A/N: Whoops, went a little overboard on this one! There was just so much to fit in. I'm not sure I'll go much further in the timeline, but I've got plenty of ideas for filling in the holes while going backward.
Unbetaed as usual. Part 7 of my AU cycle, which is to say it won't make sense unless you've read a few of the others. I know I'm fudging some people's ages just a little out of canon, but please indulge me this one time. This takes place in the spring of 1926. Gemily, Jilliam, Relix, and hints of something else. It's all here: romance, fluff, and family feels. Enjoy, because you all deserve it.
Of New Beginnings
It was mere moments before midday, and Margaret was already beginning to suffer under the heat.
This was to be expected; she was, after all, dressed in a black frock complete with a mourner's veil. For so many years, this had been her way, and now it was second nature. Presently, she was on the porch of the home that had once been her family's, watering can cocked at the ready as she tended to her rhododendrons. It was early summer, and the flowers that lined the troughs were just beginning to bloom.
No matter what petty dispute was being resolved at the courthouse at this very moment, whatever wars were being raged across the seas, her annuals would return just as soon as the snow melted, rosy buds poking through the detritus. This consistency was comforting to her. It was the kind of thing that her life had revolved around over the past decade.
Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret caught a glimpse of a constable on patrol turning onto her block. She waved, and the fresh face beaming back at her struck something within.
Suddenly feeling very faint, the old woman took hold of the railing to lower herself into the porch swing. She was prone to spells of weakness or malaise, as she was quickly approaching the grand age of eighty. Ten of those years were spent alone in an empty house. To say that there had been little to occupy her mind would have been a falsehood; indeed, even in the absence of anyone to hold her accountable, Margaret Brackenreid ran a tight ship.
She would often rise before dawn to tend to the chores and make breakfast for the boarders she housed in the upper floors. When that was done, the former housewife would make her rounds to a handful of houses in the neighborhood to ask if they were in need of the services of a laundress or seamstress. Her rates were generous, but non-negotiable; she made a point to visit all of the young bachelors in the boarding house on the corner, for the new university graduates could not resist the polite overtures of one of their elders, least of all one that reminded them of their own mothers. And so with the money she took in from her odd jobs and the funds left in her late husband's dwindling pension, Margaret made do with the lot she had been cast. It wasn't preferable, but she would manage as she always had.
In the evenings she would sit in the parlor by lamplight and read the Toronto Gazette, and although she never made a conscious effort to seek out such information, she invariably stumbled across an article touting the recent successes of Detective Crabtree and Inspector Murdoch at Stationhouse Number Four.
Making it through the passage was a struggle, for so often she was consumed by grief and had to cease her progress. Everything, from the description of the crime scene to the investigative procedure, reminded her of Thomas. It was in rare moments like these when Margaret would embrace her sorrow and allow the tears to freely flow; she allowed herself to remember her late husband, and her two sons that she'd lost in senseless acts of violence overseas. Both of them had probably been left bleeding out on the ground of some field in Belgium, without a proper Christian burial or anyone to mourn for them.
The longer she separated herself from the events of the Great War, the more she began to think that Thomas would have wanted her to seek happiness. And she was happy. Margaret found joy in the sunrise and in the dusk, in knowing that she'd survived another day due to the graciousness of God. As long as she was alive, her loved ones would not be forgotten. This is how it would grow to become.
A soft voice interrupted her reverie, both very near and immensely tender. "Your flowers look beautiful this year, mother."
Her head snapped up, shocked that someone had been able to approach the stoop without her taking notice. Before her stood a spit and polished army captain, whose sparkling eyes and gentle demeanor brought her back to simpler times. She'd recognize that smile anywhere. It didn't take a second longer for the widow to struggle to her feet, gasping, "John?"
