combination, simply set each dial to the desired number or symbol before closing the box, and do remember to scramble them once closed.
I presently find myself in the company of a most charming woman in France. When I return to Toronto, I should like to pick your brain about another idea I've had.
Please give my love to Mrs. Murdoch; I hope you are both well.
Your friend,
James Pendrick
Julia emitted a small laugh at the last.
"He sends his love to Mrs. Murdoch."
Knowing better than to argue that, in all technicality, Pendrick was correct, William merely replied, "And I am sure he sends it to Doctor Ogden, as well."
She smiled her thanks as they shared a look, then took the letter from him and read it over again.
"So they're already being sold to the public. I dare say they'll be the talk of the city if that's the case."
A non-committal noise was all she received in answer, so Julia looked up from Pendrick's elegant scrawl and saw William pulling another envelope from the box, considerably thicker than the previous one.
"What is it?"
"Blueprints," William announced once he'd unfolded the large sheets of paper.
He laid them out on the unoccupied half of the work table and examined them. Julia set the letter down and moved to hover over William's shoulder once more. It was a very elaborate machine, all in all, and must have taken hours to build.
"Fascinating," her husband remarked, smoothing out the folds of the drawing. "It's all cogs and gears... like clockwork."
"A clockwork box," Julia offered, reaching beneath the first sheet to pull a second blueprint free.
"Yes, precisely. He's outdone himself this time."
"He always outdoes himself, William, and then ends up in prison or on the run. Hopefully this might actually work out for him."
"France is not exactly nearby."
Julia quirked a brow and glanced at him over her shoulder.
"You're implying that he is, in fact, on the run again?"
"It would not surprise me," he laughed, flipping through the rest of the blueprints that had been enclosed.
"Detective–? Oh, hello, Doctor Ogden."
"Hello, Henry," the detective and his wife chorused.
"What have you?" William asked, setting the blueprints down and stepping forward.
"There's a woman here, Mrs. Josephine Bailey," he read off his notepad, "who says her husband's been murdered. She's insisting she get to speak with a Detective. I told her you were busy, but—"
"That's quite alright, Henry," William interjected in what he was certain would be a very longwinded ramble, "I will see her."
"In your office, sir?"
"Yes, yes," he replied, looking around at the scattered blueprints and obtrusive box cluttering the area.
"Very well."
Henry disappeared to retrieve the grieving widow from the lobby.
"Here," Julia offered, stepping around William to gather the blueprints which she then folded efficiently and replaced into the envelope.
She tucked Pendrick's letter in along with them, then set them in the box and attempted to move it.
"This weighs an absolute tonne!" she exclaimed, having barely budged the thing an inch.
"Allow me, Julia. You can't have hundreds of metal gears without the weight."
"How on earth would anybody buy one and transport it home? You'd need a special service!"
"I'm sure that's something he took into consideration– Mrs. Bailey, hello, please, take a seat," William said, abandoning his attempts to relocate the box and switching quickly into his professional demeanor.
The woman was barely a woman at all, for she appeared to be between nineteen and twenty-two years of age. Even the ruddiness of her face from crying could not detract from her beauty. Her hair was fair, a bit lighter than Julia's, and she wore a dark plaid suitable for the chilly autumn Toronto was currently facing.
She regarded Julia briefly, who offered a sympathetic smile.
"My wife, Doctor Ogden, Mrs. Bailey," William said by way of explanation as he slid the chair in front of his desk back meaningfully.
"I was just on my way out," Julia assured, shot her husband a quick glance as if to say 'we'll talk later', and then disappeared into the bullpen.
William gave her a slight nod. He turned back to Josephine Bailey, gestured once more to the seat in front of his desk, then sat in his own chair and took out his pen and notebook.
The woman shuffled over unsteadily and sank into the chair with a deep sigh.
"Thank you for seeing me," she said meekly. "I know the constable said you were busy."
"Nonsense. Now, how may I be of service?"
She looked down at her gloved hands, wringing them, before answering.
"My husband, he... Well he's been murdered, you see."
"That is a strong accusation," William hedged carefully.
"Well I wouldn't be making it if I didn't think it to be true!"
"I was not suggesting anything of the sort, Mrs. Bailey–"
"Oh, there's no use in calling me that any longer," she all but whined, "I'm no longer married, I'm not his wife. I'm just Josephine, now, poor widowed Joesphine Bailey– Do I keep his name? Even when he's dead and gone?"
To say that he was taken aback by her wordiness was an understatement. William had dealt with a great deal of grieving widows in his time, but generally they had very little to say. If they did have some sort of a break down such as the one Josephine Bailey was in the thrall of, then they did it on their own time and likely walled up in their home.
"Mrs.– Josephine," he began, hoping to avoid more bereaved chatter, "I am not the person to come to about legal matters such as name changes."
