Dear Reader: We hope you like what we have done with the place! The war (and its aftermath) changed everything - profoundly - both socially and individually. In our version, Brax doesn't drink (much, anyway) and the war made him a more devoted family man, as well as made his swearing just an every-day part of his vocabulary. George's war experience made him a bit more anxious/excitable, but he found his vocation (and his home) at Station House No 4, and made his bonds with William and Brax even stronger. William even encourages his creativity. Henry was too young to serve and therefore is really of a different generation than those who did, but also makes him more in tune with the roaring twenties sensibilities. Ruby is...well, Ruby! Julia was in the thick of the war then left for medical school after having a substantial introduction to actual medicine and nursing, but instead of setting her up for a bright future, it is proving to be a hindrance. Unlike George, she hasn't found her place yet. William blamed himself for how the war changed him and led to troubles with his marriage, which proved to unman him…literally. How will they get through the challenges they face..?


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Seven-ten a.m. Friday June 30th

Queen's Hotel

"Julia? Julia? Let me in!"

The loud pounding on her door was insistent. Julia had had a wonderful, if extended night at her mother's soiree, topped off by an interlude of sorts with William Murdoch. She was a little afraid the reason Ruby was demanding entrance was to verify if the bet between them had been...consummated... for lack of a better word.

Well, she thought, only in my dreams...

"Julia! I have great news!" Julia opened her door to admit a yellow whirlwind, the center of which was her sister. "I went back to the office last night and, well...I am going to have an article in today's edition. On page one!" He sister excitedly waved a galley sheet at her. Only Ruby could handle fresh printing ink without it smearing everywhere on her sunny-coloured outfit.

"Ruby, I am running late." Julia hopped on one foot while trying to get her shoe on the other. She was hungry and thirsty and dying for a coffee. "Can't it wait?"

"Well, it is a sidebar really and it continues on page four. After Mother's party I waited up all night until I got a copy."

It must be something to have Ruby working all night. "That's wonderful and I can tell you are excited."

"My own name, Julia, not a nom de plume!"

"That is wonderful, truly. It really is," and she meant it too. "I promise I will read it at work when I have the time, but I have a great deal to accomplish today." She stuffed her 'autopsy outfit' of shirt and trousers into her leather bag and swung it over her shoulder. Outside in the hallway a dinner cart went by with a coffee pot and the smell went right from her nose to her brain cells, which clamored to receive their morning dose of caffeine. "Congratulations. Now, out of my way and lock the door behind you."

Ruby planted herself between Julia and the open doorway. "Do those accomplishments have anything to do with a notice in the personals about Miss Olive Routledge? They tell me the subscription is for two weeks."

No wonder my sister is a journalist, she is a world class snoop. "I am trying to locate family of a suicide victim so her children can be reunited with them. Apparently, no one is interested in women who kill themselves or fatherless children."

"That is rather harsh. Give me something - a good lead and a compelling story about these orphans and I will see what I can do. At the moment, I remain dedicated to investigating bootlegging." Ruby's eyes glowed in anticipation. "I plan to finally get my big break, and soon." She swirled her yellow skirt for emphasis.

Julia recalled William's warning. If he thought she took unnecessary risks, he had no idea how impervious to caution her sister was. "Don't, Ruby. Don't go alone pursuing that story. It's not safe. Just promise me. Detective Murdoch has warned me and I want to warn you too…"

"Ha!" Ruby scoffed. "At the rate he is going, Detective Murdoch needs all the help he can get, if he gets to keep his job at all…"

Julia's irritation bubbled over. "Ruby, just once listen to me! We are doing the best we can; he is doing the best he can. Please, all I ask is that you do not pursue your own stories, especially these investigations into criminal gangs, without having someone guard your back."

"I am not a child, Jules," she said angrily. "I have my sources and my supports. You are the one who always has to go against the grain and go it alone!" With that, Ruby retreated down the hall to her own rooms, leaving Julia gaping after her.

She sighed, then gathered her belongings and started for work, upset they'd been so tense with each other. Her bag bounced against her thigh as she went down the staircase, past Ruby's door, knowing she did not have time that moment to smooth things over. On the way to her motorcar she promised herself to do something conciliatory.

I'll have to make that up to her later. I can go on and on about praising her new article, whatever it is; that should be easy enough…


0750 hours, Friday June 30th

Station House No. 4

Murdoch folded the front page of the Toronto Star along its crease and placed it on a pile with the others. Brackenreid wasn't kidding when he said the papers were going to be unkind to the Toronto Police Department in general and him and me in particular.

