Chapter 1: Secrets of the Subterranean

Don Valley Pressed Brick Company, May 8, 1905, 8:00am

From his office window, Edwin Rundle surveyed the morning shift at the quarry. Dozens of sweaty, dusty workers were arriving to begin a carefully orchestrated ballet, hauling clay and shale out of the ground, sending the dirt and rubble off in hand carts into the factory at the south end of the site, where they would be mixed with water, moulded, dried, and then fired in the enormous down-draft kiln, stoked by burly, ash-covered men shovelling coal into its fiery maw.

The brickworks had been extraordinarily busy since the Great Fire, as large swaths of the city were being rebuilt. Rundle found a certain satisfaction in his occupation. He was proud to visit such august places as Massey Hall, Osgoode Hall, and the provincial legislature, and know it was his men who had created the material to build them.

Rundle was getting ready to return to his desk and the day's paperwork when he noticed that the usual movement outside had yet to begin. The men and boys were dropping their shovels and beginning to assemble around something he could not make out. He picked up the binoculars on his desk and peered out at the crowd, but could not see what was attracting all the attention.

A young boy, one of the urchins who came to work in the mornings from the orphanage, broke away from the throng and began running toward the building. Rundle watched him approach, and then heard him bounding up the stairs. "Sir! Sir!" the boy cried. "There's a body in the quarry!"

Rundle paled. "A body, son? Man or woman?"

"A… a man? I think?" The boy's brown eyes were wide with fear.

"What are you on about, boy? You think it's a man?"

"It's… it's not like no man I ever seen before, sir! It's enormous! Giant face, tongue big as your hand. And hands and feet—just huge, sir. The fingers and toes—webbed! And not a stitch on! We're not sure it's even human, sir!"

Rundle felt the hair rise from the back of his neck all the way down his arms. He turned to his desk, picked up the telephone, and asked for the Toronto Constabulary.

Half an hour later, members of the Constabulary were on the scene, having arrived by bicycle and morgue wagon. Murdoch did not envy the wagon driver: the omnipresent rubble made for a very rough ride. At least the passenger would be unlikely to notice.

"Where's George?" Murdoch asked Watts as the two detectives followed Edwin Rundle and the young lad, a ten-year-old named John, into the quarry. Doctor Ogden followed close behind.

"Uh, I don't know, Detective. He did seem rather, ah, upset before he left the station house." Watts cleared his throat.

"He did indeed. Something about that new column in the Telegraph quite distressed him."

"You might speak with him, William," said Julia.

"Yes, I suppose I might." His discomfort with the suggestion was obvious. "Although you tend to be much more adept with such matters. Perhaps you could...?"

Murdoch frowned as the boy leading them came to a stop and pointed at the dusty body. "Right there. Stu says it looks like a giant lizard!"

"Stu?" Murdoch enquired, crouching down by the prone form.

"My friend! He found it with me. And Paul, he was with us too."

"We'll need to talk to them too, then. What were you all doing in the quarry?"

"Starting work, sir. We work mornings."

Murdoch winced. Not much of a childhood. "And this is exactly how you found it." He pointed at the body. "Nobody touched it."

"No, sir! Paul wanted to poke it with a shovel but Stu was too scared. We was all scared."

"It's all right, John. It can't hurt you. You needn't fear the dead." Murdoch laid a hand against the corpse's dusty skin to check its temperature.

The boy stood and thought for a moment. "I guess not, sir."

Julia bent down to begin examining the body, as Murdoch rose and turned toward the group of onlookers, mostly boys who worked in the quarry. Three of them were restraining a wriggling youth whose eye was starting to swell. "Who is that young lad?" Murdoch enquired.

"He's a street boy, sir. He was standing over the body when we got here."

"Thank you, John." Murdoch tipped his hat. "Hello, boys," he addressed the throng. "What have we here?"

"He tried to run," said one of the boys who held an arm of the squirming, angry youth whose clothes were even rattier than those of the working boys.

"Let him go. I'll handle him." Murdoch leaned over at the boy and opened his jacket briefly to flash his shield. "Detective Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary. What's your name, son?"

The boy shook his head violently, and continued to writhe. The second the other boys released their grip, he was off like a shot. Murdoch caught him easily, and held him in place.

"His name's Charlie," called out one of the working boys. "One of the street kids. Comes down here nights sometimes."

"You're not in any trouble, Charlie," Murdoch said kindly, and turned the boy around to face him. He saw a hint of something vulnerable in the slight young boy's eyes, and felt a twinge that he could not identify. Regret about his own childhood? Anger about the boy's lot in life? He was ruminating for a moment when Detective Watts suddenly announced, "There was a fight here last night." Panic crossed the boy's face, and he struggled harder than ever, kicking wildly at Murdoch's shins.