As she made her way along the perimeter of the porch, using the railing for support, Margaret gradually took in the figure standing before her. Her oldest son was a good eight inches taller than when she'd seen him last, broader in the chest, with hints of auburn curls creeping in at his temples. He was muscular, yet carried with him an immense weight of things he had witnessed in battle. A patchy network of scars covered his face and neck, and from the side of his head grew a misshapen lump of flesh that had once been an ear. But there was no denying the truth of what she was seeing; her son, the soft spoken, well mannered little boy that she'd given life and direction to, had finally come home.
"Mother," he repeated, slack jawed. It appeared that he'd obviously planned on saying something more, perhaps a little more conclusive, but it was all the young man could do but stammer out, "After the Battle of Ypres, I was captured and-"
The matriarch surged forward, encircling his neck with her hands and squeezing tightly. It was a desperate attempt to fit over a decade of affection into a few short seconds. Finally, when her tears had subsided, Margaret replied, "I expected as much."
He took a step back from her and nodded. "We endured terrible hardships at the hands of the Germans, mother, and for some time I forgot who I was. I wound up, of all places, in the employ of some British coppers. They knew father back from the old days, and with their help I have regained my senses."
Margaret could easily fill in the blanks. Cupping his chin with her hand, she said, "Your grandmother once told me that no matter how far children strayed from the home, they would always return. Now I know, after all this time, how right she was."
The two embraced once more, the weight of the situation hanging thickly in the air. Several times she leaned back, holding her son at arm's length as if to ensure that it was really him, that it had truly come to pass that she was welcoming a new resident into her home. And he would stay with her in the house he'd grown up in. Surely, Margaret wouldn't hear another word on the subject.
Now moving with greater agility than anyone of her advanced age had the business of having, she turned and approached the steps that would bring her onto the porch. "Do you have any luggage, John?"
He nodded, taking off his hat and turning it over in his hands. "A hired man is bringing it from the train station."
In spite of herself, Margaret smiled. The day now held more prospects; one of the trundle beds would have to be brought down from the attic and space cleared in the washroom for one more occupant. Her fingertips itched in the manner that they did when a foray into baking was on the horizon. Each mirror in her bedchamber would have to be uncovered and dusted.
She was still running through a mental checklist of tasks when John spoke to something that had bothered him since he'd regained his memory. "I'd bet Bobby will be glad to see me," he said, a bit wishfully.
Margaret stopped with her hands on the handle of the screen door, a great surge of emotion rising within her. Riding that tide of sentiment, she finally found the courage to say aloud what she'd been avoiding for so many years. "Oh, my dear John...your brother is dead."
A look passes between them, like sparks in a flame.
-0-
Inspector William Murdoch had never been one for large social gatherings.
He'd suffered through a great deal of them due to obligations for his job or else by Julia's insistence, and managed to talk his way out of a handful. However, this would not be the case for tonight's outing.
Out of his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of his wife's skirts as she passed by the open doorway of his study. She was preceded by a great cloud of her perfume, which reached William where he sat in his armchair just out of eyesight of the corridor. That scent, so pregnant with pleasant memories, never failed to stir up the proverbial butterflies in his stomach.
It was true that the Murdochs had been married for over twenty years, and parents for many of those. Nevertheless, the passage of time hadn't diluted the passion between the two. Nary a week passed by without Julia finding a fresh bunch of flowers left mysteriously on her desk, nor did William last very long without discovering issues of his favorite scientific publications placed strategically at his bedside. Before he met Julia, the inspector couldn't even begin to prognosticate on the nature of love, but now it seemed to him that the devil-or the salvation, really-lay all in the details.
"Felix Lionel Murdoch, we are to depart on the hour. You had better be out of your school uniform!" His wife's voice reached him from upstairs, quickly followed by the sound of something heavy being knocked over and a shriek. There were a series of shuffling steps and two doors slammed before William took it upon himself to investigate the situation.
That was another matter entirely-the inspector was no longer a young man. In fact, he'd reached the grand milestone of sixty a few years before. Every trace of raven had fled his hair, and his dark eyes were lined with wrinkles. Years of hard mental labor had taken their toll. But he still managed to walk upright and maintain the decorous sense of propriety that had set him apart from his peers at a young age. While his hearing remained sharp, his eyesight dulled, forcing him to wear spectacles for a majority of his waking hours. He'd even developed a vice or two in his advanced age; in the evenings, while Felix was away at university presumably studying his letters, the inspector would remove a slender bottle of absinthe from the drawer and indulge in an hour or two chasing away green fairies from his window.
