"Olly Olly Oxen Free"
Everything tale has a beginning. This is an "Origins" explanation set in a delicious blank spot in the "story" I could not resist. Disclaimer:I took huge liberties with the geography of the Don River and Don Valley—please suspend disbelief if you know the area; I murdered it as well for purposes of this story
Please read, enjoy the mystery & the characters. Reviews and correspondence encouraged, with my endless appreciation!
Chapter 1
7:30 am Monday June 27th, 1892
The constable slicked down his brown hair with a moistened hand and rubbed one black shoe then the other against the back of his opposing trousered leg to raise a shine. This was going to be his first day at Station House No. 4 on Wilton Street, so he wanted to make a good impression, having gone to considerable trouble to secure this particular posting. Helmet firmly in place and tin lunch bucket and paper bag under one arm, box of books in another, he pushed through the double doors and down a few steps to greet the on-duty officer, one Constable John Hodge, barricaded behind a huge wooden desk arrangement in the station house lobby. Several people were already sitting on a long bench to the left side of the space, waiting their turn to speak with the constabulary.
"Welcome Constable Crabtree!" Constable Hodge's gentle, whiskered face split into a grin. "You're a little early. Good on you! Inspector Brackenreid will be along in a moment and his inspection and the morning report is at eight o'clock sharp." He spied the items Crabtree was carrying. "The lockers are in the basement, down to the hall on your left. You'll be told which desk you will be sharing."
George Crabtree, slender and in his mid-twenties, smiled in return, with a wink in his mild eyes. "Thank you. And I have a little something for you." Crabtree plucked the bag from under his arm and placed it on the high counter, pushing it forward with a finger. He had made Hodge's acquaintance while scoping out Station House No. 4 and learned that the man loved his sweets. German immigration to Toronto inevitably brought Schnecken, or sticky-buns, so Crabtree was able to locate a bakery open at 6 in the morning. He thought he owed Hodge for some assistance in getting the chance to work at No. 4, and since he always paid his debts, the treat was a thank you. The smell of the yeast-dough was divine, he acknowledged to himself, but as he only had enough coins to buy one, he let his stomach rumble on, promising it bread and cheese with beer at noon, hoping the guttural sounds would not embarrass him.
Hodge's eyes lit up as he inhaled cinnamon before rolling the bag back up and reluctantly placing it out of harm's way. "Ah… I'll be having this with my tea. Thank you, much obliged." In his early fifties, John Hodge was content with his place as a fixture at Station House No. 4, having been there the longest of any man, and thought himself a good judge of character- reinforced by the Inspector's hiring of this new constable (in part at his suggestion) and now by the appearance of a pastry in acknowledgement of that boon.
Crabtree adjusted his tunic top and belt with brass clasp, walking into the belly of the station house, surveying the setup of the building since being rehabilitated in 1889: A large central open working area with multiple desks, then an obviously nicely-appointed office to the right, belonging to Inspector Thomas Brackenreid, separated by half-glass walls and neat lettering identifying the occupant. To the left was a twin of the inspector's office, which presently seemed to be a jumble of books, boxes and mismatched furniture, over which presided a battered wooden roll top desk shoved against a large window. The glass door to the space was carelessly scraped clean of any script.
Crabtree felt a little smug: He was already envisioning the exploits that awaited him, much grander than his previous two years as a constable. No more endless night patrols, putting pebbles on door knobs or rousting drunks. No more scut work just guarding crime scenes or, worse yet, searching disgusting middens with a hoe looking for evidence. Never again! I have landed a position as the newly-promoted, Constable (second-class), on the day shifteHe at Station House No. 4! This is the place where the majority of eventual detectives, inspectors and even Chief Constables originally laboured before rising in the ranks, and where I, as an ambitious man, will find my place.
No one was at work yet except for Hodge and man in a modern suit whom Crabtree assumed was A.D. William Murdoch, hunched at the left-hand battered desk. Crabtree restrained himself from disturbing the other man, and instead found the stairs and descended to the basement to check out the locker room, earth closet and jail cells before reporting for duty, taking in every square inch and imagining how his career will commence from this day forward.
# # #
"And who the Bloody Hell are you?" Inspector Brackenreid said kindly enough to an unfamiliar face in the lineup for morning inspection and report. He was distracted for a moment by a set of crates leaning against a wall that had not been there the night before, but returned his attention to the men.
"This here is Constable George Crabtree, just transferred over from No. 1, Inspector. You approved that last week…" Hodge stepped in, introducing the new man to the rest of the crew. Brackenreid peered closer at the oval face, large light brown eyes and crooked smile of the newcomer. "Ah, yes. I do remember the interview. Welcome to Station House No. 4, young Crabtree. We run a tight ship around here, so look sharp."
"And here is your tea, Inspector," answered Crabtree, having already gotten the word that the first order of business for the low man on the totem pole was putting the kettle on…Not that I plan to be there for long, he thought, but offered a supplicant's smile to his superior while being welcomed by the rest of the men. The tea or the smile appeared to mollify the Inspector…So far so good.