Murdoch, nimbly avoiding the lad's flailing feet, slipped into his hyper-observant analytical mode for an instant. He shot a quick look at the ground around them, noting the large collection of footprints in varying sizes, pointing in all directions, and immediately agreed with Watts. "The footprints."

"But… the workers made those! Nobody fights here. There's no fights." Charlie bit his lip and looked away.

"That's an odd way to put it," Watts muttered, and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. Murdoch, too, knew the boy was lying, but decided to leave the rest of the exchange to the other detective. He had come to respect the shambling, eccentric man and his skill in winnowing information out of the most reluctant suspects.

"There's fighting here at night, isn't there?" Watts continued, his eyes boring into the young lad's calculating face. "Bareknuckle, if I'm right. With betting." The boy's eyes grew huge. "Now come on, Charlie, the truth this time."

Charlie slumped, all the struggle going out of him. "Y-y-yes, sir. B-but me and my friends! We didn't do nothing!"

Murdoch let the boy go and crouched in front of him. "Charlie. It's all right. You're not in any trouble. We just want to know what happened here." He gestured toward the body. "That's all. Now tell us what you saw."

Murdoch watched the lad weigh his options.

"I… I s'pose I can," said Charlie sadly. "All right. Last night there was a—"

He broke off and glanced around quickly, then burst into a sprint, catching Murdoch and Watts completely off guard. The two detectives regarded each other with disbelief. Watts inclined his head slightly, communicating silently with his colleague: Go. Murdoch started to run.

The boys were gearing up for the chase as well when Rundle raised a hand and thundered, "No! I'll not have any of you running off! Get back to work!" Some looked disappointed, but all obeyed.

Watts debated briefly whether to give pursuit as well. The boy was fast, and clearly very familiar with the quarry and environs. Watts, a pragmatic man, decided against joining Murdoch: the lad was already almost out of view, and if anyone had a chance of catching him, it was the senior detective, possibly the fittest man in the Constabulary.

Suddenly Murdoch lost his footing on the loose dirt and rock. When he reached out to catch himself, his hand hit the ground, and there was a loud pop. His shoulder exploded into a brilliant haze of pain. The agony blinded him, and he collapsed on the ground. The boy disappeared.

Station House 4, 8:35am

Crabtree stood at the door of the station house, trying to decide how to attract the least notice as he slunk back to his desk. He took a breath, and went inside.

"Crabtree! My office, now!" Brackenreid bellowed.

So much for sneaking back in. Crabtree sighed, and girded himself for the inevitable dressing-down. At least he hadn't gotten as far as the bullpen.

He closed the door behind himself, and remained standing. "Sir. I… I apologise for my abrupt departure earlier. I, I believed I was needed on patrol, sir."

Brackenreid regarded him critically over his glasses. "You're a terrible liar, Sunshine. Out with it: where did you go?"

"It was a personal matter, sir." Crabtree swallowed.

"About automatic telepathic writing?"

"In a manner of speaking, sir." He shifted uncomfortably.

"You're not going to tell me, are you, Bugalugs."

"Respectfully—no, sir."

"I figured as much. Right! You take off like that again and I'll dock your pay for a week." Brackenreid stared him down.

"Understood, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Crabtree glanced unhappily at the door, wondering whether he was dismissed.

A ghost of a smile passed across Brackenreid's face, and his tone and volume softened. "I've seen many a man look the way you did when you stomped out of here. The Telegraph, then? Miss Cherry?"

Crabtree bristled. His eyes widened, and he shook his head, just once. Don't, sir. Please don't.

"Did you get things sorted?"

Crabtree pressed his lips together. "I'm afraid I can't say, sir." His expression was unreadable.

Brackenreid regarded him sympathetically. "Well, do what you need to, me ol' mucker. But keep it off Constabulary time!"

Crabtree nodded, and skulked to his desk with his tail between his legs. He wondered where Detective Murdoch had got off to. And where was Detective Watts?

Don Valley Pressed Brick Company, 8:45am

"William!" Julia cried out, and she and Watts ran toward the writhing Murdoch.

Murdoch nearly vomited. His shoulder had never been quite right since it had come out of joint four years ago, and the bullet he had taken there a year later hadn't helped. He lay in the dust, blood roaring in his ears. Two sets of feet appeared in front of him.

"Detective, are you all right?" Watts's concerned face descended into view.

"Shoulder," he gasped. Watts and Julia gingerly lifted him to sitting, and he tried to take a deep breath. The dust sent him into a fit of coughing, jarring him so painfully that he blacked out.

"Oh, dear," said Watts, his usually squinting eyes wide with distress.

"Hold him," Julia instructed Watts, and moved gentle hands over Murdoch's shoulder. He twitched and whimpered, and she withdrew. "He's dislocated it again, much worse this time." She reached out again to check his pulse. "It's very fast. From that and his blacking out, I would suspect he's pinched a nerve."

Watts grimaced in sympathy. "You can reduce the dislocation, yes?"