As he ascended the staircase, his knees stung with arthritis, but he paid that little mind. The heightened tones that had started their confrontation was now hushed, almost imperceptible as William approached the end of the corridor.
His son stood before the mirror in the bedchamber, subconsciously turning this way and that as he checked his best suit for wrinkles. His hair had been slicked back in a style that was perhaps too mature for him, with what William suspected was his styling powder. Julia stood nearly on his heels, hands clasped together, appearing for all the world as if she was trying to memorize this moment before it passed away.
"Is today the chosen day?" He asked a little too solemnly, as if his wife's stricken expression hadn't given it away.
Felix ceased his silent inspection of his attire and turned to face his father, his eyes wide. As he spoke, the faltering tone of his voice betrayed his anxiety. "You wouldn't mind? Will it not steal your spotlight at the festivities?"
Suddenly William was overwhelmed with reverie. In his mind's eye, a small boy stood at the foot of his bed, leaning heavily onto it for support. The six year old had fallen from the height of the porch steps and severely warped the brace he wore around his twisted leg, the same one they'd spent hours working on only weeks prior. He was close to tears, fearful of what his father might say, and acutely conscious of the smarting scrapes he'd collected on his knees.
"Of course not," he replied, putting that memory on hold for the moment. "Our friends are still taken by the fact that John Brackenreid has returned from war. It would not surprise me if I wasn't the only topic of conversation, nor would it please me if I were to be the subject of everyone's speech."
Both seemed satisfied with that. Julia set to work on straightening her son's necktie, while William withdrew his finest set of cuff links from a drawer in the armoire.
Six months before, Felix had taken matters into his own hands, purchasing a ring and plotting a wedding proposal to his paramour, Rose Crabtree. But tragedy had struck the night he'd planned the deed, in more ways than one. Around the same time he'd returned home, mourning a lost opportunity-which was certainly news to William, for to his utter shock his son had neglected to inform him of his intention to marry-Julia had swept in with a torrent of emotion, barely managing to stammer out through her tears that George's youngest daughter had been taken by diphtheria.
All parties had agreed that it would be best to wait until the dust had cleared. And eventually it had; at Christmas, the detective had been back to his jovial self, and around Easter, the women of the family had ceased to wear their mourning frocks for every occasion. Now, with summer approaching and spirits uncharacteristically high, it seemed that Felix had resolved the date that had been hanging over his head since autumn.
"I will be quite pleased to have Rose as a daughter-in-law, and I'm sure that George is absolutely beside himself trying to keep this information to himself," Julia mused absentmindedly, turning her attention to her husband's suit coat.
"Oh, that," Felix stooped to tie the laces of his brogues, his voice slightly muffled with distance. "He doesn't know yet."
William ceased to move in that instant, his fingers poised over the interlocking clasps of his badge. Slowly, dangerously, he ground out, "What do you mean he doesn't know?"
-0-
It was well past sunset in Toronto, and the retirement party that would signify the end of a dynasty was in full swing. The pavilion sat in the shadow of the Allan Gardens botanical conservatory, equidistant from the docks and Stationhouse Number Four. Under the keen artistic direction of Margaret Brackenreid, the space had been transformed with the addition of finely embroidered tablecloths and paper lanterns. A string quartet was nestled in the corner of the enclosure, keeping sedentary watch over the festivities.
Several constables sitting together turned and raised their glasses to the man of the hour, the superior that had given them a chance to protect the genteel of the city and turned them into quite fine young men indeed. Tonight's occasion called for full dress uniform and white gloves, and the lads strived not to disappoint.
