A/N: And we're chugging right along! Thanks to Susan Viktorija for pointing out something very important...in this canon divergence, From Buffalo With Love does not occur. I don't have anything against Nina, but Gemily reigns supreme in my book.
Just a touch of fluff to tide us over for several action-heavy chapters. References to 4x05 Monsieur Murdoch. Please excuse the tense change halfway through; I feel it is necessary to maintain coherence.
Next time: George and Emily go hunting for clues. A splendid opportunity presents itself.
George and Emily Take St Louis
Chapter Three
"Less than two minutes," George insisted, pacing the length of the interview room. "It couldn't have been longer than that."
Dr. Grace frowned, tracing circles with her finger into the table. A pad of paper, now discarded, lay between them. Somehow they had hit a roadblock in their quest to remember every conceivable detail of their jaunt on board the Magic Whirlpool. The ride had been shut down for the remainder of the afternoon; while the proprietor had initially been upset, he'd stopped by the station with the blueprints to the building a few hours later. Both were convinced that his motives lay in clearing his own name rather than assisting the investigation.
"How does one commit a heinous murder in less time? Shooting, I can see, but also attempted drowning and a physical struggle? Not to mention going to the trouble to position the body just right..." He stopped at the head of the table where Anechka sat studying her fingernails. Surreptitiously the two women made eye contact, and Emily shook her head. While she preferred to confine her reasoning to her thoughts, George had always wondered aloud. It was one of the little things she missed about him.
One of the many things.
"The girls were likely working together," the portraitist said a little too loudly, trying to interject a new perspective into the argument without sounding obtrusive.
In the corridor, a door slammed. Two men walked past the shaded windows, carousing among themselves, and did not spare a glance to the waiting party. Emily pressed, "Or perhaps one of them was not. You did say that the redhead was called away from the ostrich exhibition; her safety may be contingent on silence."
It had been six hours since the body of Celia Vandeventer was found, and no leads had been discovered. Not only that, not a soul had come forward to say that they had seen something relevant to the cause. George was beginning to grow worried that Miss Pearce had attracted followers and a renewed thirst for vengeance.
This concern may have been unfounded, but he had no way of knowing. He'd certainly solved cases before without the guidance of Murdoch, but always in familiar territory and never without a fellow constable. Presently, his biggest fear was that as a foreign citizen, he would be cut out of the investigation entirely. George felt partially responsible to see Eva's capture through; she'd started it with the suspicious death of her boss at Eaton's, and he was going to finish it.
Detective Kidwell swept in with an air of urgency, a folder tucked under his arm. Closing the door solidly behind him, he heaved a great sigh. "Looks like you were right, Mr. Crabtree. Eva Pearce is a wanted fugitive, and per the fact that her last confirmed crime occurred in Toronto with the menacing of that lady doctor, your precinct does have the right to pursue her."
"Well, that's splendid!" George exclaimed, clapping his hands together once. He was a little offset by his refusal to refer to him by a title, but didn't put much thought to it. "I'll need to speak to several of your officers in order to coordinate the search effort."
From behind him, he heard Emily clear her throat loudly. The look he was then dealt was an odd storm of reproach and mortification.
The other man's smile was forced as he answered, "That's just the ticket. I can't authorize your cooperation in this investigation unless I receive word from a higher up. The Prime Minister has yet to respond."
As eager as he was to shed responsibility, Kidwell obviously didn't take kindly to the meddling of men he found to be his lessers. Cutting a glance to the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall, George confirmed that it was almost nine in the evening on the sabbath day. With the added hour of time difference between them, and the non-critical nature of their search, it was safe to say that they wouldn't be hearing back until the morning.
The detective took his silence as acceptance and set the folder on the table facing Anechka. "A project for you. My counterpart in Toronto has some new-fangled way of transmitting photographs through the telegraph wires. A telefacsimile, if you will. We also have an officer taking diction on her file over the telephone."
