In case you haven't noticed, new installments will be produced every Tuesday and Friday until the end. And so, unless something important comes up, this will be the last Note before the story. Enjoy!
Freeman pulled the sheet back on George Wilson's body. The burnt hair smell still lingered like a fog and he still had the crackled look, but otherwise he seemed to be fine. Well, if you discounted the massive burn mark on his chest.
"Now then, you're sure he's not hanging around?" Freeman inquired.
"Absolutely," Corcoran told him. "I checked the cart several times, inside and out. He did not follow me here."
"You are correct, sir!"
The men jolted as the Doctor suddenly popped up a second time.
"Dammit, man, stop that!" Freeman spat.
"Where did you come from?!" Corcoran demanded.
"Far, far away," the Doctor said, bringing out his sonic screwdriver. "But you're not interested in that really, are you?" He pointed the sonic at the burn and waved it around, scanning.
"What have you got there?" Freeman inquired. "Not like any doctor's tool I've seen."
"Because I am a different kind of doctor." The scan finished, he read the results. "Yes, I know," he mumbled, "but why? How?"
The Doctor huffed and started pacing about the room, muttering unintelligibly to himself. Freeman raised a brow at Corcoran who shook his head and motioned for the surgeon to begin his explanation.
"No other injuries as far as I can tell," Freeman began. "But it wasn't lightning."
"How do you know?" Corcoran wondered.
"Lightning always has to be grounded. Even if it struck his head, it wouldn't come out his chest. And it couldn't have come out his chest because then there would be no body, only pieces."
"So what killed him?"
"Isn't it obvious?" the Doctor piped up. "No, of course not." He cleared his throat. "Daleks."
Corcoran blinked. "Daleks? Who are the Daleks? The only real name of influence around here is Morehouse."
"Could be a European name," Freeman suggested. "Or Scandinavian."
"Right." Corcoran suddenly snapped out of it. He raised a hand to his head and gave the Doctor a look. "Wait, wait, wait. What are you talking about anyway? Regardless of who did it – and you can be certain these 'Daleks' will be tracked down – how did they do it?"
"Ah…" For once the Doctor seemed to be at a loss for words. He gritted his teeth and struggled for words. Corcoran gave Freeman a sly grin, thanked him, and together hefted the body out to the newly-repaired cart.
"Thank you, Doctor Freeman," Corcoran said. "My apologies for the hitchhiker."
"He's been bothering both of us equally it seems," Freeman observed. "He ought to be the one apologizing."
"Well then, I better be off."
Freeman nodded once and headed back to his house. Corcoran glanced at the window. Sara stood there, pistol in hand. She was a quick shot, quicker to shoot than to trust. Now inside, Matthew put a hand on her shoulder and guided her deeper into their home. Corcoran set his cane down on the seat of the cart and hauled himself up. And when he looked up…
"Gah!"
"I've got it!" the Doctor said. "See, the Daleks use a special type of gun. It can kill without showing any sort of damage like a real gun; it mimics a natural cause."
"Poorly mimics."
"You fell for it."
"Were he any other man, I would have dismissed it, yes. But George Wilson is a cousin of the Morehouses, who are very powerful around here."
"So you have said. But why him? If the Morehouses are so powerful, why go after a cousin? Intimidation?"
Corcoran barked a laugh. "Ha! Robert is easily intimidated, but he hides behind his father like the little boy he is. And his father is a man who does the intimidating, and anyone who tries to do so to him has another thing coming."
"Ah. So is he the one who broke your leg?"
"What? No, no. That was…that was someone else."
"Who?"
"A man now long dead. What's it to you?"
"He did it himself?"
"No; he hired some thugs to try to kill me. But they wouldn't dare shoot a cop – not at first anyway. They broke my leg, then threatened my arms. But I got the gun away before them and kindly saw them out. Like I said, what's it to you?"
"What if Wilson did something against Morehouse? The Daleks are about as significant to you as the price of tea in China."
"What about tea in China?"
"Never mind. But what if?"
Corcoran frowned. "I don't find it likely. The man who masterminded my near-death, Haverford, worked for Morehouse, and Morehouse knew what he was up to, the reason I was after him. And he tolerated it. I don't think he cared as long as he got what he wanted."
"And what did he want?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think it likely that he would send someone after his own family?"
"On Fifth Avenue, anything is possible."
"Not Five Points?"
Now the Doctor startled as Corcoran burst into laughter, loud and pure. "What? You think that because I am a detective that I get to live in such posh estates? You clearly are a foreigner. Fifth Avenue is for the rich…and the corrupt. Five Points is for people like myself. The immigrants – Irish, Italian, Bavarian, Negro – all live in Five Points. Where did you say you were from?"
"None of those places, I assure you."
By now they were about to town.
"I think I may have to discuss some business with Mr. Morehouse," the Doctor murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Have you already informed him of his cousin's death?"
"Aye, yesterday. Now that the body has been examined, it can be buried." Corcoran pursed his lips. "And I don't expect you'll get an audience with Mr. Morehouse. You'll be lucky to get an audience with his butler."
"I see. Well, I have my ways with people."
"You'll need more than that with Mr. Morehouse."
The contrast between the muddy alleys of Five Points and the indeed posh estates of Fifth Avenue were quite apparent, and not just from the paved streets, lack of fires, and gleaming houses. No, the very air seemed to have changed, as if the air breathed was morally better. No, more than that, it might give a Five Points resident the sort of impression that one had to ask permission to breathe this sacred air. The Doctor found it a little unnerving.
"A little intimidating, isn't it?" Corcoran chuckled. "Like I said, Morehouse is the one who does the intimidating around here."
"You weren't kidding or exaggerating," the Doctor murmured.
"Here we are, then."
Corcoran limped up the steps and clicked the knocker. He had to wait only a moment before the butler answered.
"Ah, Detective Corcoran," the butler acknowledged. "I will let Mr. Morehouse know you are here."
"I am only here to deliver the body of his beloved cousin, George Wilson," Corcoran informed him, and not without a hint of malice woven into the sarcasm. There were no 'beloved' relatives or friends to the Morehouses, only useful ones.
"I see; I will send the servants out to fetch the body. You do not appear yet to be in such a condition to handle the weight."
"I thank you for your consideration."
The butler merely raised a brow as he summoned a few tough men to bear the dead weight from the cart into the home for burial preparation. Corcoran tipped his hat and got onto the cart. The Doctor had slipped off and now stood facing the house with a most peculiar expression, his eyes and nose scrunched, jaw open sideways as if studying the estate. The butler kept his brow raised but shifted his gaze to the Doctor momentarily before moving to shut the door.
"No, no, no, wait!"
The Doctor made it up the steps in two incredible bounds and just got his foot inside the door. He forced a weak smile to cover the pain lancing through his ankle. The butler sighed and let him just inside.
"Sorry, I was a bit distracted," the Doctor said. "I'm here to see Mr. Morehouse."
"And you are?"
A simple sight of psychic paper convinced the butler of his significance. "I see, sir," the butler conceded. "Right this way."
The Doctor was led through a house as grand as could be in the 1860s with all manner of expensive woods and artworks. They approached grand double doors where the butler bade him wait a moment. It took in fact several moments for the door to reopen and half a dozen men exit, including the butler.
"Mr. Morehouse will see you now."