William arrived flanked by his wife, who looked radiant in a gown the shade of a robin's egg. His son had went ahead of them, as it had finally occurred to him that asking for the hand of his bride from her father was an important thing to do. Julia soon left his side, swept away by several of her friends, women formerly of the Suffrage League. He could see her gratefully accept a glass of wine from one of them, even though her eyes were on him.
He waved her on to discuss business; they'd already spent all day together preparing for the festivities, and surely half an hour spent in the company of others wouldn't hurt the cause. William milled about the crowd for a while, accepting congratulations and engaging in small talk as he went.
At last he came upon a particularly well-dressed attendee, a young woman with laugh lines and dark eyes that he instantly found familiar. He took Sage Crabtree's hand briefly before releasing it, and asking how she was faring in Chicago.
The Sears and Roebuck shop girl entertained his query with a smile. "Just fine, Uncle Will. I'm glad to be on leave this week. I wouldn't miss your party for the world." She laughed then, the heavy baubles around her neck and wrists tinkling with her amusement. "And as long as you don't plan on telling Papa that I've been receiving plenty of male attention in America, I might stay."
He was about to take leave of her when his attention was diverted elsewhere. From a raised dais at the other end of the pavilion, Margaret was tapping a cocktail fork against her glass.
-0-
It didn't take Felix long to find George. He was laughing it up with the constables, as he was under the assumption that he would soon be promoted to inspector in his father's place. And because there was keen possibility that one of their very own would become the next detective, spirits were high, albeit a touch on edge.
"Uncle George, I must speak with you urgently," he began.
"Just a moment." Turning away from him for a second, he continued with what was surely another one of his fascinating stories: "And then the woman tells me that she doesn't know where her husband went, he left in pursuit of Venusians months ago! Naturally, this intrigued me, so I said-"
Constable Henry Higgins cut off his friend, for once perceptive of the emotions of others. It could have been the fact that the young man was wringing his hands before him and looked as if he would pass out at any moment. "Go on, George, and I'll be here when you get back."
The way he said that almost made it seem that he wouldn't. Whatever the case, it called the excitable detective's attention to the matter at hand. The two men stepped to the outskirts of the pavilion before George asked, "What is it that's on your mind, Felix?"
-0-
A few moments later, the Newfoundlander slid into his seat, eyes wide and wrinkles taut in his forehead. He felt as if he might expire from a cardiac arrest. But that couldn't be the case, for he was only forty-
"I take it Felix finally informed you of his intentions with our daughter?" His wife asked before he could follow that thought to its conclusion. To her credit, she appeared perfectly stoic, even contented.
"How did you know?" He responded quietly, for a toast was currently being offered to the inspector.
Emily shifted in her seat and spoke a single word behind her hand: "Julia."
Sure enough, the lady psychologist appeared like a cat that ate the canary from where she sat at the head of the table. George was beginning to feel faint. Eyes falling on the hors d'oeuvres on the plate before him, the detective began to stuff his face.
"For heaven's sake, dear, don't eat your feelings," Dr. Grace chastised, knocking the cream puff out of his hands. It rolled off the table and onto the floor. Every eye was drawn to the motion of George reaching forward in an attempt to catch it.
Margaret Brackenreid still held the floor, but she held up a finger as if she was telling him to wait his turn. "In conclusion, I would like to thank our very own Inspector for performing his duties to the best of his ability. Thomas would have been proud of how you've represented the stationhouse to the city and...yes, to me."
Cutting off the tide of emotion rising in her throat, Margaret raised her chalice to the crowd, who dutifully echoed her toast with a hearty: "Hear, hear."
George didn't even bother to come out from behind the table. Coming to his feet, he stammered out, "To Inspector William Murdoch…"
His eyes strayed to Julia Ogden, who somehow put two and two together and was now looking at him with trepidation. Everything he had been planning to say died on his tongue, and it was all he could do to gasp out, "May he always look as happy as he does today."
As he sat down to deafening applause, Emily couldn't help herself. "That's it?"
-0-
Some time later, two figures darted between the rows of streamers and low hanging lanterns, bursting into the inky blackness of the evening. Hands clasped, heads thrown back in laughter, they came to rest in the shade of a great oak tree.
