NOTE: Spoiler alert: This story fits directly between Season 9 episode 17 & the finale, assuming they are about a week apart.

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1903 - Random Acts of Madness—

"Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self." Cyril Connolly

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-Chapter 1-

Monday night, October 19, 1903

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******* I cannot believe how the idiots are dawdling! Don't they have some place to go? Everyone else packed up promptly at closing. Look at the three of them laughing and bidding each other adieu, as if they like each other. I see them smile and fawn… and I see their jealousy. Hypocritical fools—the worst kind. Egos as thin and fragile as eggshells… no, I can't use that, eggshells are strong. Egos as frangible as sugar lace, yes…that is better. They'd shatter as well as melt into nothingness, having begun existence as a simulacrum in the first place. Charles Colton was wrong. Their imitation is not a sincere form of flattery, it is pure laziness. I am not lazy. I will do the work my audience craves. My legs are cramped from standing still but it won't be long before the interior lighting goes out row by row. I am feeling lucky; by sheer chance there is no moon to speak of and once the long yellow lights that punctuate the side of the building are gone it will be easy to slip through the streets and arrive just in time. And there they go, finally! The Bishop, the Bride and the Bavarian.

Now I can go for the Busybody.

Staying ahead is easy because I am willing to cut through where there are no fences, over the dry grass. My heart rate hardly jangles, just seems to push my legs in ground-clearing strides. I have already peered into the house and picked my weapon after pacing off the route; preparation done rapidly but well. I am sure I have put experience to excellent employ. I try to slow my breathing before the Busybody jerks down the lane with her familiar scuttle. I am surprised the belabouring of my chest is loud enough in my ears to cover the noise of her approach—must remember that. Head down, she never sees me waiting and I think it odd she does not hear me broadcasting my heart and lungs. Apparently she is not as observant as she thinks she is!

I have no trouble at all timing my rush up the stairs to coincide with her pushing her door open. I have her shoved in to the kitchen and against the counter in a thrice, my energy propelling her with more force than I anticipated. My eyes are well-accustomed to the low light. Even so, in the dark I only appreciate a slight gleam off her round eyes and her mouth in a toothy-wide, soundless croak as I pick up the nearest heavy object, which seems to weigh nothing as I swing it up. There is no crack of bone, hardly any sound at all, but of course the weapon slipped a bit in my sweaty hands. There is more of a noise when she clatters to the floor. You can imagine my disappointment when I saw her stir. Another blow stopped that, and it sounded similar to a mallet at the butcher's, a certain light crunch and wet thud. So little bleeding! I also wondered before about people's bowels and bladders letting go and the other little details of expiration but the layers of fabric she wears frustrate my investigation, beyond noting a certain whiff of excrement. Too bad the light is insufficient for further visual study but I will not risk more than quietly absorbing the atmosphere and cataloguing my reactions for inspiration, before cleaning up. I am inordinately pleased my hand betrays not a single quiver as I write this, and I wonder if she will cooperate and stop breathing before my time with her is over; actually I hope so, to make the most out of this opportunity... ******

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Wednesday Morning, October 21

"William?" Julia asked as she stretched her length along her husband's side, skin to skin, and lightly scratched his chest. Diffuse light was coming into their bedroom, not quite making shadows, but bringing some definition to their intertwined bodies and the drape of the sheets. Her blonde head and his dark one were placed on a single pillow; her lithe body fitted his masculine, more muscular one perfectly.

"Yes, Julia?" William stroked a hand along his wife's long hair, his attention slowly returning to the day ahead of him. Between plans for their house and cases at work he had many problems to happily occupy his mind, once he could focus again.

"I wonder why we bother to dress in night clothes—they never stay on…" Julia laughed contentedly.

William almost gave his opinion on the wisdom of modesty considering how often they were interrupted by work in the middle of the night, and mention how much pleasure he gets from divesting her of said clothing, but by now he (usually) recognized a rhetorical question from Julia when he heard one. He checked on her just in case, but she did not appear to be waiting on a response. He smiled. Good. Gathering her closer he judged by the light that they had a few more minutes to hold each other in the afterglow of making love before rising and getting ready for work, as he already heard footsteps in the hallway from staff bringing newspapers and breakfast to other residents. There was not enough time to bother getting redressed this morning, even though they usually did. It was just after dawn, he thought, perhaps 6:10 or 6: 15 am.

