Late night, August 30
The tea took just over half an hour to bring George's fever down to 104.1F. He was dimly aware of being lifted out of the tub, and placed on the floor next to it.
Both William and Julia felt protective of George at the best of times. They were both struck by the sight of him leaning up against their tub, seated on the bathmat, head lolling to the side: he was as weak and vulnerable as they had ever seen him. Julia fought an impulse to embrace him. Instead, she wrapped him with a towel and started to dry him off.
"The – the –" William gestured at George. The phrase came to him only very slowly. "The union suit. Union suit," he repeated. "Can it come off him now?"
"Yes," Julia nodded. "His fever's down enough for the moment, and it can't be comfortable. I'll go get him some of your pyjamas so he's decent when we do take him to the hospital."
George was awake, but only just. His hold on consciousness was tenuous at best, and all he knew was that he was cold. He wanted nothing more than to be free of the wet, clammy thing he was dressed in. He tried to fumble at the buttons, but his hands refused to obey. He closed his eyes in frustration for a moment, then opened them again a sliver when he realized that his superior officer was undressing him instead. It crossed his mind that he should be mortified, but he was too drained to care. He closed his eyes once more, and felt William slipping his left arm out of the wet clothing.
William was surprised by the sight of the bandage: George hadn't said anything about an injury. He unwrapped it carefully and lifted it off to reveal a distressing sight: four small, dark, weeping puncture wounds in a neat line, surrounded by hot, angry red blotches. "Julia?" he called out with some alarm. "Julia! Come look at this!"
Julia arrived quickly, and knelt down to examine the wounds. "My God," she breathed. "Look at that infection. Most likely the cause of the fever." She reached out and gently probed the area near the wounds until George yelped and his eyes flew open. "I'm sorry, George!" she apologized immediately. "How did this happen?"
George spoke with great effort. "Cherry Street. The hooligan."
"The fork. Of course. You didn't tell us he got you too! Who looked after you?" Julia asked, gesturing to the remnants of the bandage.
"Miss Hart. She… rinsed out the wounds, and wrapped me up. I thought… that would settle it. Thought it was… nothing." George's voice was hollow, sounding as if it were coming from very far away.
The three were suddenly startled by the ring of the telephone, and William excused himself to answer it, checking his pocket watch on the way. It took him a moment to focus. 11:15pm on a Thursday? Something must be badly wrong, and not just here. As William left, Julia stroked George's uninjured shoulder a few times, and spoke to reassure him. "All right, George. We'll look after you. Let's get those wounds bandaged up again and then we'll get you dressed." She tried to sound cheerful, but her expressive face betrayed her deep concern.
George hissed and then whimpered plaintively when Julia poured a solution of dilute carbolic acid over the four small wounds, and then applied a cloth saturated with colloidal silver. She secured the cloth with a bandage that she tied loosely, and then gently laid his arm back by his side. His head slumped toward it. "You'll be all right, George," she murmured.
She turned to the set of William's pyjamas that she had brought from the bedroom. She unbuttoned the pyjama shirt and carefully leaned her passive, sweltering patient forward to slide it onto him, first one sleeve, then the other, before she buttoned it up again over his chest. He remained sitting on the bathmat with his south half covered by the soaking wet union suit, while Julia pondered the best way to get him out of it and into the pyjama trousers. She debated whether to wait for William, or help him with it herself. Not like I haven't seen him in the altogether before, she thought, remembering their exquisitely uncomfortable encounter at the naturist colony. And in any case, she told herself, honestly, Julia Ogden. You are a medical doctor who has seen hundreds if not thousands of unclothed bodies in your work. This is just one more.
"George, I'm going to help you get some clothes on so you can go lie down while we wait for a carriage to the hospital." She waited for any sign of resistance, but none came. She nodded and said as brightly as she could, "Now let's get you out of this soggy thing." He grunted slightly in agreement.