Rose leaned into the chest of her lover, eyes drawn up towards his face. For a fleeting moment he thought she might deign him worthy of a kiss, but she just brought her forehead into the crook of his neck, still shaking with mirth.
"My goodness, did you see the look on my father's face? What's eating him, I wonder?"
"Nerves, probably," he answered, knowing that she would assume he was talking about his impending promotion. Nerves? Yes, he could relate.
She disengaged from him, stepping a few feet back and taking the final swig of the contents of her decanter. The contents, unbeknownst to anyone in casual observance of the party, was not strawberry cordial, but bitter red wine. Rose had also managed to lose her shoes in their haste to escape the festivities. They'd grown accustomed to this, sneaking little moments when the backs of Toronto society were turned. It wouldn't surprise him if no one had noticed their absence.
"I haven't even told you the finest part of tonight," she said. "I received a telephone call from an editor in New York City-"
"Don't tell me that-"
"Yes!" She shrieked, bobbing up and down on her toes. "My short story has been accepted for publication in Cosmopolitan!"
Felix stole a moment to share in her joy. Many of the ladies he knew indulged in Mr. Hearst's literary trove, even if the selection of stories had become more and more centered on those of the feminine sensibility as of late. What came with this decision was international recognition, and-if they were lucky-a cash prize of twenty dollars or more.
"That's wonderful, Rose!" He exclaimed, catching her by the waist and drawing her to him. "Why, you're practically famous now." Then, feigning tremendous emotion: "Might I still be your sweetheart, or will you be beating away those literary types with a stick?"
She tilted her head to one side, pretending to consider this. "I think I may allow it this time. Besides, I never told you of the subject matter."
This was probably true. His girl penned hundreds of stories a year, her outlines and character profiles scribbled in leather bound notebooks that she kept in her purse. It could have been any one of the dozens he'd read, or one that he'd never seen before. "Really? Do tell."
"It's a murder mystery," she admitted sheepishly. "And it features a Jesuit educated detective working with his Newfoundlander constable."
He had to laugh at that. "Well, people have always been taken in by our fathers' adventures."
The two were quiet after that, Rose stealing a glance at the moon, incredibly bright in the clear sky. Suddenly, he was reminded of his desire to make some new adventures with her at his side.
Rummaging in his pocket, he was relieved to find that the little velvet box was still stored there. Surreptitiously, he brought it out and hid it in the sleeve of his coat.
Now came the difficult part. His leg brace prohibited movement that was outside of a strict range of limited motion, and he wanted to get down to the ground as smoothly as possible so as not to spoil the surprise.
Naturally, Rose noticed his actions immediately. "What are you doing down there, Felix? You're going to injure your knee. Let me help you up."
"No!" He exclaimed loudly, causing her to start. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Listen, Rose, I don't tell you enough how much I care for you. I do, tremendously, more than anyone ought to. You're just so good to me, and you never-"
"Felix," she interrupted, her voice an octave higher than normal. "Are you really going to-"
"Please," he implored, at last revealing the jewelry box from his sleeve. "I know we're both young, too young to be making these kinds of decisions, but that's never stopped us before." He saw a frown tugging at the corner of her lips, so he went with a different approach. "I remember the summer I was sixteen, you went with some lads and I to break into an abandoned warehouse on Polson Street. And you never once backed down from their challenges, even if they teased you so. One of them couldn't get the proper grasp on a crowbar, so you took it from him and opened the door with a single pull."
The student couldn't help but laugh ruefully at the memory. "We were very nearly caught that night, and we eventually had to confess to our fathers that we were the ones that had committed the break in. It was a foolish flight of juvenile fancy, nothing more, but we were divested of our books and amusements and sent to bed early for a month after that."
She nodded, and joined him on the ground, knees folded beneath her. "And by the second night, you were climbing the tree outside my window to ask me to go steady. We bribed Holly with sweets for months after that to buy her secrecy." Shaking her head, Rose wondered aloud, "What were we thinking?"