She said nothing, but her displeasure at seeing the hundreds of paper pieces, all varying shades of gray, was palpable. "Have it done by the time I take my morning coffee. A photograph would help us pick this woman out of a crowd. Assuming we hear back from your superiors-"
"You will," Emily interrupted, with the faintest hint of a smirk on her lips.
"For your sake, I should certainly hope so," he retorted somewhat testily. "If that'll be all."
And then he was gone, slamming the door a bit louder the second time around.
There was a beat of silence, and then Emily muttered sardonically, "What a pleasant man."
Her friend was sympathetic to their plight. "He's always been like this, as long as I've been here. I believe it has to do with the rising occurrence of crime in this city. The responsibility...it weighs on him."
A brief gust of wind was the only indication that George had crossed to her opposite side, retrieving his jacket from a peg in the wall. "I ought to be getting along. My boarders will wonder what's become of me."
It was true that in the few weeks he'd been in town, he'd scarcely returned after sundown. He was going to need a good night's rest in order to perform the next day, but he suspected that sleep would evade him once again.
"The last of the streetcars has probably left for the evening, and I would not recommend that you walk the way to Dutchtown at night, Mr. Crabs-tree," the artist warned, her lips pressed in a thin line of worry.
From where he stood, George could see a sliver of the storefront window that overlooked the precinct. The sun had set on the city, and the streetlamps did little to cast a passable glow on the sidewalk below. "What do you suggest I do then?" He didn't think Kidwell would take too kindly to an overnight visitor in his station, and he surely couldn't afford a night in one of the hotels that bordered the fairgrounds.
"Come back to the shop with me," Emily offered, "It's only a few blocks away. I know for a fact they've got an extra cot, and I'm sure Anechka's parents would love to meet you."
George was a reasonably intelligent man, so he could see clearly where this was going. The other woman's face was a mixture of exhaustion and mischief. He supposed there was some sort of unspoken language among women, because Emily's eyes were all atwinkle. It reminded him of happier times.
It reminded him of home.
-0-
The shop in question was a delicatessen situated between two larger buildings in a middle-class neighborhood east of Forest Park. It was plain to see that the area had been settled before the time of automobiles and telephones, for every other structure was a square plot of only one or two stories. Laundry lines hung between the taller buildings, and even at the lateness of the hour there were children playing on the fire escapes.
The Kapralov residence was four stories, but it made up for it with its narrow frame. George had to almost turn sideways to get through the door, and the entire width of the storefront could be traversed with a flying leap.
Initial impressions of the exterior set aside, he was greeted with a bear hug by the exceedingly enthusiastic patriarch, who was a full head shorter than he and twice as strong. If Emily hadn't intervened, he was sure that Pyotr would have lifted him off the ground.
Nataliya was the one to smooth things over by explaining, in broken English, that her husband had so looked forward to meeting a policeman that wasn't going to shake him down for blood money. Then, crinkling her nostrils at the acrid smell caused by the dried river water on them, had quickly offered to launder their clothes while they waited.
He soon found Emily on the roof of the building, seeking refuge from the oppressive heat that pervaded indoors, even with all of the windows open and the sheets drawn from the bed. She was leaning against the chimney looking towards the west, apparently deep in thought. As he approached, she snapped out of her reverie, and couldn't help but chuckle at the sight before her.
"He seems a good man. It's a pity his clothing doesn't fit me," George quickly parted the sheet that he'd clasped in front of him to reveal pants that were much too short and a shirt so voluminous that the wind could sweep him away were it to catch it at the right angle.
Dr. Grace was obviously at the advantage in a home she'd known for several months; her curls hung loose over her shoulders and she wore a starched white nightgown. Even before he got close, he could see that she was barefoot. To think that a few years ago he would have been overcome with embarrassment to see a woman in this state-no, he respected Emily too much to see this as inappropriate in any way.
"Anechka and I usually sleep on the roof. It's very relaxing out here, don't you think?"