In his view, the various articles took the names of the dead, a few facts, several rumours and then embroidered the most lurid interpretation possible over the whole affair, casting the constabulary in the worst possible light. 'Absurd', 'blundering', 'bungling', 'floundering', 'inadequate', 'incompetent', 'inept', 'otiose', and 'slap-dash' were the kinder words. Culled alphabetically, no doubt, from the O.E.D., he observed sarcastically. Crabtree will get more of his education today. One of the more erudite sidebars excoriating the pace of the investigations had Ruby Ogden's byline; he was only grateful it did not include a quote from the Toronto City Coroner.

He exhaled sharply, gathering his wits for what was going to be a long, hard day. The men were about to arrive and expected him to be calm and organized. At the first stirrings outside his door, he looked up to see who it was. Henry Higgins was never early to work - and managed an affirming nod in the young man's direction despite his pounding head.

He pushed his surprise aside to rub his temple. The coffee was not doing its job, but at least he was alert. He had ten minutes until the inspector arrived, then after roll call, the boss was going to expect him to lay out the day's work and assign tasks to the men. He'd spent all night trying to organize just that, waiting while the clock hands slowly turned, testing his patience which was on the frayed side.

He smoothed out the telegram which had come in at six; unashamed he'd made a crumpled mess of it upon receipt. On one of his chalkboards was the result of his night's work - hours of it to support his theory - until the telegram showed up.

Going for the telephone, he dialed the morgue for the umpteenth time, desperate to consult Dr. Ogden. It had only been force of will which prevented him from ringing her at her lodgings - or showing up there. He was about to give up, when the ringing stopped and a young voice said, "City Morgue. This is Jack Lester. May I help you?"

Oh, I hope so. "Hello. Mr. Lester. This is Detective Murdoch. Has Dr. Ogden arrived yet?" He sent a prayer she was there.

"Yes. One moment." His pulse counted off the seconds until her voice came on the line.

"Detective Murdoch, good morning!" Her cheery voice did nothing to soothe his nerves.

"Doctor. In your autopsy of Howard Knox, I read nothing to indicate his hands, arms, or shoulders were injured or deformed in any way. Nothing which prevented him from say, lifting or pushing. Is that correct?"

"Yes. What-?"

"Can you tell me please, is there anything in your examination of his body which would suggest to you he was incapable of walking quickly or running?" The other end of the line was silent. "Doctor...?"

"I'm thinking. We discharged men back to recuperate in England - it is not as if he completed his recovery under my care." She paused again. "His leg was severely injured, he nearly lost it. He did lose muscle to the injury and infection. He certainly could have sustained nerve damage,"

"And at autopsy?" He pressed her. "Can you offer anything definitive?"

She exhaled into the mouthpiece. "Why not just ask someone who knew him when he was alive, Detective?"

"Because we may never find a soul who saw him try to hurry. Please, Doctor…" He was almost begging. The line remained silent.

"His right leg was physically smaller, weaker, than his left. He might have walked normally, perhaps some small hesitation on stairs. But running? I think he'd have been able to move, but not...smoothly," she offered.

Through the office windows, he viewed his men coming in for shift change. They were good men and he was about to push them to their limits.

"Thank you, Doctor."

Murdoch informed Brackenreid of his new theory of the crimes, making his boss forget the headlines. His boss was still slack jawed when he began addressing the assembled men. "First off -Constable Higgins. Good work yesterday."

"Thank you, sir!"

He could not miss the pride on Higgins' youthful face, his smile emphasizing his scar. According to Crabtree, when Higgins smiled like that, the girls flocked to him. "You too, Constable Crabtree, for identifying Miss Lydia O'Mara as someone who made a complaint to Conrad Landswell. Well done." He let the two men bask in a little praise from their mates. Someone might as well be happy today. He thought Higgins blushed.

He cleared his throat. "Last evening I followed up on your lead, we can speculate Miss O'Mara is the same red-haired woman Miss Edwina Virgil saw arguing with Conrad Landswell last Monday." He wrote 'Lydia O'Mara' on the chalkboard next to Landswell's name. "It turns out she was interested in a piece of what she claimed was stolen art."

"Same girl? So, the redhead wasn't some tart? I thought the idea was Landswell wasn't getting his rasher at home, so he had a little extra on the side." Constable Higgins' comment drew some laughter. "I know I would."

"Shut it, Higgins, no one is as randy as you!" Brackenreid launched a sharp rebuke, getting more chuckles from the men.

Murdoch didn't think it was funny and gave Higgins his own cautionary stare. "No. The lady asked for Mr. Landswell's help, apparently desperately, and he turned her down, leaving her upset, perhaps feeling betrayed. There is your motive, which makes finding her essential to our case."

"We are back to thinking this woman was involved in poisoning Landswell," Brackenreid managed to say.