Felix was about to question why she was also kneeling-surely this wasn't proceeding according to plan-but he accepted it because it felt strangely right. "I can tell you what I was thinking. I saw something special in that girl, the very same that routinely outscored me in maths and could beat me to the corner in a foot race. I still do, and I want to spend the rest of my life finding those things. So, if you may indulge me-"
Making a move to open to box, he was quite startled when Rose interjected, "Yes."
Taken aback, Felix replied, "Yes?"
"Yes," she concluded, "I will be your wife. I want to be Mrs. Murdoch, and I want to live with you in a grand house and grow old with you and have scores of children with big brown eyes. Yes, I want all of it."
The ring all but forgotten, she leaned forward and fell into his embrace, sending the two tumbling into the long grass.
-0-
Violet Crabtree sat alone, nursing a drink and wishing for all the world that she was back home studying for her anatomy examination that would take place during the following week. Her sisters were off carousing God knew where, and parties were no fun if one was alone.
She was just about to slip off her glove and run her fingers over the bones in her wrist, reciting their names to herself as she went, when a well-dressed gentleman approached her table.
Really, she should have expected it. The string ensemble had just struck up in a stately waltz, relics of an older era, and couples were beginning to pair off. She was prepared to open her mouth and inform her suitor that she was quite busy at the moment, but then her eyes strayed upwards to his face.
John stood before her, dressed to the nines in his military uniform, one arm crossed at his midsection. Margaret's oldest son had been back in Toronto for less than a week, and he had already made an impression on her. The captain was undeniably handsome, even with the network of scars that criss-crossed the better part of his face. He was unfathomably strong, yet tender in his ways, as she had the chance to discover the previous afternoon.
He'd just come for a visit with Julia at the asylum, who he remembered as a much younger woman. However, the good doctor was out at the moment, leaving her office in the capable hands of her student physician. Violet had engaged him in small talk for some time when a door slammed from somewhere down the hall, nearly causing the man to jump out of his skin.
The next moment, he was cowered on the floor, hands clasped over his head. She'd assumed some sort of panic response and jumped to his aid. To her surprise, he'd come at her like she was some assailant, grabbing her arms and sending them both tumbling onto the couch Julia used to interview patients.
There the two remained in an embrace for quite some time, not speaking. Eventually, he'd gotten up to leave, and hadn't been around when she came to call later in the evening. It was all very puzzling.
"I thought I would take the opportunity to apologize for my behavior." To his credit, he spoke clearly, without a hint of hesitation. "I've been engaged in fighting a war that was over many years ago, and I regret to say that it is all in my head."
Violet didn't respond, only studied him in silence.
"Would you care to dance?" At last, he had come to his intention.
She crossed her arms. "Rather forward, are we not, Mr. Brackenreid?"
He smiled then, and she was taken aback by how charming he looked. "I suppose I wouldn't know. But you may call me John, if that pleases you."
It was now or never. Suddenly, Violet had no desire to fight his advances. "It does. Thank you, John." Rising to her feet, she allowed herself to be lead into the circle of waltzing couples in capable hands.
At some distance, two older men observed this scene, one noticeably more agitated than the other. "He's ten years her senior," George groused, not partial to the thought of another daughter of his falling in love.
"There were eight years between John's parents, and there's four between you and Emily," William pointed out, much to his companion's dismay.
The detective only harrumphed and continued to nurse his drink.
Suddenly his son and his sweetheart burst into the pavilion, looking quite disheveled and out of breath. They both approached the head table, briefly arguing about who would be the one to step up, before Felix jumped onto the dais.
"Pardon me, everyone! I have an announcement to make!"
If the way he was holding hands with Rose for dear life didn't give it away, the absolutely daft smile on his face sure did. Once every eye in the pavilion was turned to him, he proclaimed, "Let it be known that Rose Crabtree and I intend to marry!"
There was a chorus of applause that went up among the contingent of guests to whom this came at no surprise whatsoever. Some, however, appeared mystified by this news.