A pale, unsteady William, hand on the back of his head, returned to the sight of a semiconscious George on his back on the bathroom floor, his top half clad in William's own pyjama shirt and his head supported by a rolled-up towel. The rest of him was as naked as the day he was born, as Julia inched his waterlogged drawers toward his feet. The absurdity of the situation struck William abruptly. He cleared his throat, and Julia glanced up to see him smirk. "Julia, to see you in this position in any other set of circumstances with any other man would make me most upset."
Julia laughed out loud as she realized how scandalous her actions appeared. "Oh, my goodness, I suppose so! Here I am in front of my husband, stripping his best friend nearly nude right in front of him. And in our marital home, no less!"
William nearly guffawed. "I suppose we do have rather a unique relationship with Mr. George Crabtree."
She noticed George's thin-lipped, lopsided smile. "Now George, don't let this go to your head. William, would you please help me?"
Once they finished dressing George, they lifted and carried him to the hidden sofa, draped in an oilcloth, and eased him down onto it. Julia arranged a few pillows under his head and upper back, and placed another beneath his knees before she laid a quilt over him.
"You rest here, George. I'll go call a carriage."
George's eyes were already closed. He nodded almost imperceptibly. "Thank you… Julia," he whispered.
"You are most welcome, Constable Crabtree," she answered affectionately, and touched his cheek. William cleared his throat again to get Julia's attention, and shot her a meaningful look. Taking her by the arm, he steered her toward the bedroom.
Julia was irritated at being asked to leave George's side. "What is it, William?" she asked with some annoyance after he closed the door behind them. "Surely you can't think it inappropriate for George to use my Christian name?"
William shook his head, which was aching more than ever. The nausea washed over him again. He tried to ignore it. "No, of course not, that's not it at all. That was Constable Martinson from Station House 4. The man that George and Henry sent to the lockup died about an hour ago." He paused, struggling to find the words. "Six other people that he accosted on Cherry Street are at Toronto General Hospital, all with fevers of at least 105, all sedated after violently assaulting family members and hospital staff. The City's Medical Officer of Health has declared a quarantine on the hospital ward and the cells at the station house."
Julia's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes grew wide as she considered what William was saying. "William. Do you understand what this means? George could have an infectious disease. He… he attacked you. And six other people attacking more…" She blanched as she realized the implications. "This could affect the whole city. My God. Do you know why there are hundreds of graves in St. James Cemetery marked 1834?"
"Wasn't there was a cholera epide-?"
He stopped short. The word hung in the air: Epidemic. Julia's train of thought hit him hard.
"Yes. And there were only 5,000 people here then. There are over 300,000 now. If another epidemic comes through… worse, one that incites its victims to violence…" she trailed off. "My God, William, it's unthinkable."
Ashen, she threw open the door and fled the room. A stricken William sank heavily onto the bed; he held his pounding head in his hands as the enormity of the situation sank in. A mysterious, apparently highly contagious ailment had caused George Crabtree, his best friend and right-hand man, to attack him out of nowhere, and now George lay deathly ill in his living room. William wondered anxiously: Would he and Julia become as ill as George, after such intimate contact with their infected patient? Was there a risk that he would assault his own beloved? Had the disease spread to his colleagues at the station house? Where had it come from? How far had it spread into Toronto? How much further would it go?
He was torn as to whether to vomit, cry, or pray. Dear God, what has come to our city? What has come into our home?
William emerged from the bedroom to find Julia on the telephone, asking for a Doctor Clarence Morris. It took William a moment to recognize the name and remember he had occasionally worked with the man in his capacity as the City of Toronto's Chief Medical Officer of Health. Julia knew him as a former classmate from medical school. William recalled a competent man, somewhat stiff and cautious.
"Hello, Clarence, how are you? I'm very glad to have reached you. Please convey my apologies to your wife for waking her. She told me that you were at the hospital. Is it true that you are attending patients on the quarantine ward?"
While Doctor Morris was replying, Julia waved for William's attention. She gestured at the basin and towel, and then at George. William looked at her quizzically and mimed a swabbing motion – keep sponging him? Julia nodded. William, glad for at least something useful to do, refilled the basin, took his position on a stool at George's bedside, and got back to work. It's all right, George. You're going to be all right. The room swam around him, and he wondered if he should have the basin nearby for himself.