Murdoch passed out sheets of stiff paper to each man. "Here is a sketch of her likeness and I have asked Miss Virgil to come by to verify this is the woman she saw with Conrad Landswell. Age approximately twenty to twenty-five, thin build, average height, dark red hair, brown eyes. She did not have a broad accent, so please, do not describe her as Scots or Irish when you are looking for her. As soon as Miss Virgil confirms her identity, go back to Landswell's office and canvas the shops with this likeness. Constables Crabtree and Higgins: keep going through Landswell's correspondence. Look for anything else - no matter how insignificant - which might be interpreted as a threat, and add anything to do with a theft or concerning art or other valuable objects." He got sober nods from everyone.

"Gentlemen," he continued, "for our other investigation, a man named Father Adam Doulton was murdered in Hamilton, the alleged motive being his public prohibition work in that city. It turns out, he also served in the war before taking up the collar. War service is hardly an unusual development, considering how many of us did."

He flipped his chalkboard, writing 'Knox' and 'Doulton' at the top of the blank board. "What I gathered in Hamilton yesterday is that Father Doulton's murder was well planned and executed, with the police investigation into his death was unusually free of physical evidence-"

"Cause the Hamilton coppers don't have us doin' their work for 'em. Thick as two planks," Worseley commented, getting snickers from the men and a growl from Hodge for his impertinence.

He gave a tight smile. "Yesterday, with Dr. Ogden's help, we determined Father Doulton was killed with a German trench knife. At first, I speculated the assassin, because the priest's death has some of the hallmarks of an assassination, was a member of Rocco Perri's gang. Then, I became convinced the killer was actually a rogue member of the Hamilton police force." This generated outraged remarks from the entire room. He put his hands up to quiet them down. "But I don't believe that anymore." He did believe there was corruption insulating Rocco Perri, but Brackenreid warned him not to speculate out loud, even amongst the men.

He pointed back to the chalkboard. "What I learned early this morning from a telegraph sent to me by the Canadian Expeditionary Force veteran's office, is that Adam Doulton served in the 2nd Canadian Division Regimental Police, which was what it was called before the Canadian Military Police Corps was formed..." He drew a line between the words 'Doulton' and 'Knox.' "... The same regiment as Howard Knox. Quite a few of those souvenir trench knives came home from the war with Canadian soldiers - someone like Howard Knox. Knox and Father Doulton were acquainted. I theorize that Howard Knox had the skills and the weapon to do the deed, and enough police knowledge to not leave evidence of the crime."

Behind him he heard the men grumble and exclaim. "You think Knox killed Father Doulton? But why?" Crabtree, the brightest of the bunch, was first to ask the only question which mattered.

Murdoch ignored him. "What is the only day in the last two weeks before his death we cannot account for anything in Howard Knox's movements?"

Hodge answered immediately. "Monday June 19th."

"It 'just happens' to be the same day Father Doulton was murdered? That is too great a coincidence, don't you think? There are no witnesses to Father Doulton's death per se. A man fitting Howard Knox's general description was seen 'wobbling away' from the scene around the estimated time of death. This morning, Dr. Ogden confirmed Howard Knox suffered enough physical injury in his leg from his war wound that, although he may have been able to walk without obvious difficulty, moving quickly or running, his gait would have been noticeably off. Hence the description of wobbling."

"I thought we decided Howard Knox was a waster, sir," Hodge objected.

He acknowledged the point. "Yes. Not a fine example of Canadian manhood, was Howard Knox. But the weapon used more than makes up for a lack of size or musculature, as he had no upper body limitations; Dr. Ogden confirmed this as well."

Crabtree remained puzzled. "What was the motive? Does it bring us back to Rocco Perri? Did Perri pay Knox for an assassination?"

"Knox was in deep to his bookie, drank illegal liquor, associated with unsavoury people. Might he have taken the job to get square with his debts?" Hodge asked.

"And then who took out Knox?" Higgins asked, brow wrinkled in consternation.

He flicked a gaze at Inspector Brackenreid. Here goes. "I do not know. That is what you are going to discover for us today. We are following evidence at this point, not motive. Where was Howard Knox on June 19th? You have his photograph: use it. Go find out where he was, this time in a wider search, focused on Monday the 19th, this time especially coming or going to the train station. Go back over where Knox was on the day he died, but instead of looking for him, look at who he was in contact with. Where did he get the cognac which poisoned him? And we are going to look much, much deeper into the connections in these crimes. Because, let's not forget," he returned to the chalkboard and wrote the next name, "we have already concluded Conrad Landswell and Howard Knox were poisoned the same way. Knox, Doulton and Landswell -find the connection between these three men, even if it is coincidence."

