Chapter 9
Monday October 12
It surprised no one William was released from hospital the following day at his instance, taken home by no less than the inspector himself and settled in his room at his boarding house. I presented myself to his landlady in the late afternoon on my way back from yet another crime scene. I had hoped to be able to tell him something about the case he had been working on when he fell, but a new set of deaths occupied my morning after all, preventing me from starting on any more than the external examination.
"Mrs Kitchen? Good day. I am Dr Ogden. I am here to check on my patient," I tried my most winning smile on her. "May I come in and see Detective Murdoch?"
She looked wide-eyed and distraught. Greeting me with some skepticism, she gave me an appraising gaze that I was not quite sure how to interpret. "So you are Dr Ogden?" When I nodded she continued. "Father Faire just left here a few minutes ago…" She saw my face change abruptly with fear and she understood that I assumed he somehow took a turn for the worse and asked for his priest for Last Rights. She managed a wan smile and reached out to calm me. "Mr Murdoch, bless him, is probably asleep again I think. But he had a rough morning…. probably should have stayed in hospital…" She faltered and then said, "I'm sorry, I am forgetting myself. Please come in." She opened the door wider and asked me into the front hallway and then through the double doors into the parlour and invited me to sit.
I was impatient to see William, so decided to stand instead. "Mrs Kitchen, I really need to see to the detective, especially if he's had as difficult a morning as you said." This time I tried a more professional approach and that seemed to get her to rethink her resistance.
"I don't know about that. I'm sure you understand….Mr Murdoch is a very private person…" She twisted her apron and looked at me to take my measure, probably thinking the same as that old fossil at the hospital—a female doctor should not treat a male patient. Additionally I wondered what William might have said about me, if anything, over the years. Her concern for her boarder eventually won out over any other doubts at that moment. "But I suppose in this case it will be all right. I will take you up."
I followed her to the top of the stairs and down the short hall. She rapped lightly on the door and opened it. There was William, lying propped in a brass bed in a small, neat room. The inspector or one of the men had gotten his pyjamas on him—(Red silk, of all things. How extraordinarily sybaritic!) Doing so could not have been easy considering his injuries, so between that and the ride from the hospital, no matter how well-sprung the carriage was, it all likely contributed to his "rough morning" and more pain. Looking quickly around the pleasant space I noticed he had surprisingly few personal possessions, the only items were probably his desk, piled neatly with books and papers, and a small crucifix on the wall. His ruined suit was nowhere in evidence but the vest and all his accouterments plus the small tools usually sequestered in his pockets were in a pile on the desk. He would probably ask about the buttons….
He opened his eyes and stared a little at both of us until we came into focus for him. "Oh, ladies? I…." He tried to rise and then looked about to cover himself up with the sheet for modesty's sake, but had no strength, and by the look of him, was well-dosed with opium or laudanum as he had a rather silly smile on his face.
I marched right over and sat my bag down on the bedside table, saying: "Thank you Mrs Kitchen, that will be all now," as a way to dismiss her. She said she'd be back up in about 15 minutes with a treat for him to eat if he was so inclined.
Definitely well-dosed with something, I thought, looking at his eyes more closely. This man who never appeared anywhere without being fully and formally dressed, was showing a large expanse of legs, arms and chest, something he would not be inclined to do were he more cognizant of it, bandages not-with-standing.
Eventually he managed to drag himself out of the drug-induced or post-concussion lethargy long enough to recognize I was there with him, and his eyes followed me as I assessed him. He did not protest when I poked and prodded and examined his stitches. He said nothing as I placed my hand on his forehead and face—he did not appear to have a fever and his arm wound was not overly reddened. My hand might have lingered on his skin a bit, and it did not feel uncomfortable at all to me, and William smiled and closed his eyes briefly at my touch.
I thought he started to say "Julia" before correcting himself, but perhaps he was just grunting as he tried to reposition. "Doctor. Did I see you last night? I was not sure…it's all a bit of a blur."
"Yes, William, I was there, just to make sure you were getting the proper treatment. The inspector asked me to look in on you." Which was not technically true but I'm sure the sentiment was correct. "And I am here today to check that you are settled in. The hospital wanted to keep you another day or so, but you stubbornly insisted in coming home instead. Apparently they only agreed if your private physician took over. As I happen to know you have no private physician, I guess I will have to do." I glared at him, but that odd look on him only faded marginally. "Are you nauseous?" I asked.
"Yes, a little. Er, thank you for coming." He looked a little bewildered again, his face wrinkling in concentration. "Doctor, can you tell me what is wrong with me? I don't remember. I think they told me at the hospital and the inspector said something about a roof but…" he shrugged.