Julia continued. "Yes, I have a patient with me at my home who was injured in an altercation with the man who passed in the cells at Station House No. 4 – apparently the same one who assaulted the people you are observing now?"
William did not like the sound of this.
"My patient here is most unwell," Julia told her colleague. Her speech was clipped, rapid, professional. "Extremely rapid onset of high fever, followed almost immediately by a febrile seizure. The postictal state involved great agitation and violent behaviour until the administration of an intramuscular dose of phenobarbital." She paused while Doctor Morris spoke.
"No, the fever peaked at 105.8 measured orally, and is down to 104.1 after immersion of the patient in tepid water as well as oral administration of a solution of willow bark powder in water. I am continuing to monitor him." Another pause, longer this time.
"The cause of the fever would seem to be infection present in four small puncture wounds on the left deltoid. The area was irrigated within an hour of the injury and has since been treated with carbolic acid and colloidal silver." Another pause. "Yes, the patient reported the mechanism of the injury was a stabbing motion with a fork."
William wished beyond words that he could hear what Doctor Morris was saying. Perhaps he could modify the telephone to use a speaker such as the one on Julia's Victrola, and procure a more powerful microphone so that more than one person in the room could participate in the conversation…
"Yes." William's attention snapped back to Julia at the alarm in the single syllable. "During the aggressive phase my patient attacked another person and did indeed draw blood." William's hand instinctively found its way to the laceration on his cheek as Julia locked eyes with him. They continued to stare at each other as Julia listened intently.
"Ten days!" she exclaimed. "Not at all? But what if—" she broke off again. William strained to follow. Julia saw his eyes lose focus and an uncharacteristic confusion cross his face.
"I can certainly understand the edict, but I hope you can understand that we will require some outside support. Constable Crabtree is gravely ill and inflicted a laceration and possible head injury on Detective Murdoch. There is not enough food in the house for a full ten days, I will be in need of various medical and laboratory supplies to provide proper care to Constable Crabtree and to work on the isolation and analysis of whatever pathogen is at work here, and if he is capable, Detective Murdoch will certainly want to take part in the Constabulary's investigation of how such a dangerous threat came to Toronto…"
What? thought William, his head swimming. What investigation? Investigation – I must be needed at the station house. Can't she work in the lab at the morgue? If I am capable? But George is the sick one. Why is she talking about food? Ten days until what? Everything was making less and less sense.
"Well I shall of course keep you informed of any changes here, and I do ask that you do the same for me. We will speak in the morning? All right, then. It's good to talk to you, although I do regret the current circumstances. Good night, Clarence." Julia hung up and took a deep breath.
William's head throbbed, and he regarded Julia anxiously. He was trying to assemble another sentence when she spoke.
"Well, there is good news, and there is bad news. The good news is that George may be through the worst of it, and our prompt care for his fever has likely saved his life."
William took a moment. "George is ill," he said dully, regarding the sleeping man in the bed. He looked at the cloth in his hand. "We are caring for him."
Julia's unease grew. "Yes, William, George is ill. But it appears he will survive."
"Good news, then. That is… good."
"Yes. But there is also bad news. His illness appears to be contagious, spread by contact with the blood of an infected individual, and in the interest of public safety, we are indeed all three quarantined to this house for the next ten days. No one can come in, and no one can leave. And may God help us if either one of us becomes ill too."
Julia's gaze at William turned piercing. She had been watching him carefully during her dispiriting conversation with Doctor Morris, and he did not look himself at all. His eyes were closed and he looked queasy. "William, are you all right?" she asked him urgently. Please say you are. I cannot bear the thought of losing you, and I am not sure I can manage two desperately sick men on my own. Please, William. Please be fine.
"I'm fine." The reply came much too fast.
No, you are not, she thought resignedly. She knew him too well. "William," she chided. "This is no time for prevarication. I will ask you again, and I expect an honest answer. Are you all right?"
He could feel her staring at him. His reply was much slower this time. "I… I don't know. I suppose I am… somewhat foggy."