"Yes, of course. I can do it here, but I fear that if I do I'll just hurt him further. He needs morphine so the muscles will relax. Do you see that?" She pointed. "Right now they're in spasm."

"Indeed," replied Watts matter-of-factly, watching a twitch so strong he could make it out through Murdoch's suit jacket.

Murdoch stirred, and stiffened. A strangled moan escaped his lips.

"Shh, William, it's all right. It's all right." Julia laid a hand on his cheek.

"Shall we take him to the hospital, then?" asked Watts.

"No," Murdoch panted, eyes screwed shut. "No hospital. Home."

"There's no morphine at home, William. If you won't go to the hospital, we'll have to go to the morgue."

Murdoch nodded mutely. Julia could feel his teeth gritting under her hand. She turned to Watts. "I suppose he'll have to go in the morgue wagon."

"But what about the corpse?"

"My initial examination is nearly complete. The body does have some most unusual characteristics—the height, the oversized feet and hands, the syndactyly, the large tongue—as well as a number of small puncture marks on both inner arms. I'll have to examine it further at the morgue to determine whether there was foul play. If you could take and record the temperature while I attend to William? Peterson will finish photographing it, and then I'll allow transport. We may have to bend his knees to get him in, and it will be cramped, but I'm sure Mister Rundle is keen to get these boys back to work." Her eyes flickered toward Rundle, the disapproval plain on her face, but then she turned her attention back to Watts. "Perhaps you could remain here to examine the scene for further evidence, and then track down the young urchin?"

"Very well, Doctor—I shall endeavour to do so." He pivoted back toward the scene and dug in his pockets for a moment until he remembered something. He turned around again. "Right. Detective, all the best to you for a speedy recovery." Julia noted, not for the first time, that the social niceties did not come easily to the man.

Murdoch nodded slightly in acknowledgement, and gasped. The next few minutes were sheer agony as the morgue attendants, working under Julia's careful supervision, loaded him on his right side onto a stretcher and lifted him into the wagon. Soon she crept in to join him at his head, and then in came the odd-looking corpse, legs bent so the doors would close behind it. The couple found themselves in darkness, and the wagon started to move. Julia gathered her husband to herself, trying to brace him as stably as possible. She knew the normally inconsequential journey would be an excruciatingly long one.

Watts finished his analysis of the scene about an hour later, and was deep in thought as he climbed on his bicycle and began the trip back to the station house. Some distance from the brickworks, he passed an automobile going the other direction, driven by a woman who looked vaguely familiar. He filed the bit of information away, and began the hard pedal up out of the valley.

City Morgue, 9:20am

"We're here, William," Julia said softly. She had held him as steady as she could during the journey, but every bump, every jolt had elicited a yelp from the normally stoic man—even the smallest jostle was searing. Though she knew he was in no real danger, she nearly wept to see him in such pain.

Murdoch whimpered at Julia's words. He supposed they meant he had to move.

The back doors of the wagon opened, and light flooded in. Julia squinted until her eyes could adjust. Murdoch felt rather than saw the wagon's load lighten as Julia's men pulled out the other stretcher. Julia climbed out after the corpse, and too late she saw Murdoch trying to make his own way out as well. "William!" was the last thing he heard before he blacked out again.

The next thing to enter his awareness was the feeling of a pinch on his arm, and then a pinprick. Where was he?

He opened one eye and looked around. The morgue. Am I on the table? I must be. He checked to make sure he wasn't looking down on himself. Not dead, then. Good.

The throbbing pain in his shoulder began to evaporate into a fluffy cloud that lifted him gently from below, suffusing him with warm affection for everyone and everything.

Julia's voice drifted by.

I've given him some morphine. Help me get his jacket and shirt off.

He lay with his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of floating as he felt clothing being removed, and then hands on his arm. A sharp tug, and then another loud pop. A warm feeling spread up his spine, and he started to drift off. All was right with the world.

"And there, Miss James, you see? A successful reduction of a dislocated shoulder joint. The ball at the top of the humerus is now back in the socket where it belongs. Generally it's best done under sedation, with pain relief, for more severe cases—if I had tried to do it too soon, his recovery would have been much more difficult. The muscles and ligaments around the shoulder joint can be quite delicate, especially when they are under tension. And it's hardly relaxing to have a dislocation!" Doctor Ogden gently laid her husband's arm across his chest, and let her hand graze his cheek. "Poor William."

"Will he be all right, Doctor?"

"He'll be fine. He'll need to sleep off the morphine, and wear a sling for at least a week, but if I can convince him to use that arm only minimally for the next few months, he should recover full use."

"Months?" asked Miss James. "He won't like that at all."

Julia smiled. "No, he won't. But it's better than the alternative. I suppose he's comfortable enough for now. Let's take a look at that extraordinary corpse, and then I'll get William home. I'll come back later this afternoon to perform the post mortem."

