AN: What's with the sadists on the show? I just saw Murdoch's sister tell him she was dying… seriously? Those writers really have it in for him… sheesh… as well, sorry for the long delay, I was away yet again. Thank you for the lovely reviews, they make me happy, and I have a twist up my sleeve that might work… :) *Queue evil music*
The morning of the Penny Fair dawned bright and welcoming; not at all mirroring the thunderous mood Murdoch found himself in. He had not slept a wink that night and had spent the entirety of the midnight hours lying awake; listening to the gentle drumming of rain as it splattered on his cracked, rain-rotted windowsill and across the tin roof Mrs. Kitchen had erected as to perform repairs on the wooden shingles beneath.
He imagined the baby; Julia's baby, with soft blond curls like its mother and plump, healthy cheeks that became rosy when it laughed. He saw it giggling in its mother's arms, and watched a moment later, in a state of pure loathing and jealousy, as Darcy took the child from Julia and held it close to his chest.
He contemplated lying to Anna and telling her that he could not make it to the fair, and that she would have to call Henry to escort her, but, in retrospect, he saw that he had done enough damage to their relationship already to risk further harm to their delicately built trust.
Soon, the rain stopped and the morning dawned, and Murdoch, not changed from the night before, sat blearily up. Lord, he thought, why is it always when you cannot sleep that you feel you must?
He shaved apathetically and ate his breakfast in silence, Mrs. Kitchen watching him like a hen, concerned frown across her motherly face.
"You will have no more?" she questioned when he brought his plate to the sink.
Murdoch started. The lack of sleep had made him jumpy.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Kitchen," he replied. "I will not be home until late tonight, so I was wondering…"
"If I could give you the key, yes," she replied knowingly, "Another stint at the office, then?"
"No," Murdoch said, "Actually, I am going out with some friends." Mrs. Kitchen smiled; pleased that her favorite tenant was finally doing something that would please his heat, not only his mind. She patted his hand and said, with a little nod,
"It does my heart good to see you well."
Murdoch did not know how to reply to her, and when she gave him the house key he took it with only the barest of thanks.
George and Betty were waiting for him on the steps when he arrived outside. Betty wore a pretty blue summer dress and beribboned straw bonnet while George succeeded in looking well groomed and proper in a navy blue blazer and silver tipped suspenders. All this show of niceties made Murdoch feel dreadfully underdressed in his familiar worn suit and dark bowler.
"Shall we go?" George asked, glancing at Betty and then Murdoch, "We do not to be late for the Julia and Darcy." In public, George referred to the doctor and her fiancée with their Christian names, as, presumably, the two couples had become closer, but it still seemed odd to hear Julia's name issued from the constable's lips in such a casual and familiar manner.
"Yes," Betty smiled, following George, who had already moved off the waiting coach. Murdoch followed her and, until they reached the Gardener house, those were the last words spoken.
Murdoch was surprised to see Anna waiting for them there, sitting on the veranda sipping cold cider with Dr. Ogden. She looked pretty, but when he looked at the doctor, she seemed radiant, perhaps with what Murdoch perceived to be motherhood. Darcy was nowhere to be seen.
When the carriage pulled up, the two women stood, abandoning their drinks, and walked, grinning, to the waiting party. Murdoch, who had begun to hope Darcy would not be accompanying them, looked past the doctor and Anna to see none other than the man himself locking the house and placing his hat, a bowler like Murdoch's, upon his head. He adjusted it as he too, came to the carriage and the three newcomers crammed in uncomfortably close to their neighbors in the cab confines.
Darcy nodded at Murdoch and he likewise mumbled a greeting while the women began a conversation on the fair's flower competition. Dr. Ogden had entered it, and so had Betty, both playfully arguing over who had the best azaleas.
Anna looked uncomfortable and said little the whole way, but when they arrived and Darcy, to Murdoch's chagrin, paid the cabbie, she slipped down out of the carriage and gave Murdoch a meaningful look.
"Will," she said in a voice that filled his heart with dread, "I found a place in New York. I thought I hated it there, but when I went back I found the perfect place for the pub. I'm moving, William. Please enjoy today with me, I will be back in New York to purchase the deed on Wednesday."
"So soon?" Murdoch said aghast, "I would have hoped you would stay a while longer at least."
"No," she replied, and Murdoch could see she was struggling to say something. George tapped his shoulder then, and Anna was cut off by the whooping of a carnie, somewhere nearby.