Julia enjoyed the quiet enfolded in his arms, but found herself in a teasing frame of mind, thoughts travelling to the events of last evening. She simply could not resist. Making her voice warm and playful she said, "I also wonder if George and Miss Bloom are doing what we are this morning?" She felt William's breathing halt and arms twitch slightly, loving how predictable his reaction was to her attempts at drawing him out of complacency. He is more Puritan at times than Catholic, she thought. Fortunately he is open to a certain alteration or two….

William knew his wife was trying to get a rise out of him, probably was already aware of his involuntary responses, and sighed. "Julia, I don't believe it is appropriate to speculate on such matters, especially since he is both a coworker and friend. It seems unfair to indulge in prurient interest." He shifted out of their embrace and sat up, ready to get his feet on the floor, and shot her a sideways glance to calculate if he should go farther. He added an insouciant angle to his brown gaze and made his lips into a quirk to soften the delivery. "Childish, too…" and got swatted by her for his efforts. "Besides, that is entirely why I am concerned about his reputation. We of all people should know how hard it is to rebuild once damaged." He kissed her then stood, grabbing a robe to cover himself, and helped her rise from her side of the bed before padding over toward the bathroom.

Julia threw her next comment towards his back. "Well, I quite like Miss Bloom. She's refreshing."

The sounds of the shower were already going when William poked his head again out of the door. "She reminds me of your sister…" He shut the door quickly to avoid the pillow Julia launched his way.

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Detective William Murdoch sat at his desk and sorted mail after conducting Station House No. 4's morning report and assigning duties in lieu of Inspector Brackenreid, who was at an early meeting in City Hall. Usually disinterested in these conferences, today William spared some thoughts for the outcome: a new Chief Constable was needed, and in general they were selected from the current roster of Inspectors. Since Brackenreid was responsible for taking Chief Davis down, there was some speculation he would be tapped for the post. It was all hush-hush for now, which of course meant that the rumour mill was running wild. Constable Jackson even said there was a good sized betting pool going. It went against his grain, but William did allow a small moment to consider if he would be promoted along as well. And, surprisingly, he was ambivalent about it in the extreme. Pushing those thoughts aside, he finished the mail and picked up the final draft of his report to the crown on the Burke assault case.

Constable Henry Higgins and Constable George Crabtree were also working on documenting evidence at their usual facing chairs, their customary chatter muted today. Generally William was grateful for the quiet, but the obvious tension between them was making everyone uncomfortable. He was trying to decide if he should do something about it, and if so, what, when Constable Worsley put his bright red-haired head through the doorway. "Yes?"

"Sir. Dr. Ogden wants you in the morgue. Here is the autopsy that goes with the Flanders's case." Worsley approached with a folder, received the detective's thanks, and exited the office in such a way as to avoid brushing by Crabtree and Higgins who were starting to mutter to anyone who passed them by.

His wife usually just used the telephone these days, so he was curious she sent a messenger to fetch him; but no matter. William was happy for the distraction. He fetched his hat and traipsed over the laneway to the morgue and down the ramp to the autopsy floor, where Miss James and Julia were discussing the pros and cons of using a Gigli saw versus a serrated edge hack saw for amputations. Julia looked up with a smile and asked Miss James to pull the sheet over the corpse down far enough to expose the victim's head and neck.

William saw both women were already in their Holland aprons. He bade Miss James good morning and asked Julia, "What have you, doctor?"

Julia made the introductions, gesturing to the figure on the gurney. "Detective, please meet Miss Victoria Morgan, recently deceased assistant librarian from the Toronto Normal School, just north of here."

William held his hat behind his back and his face in a neutral expression. "Yes? Whose case is this?" he asked.

"Actually yours, William. Or it should be." Julia put her hands on her hips. "She was brought in this morning."

He blinked. "What do you mean, brought in?"

"She was sent over from Toronto General Hospital about twenty minutes ago and it took a while to sort out the problem." Julia pointed to the wound on the side of the corpse's head.

"Why was I, er…why were we not called to the crime scene?" William peered at the head, which was shaved and sutured.