It certainly did not seem like he remembered asking for me…
"I am told you fell while chasing a suspect. Backwards in fact, off a fire escape that gave way and you landed on a wooden crate that mostly broke your fall…" Or you most certainly would have died or been paralyzed, I did not say. "You'll mend, but I'm afraid your suit is another matter," I said with some attempt at levity and to banish the lump I discovered in my throat.
He grimaced. "My tailor, Monsieur Henri, will have my hide. I think I better not tell him…" and when he tried to chuckle, he stopped himself quickly because of his rib pain. I could see that usually keen mind of his was working things out rather slowly. His eyes narrowed and his hand went to his head.
"Constable Crabtree has your hat—and yes, you have a goose egg there and a stitch or two."
He saw me rummaging around in my bag for my syringe and medicine bottles, and made a feeble protest, eying the needle. "Oh, doctor, really I don't think I need any injection…" I cut him off, or he ran out of energy, I'm not sure which.
"The deal about leaving the hospital today was that your doctor will take over your care." I looked at him and he still did not seem to appreciate the extent of his injuries, but then again his brain was not at full capacity yet. "You are going to be out of work at least two or three weeks, or more," I said more forcefully as he tried to object again. "Especially if you develop an infection. Honestly, William be sensible! You have a concussion, two cracked ribs, a bruised ankle, torn ligaments on both your knee and elbow and a gash the size of Yonge Street running up the length of your forearm, and you're whimpering about a little needle!" I reproached him and found his resistance odd. In all this time I never knew he was fearful of needles and I found it quite amusing.
He eventually acquiesced and allowed the injection and a loose dressing on his arm, and I was happy he was rousing himself enough to have a little laugh about his landlady's cooking. Strangely, it was at this moment I recognized that all the tension which had been there for weeks between us had completely vanished. The dissipation had been so quiet and so subtle it stole up on me unawares. My feelings of deep friendship and the comfort level around him that I had previously enjoyed revealed themselves to me again, and I found I was quite relieved. I was about to make a remark on it (or joke about it) because of the circumstances when we were interrupted by Mrs Jones, of all people. I had quite forgotten all about her, but I quickly surmised William had not.
I was floored. I hope my face did not betray my surprise and dismay when he silently appealed to me with his eyes for me to leave so he could entertain Mrs Jones's company. Oh my! I had no right to be jealous, but my emotions whipped suddenly from warm and contented to strained. It was all I could do to fix a bright smile on my face, greet Mrs Jones politely, and flee the room as fast as I could manage.
In the hallway I got only a few steps before I needed a moment to gather my thoughts and quiet my erratic heartbeat. Why should I have been so unprepared for such an eventuality? Questions tumbled in my head, but I had at least one firm answer. The only possible reason Mrs Jones was there was that someone thought she had the right to be there… and, I noticed, she showed no hesitation in coming right up to William's room, something I had never been privy to in all these years. I was confronted by a painful suspicion: Mrs Jones was more than just grateful for the safe return of her son. She had a romantic interest in William and he was receptive to her charms!
# # #
I pulled myself together to get back to the morgue, because I had not in fact completed the autopsy of the as- yet- unnamed male stabbing victim found outside of a French restaurant. I had to trust that focusing on my work would help me get a grip on myself and absorb my disquiet.
Gratefully, I was able to redirect my attention to my job—it was the one thing I had absolute dictum over. During the post mortem, I think I rather enjoyed Constable Crabtree's discomfort, and I may have pushed him a little too much in his new role as "Acting Detective." He presented himself in what was probably his best (and only) suit, and appeared to model himself entirely on Detective Murdoch in his approach. He asked the right questions in almost the same way as his mentor would have which I found to be quite endearing. As to the actual process of investigating the corpse…well he was slightly green coloured and queasy, but to his credit he did not try to escape his duty and held his stomach (at least in my presence.) He was attentive to the process, thoughtful and ultimately interested in the results, even if he did not appreciate my sense of humor, which surprise me as he was usually quite funny in his own right.
He did better than most, in my estimation, and I was going to be interested in the outcome of this case now that it was in his hands. When we were done, I eventually took pity on him and brought him over to my office area and extracted the bottle of whisky that lived in a secret compartment towards the back of my old wooden desk and hoisted it up. He looked a little askance.
"Doctor, is this how you end all autopsies?" He asked, only half in jest.
"Not all, but I learned this trick from my predecessor." I found two glass beakers from my work bench, checked briefly for cleanliness and poured a splash in each before continuing. "His habit was to initiate all new detectives at their first full autopsy, assuming they stood their ground and did not embarrass themselves." At this he perked up conspicuously.
"Here," I handed him his glass of liquor and offered a toast. "To Acting Detective Crabtree and his first case!" Then we saluted and tossed back the drams. I rummaged in the desk drawer and came up with a small snuff tin that I offered to him.