Somewhere on the street came the telltale sound of pots crashing together, followed by two people yelling. It occurred to him that this neighborhood was quite like the tenements where Edna had once lived, and the similarities are unsettling.
All of a sudden her eyes are on him, and the heat is rising to his cheeks. He doesn't know what to say or do, so he gets right to the point. "So what are you two?"
If she doesn't like the question, the only initial indication is a twitch of an eyebrow. "I mean...do not get me wrong, she is a lovely girl...it would be fine if you were, I was just curious…"
Good heavens. At this point, he's so deep there's no more digging. To her credit, Emily doesn't immediately chastise his impertinence. But she does move several steps farther away, and the separation feels like an entire world between them.
"She is. Anechka is a good friend. A kind, understanding one. Never the type to jump to conclusions," she declares, her tone impenetrably firm.
That's when he knows he's done it. His good intentions, however bumbling, had failed. She was moving back towards the ceiling hatch, so it was now or never. "Emily, I didn't mean it that way."
"Well, it sure sounded like it," she countered, and froze in her tracks.
They both remembered a time in the not so distant past when the shoe had been on the other foot. A cold night, a misunderstanding, Leslie Garland. And both knew they couldn't bear to repeat the pain of it all.
"I'm sorry," George says at the same time she blurts out, "I don't think we should-"
A look travels between them, and it's as if all of the tension has dissipated. She sits at the base of the chimney once again and beckons for him to join. "Do you know why I left London?"
He shakes his head to indicate the negative, sitting down at a respectable distance.
The roof has been reinforced with clapboard and gravel rock. She begins to trace patterns in the dust with her finger, lost in contemplation. "I was only there for three months before I bought a steamer passage back. Everything about England felt wrong-I was supposed to be having the time of my life. I was supposed to be sharing this experience with someone."
"No one blames you for mourning Lillian," he says softly, cautiously laying a hand on her arm. She's lightly perspiring, and he can feel her body heat through the gauzy fabric of her nightgown.
Dr. Grace winces and gestures with her free hand as if to say, let me talk. Then: "Everyone knew that the fair was to begin that spring, so I went chasing adventure. It was a welcome diversion. I worked odd jobs to supplement my savings; I was a counter girl downstairs. You've seen that I have made friends here. But St. Louis never felt like home."
Her hand seeks his and she bears down, squeezing it for dear life. "So where is home?" He asks quietly.
To his surprise, she's dangerously close to tears, as evidenced by the bite marks she's wearing into her lip. "George, I didn't think I could come back after everything that happened. There were too many bad memories attached to Toronto. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you and Julia and the detective...all these people I thought I'd disappointed. Like it or not, I kept another life from the ones I was close to, and I can never take that back. What's to say if I return to my old job that people would still respect me-a presumed sapphist, a ne'er-do-well, a flighty woman?"
"I would," he vowed. "And since when has the great Emily Grace cared about what others think?" She laughs, her temporary good humor tainted with hiccups. Still he presses: "I'm serious! You're one of the smartest people I know, and the kindest. You dealt with me when no one else would. You ate everything I put in front of you, and you once stabbed a zombie patient of a mental institution with a hatpin! Quite simply, you're everything."
Their eyes meet, and for a fleeting moment he fears she's going to bolt. But then she presses her forehead into the crook of his neck, her arms locking securely around his shoulders.
He reciprocates without hesitation, his hands resting on the small of her back. Her voice is slightly muffled when she admonishes: "You know what your problem is, George Crabtree? You're too good for me. I've been thinking about you for months and-dear God!-I miss you."
"I missed you, too." Shifting a little to bring the sheet around the both of them, he plants a chaste kiss on her brow.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" She inquires as they settle down to watch the stars.
After a moment's consideration, wherein he weighed into account his hand curled around her waist and her breath tickling his ear, George whispered back, "No."
The slap on the wrist followed by raucous laughter were immediate.
(to be continued)