Julia explained: "She was found late yesterday morning in her home by her supervisor at the Library. He went to look for her when she was late for work. I don't have the whole story but supposedly he broke down the kitchen door and found her, alive but unresponsive. He ran out, got a neighbor to help him and rushed her to the hospital. You can see she has had medical attention. The wound has been cleaned, pressure from the subdural hematoma was relieved and she got some stitches. The initial speculation was that she slipped and fell, or actually that she was drunk and fell, but the attending physician was suspicious of the circumstances. She hung on for a day but died earlier this morning. After some wrangling, the hospital wanted a formal autopsy and the attending physician just sent her over to see if I would do one." She looked down again. "I say I agree with his assessment. From my preliminary examination a simple fall is not likely. I thought I'd let you know if you wanted to start an investigation. You are already a day and a half behind and much of the evidence is compromised."

William was instantly running the problems through his mind. "I trust your judgement, doctor. So likely homicide it is. What else can you tell me?"

"Look for an object that is circular or semi-circular as the weapon. I will have much more after a full autopsy, of course. And I already asked the hospital to hold her clothing for you—it was not sent along with her body. Here is the name of the doctor who treated Miss Morgan, and the victim's address," she handed him a note. "And please bring me her chart which the hospital will release to you along with her belongings."

He looked at the note, and placed it in his dark blue jacket pocket, before consulting his timepiece. "Excellent. I will make sure of that. I will check in with you later then?" He nodded politely to the two women, turned and made his way back to his office. Back in the Station House things were no better between Henry and George, but at least the inspector was back. William walked into his superior's office and noticed the man was dressed in his best business attire with new cravat and waistcoat, and in an upbeat mood…unusual after one of these sorts of meetings.

"How did things go, sir? Any news?" William asked, not certain he wanted to know.

"Let's just say it was interesting. But no. No news. Things move slower there, than even you do," Brackenreid said good-naturedly, placing his hands in his pockets and rocking briefly on his heels. Indicating with a thumb he asked William, "What's that all about?" He nodded beyond his wall of windows to the double desk in the bull pen where Constables Crabtree and Higgins managed to twist themselves around so there was no opportunity for eye contact.

William cleared his throat uncomfortably. He and Julia were at odds for the same reasons but at least were talking and not upset with each other. "Sir. I believe Constable Higgins disapproves of Constable Crabtree's choice of Miss Bloom for a sweetheart, and may have said something impolite or made an ill-advised joke at Crabtree's expense."

"Bloody Hell. More likely at Miss Bloom's expense, I'd reckon by the looks of things." He said with a grimace. "Women! Always causing problems…" Brackenreid cut himself off before he could get in any deeper. He and Margaret had a small tussle about Crabtree and Nina Bloom yesterday in the carriage ride home, forcing him to admit he found the lass charming, despite sincere misgivings about the liaison.

William wasn't sure he agreed that women cause all the problems, but certainly did not wish to discuss last night's dinner party right now. "Er...yes, sir. I want to go over a new case. Julia was sent a body from Toronto General for autopsy and she is fairly sure it is homicide. I have the particulars and would like to open the investigation." He gave a brief sketch of the particulars and Brackenreid concurred that an investigation was warranted. William eyed the bullpen again thoughtfully.

Brackenreid dropped a file folder of precinct reports on his desk wishing he did not have to digest them, and followed his detective's gaze. After considering passing the task along to a subordinate, he straightened. "All right, Murdoch. Get those two into it, and separated if you can. Take Jackson as well if you need him." He opened his office door and shouted "Oy! You two, in here and grab Jackson as well." He was satisfied when he saw the both of them jump in their chairs. If he had to put up with moody-broody from his wife at home he wasn't going to do so at work.

The detective ran through the known facts to his constables. "Unlike most investigations, establishing the victim's time of death is irrelevant. What we need to know, is precisely when she was attacked. We know roughly when she left work and when she was found—about a fourteen-hour window, give or take. We need a more accurate timeline. At least we think we know where she was attacked—in her cottage. The remaining evidence is likely to be compromised, but it is all we have to go on. Constable Crabtree and I will work that scene." William set Henry to locate the victim's supervisor, Clarence Brightman, and ask him to come down to the Station House to give a statement. "Constable Higgins, please don't let on to Mr. Brightman that Miss Morgan succumbed to her wound if he does not know that already, and after you locate him, investigate his background, where he lives, his work situation at the school. Everything. Constable Jackson, I want you to look into Miss Morgan's background as well, her family, friends, romantic interests… The more information we have on her the more help we will have finding who killed her. Dr. Ogden will have the autopsy findings later this afternoon. I want to have Mr. Brightman's statement taken as soon as possible and then follow up where your investigations lead by the end of the day." Both Jackson and Higgins seemed grateful to start their tasks, or at least escape the Station House and George's dirty looks.

