"I'm fine, Henry," George muttered to his friend. "I can stand."
Effie gave him a sidelong glance as he shifted some of his weight away from her. "Are you sure?" she challenged him.
His body betrayed him almost instantly, and he started to sway. She clutched him to herself again, propping him up. He tried to ignore a surge of queasiness as Higgins began to scold him.
"No, you are clearly not fine, George. You passed out after you were nearly hanged to death. How many times have you heard Doctor Ogden talk about strangulation and what it does to the body? There's… there's all that hemorrhaging in the eyes and face, and the broken hyoid bone, and… and the lack of oxygen to the brain, and…"
Higgins' words faded into nonsense as George noticed for the first time how much the man's voice had deepened over a decade and a half. It used to be high-pitched and almost nasal—rather grating at times, George had thought—and now it was positively pleasant. Resonant, even, especially when the matter was a serious one.
Regardless of Higgins' timbre, though, George did not want to listen to him right now. He wanted to sleep. Where is he going with this? he wondered, more than a little peevish. He was reasonably confident that he had no broken bones, and Higgins hadn't commented that he had bloodshot eyes. He was worse for the wear, certainly, but he hadn't died, like all the corpses in the morgue had.
He wished he could remember more than a few flashes of what had happened. He wished, too, that Henry would hush, so that he could try to figure out where he was going to lay his head for the night. Mrs. Keening had locked his boarding house's door hours ago, and he knew Effie's landlady had done the same. He was so tired, and his neck and hands hurt, and his whole body felt as limp as the spaghetti he'd made and not had a chance to eat before he was kidnapped, again, and he was ravenous, and he hadn't yet stopped being dizzy-
It dawned on him that Higgins had stopped talking and was looking at him, expectant. George stared at him blankly. His stomach gave a loud rumble.
"George, we think you should see a doctor." Effie's voice was low and tender. "Henry's going to take Edwina to the cells at the station house, and I'm going to take you to Doctor Ogden so she can take a look at you and make sure you're all right."
George sighed as he leaned against her, watching the world spin slowly around him. She was warm and steady in the bitter cold. "I suppose you're right."
"Good, my love." Effie started to steer him toward the door until he stopped short, straightening as he remembered.
"The baby, though. We shouldn't disturb them." He screwed his eyes closed in hopes that the nausea would pass. His stomach rumbled again.
"It's all right, George, I'm sure no one in that house is sleeping for more than two hours at a time these days. They're more likely awake than not. And they'll be happy to feed you."
George blushed. "Is it that loud?"
"You didn't get your supper, did you. Come along." She guided him outside despite his feeble protests, which subsided the instant she bundled him into a taxicab and tucked a thick wool blanket around him. She sat down, arranged her arm over his shoulders, and drew him close before she pulled a corner of the blanket over herself. George was already drifting off when he heard her give the driver the address on Lamport Avenue, and the taxicab started to move.
Gentle hands were shaking him.
"George? George. Wake up, George. We're here."
"What? Where?" He blinked in confusion at the two women who were easing him out of the taxicab into the dim lamplight. "Where are we?"
"We're at Doctor Ogden's house, George. Like I told you. She's going to look after you."
Effie. She was shouting at me. She wanted me to say something.
"You did? She is?" His voice was hoarse, and it hurt to speak. "What happened?"
Effie's eyes widened in alarm. "You don't remember?" He shook his head and groaned in pain, his hand rising to his neck as his feet found their way to the ground. Something about a stable, and a… noose? Amelia? The side of his head was throbbing.
I'll never forgive myself if you die like this.
"You were nearly hanged, George. Effie and Henry found you just in time. Let's get you inside and have a look at you."
Doctor Ogden. Didn't she have a baby? I don't want to wake the baby.
"Hanged," George managed, bewildered. Flashes of disjointed memory refused to stay with him long enough to make sense. Hanged. He drew a laboured breath as the doctor—Julia, here—and his sweetheart supported him from either side as they guided him into the house.
It was gloriously warm inside. He was only just starting to recover from the chill he must have taken somehow over the evening, and the heat emanating from the fireplace felt like an old friend's embrace. Baby Susannah lay in her cradle, asleep under some enormous and bizarre contraption that kept flashing light in her face. George tried to shake his head in amusement, though a rush of queasiness and a burst of pain in his neck made him regret it in an instant.
The detective, pyjama-clad and bleary-eyed, was straightening a sheet across the hidden sofa and arranging pillows at one end as he gestured to George to lie down. "Sir," George rasped in greeting, and started to cough. Murdoch winced with him as they all waited for the fit to subside, relieved when the baby did not wake.
"George, don't try to speak," Julia instructed him as she and Effie manoeuvred him onto the bed and fluffed the pillows behind him. "Let me examine you. Effie, what can you tell me about the mechanism of injury? Was he ever hanging with no support at all? Did his neck take his full weight?"