"Thank you doctor, er, what is it?" he asked.
"You also get this. It is some camphor—it masks the stench." He opened it, sniffed and his head reared back in haste at the strength of the odor. "Even I am not completely immune to the smells, detective. You don't suppose every detective has as strong as stomach as, well….." He knew to whom I was referring and we looked at each other. I winked conspiratorially. "And by the way, he uses it too on occasion, but don't tell him I told you so."
"Thank you again doctor." He looked at the dead man again. "I am hoping we can identify this man soon. I will let you know if I need to bring someone 'round to look at the body." I thought he left with a jaunty step that I was gratified to see.
Working on the autopsy did in fact distract me from thoughts of William and I was able to move right on to my next two corpses from this morning: a man who tipped over his penny-farthing cycle while showing off and hit his head, and a woman who was beaten to death—probably by her husband. Unlike my good-natured interactions with the new Acting Detective, I was not going to enjoy another contact with Detective Phillips as the female victim was from Station House No 3's precinct. He never did pass the morgue initiation, I groused to myself.
# # #
"Doctor? Do you have a moment? I saw your light was still burning." I was just finishing up looking at a tissue sample from this morning's second victim when I heard Inspector Brackenreid's voice call me from the top of the ramp. I had put music on again, but was paying no attention to it, lost in thought. My deflated feelings were persisting and I fear I slipped into distraction again despite my best efforts, so an interruption from the inspector was helpful at that point.
"Why, yes. How may I assist you?" I asked, pushing away from my work bench.
"How did Crabtree do? All right?" he inquired. "And was there really the victim's own pickled finger in his stomach?"
"Ah, yes. Acting Detective Crabtree actually acquitted himself quite well, pickled finger and all. It may put me off French food for a while though!" I said with a laugh.
This time the inspector laughed along with me, before he got more serious and came closer. "Doctor, how is Murdoch? I want to hear it directly from you. No lasting, er… damage?" His concern was genuine, I knew.
"Inspector, your instructions about stabilizing a person's body were brilliant and I am sure helped tremendously. He's going to have some scars, but I don't think there will be any permanent impairment. He did not rupture his spleen or a kidney. He managed not to rip any muscles or tendons or tear anything in his right arm that will affect his hand. Cracked ribs and the other torn ligaments take a while to heal though—he won't be able to really go back to work for at least two to three weeks and even then he will not at be full strength, you understand. As for his concussion, I observed no worrisome or unexpected cognitive problems—his brain will function well enough again, at least as soon as the opium is no longer needed. He is getting that, and also mercury to prevent infection."
The inspector grimaced, in sympathy with his detective's circumstances I thought. "I see. Thank you, doctor. Does he need anything?" he asked. "And will you be tending to him?"
"I think he has all he needs. And, er, I will see to him if there is a problem, of course," I turned my back briefly to readjust my face and neutralize my tone. "I think Mrs Jones will be checking in on him regularly however." I saw the inspector narrowed his eyes a bit when I swung back around.
"Ah, yes, Mrs Jones. She seems to have taken a shine to the detective…" he said, gauging my reaction, I thought.
"Has she now? She came by today while I was seeing to the detective's injuries. She appears pleasant enough…" I also thought I was not fooling him in the least. Honestly, I was embarrassed by my attempts at fishing for information but could not stop myself.
The inspector paused before continuing, trying to decide what he could say, I supposed. "Er, yes. A Catholic widow with a young son. Bakes a nice pie too…" he said as he patted his stomach. "Funny how people make acquaintances through the oddest of circumstances. Did you know, doctor… I met my wife Margaret through my job, met her by arresting her as it turned out…?" He shrugged, and checked his watch before trying to disengage from me. "Doctor, perhaps we could continue this at another time? It is getting rather on in the evening. Speaking of Margaret…she expects me home for supper…"
"Of course, Inspector. One thing before you go…" I myself had completely lost track of the time and I was surprised at the lateness of the hour. "I just want to make sure I understand. Each precinct keeps records of where the body is found and where the crime was committed…assuming an original crime scene can be found…in instances where the body might have been moved or dumped, is that right?" I asked.
"Yes, essentially, yes," he said. "But why are you asking?"
"Well, I am not sure, but what happens if a person is killed in one district but the body is taken to another? Whose precinct investigates?"
"Usually the one where the body is found," he said. "Good night, doctor. Er...get some rest, eh? Tomorrow is another day."
When I stood I saw my reflection in one of the glass-fronted cabinets: my hair was pulled apart from where I had unconsciously fussed with it and I saw dark circles under my eyes. I thought I looked quite the fright. I put everything away quickly and pushed my hair up under my hat, grabbed my coat and bag, and gratefully left the building for home.
