Chapter 2
Once she had doubled the dose, her urgency became even stronger than when she had first begun taking the pills. However, it was dampened by the knowledge that her husband seemed no longer to desire her in that regard.
They no longer used their code word. Instead, they had a rote schedule of once in the evening and again in the morning if there is time. There were no more afternoon trysts, or tender midnight canoodling, not even any furtive looks of longing and anticipation between them.
Julia forced herself to supress a sigh as William rolled off of her: another passionate-less encounter completed. They were gentle enough with each other, neither could be faulted in that regard, yet there was a distinct lack of emotional connection.
Rising to begin her day, her stomach roiled at the change in position. She pulled her nightdress back over her hips and looked critically at her reflection in the mirror, spying William's silent retreat to the bathroom in her periphery. She plucked at the plain, white cotton. Perhaps a visit to Oscar Ducharme's is in order…
Mid-morning, travelling back from Mr Ducharme's shop, Julia reflected on the moment that attempting to conceive had lost its romance. Around a couple of months after beginning the hormone treatment, she had telephoned from the morgue and left a message for William with one of the constables. When he didn't come, she thought nothing of it; her husband was a busy man, and notorious for getting absorbed in cases, overlooking everything else around him.
The next day, however, Julia, feeling the then familiar urgency, had visited him in his office. Rounding the desk, she perched upon the dark wood and leaned towards him. "Lemniscate," she'd breathed into his ear.
She was bewildered when he moved back and then stood, putting distance between them. That had been the point when he'd ended their spontaneous encounters, citing the need for professionalism, alongside a heavy workload. Wounded, she'd laughed as she often did to mask hurt or fear, and asked him just when he thought they might conceive a child if they did not participate in amorous activities.
They thus fell into their schedule, which turned out to be every bit as unromantic as it sounded.
She wondered if the lack of passion was natural after having been married for so long, or whether Willian was losing patience in their endeavour.
Arriving at the morgue, Julia put a stop to her wandering thoughts and resolved to focus on her job. No sooner had she unpinned her hat, then the phone rang, heralding a body. Oscar had been as affable as always, flattering her and charming her. Half of her believed that William, too, would rediscover his attraction to her once she donned her new outfits.
She made sure to sequester her two purchases in her desk drawer before leaving; she was far from a prude, but her attendants finding her new, daring nightdresses would have been mortifying.
The constable she spoke with on the telephone directed her to a large, rather grand house, ten minutes by carriage from the morgue. She passed through a gleamingly white painted doorway, into a hallway with an expensive-looking, ornate rug and an imposing grandfather clock. Mounting the stairs, she passed an open doorway to a room in which Constable Crabtree was talking with a tearful woman who appeared to be a housekeeper, based on the cap and apron that she wore. William was found in the master bedroom, where he stood overlooking a body slumped, half-dressed on the floor.
"William?" she questioned as she noted his frown. "Is something the matter?"
"I'm hoping you can help me with that. Mrs Tilder, the housekeeper, is adamant that Mr Gerald Henshaw here died in unnatural circumstances, but I cannot see anything to support her claim."
"Well, what is her reasoning?" she asked, kneeling down beside the unfortunate man and beginning her preliminary examination.
William crouched opposite her, watching her skilful fingers and bright, intelligent eyes peruse her subject. "Only that he is healthy and not yet fifty. I would not have come at all, except that the inspector deemed it wise to be particularly thorough, given his high-profile position."
"Ah yes." She glanced up at her husband briefly, just then realising why she had recognised the victim's name. "He was the manager of The Canadian Bank of Commerce, was he not?"
"Indeed, the Parkdale Branch. Philanthropic and well-liked, by all accounts." He continued to watch her, impressed as ever by her confident skill at a crime scene. The conversation between them flowed naturally, such a change from their domestic scenes. Although he did not focus on it, a little sadness crept in at the knowledge that their personal lives no longer mirrored their professional relationship. While they had long ago developed a mutual respect and a friendship over the autopsy table, he had believed that their romantic relationship was built on more than this, and could be sustained away from work. Despite current evidence to the contrary, he hoped that this was still correct.
Eventually, she stood. William automatically placed a hand on her elbow as he rose with her. "I must say," she sighed, "I cannot yet tell whether Mrs Tilder was correct. I'm afraid that you will have to wait until I have completed a more thorough investigation at the morgue."
The investigation turned out to be a lengthy one indeed. All that Julia could tell William upon finishing for the night was that the man had suffered a heart attack. Whether it was natural or not remained to be seen.