The two women were taking measurements of the unusual body, still resting on a gurney with its legs hanging off the end, when Crabtree appeared at the top of the ramp. His eyes alit on the half-dressed, motionless body on the table, and his knees turned to jelly.

"No. Oh my God, no," he breathed as he rushed down the ramp to his mentor's side. "Oh, sir. No. Please, no. My God, Doctor, what happened? He didn't suffer, did he? I shouldn't have left the station house. I should have been with him. Oh, sir..."

Crabtree reached out and clutched Murdoch's arm in despair. How is it still so warm? he wondered, near tears, just as the detective opened his eyes and managed, "Hello, George."

Crabtree's knees gave out from under him, and he found himself sitting on the floor, stunned. Doctor Ogden and Miss James burst out laughing.

"Hello, George," Doctor Ogden echoed her husband. "William dislocated his shoulder again and refused the hospital, so we brought him here so I could medicate him and put the bone back in place. You didn't think…"

George turned crimson as he scrambled back up to standing, trying to catch his breath, willing his heart to slow down. "Well given what I saw on entering the morgue, I certainly believe my conclusion was not unfounded! Good Lord, sir, you scared me half to, ah, half to death. If you'll pardon the expression."

"I'm all right, George," Murdoch said groggily, with a hint of good cheer.

"I surely am relieved, sir. Good Lord. You gave me quite a fright."

"He'll be fine, George. Right now he's just a bit woozy, is all." Julia's amused expression turned thoughtful. "George, would you be able to do us a favour? Would you mind taking William back to our suite at the Windsor House? If I can perform this post mortem post haste, as it were"—she tittered at her own joke—"we can understand that much more quickly who this unusual gentleman was. And if there was foul play, we need to know that as soon as possible as well."

"Very well, Doctor, I shall accompany the detective home. A-although I should alert the inspector before we go…"

"Of course. I'll get William up and his arm into a sling while you do."

Windsor House Hotel, 10:15am

"All right, sir, it's just a few more steps and then we'll be in the elevator."

"Elevator," Murdoch murmured, and leaned a little more heavily on George.

"Yes, sir. Here it is."

Upstairs, they made their way down the hall to the Murdoch-Ogden suite. George rummaged around in his senior officer's pockets for the key, unlocked the door, and led the shaky detective inside. He flashed back briefly to their disastrous stay in Haileybury, where Murdoch had been shot in the very same shoulder that was injured now. At least this time he didn't have to travel any great distance with the man, and the plain morphine just made him affable and drowsy, not manic.

"Are you in any pain, sir?" Crabtree asked, his forehead furrowed.

"No, George. I feel… nice." He stumbled a little.

"Right, sir. Let's get you lying down."

George had never before been in the more private area of the suite. He glanced around, he hoped not too obviously, to observe an elegantly appointed and quite comfortable bedchamber. He guided Murdoch to the side of the bed, assembled a pile of pillows to go underneath him, and eased him down.

"Shall I take your boots off, sir?"

"Yes please," William said thickly.

As he sat on the edge of the bed to untie and loosen the laces, George debated. A certain matter was weighing heavily on his mind, and now seemed like a good time to unburden himself to someone he trusted implicitly. William would know what to do. (Was it still all right to think of him as 'William' in this place, even though George himself was here alone, without a sweetheart? He wasn't sure.)

He drew a breath to steel himself before he spoke.

"Sir, about this morning's column in the Telegraph, the one on matters of the supernatural." He paused to collect himself, uncertain about how to explain his dilemma. "You, ah, likely noticed—to my embarrassment, I might add—that the words of Constable Higgins and Inspector Brackenreid hit a bit too close to home. You see, I believe I may have erred in judgement regarding…"

A loud snore escaped the detective. He was already quite asleep.

George closed his eyes and shook his head. So much for that idea. Perhaps I should just let the matter go. I mean, I don't suppose there's much I can do about it now… He tucked the quilt at the end of the bed over his friend, and quietly took his leave.

City Morgue, 5:00pm

City of Toronto

Office of the Chief Coroner

Julia Ogden, M.D. McGill

Autopsy Report

Date: May 8, 1905

Name: John Doe

Age: Undetermined

Sex: Male

Date of birth: Unknown

Date of death: May 8, 1905

Time of death: Approximately 2:00am, determined by body temperature and stage of rigor mortis

Cause of death: Cardiac failure resulting from use of heroin

Findings: The body is that of a human male, found unclothed in the quarry at the Don Valley Pressed Brick Company. Many of the body's features are unusually oversized: brow and chin, tongue, hands and feet, and joints. Joints are quite stiff with arthritis. The deceased was also syndactylous on all extremities. Both hands were covered with bruises, and the knuckles had split and bled repeatedly, from several hours to several days before death. Several contusions were evident on the lower abdomen, in the shape of fist marks. Internal examination revealed adenoma, a tumour at the base of the brain, pressing on the pituitary gland.