"Yes," she said quickly, seeming to remember herself, "Yes, I... You have my sincere apologies, Detective."
"Please tell me exactly what's happened, and all details you can recall."
Pen poised over the pad, ready to write, he listened:
"Well, you see, I woke up this morning at half-past eight, as I typically do. It is a Friday, after all, and I don't work Fridays. Charles has been gone since Monday, and he was due back yesterday but telegrammed to say his train had been delayed and he would be arriving home around eleven this morning. So I went about my morning, made breakfast, ate it in the sunroom, tidied up, began getting dressed to go out. Then a knock came at the door and I went to answer it. There was a man, not with the postal service, he said, but a private... what was the term he used? Carrier?"
"Courier?" William supplied.
"Yes, that's what he said. A private courier. And he had this box for me; Big, wooden, trimmed in brass with little glass decorations. It was heavy as anything, so he brought it into my sitting room and left it on the coffee table for me."
"And it's still there now?"
"Certainly. I could hardly move it, not that I would want to now."
"Why is that?"
"After he delivered it, I was curious, naturally, but I had errands to run. I stop off at the butcher every Friday morning at ten sharp and I was already pushing a quarter to. So I quickly finished getting ready and went to the butcher, then the baker, and I picked up a few vegetables after deciding to make a stew for Charles' homecoming."
"What time would you say you returned home?" William asked, trying to get her back to the box, about which he had a sneaking suspicion.
"Probably noon by the time I'd done my shopping."
William checked the clock on the opposite wall. Nearing two.
"Please continue."
"I went in the house, put away the groceries, and then I remembered the box that the man had dropped off earlier."
There she paused and frowned, looking at William's desk instead of his face.
"Our coffee table is dark, like this," she explained, reaching out to briefly touch the edge of his desk. "So I didn't realize until I got up close to it, but there was... blood, I suppose. Everywhere. It had flooded the table and dripped on the carpet."
A moment of silence passed as William wrote, though he was using the slightly prolonged writing as a way to give himself more time to think before responding. A pool of blood coming from what he believed to be one of James Pendrick's new puzzle boxes? He resisted the urge to sigh. It was so typical.
"Did you open it?"
"Heavens no! Firstly because it was leaking blood all over my sitting room, and secondly because I haven't the foggiest idea how to open it. There are no latches or knobs or locks or anything!"
William rose slowly from behind his desk so as not to startle her. He walked calmly over to where his own puzzle box sat and lifted the top two panels to bring it back up into a box-like shape.
"Did it look something like this?"
Josephine pushed herself out of her chair and shuffled over. She looked at the box for a short time, then nodded.
"Yes, only smaller."
"Very good. Thank you."
William ushered her back to her seat, then resumed his former position with notebook and pen in hand.
"What did you do then?"
"Well I screamed first and foremost. I never thought I would do, mind, I thought it was just something they did in stories. You know, when a girl sees blood she screams?"
William nodded, for there was, sadly, nothing else he could do to avoid it.
"I did that, and then I came here."
The detective mulled this over, turned her story this way and that, and finally looked her dead in the eye and asked, "So what reason have you to believe that your husband has been murdered?"
Josephine stared at him, wondering why he couldn't connect the dots as she had.
"There was a box filled with blood—or worse—delivered to my house and Charles was scheduled to be home by eleven. He should have been home when I returned from getting the groceries."
William knew this, of course, but he had wanted to hear it from her. Instead of questioning her further, he elected a different course of action.
"Mrs. Bailey… Josephine… Would you allow us to visit your home and inspect this box and its contents?"
"If you can get it open, certainly. As long as I don't have to be there."
"No, of course not. You may remain here—Constable Jackson will see that you want for nothing."
"I'd rather go stay with my sister," Josephine pleaded.
"Where does she live?"
"Two blocks East of me."
"Then perhaps we can have her brought here to sit with you. I'm sorry, but that is protocol for matters like these."
After a minute, she conceded.
"Very well. May I use the telephone?"
"Absolutely."
He walked her out to the front desk, explained Jackson's duties to him quickly, then retreated to the bullpen.
"George?"
"Sir," George greeted heartily, standing to attention.
"Will you accompany me to Mrs. Bailey's house?"
"Gladly, sir."
"Did Doctor Ogden leave?"
"No, she's in speaking with the Inspector."
"Excellent. I must gather some things, and then we'll be off."
He briefly ducked into his office and returned seconds later with his notes, handing them off to the younger man.
"Read these over, fill Julia in, and both of you meet me out behind the station in ten minutes."
Barely restraining himself from saluting, George instead straightened and clicked his heels together, began flipping through the notes, and went to save Julia from whatever impassioned speech the Inspector was giving today.