They travelled by carriage together to their hotel, and given the hour, consumed a light supper. William was quiet, no doubt mulling over the case. Julia did not care to disturb him; she herself was contemplative of the body, and mentally ran through the tests she was to conduct the following day. Usually, they would have discussed the case together. Yet, while they found freedom in discussing cases in the morgue or station house, at home, the marital bed in the next room provided a constant, unwelcome reminder of their private struggles, hampering even that route of communication.
Eventually, they mutually decided to head into the bedroom. Upon returning home, Julia had sequestered her morning's purchase in the bottom of the wardrobe, and despite Mr Ducharme's earlier flattery, she could not face the vulnerability that would entail donning the revealing clothing. And thus, their coupling commenced as per the previous few weeks. Afterwards, quiet 'goodnight's were uttered, and they rolled to face opposite sides of their bed, both feeling empty and unfulfilled, yet weighed down by heavy responsibilities and expectations.
Entering the morgue in the late morning the following day, after a phone call summoning his presence, William was met with a vision of his wife in the centre of what at first glance appeared to be chaos, very unlike her usually meticulously organised work area. Her laboratory bench was filled with vials of liquids of various colours, although each were carefully labelled with her elegant writing. Her spectroscope and Bunsen burner sat among them. On the floor lay five open reference books, each showing drawings of leaves, roots, flowers and seeds. And finally, her notebook rested on the end of the otherwise empty autopsy table, the open pages covered with Latin words, numbers, ticks and crosses, all neatly set out in a table, and penned by her hand.
"Julia? Have you something for me?"
"Indeed I do. Please excuse the mess. Miss Hart has classes today, so I'm afraid I've quite taken over the place!" Her countenance was brighter than it had been when they shared a silent breakfast early that morning, and she even smiled as she led him across the floor, picking a path through her textbooks; William's mood rose in response. "Our culprit is hellebrin, from Helleborus viridis, otherwise known as the green hellebore."
"A poison then?" he questioned. "And definitely murder?"
She nodded. "Hellebrin causes ventricular tachydysrhythmias – abnormal rhythm and rapid heart rate – which most likely caused his heart attack." She frowned and sighed, her countenance dimming in preparation for sharing the news that she knew would not please him. "What I cannot find, however, is a point of entry for the poison. I found it only in his bloodstream, not in his stomach contents, so I would expect to find an injection mark, but I have yet to find one.
"Would you like some assistance?"
Truth be told, the offer was not entirely altruistic; the lack of information about cause of death was hampering his investigation. However, upon receiving Julia's small, pleased smile, he was glad he offered.
Together they checked every inch of the body for puncture wounds, even parting the toes and fingers, checking beneath nails, inside the mouth, the ears and examining the eyeballs.
Eventually, Julia straightened with another sigh. "There are no needle marks on his person! The only way that I can conceive of the poison entering his bloodstream is through this cut." She gestured to small wound on Mr Henshaw's jaw, that they had dismissed earlier, unable to comprehend how a killer would make such a cut, let alone poison the man. It was William's turn to sigh, and Julia felt a pang of regret at having failed him in this, the one thing she should have been able to do. "I'm sorry, William. I'll look again."
She gazed at him as he turned to leave. It was only when she glimpsed the side of his jaw that she realised. The gasp of his name prompted him to pause, allowing her to reach him in two strides. She reached out to gently finger a tiny, healing cut just below his ear. His expression remained impassive, yet inwardly he marvelled at the tingly jolt her touch elicited.
"A shaving nick." Julia was apparently unaware of William's thoughts. "I just remembered that you cut yourself the other morning. I believe that Mr Henshaw's wound is also from shaving!"
All too soon, she dropped her hand, and he longed for further contact, surprising, given the state of their relationship. He forced himself to focus. "So, a barber, perhaps?"
"Or his own razor."
"But assuming that the killer intended to kill Mr Henshaw via this manner, how would the poison have been administered if he shaved himself?"
She was silent for a moment, her sharp mind assessing possibilities. "The soap, perhaps?" She wrinkled her nose to show her uncertainty. "The poison could have been introduced to the soap mixture before the cake hardened."
William continued her train of thought, "And then released when it was lathered on his face, poisoning him without him being any the wiser."
"Exactly!"
"Very well, I will make enquiries as to his shaving habits, and return to you if we locate his soap." He bestowed a smile on her, inclining his head in parting.
He almost turned, almost uttered their codeword. Yet, he remembered why he had put a stop to their daytime encounters in the first place. With his increased absences, and more frequent visits and calls from Julia, the constables had begun to talk, and he could not bear the thought that they discussed his most private actions. He had not divulged this to Julia, not wanting her to feel uncomfortable in the station house, around men with whom she had to work.
Yet his heart was still heavy; her touch to his jaw was the first spontaneous contact they'd had in weeks.