Brackenreid looked up from the report. "So what are you getting at here, Doctor?"

Doctor Ogden regarded him across the table. "Inspector, I believe this poor unfortunate man had acromegaly."

"Acro—what?"

"Acromegaly. It's a condition likely caused by pressure on the pituitary gland, leading to excessive secretions of the hormones that promote growth. You may have noticed the gentleman on the table is exceedingly tall?"

Brackenreid surveyed the body again, struck one more time by the sight of the lower half of the man's legs protruding well off the end of the table.

"I had noticed that, yes," he said dryly. A dim memory rose to the surface. "Wait. Now that I think of it, I've seen a fellow looking more than a little like this poor bastard here! Or at least a picture of him." He paused, and looked upward. "Right. It's coming back now. Last year at the World's Fair. Fellow by the name of… Beaupré. Beaupré the Giant. Right. From Willow Bunch, Saskatchewan. Massive blighter—eight foot three! Size ten hat, 22 shoe. And a 27-inch collar! Lifted an 800-pound horse when he was 17 years old!" Brackenreid was clearly awed by the man. "Yes. Now that I recall, that chap looked more than a bit like this poor bastard."

"How fascinating!" the doctor exclaimed. "I recall the case. Édouard Beaupré. He died a month or two before your Olympics, didn't he? Of tuberculosis. The post mortem revealed a large tumour on his pituitary, just like our friend here!"

"Seemed like the whole city of St. Louis was mourning the man. Posters of him everywhere, ringed in black. The circus folk seemed crushed to lose him. Damn shame, too. I'd have been dead chuffed to lay eyes on him." Brackenreid looked back down at the figure on the table. "This poor sod doesn't look like he could've lifted a newborn babe without snapping like a twig! And what about those fingers and toes? Doesn't look quite human to me, that."

"His digits are fused to each other. The condition is known as syndactyly. As you can see, apart from his thumbs,?Mister Doe here effectively had only one functional finger on his right hand, and two on his left."

"And the bruising? I must say his fists look summat like mine after some good fisticuffs, at least when I haven't had a chance to put on my gloves."

"Fisticuffs, as you put it, would be my first guess too, Inspector."

"And you say the heroin killed him?"

"That's my assessment. Do you see the tiny puncture wounds in his forearms? These are clear signs of a habitual, even compulsive use of injectable drugs, and there was a fair bit of heroin in his blood. Enough to kill the average adult male, but given his size, unlikely to be fatal to him."

Brackenreid was confused. "But you said the heroin was the cause of death."

"Well, in a way, yes, it was. His heart was already quite diseased, likely as a consequence of his unusual condition and the habitual use of the heroin, and last night's dose was just the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back."

"So not a murder, then."

"Well, it would depend on who pushed the plunger on the syringe. I hardly think it likely it was someone else, though. These are the marks of a habitual user. He likely sought it out to help him cope with the pain of his arthritic joints. Yes, I'd be surprised if anyone else had administered it."

"What about his fists?"

"Detective Watts surmised that there was a bareknuckle fighting ring operating at night in the quarry—given the marks on his hands, I'm inclined to believe our friend here was a willing participant. Watts is out looking for any witnesses. I can imagine that to a certain segment, such fighting might be quite popular, especially involving a competitor as unusual as this one."

Brackenreid studied the corpse one more time, and imagined watching the long, lanky man fight. Yes, that would have been quite the scene.

"All right then, thank you, Doctor. So we just track down whoever this fellow was, find his family and let them know, bust up the fighting ring, and Bob's your uncle."

Julia smiled. "I suppose so."

Brackenreid's expression turned to one of concern. "How's the detective?"

"George last saw him safe at home, sound asleep. He'll need light duty for some weeks, nothing strenuous, if he wants to heal that shoulder properly."

"Noted, Doctor. I'll see to it." He tipped his hat to her, turned on his heel, and headed out the door toward home.

Station House No. 4 bullpen, Tuesday, May 9, 8:00am

"Is there another crackpot column today, sir?" Higgins asked the inspector, who was sailing in with the morning's paper under his arm.

Brackenreid grinned as he stopped to perch on the edge of Higgins' desk—all the better to keep an eye on Crabtree, try to figure out what was eating him—and shook out the newspaper to the column's page, then folded it back on itself. He fished his glasses out of his pocket, put them on, and peered at the text. "Lizard people!" he declared.

A titter went around the room. "Lizard people, sir?" Higgins said sceptically, just as Detective Watts shambled in.

"Why are we talking about lizard people?" asked Watts. "Is this something to do with the Chelmsley case?"

Higgins choked, and reddened. "Detective Watts!" he yelped.