William decided to take bicycles to Miss Morgan's cottage to give George time to bring himself under better control; also, William admitted to himself, so there would be no opportunity for idle conversation between them. The day was bright and dry, free from the rain storms of the previous week, and the ride was pleasant with his murder bag secured on the fender of his wheel. It was a very short distance between Wilton Street and the carriage lane to the rear of Maderia Place where her house was situated, past a well-tended estate which eventually gave way to a scrubby lot. Finding their way to the actual house, it was clear that it was an isolated location: no one would be randomly wandering by; one would need to know the area very well. He noticed the approach to the house was paved with flagstones, useless for foot prints. Pulling up next to the side porch, William rested his bicycle against the small porch railing. He surveyed the structure, nearly obscured by tall bushes and asked George for his opinion.

George turned a critical eye on the one-story façade, sporting a pair of half-rounded windows and attic under a peaked roof. "I'm not sure, sir. Seems like a rather ramshackle place to me. An old worker's cottage perhaps or a converted carriage house? There hasn't been a lick of paint on it in some time." George added. "I use that Library at the teacher's college. It is open to the public as well as the school's students. I knew her, sir. Miss Morgan."

William raised his eyebrows. "Did you? That might be very helpful in our investigation. What did you know about her?"

"Not all that much sir, other than she was particular about the rules of the library, which I suppose was her job. For instance, I would not have ever thought she lives here, like this. There is something odd about this whole place." George answered.

"Indeed. The cottage does not seem to fit in with the rest of the estate." William led George up three wooden steps to a landing and pushed on the half-opened door into a cramped kitchen. Inside the two men observed a cleared space occupied by a table with three chairs, an open pantry, dishware and a sink with a green hand-pump. There was as small path of open floor leading to a front room with stairs to the attic bedrooms. The rest of the two room house was nearly floor- to- ceiling bottles, paper, boxes, bags and furniture. "It is odd in here as well." William looked around at the mess. "The interior does not demonstrate the precision one would associate with a librarian."

"It looks to me that no one has thrown anything out in years. Decades perhaps." George pushed the door open wider to let more light in. "No plumbing, I am guessing, and I saw no lines running to the house—so no electric and no telephone, obviously."

"George, we need to approach this logically as I entirely agree with your observations about years of accretion. What is most important will be the top layer of detritus, so we only need to worry about what is along the pathway—no one has delved into the far reaches of these rooms in a long time. So unless you see a disturbance in the dust, we can leave that alone." William took in his surroundings before coming up with a plan of action. He divided the tasks between them, having George track through the rest of the house while he looked for blood evidence and examined the broken door frame.

"Sir. Look at this." George came back to the kitchen as William was finishing up. "There are two bedrooms upstairs. Only one is habitable—with a single bed, dresser and desk. On the desk I found these." George showed the armful of papers he gathered. "Miss Morgan's correspondence. I have kept them in archeological order so to speak, as much as possible. They seem to be all complaints of one type or other, either that she lodged against others or they made against her." He set the pile down carefully.

William brought up his discovery as well. "This was on the table along with unopened mail. It seems to be a love letter." He offered it to George to read.

George smoothed the rumpled page and angled it for better light. "'I would not be being truthful if I told you I am fine without you—I am not…I find there is nothing I can do but wait it out until I can be with you again…' "(1) George finished reading the rest out loud and looked up, light brown eyes round with surprise. "My goodness! Miss Morgan seems to have been able to arouse all sorts of passions. Perhaps one cannot tell a book by its cover, after all…" George found the last part coming out more archly than he originally intended, but he was still smarting a bit from the hard time the detective offered him about his new romance.

"Quite." William ah-hemmed and hoped he did not colour while making eye contact with his companion. "Dr. Ogden says we need to look for round objects as weapons, but there is so much here I would not begin to know where to look, so we will have to wait until we get the autopsy. George, did you find any more letters like this in her possession? Anything with similar paper?" William considered the huge pile of letters already gathered and sighed. "I think we need to bring all the pages we can find back to the Station House to sort and compare." He checked his watch. "When we are done here, I want you to go to the hospital since it is so close by, and interview the attending physician. Ask him about any observations from when the victim got to the hospital. Please collect Miss Morgan's clothing for me, then take her medical chart to the morgue." He hoisted his equipment kit. "Shall we start with finger marks in the kitchen…?"

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(1) Used with permission from the author