Dear God, William, not you too. A chill ran down her spine and into her arms.
Her professionalism clicked back into place. Assessment, diagnosis, treatment. There was no other way to manage the surge of fear. "You appear to be experiencing disorientation and confusion. Has your vision blurred?"
"Yes," he replied miserably.
She strode to him and lifted his eyelids, one at a time, and watched the pupils contract. He flinched, and looked back at her for a moment. "Are you finding the light to be painful?" Another brief "Yes" before he squeezed his eyes closed again. "Any feelings of nausea?"
"Mm-hmm." He grimaced.
"Headache?" A very slight nod. "Where?" she demanded. "Which part of your head?"
"The back. And here," he breathed, laying his palm just above his left eyebrow. Instinctively she reached out to touch his forehead, and thrilled slightly to find it cool. The tightness in her stomach eased a little.
She reached around to palpate the back of his head, finding a large, swollen lump. He inhaled sharply, trying not to cry out. "I'm sorry," she said with chagrin. She took his hand and pressed his thumbnail, then watched it closely. "Your perfusion is good. Let me see the laceration on your face."
He leaned forward slightly to oblige. The skin on his cheekbone was beginning to bruise, but to Julia's great relief, the cut itself looked innocuous. William had cleaned away the blood and there was only a small scratch that already looked to be healing well. She exhaled sharply, and kissed him on the bridge of his nose.
"Oh, William. Oh, my love. The cut on your face does not look infected and you have no fever. All the symptoms you've identified – the headache, the sensitivity to light, the nausea and confusion – and the bump on the back of your head aren't consistent with what I've seen in George. William, I don't think you're ill with whatever George has, I think you're concussed."
Saying the words aloud made her almost giddy. He's not ill. Who would ever have thought I would be thrilled that my cherished husband has a concussion?
William sensed her change in mood, and her relief washed over him as well. He opened his beautiful brown eyes to gaze at her briefly before the light got to be too much again. "Concussion? I'm not… in Bristol again?"
She smiled in spite of herself. "Heavens no, it's certainly not as bad as all that. Your pupils are equal and reactive, and… you do know who you are, right?"
A long pause while he fought down enough of the headache to joke with her. "Of course I do. I'm Inspector Thomas C. Brackenreid of the Toronto Constabulary." Julia's eyes widened, and she stared at him until he could no longer keep a straight face.
"Drat you, William Henry Murdoch!" she whispered with barely concealed amusement, and hit him in the arm with a pillow. His grin grew wide. "At least one of us thinks you're funny. Come now, let's get you to bed." She helped him to his feet, and started leading him to the bedroom. "You need rest and darkness for a few days. I'll get you some laudanum for the pain, and hyoscine for the nausea, and an ice pack for your head."
It was well after midnight, and William was tucked into bed, asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow. He had acquiesced to the laudanum and hyoscine without protest, letting her administer them after he had helped her unlace her corset. Julia could think of no surer sign of just how drained he was. She hoped he would sleep well into the day.
The house was dim and quiet. Julia slipped into a loose, lacy nightgown and a pair of slippers, and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She made herself a cup of tea, and moved one of the armchairs next to George so she could sit with him and monitor his fever as he slept.
George looks twenty years younger when he's asleep, she thought. Such a kind soul, and the past few years have been so hard on him. Emily, and Edna, and Nina... it's just so tragic. He deserves better. I can't think of an unmarried man who would be a better husband. She watched his chest rise and fall for quite some time, finding comfort in the rhythm of his breathing as she wrote notes about his case, as she would on a chart if he were where he should be, in hospital.
Good heavens, I'm tired, she thought. The adrenaline was long gone and she was quietly reeling from the evening's events, the news from the station house and the hospital, and the prospect of ten days' forced confinement to the house with a concussed husband, a desperately ill George, and no one else. I'll just close my eyes for a moment – maybe when I open them, everything will be fine…
Author's note: The Medical Officer of Health in Toronto at the time was a Doctor Charles Sheard. The one in this story is not entirely sympathetic, and I didn't want to malign the real person, so I invented someone new.