"Yes, Constable?" Watts turned toward him languidly. "If I recall, I believe you were the one to describe mmmmost of the Chelmsley family as resembling—"

"Sir!" Higgins nearly squeaked. "Thank you, sir! The inspector was just about to read today's Telegraph column on supernatural phenomena. Apparently the topic this time is lizard people, who… ah…" he trailed off and looked at Brackenreid with a hint of desperation on his face.

Brackenreid smirked at the hapless Higgins, and broke in, shooting a You owe me look at the nervous constable. "According to this, they live underground! This column here says they 'inhabit a complex network of underground caverns where they have dwelt for millions of years, existing in highly advanced societies possessing technology that in some areas far surpasses our own.'"

A tired-looking Murdoch appeared in the door of his office, arm in a sling, wearing a faint smile himself. "But what, I wonder, is the relationship of the subterranean lizard people to George's mole people? Does Doctor Verbiceanu have anything to say about that?" A few of the men briefly looked sideways at him, deciding he must be well medicated to come out of his office and join in such frivolity.

"He does indeed!" said Brackenreid. "I quote: 'It is of course obvious that conflict has occurred, and continues to occur, between the lizard people, known also as Eocenes (from the geological era in which they originated), and the subterranean Sumerian albinos, whom some refer to as "mole people." Such conflict is clearly the reason for the tragic earthquake in Turkey last year that claimed more than 3,500. All of us are at grave risk from this ancient struggle occurring beneath our very feet!'"

Murdoch raised an eyebrow. "Lizard people versus mole people, causing earthquakes. Of course."

Higgins, not wishing to be humiliated again, was paying careful attention. "George, are you sure this column isn't yours?"

Brackenreid had noticed Crabtree reddening throughout the reading. George finally burst out, indignant: "Certainly not, Higgins! Why on Earth would I ever engage in that kind of dangerous scare-mongering? This… this Verbface fellow just sounds like he's trying to incite panic!"

Murdoch agreed. "His work so far has seemed most reckless."

Crabtree continued with more than a hint of bitterness. "And I must say that anything published under the name of George Crabtree would certainly have a catchier title than 'Notes on Supernatural Phenomena.' Mine would be something like… 'Crabtree's Mysterious Tales of the Strange and Uncanny'"—he gestured grandly—"and it would have far more of a narrative quality than this… this incendiary tripe!"

"I'm sure it would, George," said Murdoch indulgently.

"Yes, sir, mine would take a far different tack." He paused for a moment, lost in thought. "I confess I'm quite fascinated by the Eocenes and the Sumerian albinos—a term I encountered only very late in my research about the mole people when Toronto appeared to be under attack—but after millions of years of co-existence would they not have found some way to make peace with each other? I mean, after so much time their civilisations would certainly be extremely advanced. Likely far more civilised than ours! But to say without reservation that their conflict is reason for deadly earthquakes? Sirs, that's just… just dangerous!"

Brackenreid unfolded the newspaper, and smoothed it out as Crabtree spoke.

"George, for once I agree with y—" Murdoch began, when the front page headline caught his eye.

"LIZARD MAN FOUND DEAD IN QUARRY," it read, over a photograph of the three young lads they had spoken to the day before at the brickworks, and a sketch of a grotesque figure that perhaps vaguely resembled the poor soul in the morgue.

He blanched, and turned toward Brackenreid. "Sir? May I suggest you take a look at the front page."

The inspector turned the paper around and studied it carefully, all the mirth vanishing at once. "Oh," he said, his eyes growing wide. "Oh. Bloody Hell." He lowered the paper, and looked over his glasses. "Murdoch. Crabtree. My office."

"We'd best get over to the Telegraph." Brackenreid's expression was grim. "They can't go printing bollocks like this. There'll be riots."

Crabtree stood leaning on the inspector's desk, his eyes dark. He drew a breath. "Sirs. I'd like to handle this situation with the Telegraph on my own, if I might." He caught Murdoch's curious eye, then met and held the inspector's stare. Please. The word hung unspoken.

Brackenreid finally gave the slightest of nods. "All right. Go ahead, Crabtree. Don't muck it up any worse than it is."

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best not to." He went back to his desk long enough to pick up his helmet, and headed for the door.

Murdoch looked quizzically at the inspector. What just happened? "Sir?" he began tentatively.

"Let Crabtree handle it, me ol' mucker."

Bewilderment flashed across the detective's face. "If you say so, sir. But I should think that…"

"Can it, Murdoch. We'll help him if he needs it."

Both his eyebrows inched skyward. "If you say so, sir," he said again.

Brackenreid gave him a hard stare. "Murdoch. Think. The Telegraph. Crabtree and—" He trailed off, and waited.

Realization dawned. "Ah. Miss—"

"Yes. Miss."

"I see. Well then." He looked around uneasily, and spotted Watts ambling into the bullpen. "Thank you, sir. I'll… I'll go check in with Watts." Grateful for the distraction, he stood up, trying not to jostle his arm, and went to greet the other detective.

"Detective Watts! What have you?"