Effie nodded mutely, the horror in her eyes making it clear that what she had seen would haunt her. Finally she spoke. "It did, but not for long. The drop wasn't very far at all. They tied his hands, but he… he managed to hold on to the rope until he passed out."
A flash of memory: he was dangling above the ground, darkness closing in at the edges of his vision, desperate gasps for air as he heard Effie scream. His heart sped up.
"And how long between when he passed out and you got him down?" George found himself staring at a blurry Doctor Ogden, first with his right eye, then with his left, as she lifted his eyelids and peered at him intently.
"I… I've no idea, really. It all happened so fast. A few seconds, maybe? Not long. I tackled Dorothy, and then I ran to him and held him up. He started breathing again the moment he was on the ground."
He was on his back, stars dancing all around him as Effie pressed her lips to his.
I love you, George Crabtree. I love you.
I was nearly hanged?
He closed his eyes, listening to the side of his head pound as he tried not to wheeze. He felt the doctor's hands moving over him, and Effie's hand clutching his.
"I see he hasn't wet or soiled himself. It's common for that to happen in cases of strangulation." Thank God for small favours, he thought. Julia continued. "Did he mention any dizziness or nausea? Blurred vision?"
"Yes, yes, and yes," George croaked softly, managing to suppress another cough. Coughing hurt. "My head. Feels like I hit it." A comforting hand rested on his shoulder—the detective's?—as Julia's fingertips gently probed his neck, then made their way up to his scalp. He stiffened and tried not to cry out when she hit a particularly tender spot.
"Shh, George. You've quite a lump there. Do you know how it happened?"
Try as he might, he could not remember. Someone hit my head and tried to hang me?
"No. I can't remember. Dorothy?"
Dorothy. Amelia came to the station house, but it was Dorothy. Amelia's dead.
Amelia's dead.
"Yes, George, it was Dorothy."
His alarm must have been obvious. "Dorothy Ernst hit me in the head and tried to hang me? Where is she?"
Effie squeezed his arm. "Higgins is looking for her, George. She doesn't know we're here."
"You're safe, George," Julia reassured him. "Just lie still and rest. Lots of rest. William, would you fill some ice bags? I need to bring down some swelling."
Murdoch's hand left his shoulder as Effie's grip tightened on his fingers. George drew another careful breath and opened his eyes to see Julia, stethoscope around her neck, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt.
"I'm going to listen to your breathing, George. Just try to breathe normally."
George did his best to oblige, focusing on a point across the room as the cool metal disc made its way around his chest and neck. His body still felt limp and tingly, and his head continued to pound.
Julia finally straightened and removed the stethoscope from her ears. "Well, George, you're very lucky. There's no facial or petechial hemorrhaging, and I'm not finding severe damage to the oesophagus or larynx. You'll experience bruising and soreness there for a week or two, it might be rather difficult and painful to swallow, and you might sound rather hoarse for a while, but it will heal. There are abrasions on your wrists, but those should heal quickly as well. You've quite a lump on your head—likely mild concussion. I'll give you a few drops of laudanum. You'll need plenty of rest and low light, and we'll need to keep an eye on your dizziness and nausea, but this could have been far, far worse."
Effie released a breath. "He's going to be all right?"
"He's going to be fine, Effie." George watched as the doctor squeezed her arm in reassurance, and tears sprang to his sweetheart's eyes.
"Julia, it was so terrible. I was sure he was going to die." Effie's voice was shaky.
Sure I was going to die. Amelia's dead. Dorothy tried to hang me. My God.
"I'm glad he didn't." Murdoch spoke, low and quiet. The detective had seemed awfully unconcerned when George and then Effie were abducted. Was there guilt in his eyes?
I am too, sir.
The detective handed something to his wife. A finger tipped George's chin back, and—
Cold! Cold! He gasped painfully and tried to shift away from the freezing presence on his neck, but exhaustion and firm hands pinned him down.
"Steady, George. It's all right. I know it's cold. I'm sorry," Julia apologised. "The ice is to bring down the swelling. It will help you breathe."
Yes. Of course. Breathe. He relaxed a little, and squeezed Effie's hand as Julia tucked the other ice pack next to his head. The detective laid a hand on his shoulder again, and Julia's fingers brushed against his cheek. Safe.
The peace of the moment was shattered when his stomach rumbled again, so loudly it echoed off the tile floor. Julia and Effie giggled despite themselves, and even Murdoch smirked for a moment, at least until the baby started to fuss.
Julia glanced skyward, then at the clock. "Three-thirty. It seems we see this time of day more often than not nowadays, don't we, my sweet girl? Well, let's see what you need. William, could you please see to it that George gets something to eat?"