"Gentlemen. The news for the day is thus: expect a rise in break-ins and other crimes of opportunity. The weather is sweltering with more heat predicted—people will leave their doors and windows open and will be surprised, simply surprised mind you, that other individuals will pilfer from them," Brackenreid announced with broad Yorkshire vowels, and received a general chuckle from his audience. "Also, more domestic arguments as the heat gets on people's nerves, and more drunken-disorderly complaints as people drink to cool down. The cells are full this morning and need sorting out. City-wide there's been another beating death of a woman, a domestic I believe, another drowning of someone who probably wanted to cool off in the water and forgot they couldn't swim, and a robbery in Parkdale," more snickers were heard. "Oy! What's so funny?"
"Where else would you rob—but where the money is!" Constable Blake observed.
"Well, quite. And I got this message from some enterprising copper casting an awfully wide net – the child of a society couple in Buffalo is missing, and they are looking for the ex-nanny—one Mary Maude Burdick for questioning. I will post her description on the board." Brackenreid scanned his men and liked what he saw this morning. "Crabtree, you pair with Blake today," he gestured, "and keep the tea coming," getting a quick 'Yes, sir!' and nod from the new man. The inspector dismissed the men for the day and eyed the odd pile of boxes again.
Murdoch was standing at attention off to the side, trying to surreptitiously catch the inspector's eye. Once a month for the past six months, he had assigned himself the task of advocating with the inspector to end the farce of his status with the constabulary. He did not understand why he was being blocked; he was mild tempered, a hard worker, conscientious, helpful, professional and followed every rule to the letter. His conviction rate, even as an "acting detective", rivalled anyone else's. He was confident of his worth, without hubris, and thought he had been patient enough.
Brackenreid saw Murdoch lingering and grimaced. Bloody Hell! It is too damned early for this. He sighed. 'Sooner started, sooner done,' as his regimental captain would have said. He'd been thinking more of the old codger recently, seeking inspiration for his own problems with life in middle management. He barked a crisp,"Murdoch! In my office!" and marched ahead, assuming he would be followed.
Rounding his desk, Brackenreid set the tea aside and removing his light grey frock-coat, took his seat and looked at the man before him. Murdoch stood stiffly, his own dark jacket firmly in place and likely to remain so despite the heat, arms pinned behind his back in his usual stance. They stared at each other a bit, before the inspector blinked. Uncanny how he usually gets me to do that first, Brackenreid griped to himself in disgust. He held up a hand. "Before you ask, the short answer is 'Yes.' There is another opening for detective at Station House No. 5, though why anyone would want to muck around way out there is beyond me. And, no, I have no word if you will be appointed full detective here, there, or any other place any time soon."
"But, sir… I have been "acting" detective for almost 2 years. I am already the longest serving "A.D." in the history of the constabulary. I have no permanent place here and you lend me out to fill in all over the other precincts…" William Murdoch ran his argument calmly and logically as he always did, listing his accomplishments and the cases he has closed.
Brackenreid cut him off by slamming his hand on the desk, jostling the tea cup. "I don't lend you, the Chief Constable assigns you, and I am the one who got you another bob and a half a week for your troubles from my own budget, so don't say I never did a dammed thing for you." The inspector saw Murdoch wince automatically at the invective as Murdoch, famously, did not approve of cursing. Bullocks! He sighed that out exasperatedly, and noticed the wince again.
Truth be told, Brackenreid privately felt badly for the man. Neither fish nor fowl, not a constable but not a detective- to the point where even the inspector never used a title, just barked his last name to indicate Murdoch's non-place in the hierarchy. Chief Constable Stockton seemed content with the current arrangement and none of the other inspectors quite took a shine to Murdoch either; not in so many words. "Too stiff, too detailed, too methodical," were the complaints. Or just plain too slow! Brackenreid guessed, and probably too Catholic to boot. Or too smart. Brackenreid had been around long enough to recognize that some men are intimidated by their intellectual betters. The dilemma was that Murdoch was very, very, good at the job of detective, even if his methods were difficult to get a handle on and rubbed some people the wrong way. For instance that mess of an office across the bull pen area was a sore point. Murdoch averred he was not comfortable claiming the space unless it was actually going to be "his," so it was a sorry catchall cleared just enough for a desk and an area for interviewing and examining evidence, barely. Brackenreid suspected some not so subtle cheekiness was involved as well.
The men at Station House No. 4 however had gradually come to defer to Murdoch, acknowledging "Sir" and "Mister," generally "Detective", having dropped the "acting" or "A.D." prefix long ago. Never the less it still made for some awkwardness.
"I told you before, Murdoch. That's what you get for rising so quickly through the ranks."
"No more rapidly than you, sir…"
Brackenreid just spoke louder. "And the city is broke. Why would they pay you more to do what you are already doing, and so well, for much less?" Brackenreid hated the argument as soon as it was out of his mouth. He sighed again, seeing the already rigid man in front of him snap even tighter. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll have a chat with some people for you, but don't hold your breath." Murdoch's thin smile was all the acknowledgement he was likely to get. Wanting to change the subject, he asked about the boxes taking up space in the bull pan.
At that Murdoch became animated, the tussle with his superior momentarily set aside. "Yes, sir. I have devised a method for furnishing fresh and cold water for the station house rather than having to use the stand pump, especially considering the risk of cholera and other diseases…." He a-hemmed. "That means instead of allowing beer to be drunk, we can have clean water…" The inspector grunted, thinking Murdoch will lose some of that good will he built up with the men when he proposes to forbid a pint with lunch. Good God! How did I get saddled with a tea-totaling prig of a papist? Brackenreid put his chin in his hand and nodded while the other man prattled on…..