"Quite a lot, Detective. I found the lad who ran out of the quarry yesterday, I believe I've determined the identity of the gentleman whose corpse we recovered there, and the main organisers of the bareknuckle fighting club are under arrest and on their way to the cells."

Murdoch was impressed as he walked the other man toward his office. "Good heavens, Watts, that's quite a night. Congratulations!"

Watts looked away shyly. "All in a night's work, Detective. I, ah, dare say this was quite a simple case, nnnnnotwithstanding the peculiarity of the deceased. Who, as Doctor Ogden suspected, was not the victim of a homicide at all."

"So what have you learned?"

Watts sat down and launched into a long explanation of the evening's events, digging in his pockets now and then to produce his signature rumpled bits of paper. One of the boys working at the quarry had, with some coaxing, revealed some of the most likely locations where the urchins liked to congregate, for he himself had often considered joining them, and had gone exploring now and then when he thought the foreman wasn't looking.

"Was he?" Murdoch's curiosity got the better of him.

"The boy did mention recent beatings at the orphanage, so I suspect the foreman was keeping a closer eye than the boy had realised."

Murdoch grimaced. "So you found the urchin," he confirmed.

"Charlie. Several constables and I did, yes."

"And what did he tell you? Was he involved in the theft of the clothing?"

"He and several of his friends were, yes. When I found their small encampment, they had turned the stolen trousers into several hammocks."

Murdoch smiled inwardly at the thought. Necessity is the mother of invention, I suppose. "What else did you learn from this young man?"

"Nnnot much, I'm afraid, just that he's quite a sly little devil with an impressive history of run-ins with Station House Three. Grift, petty theft, what have you. These urchins are most resourceful, though not upright. One wonders how it might be possible to harness their skills for the greater good."

Murdoch blinked. To hear such charitable thoughts voiced in a station house was rare. "I suppose so," he agreed. "Now what about the deceased?"

Watts cleared his throat, and shifted angularly in the chair. "His name was John Joseph Bowman. American fellow, recently fired from a travelling circus, as he was increasingly unable to perform feats of strength, and was becoming less and less reliable. And he was mmmerely seven feet six inches tall."

"Is that all," quipped Murdoch, glancing upward to visualise the dead man's stature.

Watts continued. "Our Mister Bowman was apparently a bit of a reprobate. It seems he turned to grifting, fighting for money, that sort of thing. I understand from a reporter at the Toronto Daily Star that Mister Bowman had been travelling from city to city selling—dare I say?—tall tales about himself and his… hhhhistory."

"And he had found himself a underground fighting club, and was in the middle of a match when he died?"

"Precisely. Charlie observed him injecting the heroin shortly before the fight. The crowd broke up quickly after he collapsed, and the street boys stole his clothes. Then a few hours later, the morning shift arrived at the quarry, and Mister Rundle telephoned us."

"So that's that, then. Thank you, Detective." Murdoch's glance went down to his sling. "I regret I could not be of more assistance."

"Not to worry, Detective. The matter is solved, and we can now turn our attention to the Telegraph, and the mysterious connection with our Constable Crabtree."

Murdoch gave a half smile. "I suspect the connection is not so mysterious, given his previous involvement with one of their more notorious journalists."

Watts' eyes lit up. "Of course. Of course. That would explain a great deal."

Toronto Telegraph office, 8:30am

"Miss Cherry! How could you?" George Crabtree hissed, slapping a copy of the morning's paper on her desk.

Louise jumped a little, startled, then regarded him defiantly. "Not here, George! I'll meet you at the Wisteria Garden Tea Room at half past ten," she whispered.

"Miss Cherry! I…"

"Not here!" she whispered again. She raised her voice so that the rest of the office could hear. "Thank you for your thoughts, Constable, I look forward to discussing the matter with you at a later time. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet." She turned back to her typewriter, dismissing him.

George stammered a little, but, realising he would get nowhere further at the moment, reluctantly took his leave. He knew how stubborn that woman was, and he thought better of making a scene in a roomful of journalists. With two hours to kill, he decided he might as well patrol. Brackenreid would be cross that he was doing so alone, but then he didn't need to know, did he.

George had quite a bit on which to ruminate as he walked. For at least an hour, he simmered on what he was going to say to his former sweetheart. Keen though he had once been on Miss Cherry, he had found himself strangely relieved when they had parted. Even while they were courting he had nursed misgivings, ones he could not articulate, especially since everyone around them seemed so excited about the pairing. Two of his favourite people had gone so far as to invite him and his new sweetheart to dinner at their home, and treated him as a trusted, intimate peer. Perhaps if this new collegiality with the detective and the doctor were to continue and grow as a result from a union with Louise, he had thought, he could quell the nagging doubts about growing old with her. George had left the dinner feeling happier than he had in years.