Murdoch had Hodge supervise the men getting ready for their assignments, allowing him to finally sink into his office chair for some quiet. His teeth were clenched so hard against the pain in his head, he knew just made matters worse. He fished in his desk drawer for another aspirin tablet and took it, getting it down with the last of his coffee. His eyes were barely closed when he heard Brackenreid come across the bull pen to his door. He knew those footsteps anywhere, did not bother to open his eyes this time, curling his bare left hand into his lap so his boss wouldn't ask too many questions. Brackenreid came in quietly and closed the door behind him, setting a hip on the desk.

"Murdoch," Brackenreid said his name softly. "Go home and get some sleep. I can take care of Miss Virgil's identification when she gets here. I don't know what's going on, but I bloody-well know you better than the men out there do. I know you were here all night and that you have one of your headaches."

"Sergeant Weston tattle on me again?"

"Rank has its privileges. Besides, I pay better bribes, me' old mucker. You have to be in good working order to get through this shite."

He exhaled, slitting his eyes open. "Sir. I'll be fine. I am confident the men will find a connection between Knox's and Father Doulton; with any luck a positive identification of Knox in Hamilton, or on the train. I arranged for Knox's photograph to be shown around Hamilton. We will find Miss O'Mara, then figure out what connection, if any, she has to the rest of it, poison or not. Later this afternoon I will follow up on Constable Worseley's information on Toronto distilling operations. In a few minutes, I am seeing about the painting rented to Mrs. Ogden which so caught Lydia O'Mara's eye."

"I don't like the idea of Howard Knox being an assassin." Brackenreid repeated his objection from this morning when Murdoch broke the bad news. "Christ! We should be putting all our efforts into tying up a noose for Rocco Perri."

"At the beginning, you yourself said Howard Knox was going to be the key to this whole thing, and he is ... just not in the way you imagined."

His boss made a rude noise. "If Knox killed Doulton, then who killed Knox, knowing to do it the same way as Landswell? Rocco Perri? Where does Miss O'Mara fit in? You got us tied up at square one again." Brackenreid stood. "Go home. You can't do anything in your present condition. That's an order."

"Sir…" he protested. 'Home' was the last place he wanted to be.

"Look, Murdoch. From the start of this business, we had to determine how Rocco Perri is behind all of this, the whole shebang. Howard Knox, an alkie up to his neck in trouble, is Perri's paid assassin, uses his past association with Father Doulton to kill him, because Doulton was going to ruin Perri's bootlegging operation and link him to all those deaths from poisoned alcohol, by disclosing information he obtained from his work as a priest or worse yet, from a confession. Perri then kills Knox to eliminate loose ends, one of which somehow included Conrad Landswell, killing two birds with one stone, as it were, by using the same poisoned cognac."

Murdoch nodded his head, sorry he did so because the pain flared up. He hissed. "Landswell... friend to the new mayor. In that case, I fear we will confront conspiracy and corruption spanning a large chunk of Toronto if not our province." The truth lay between them while Brackenreid wrestled with what to do about it.

"Sod, that. Just be right when you pull the trigger, Murdoch."

Even with an endorsement, he could tell Brackenreid hated the idea. He offered Brackenreid an alternative. "Or, theory two: Landswell and Knox and Doulton have nothing to do with Rocco Perri. Howard Knox kills his friend Adam Doulton for some as yet unrevealed reason, then commits suicide out of remorse. Or, he is not remorseful, but being an alcoholic, was willing to drink anything which came his way, which just happened to be the same thing that poisoned Mr. Landswell."

"Back to bloody coincidence. Which means we are wasting our time looking for your red-haired Miss O'Mara. You have all these people chasing their tails, and us with them. What does your gut tell you?"

At the moment, the combination of coffee and aspirin was burning a hole through the center of his body, drowning out his doubts. "My gut, sir?"

"Well, since that brilliant noggin of yours is not helping you out at the moment..."

"Point taken." He knew it was a fact. "My guts are being shouted down by my head, sir. Can you get Howard Knox's picture and Miss O'Mara's sketch in the afternoon papers? Say they are not suspects, but that they have information vital to an important investigation and we count on the public's help to locate them? We need more eyes and ears and shoe leather than our station house can possibly put on the job." He was grateful when his boss nodded. "Thank you, sir. I will get a little rest, get to the gallery, and be back as soon as I get rid of this head."

Brackenreid stood to leave, then paused, dropping his voice to a near whisper. "Murdoch. It's none of my business, but I know your headache isn't the real problem. You need to get a grip!"

A sudden cold sliced into him. Thomas Brackenreid had a copper's instinct for knowing when something was wrong- the same sort of feeling Murdoch still had about this whole mess. "Understood."

"Good man." Brackenreid put a hand on his shoulder and left. He appreciated the warmth of the touch, long after his boss was gone.