"What a show," George said to Darcy as they looked up at the Ferris wheel and sword swallowers, standing, half clothed, on a stage in one of the stalls. George grinned as he caught sight of his fellow constables, standing, looking bored, against the wall of a lemonade stand. They had been assigned to keep an eye of the proceedings for the afternoon, and, judging by their stance, there had been very little action.
He waved to them, and they waved back, but he did not go to see them. Instead, he directed the little group to a table where a balding, middle aged carnie held the attention of a small crowd with a game of Over-and-Under, the petty gambling game with one dice that tended to favor the house.
When the carnie saw Murdoch approaching curiously, he fixed Murdoch with an unnatural stare and said, "Hey, come bet, Jack. There's a winner every game."
Murdoch did not respond to the derogatory term for a detective, but turned away without a confrontation and met Anna with a shake of his head. "That is a way to get money from an idiot who thinks he can outsmart the banker." No sooner had he said that, than he saw, with an exasperated sigh, George, making his way over to the macer's table. Murdoch followed his constable, and when he was about flush with the seedy little man, Murdoch pulled George to the side and scolded him for such simplemindedness.
Cowed but not deflated, George proposed a trip on the Ferris wheel, a rare treat that would give the couples a view of the growing city of Toronto from the air. The agreement from Dr. Ogden, Darcy, Betty and George was unanimous, but Anna looked slightly repulsed at the prospect of height, and Murdoch seconded that notion with enthusiasm. If the other couples were away, Anna could tell him what she had been meaning to say since the beginning of the night.
Anna invented an excuse as to why she would not ride, and Murdoch followed her to a bench nearby, watching the reflection of the massive wheel in her eyes.
"Anna," he began, "what is it?"
"What is what?" she asked, waving suddenly to Dr. Ogden as she was hoisted into the sky, Darcy by her side.
"Come now," Murdoch chided, "You have wanted to tell me something. What is it?"
Anna took a deep breath.
"I'm leaving you."
The words were like a stinging blow against his skin, and he found that the world seemed to slow, and stop, in the wake of her devastating words.
"Why?" he heard himself asking, though he already knew.
"It won't work between us," she said, fiddling with her gloves in her lap, "We were never meant to be together permanently. We want different things, you and I."
Murdoch did not reply, but focused his attention blindly on the wheel. Suddenly he wanted to shred something; to be told that he was dreaming… to punch a wall. Anything.
"I see," he made his voice level and as understanding as he dared.
"You'll see," Anna responded brightly, "you'll see that it was for the better. I know you will."
"Who is he?" Murdoch replied in a flat, humorless voice.
"Who—? No," she shook her head, "No," but she looked into his eyes and saw that he could not be deceived so easily, and relented with a sigh. "His name is Isaac Wulfe. I met him in New York and he offered to set me up with a loan. We started talking and—," she shrugged, "I think he will be great. He likes the same things as me, and he's…" she trailed off, "it's like he has known me his entire life and I him."
And so Murdoch was abandoned for another. Great.
Before Murdoch could make an angry retort, or bolt, he spied the Over-Under carnie at a nearby stall, speaking quietly to a hard-faced, dark haired youth who appeared to be his son. The boy kept glancing around nervously, but the father kept his eyes on the boy, speaking with little hand gestures and movements.
"William?" Julia asked, making him jump. He was so absorbed with the carnies that he had not even noticed the couple's return or the fact that Anna now stood, replacing her gloves, and looking expectantly at Murdoch. He fought the urge to ask 'what?'
"Well," she faked a yawn, "I must be away. The travel from New York was indeed tiresome." Her friends nodded sympathetically. They knew the distance.
Murdoch watched her say goodbye to the others, but she merely nodded shyly at her former lover, the passion gone from her eyes.
George, it seemed, noticed something wrong, and asked Anna, as she was leaving, "Do you not want to see Miss Pencil today? She helped us with her visions at the constabulary a couple of times, and is very accurate." He looked between Murdoch's stony face and her apathetic one.
"Oh, no, George," she declined, "I will not go, but you should take William. I am sure he would be more than thrilled to hear what Miss—er, Pencil has to say." Murdoch glared daggers at her retreating back as she moved off across the fairgrounds and out of sight.
George spied his boss with what Murdoch could only assume to be pure, unrestrained enthusiasm and he had to force himself not to shudder at the evil sight.