Then, the thunderbolt. Driving him home, Miss Cherry had dismissed Detective Murdoch and Doctor Ogden as "awful bores" living a "sad little existence." For George, her unkind words were the lid for the coffin of any romantic feelings he might ever have entertained toward her. Shortly thereafter, when she used the Telegraph to parrot Chief Constable Davis's ludicrous accusation that Detective William Murdoch could somehow be a murderer? That was certainly the nail.

George was dreading the confrontation about the columns. Miss Cherry had a quick wit, a sharp tongue, and, as far as he was concerned, fewer principles than a cockroach. Looking back on their courtship, he saw many of their conversations in a new light, and he was more than a little disgusted with himself for ever being sweet on her at all. What had he seen in her? Enough to entrust her with a sizeable amount of my writing, he mused ruefully. It had never occurred to him that she would bastardise it as she had. He began to wonder if the feeling flickering in himself toward her was actual hatred.

As for the sight of his mentor lying on the table in the morgue, well, the less he dwelt on that mental image, the better. He shuddered at the thought.

Wisteria Garden Tea Room, 10:45am

George was sitting at a small table at the tea room nursing a cup of English Breakfast when Miss Cherry (he hoped never to call her by her Christian name again) strode in, surveyed the room, and headed straight over to install herself across from him. "Constable Crabtree," she greeted him archly.

"Miss Cherry." He was stone-faced. "You're late."

"I suppose I am." No hint of an apology. "You wanted to see me?"

"I did." He stared at her, hard.

"You saw this morning's edition." A statement, not a question.

"I did. And last week's as well."

"You're upset."

He nodded, tight-lipped.

She regarded him calmly. "You're a good writer, George—"

"That's Constable Crabtree to you, Miss Cherry," he nearly spat.

"Constable Crabtree, then." She cast her eyes upward dramatically, and began again. "You're a good writer, but what you gave me isn't going to sell papers. It's too… equivocal. Our readers' eyes will glaze over at all the 'coulds' and 'mights' and 'what ifs.' Honestly, I lost track of how many times I had to cut out the word 'perhaps'! You've clearly done your research on all the topics you wrote about, but your protestations that you're not an expert are just going to alienate the readers. 'Why should we listen to him?' they'll say. Nobody's going to care about the supernatural if your accounts are so… so wishy-washy. All I did was make them more compelling. In fact, you should be thanking me for improving them."

George's eyes widened. "'Them'?" he inquired with alarm. "You're doing this to more than one?"

"Of course, Constable. When you accepted payment, you relinquished all claim to further control over the work you gave me. Given that you and I have parted company, and that we have a written agreement under which you have already received fair recompense, I can hardly see reason for you to have any further opinion on the matter."

"I—I hardly feel I can accept payment for this… this defilement of what I wrote! There's only the slightest resemblance to what I gave you. What I entrusted you with! What you're doing is reckless, Miss Cherry, and I want nothing to do with it." He swallowed. "I'll give you back the money. Just don't do this to the rest of them."

"Keep the money, Constable. I won't accept it. An agreement is an agreement. The stories are mine to do with as I wish. Your name's not associated with the column, is it? So I can't fathom why you're concerned."

"What about this business"—he gestured at the paper—"is there not to be concerned about? People are going to be terrified! A-and there's the matter of your removing my name! Not that I'm sorry you did, given your, your vandalism, but what is this ridiculous bit of puffery? 'Doctor Bonifaciu Verbiceanu, M.D., PhD., Esq.' I mean, what is that?"

"The Eastern European origin adds credibility! Everyone knows of the obsession with matters of the supernatural there."

George spluttered. "They do? I thought all they know about there is vampires! And 'Esquire' isn't even a Romanian title!"

Louise was unflappable. "Doctor Verbiceanu's Romanian nobility was recognized in England, where he lived and studied at a most prestigious university."

"So you've come up with quite the stack of lies about this nonexistent fellow's background, have you, then? Well then, you appear to be quite committed to this... this travesty. I suppose there's nothing I can do to stop you at the moment?"

She shook her head, regarding him smugly. "And might I remind you that the agreement you signed precludes you from discussing the contents of any of your other stories until such time as the Telegraph sees fit to publish them?"

"And might I remind you that it is a crime to make false statements to a police officer, and a crime to spread false news?" [i]

"It won't go well for the Constabulary should a journalist be arrested again, Constable."

"Fine. Keep leaving me out of this. But might I strongly suggest you issue an immediate retraction of today's front page story—Mister John Joseph Bowman was hardly a lizard, and his family will be most displeased to see such libel."

"Very well, Constable, I shall take that under advisement."

"And as for you… I'm sorry I trusted you with my work in the first place. I'm sorry I ever trusted you at all. Good day, Miss Cherry." He scooped his helmet off the table, and stormed toward the door.

"Look for the next column soon!" she called after him brightly. "I'm sure our readers will be most entertained!"

[i] The Criminal Code of Canada, 1892, section 126.