Murdoch, ever the efficient man, decided at that moment to make the second bombshell announcement of the night. He shook his son's hand vigorously and gave Rose a brief hug before joining them on the platform.
"I would like to thank everyone for coming tonight. When I first started at the stationhouse, I never expected that I would stay for this long."
The attendees immediately quieted down, their prognostications ceasing for the moment. When William was sure he had their attention, he continued, "Many of you know that I was not born particularly privileged or gifted in any way. It was only through hard work that I've become the man I am today. To those of you who have supported me, even in the slightest of ways, I wish to thank you. You have made more of a difference than you shall ever know."
Margaret Brackenreid ducked her head, wiping a way a single tear with the touch of a handkerchief.
"It is my estimation that during my career as a detective I solved upwards of five hundred criminal cases, and as an inspector I oversaw action taken on two hundred more. Some days I wished that crime would stop, if even for just a moment I could have peace." There were chuckles at that. "But it never escaped me that every case involved a distinct set of people, paths, destinies, and ambitions. I saw countless deaths and rebirths in the name of passion. If you are to hear my words today, and listen to nothing else, I would urge all of you to never take a single moment for granted. It might all be gone in the blink of one's eye, so we must live for this day, thanking the Lord above for every minute he graces us with."
His hands strayed to his pockets, where he withdrew two flat medallion boxes. It was then he heard his second shout, "What have you, Inspector?"
More laughs at that. Shaking his head, William continued, "I know I shouldn't carry on, or even bother with telling a story, because he is much better than I at that. I will now present the position of my successor to the man that has been by my side the most steadfastly during my time here. This has been thirty years in the making. It is my distinct honor to recognize the newly promoted Inspector George Crabtree."
Raucous cheers came from the direction of the constables. To his surprise, Emily rose to her feet, placed to her lips, and whistled so loudly that it must have woken every dog in the neighborhood.
George's face split into the first expression of joy he'd seen all night. William had meant to shake his hand, even pause a moment for a photograph, but was drawn into a bruising hug before he could even blink.
"This was your doing, sir?" He asked breathlessly, disengaging to turn his new badge over and over in his palm.
"I may have had some influence," William admitted, "Now help me announce your replacement."
The two shared a moment, George imploring for more information. Finally, he got the unspoken message, and turned to face the crowd.
"And now for what was perhaps the more anticipated announcement. Stationhouse Number Four's newest detective-"
"Higgins!" Crabtree roared, throwing his hands in the air. "Get up here, man!"
If the applause for George was loud, the reaction to Henry's promotion could best be described as thunderous. William thought he could feel the ground shaking beneath his feet as the other man joined them on the platform.
-0-
After the commotion had died down and the merrymakers had abandoned the pavilion, William and Julia found themselves on the long trek back to their home on the outskirts of town. Both had neglected to suggest a ride in a hired automobile, preferring to spend a few moments in one another's company at the end of a long day.
Finally, Julia spoke. "Today has been wonderful, don't you agree?"
He did. The two paused under the illumination of an electric streetlamp. William stole a moment to study his wife as an impartial observer.
To him, Julia had always been beautiful, even as her hair became gray and her mouth sprouted laughter lines. The first of many age spots now dotted her delicate hands and neck, while her back was now slightly stooped from years of tending patients at the bedside. Yet he knew that he appeared every bit as weary as she.
What had happened to the young couple with boundless energy that would jump from case to case without missing a beat? Surely, they were not gone, but had evolved into something more timeless and permanent.
Suddenly he became aware of the fact that they were mere blocks from the Stationhouse. Come Monday morning, he would be emptying out his office to make room for a new inspector. But perhaps that appointment could be moved up…
Julia appeared to go along with his pretense, but noticing how he was now walking more briskly, with a heightened purpose, she inquired, "We're not going to be cleaning, are we, William?"
By heaven, she knew him so well. He could spare more thought on the matter shortly, but as for now, he was wondering just how sturdy the desks in the bullpen would prove to be...
The End