"You heard the lady," George said, hauling Murdoch to his feet, "up and at em. Let's go."
"But really—," Murdoch protested, fighting the constable's grip as he was dragged towards Miss Pencil's tent.
"Bullocks," George brushed off Murdoch's complaints. There were two people ahead of them in line; an awkward teenage boy and his giggling beau. Murdoch crossed his arms and refused to look at George in a decidedly childlike fashion.
They waited for what felt like an hour, and then the teenagers were allowed in. As they disappeared through the tent flap Murdoch saw Miss Pencil, dressed ridiculously in a tall midnight purple turban adorned with a large paste ruby and ostrich feather. She flashed a mischievous smile at him when she saw him looking.
The session with the children took less time than expected, but when Murdoch was called in, the couple still had not come out. It was odd, Murdoch thought, but did Miss's Pencils voice sound huskier when he was called?
He entered the tent and went to where Miss Pencil sat on a cushion, a crystal ball poised in front of her and dirty grey rag stuffed in her mouth.
Then Murdoch saw two shapes on the floor. The bodies were horribly mutilated, and the girl's neck had been severed so deep that her head fell at an impossible angle from her, the skin bloodied and dark.
Murdoch looked at Miss Pencil in horror, and saw, in that moment, the same face mirrored on hers. He also noticed, in that split second, that her hands were bound behind her back and she struggled against her bindings. She screamed, but it came out as barely a whisper against the fabric.
Before Murdoch could call out, two sets of heavy arms encircled his, and he felt a rough hand muffle his cry.
He saw, then, the middle-aged carnie, a gleaming knife in his hand, enter the tent and survey Murdoch coolly. "Well done Matt. You bagged yourself a copper." He turned to Miss Pencil.
"And what shall we do with you?" He asked in a sick, sadistic tone. "I have no need for the likes of you." He touched the tip of his knife to her chin, "but my, you are a beauty." Miss Pencil quivered with disgust and tried to struggle away. He let his hand come down hard and slap her. She let out a sound like a wounded animal, and narrowed her eyes.
"Do you want her?" he asked, glancing at his brutish son. The boy looked Miss Pencil up and down once, then shook his head.
"I don't fuck witches," he said simply.
His father gave a short laugh and then focused his attention on Murdoch.
"I am going to kill her, here; right now. If you say a word she will die a more painful death than you could ever imagine."
Murdoch struggled violently as the knife came to rest at the hollow of Miss Pencil's neck. The old carnie pressed it slightly, as if to prove his point, and small beads of blood began to form on the blade edge.
George, come in, please, Murdoch begged mentally. George did not, and Murdoch felt nervous perspiration form on his brow.
"Ransom, father?" the boy asked.
"Not for the fortune teller," scoffed his father, "She won't fetch a good price. Not here, anyway. It's the detective that we want." He moved towards Murdoch and pinioned him between himself and his son, tying Murdoch's hands with a length of rope retrieved from his pocket. "He'll make more for us than anything we've ever seen. No more taking wares to the dollyshop. Her, on the other hand," he gestured to the terrified form of Miss Pencil, "would have to be bartered on the down low. It's not worth the risk." Miss Pencil's eyes widened as she realized the verdict.
"I'll let you do this one," the older man said to the boy, helping him to gag Murdoch. He took the boy's place manhandling Murdoch into stillness, and held his knife to his throat.
The boy reached inside his coat pocket and retrieved a switchblade. Murdoch's heart went cold with dread. Unemotionally, the boy approached Miss Pencil and stroked her cheek with the dull edge of the blade.
He whispered something in her ear that made her whimper with fright, then he plunged the knife deep into her jugular. She let out a strangled moan and blood gushed from her throat and mouth, soaking the gag and running, in bubbly rivers, down her chin and neck.
The boy dislodged the knife and did it again, hacking at her like a hunter at a deer carcass. Miss Pencil fell to the floor. The boy kicked her aside and flipped the knife, still bloodied, into his vest pocket.
Where was George? Certainly he could have heard the ruckus in the tent?
The boy smiled evilly at his father.
"Very good, my son," the older man said. "Now help me get the Jack in the caravan."
AN: I know this was longer, but I wanted to get some new stuff out there. What do you think? I like the way this one was written, because I decided to develop the plot a little more, but I felt that a character needed to die for the story to live. (I liked Miss Pencil, but oh well) As always, R&R!