A visit to Mr Henshaw's house during the afternoon did indeed reveal that while he sometimes frequented a barber, he also had his own shaving equipment in-house. Box in hand, William returned to the morgue, eager to discover whether Julia's theory was correct.
She eagerly accepted his package, and after helping her set up, he settled on a stool to watch her work. She was sure of hand, taking quick glances at her textbook, and efficiently sampling the cake of Vinolia Shaving Soap, preparing it for analysis.
"Hellebrin is a whitish colour when it is a solid." She paused to take a small sample. "It would blend in with the soap quite well. Ingenious, really," she mused aloud.
Julia fell silent in concentration as she conducted her analyses, and William took the opportunity to observe her. Despite their struggles, there was no doubt that he still found her striking, both in mind and appearance. A blonde curl dangled across her cheek, and while he took in her sloping nose and the sharp jut of her chin that he knew so well, he had to resist the urge to brush his fingers across her skin.
After a few seconds of silent contemplation, he noted a hitch in her breathing, then she turned to him, eyes sparkling. "Hellebrin is present in the soap… In rather large quantities." She gestured to the sample for him to see. Remaining on her stool, she leaned to the side to allow him access, yet they were still close enough for his shoulder to tuck in front of hers. She explained what he was looking at, her voice close to his ear. "I cannot imagine that the soap would have been contaminated accidentally. I hazard that someone concocted the mixture, then replaced the original cake of Vinolia. You now have both your murder weapon, William, and a method of introducing it into the body. Now you only have to find the killer."
He returned to his stool, reluctant to leave her warm form. "You make it sound so simple."
"Of course! You are the great Detective William Murdoch, after all." A flash of pink tongue appeared between her teeth as she grinned with her gentle teasing. Her smile widened as his usually stoic expression broke a little to allow a quirk of his lips. A frisson of excitement from working a case together passed through her. Perhaps tonight will be a good night to don my new nightdress, she mused, daring to feel optimistic for the first time in weeks. If the excitement from our working day follows us home, I may be able to rekindle our ardour after all.
Arriving at the door to their suite that evening, William stalled. He was weary. Despite their progress, the case remained unsolved and weighed on his mind. He had tasked some constables with running through the victim's connections. It turned out that being a bank manager and a philanthropist, Mr Henshaw knew a great many people, so assessing the connections would take some time, leaving William with little more work to do that night. Yet, he knew what else must be done before he could relax. Despite the earlier connection with his wife, he dreaded opening the door.
It was draining. There was a pressure involved with having to 'perform' and be ready every morning and night. But with Julia taking such a risk with her experimental treatment, surely the least he could do was to play his part.
Still, sometimes he just wanted a quite evening with his wife, without having to perform an act that increasingly felt like a chore. He wanted to enjoy her company without plans and expectations and hopes. More than anything, he missed the feeling of wanting to just be with her, of experiencing pleasure in her company, even if they merely spent their time sitting and reading in companionable silence.
He sighed and opened the door.
The sight that greeted him should have thrilled him. He knew it should, but the truth was that he wanted nothing more to turn and walk straight out of the door. But he loved Julia. And leaving when she was posed seductively in an ornate, gossamer nightdress would surely have hurt her.
"William…" Her voice was slow, deeper than usual. He knew he should respond in kind, yet he could not quite find the energy to play his part.
While William indulged in the soup and fish courses for dinner, Julia could only manage the side dish of bread and butter. She attributed her nausea to worry about her relationship with William, mixed with a good dose of embarrassment.
Far from being unable to resist her (as Mr Ducharme had assured), William appeared not to even notice her new nightdress, nor her attempts to entice him. It had taken more courage than she cared to admit to don the beautiful nightdress, complete with an embroidered bodice, and floating panels of shear fabric. Yet, their encounter had been as rote and predictable as every other union in previous weeks.
"Julia, are you alright?" he asked part way through the silent meal, only just realising that she wasn't partaking in the full fare.
She forced her mind back to the present, repressing a sigh. "I'm not very hungry, that's all." When he did not look convinced, she continued, "I'm fine, William, really, just a little tired, perhaps." He's concerned, that's something, she thought. "Would you like to discuss the case after dinner?"
He shook his head. "I will make a few notes on my own. Why don't you go to bed?"
She agreed; slipping into the oblivion of sleep did seem most appealing, as a way to dispel both her emotional and physical discomfort. Still, as she readied for bed and swallowed her two tablets, she couldn't help but wonder if his suggestion was also a ploy to make her leave him alone. Unusually for Julia, her thoughts continued down their maudlin path. We have already tried to make me pregnant tonight, and if I cannot be of any help on the case, then my presence is of no other use to him.
A/N: Many thanks for your kind support so far. Just to note while this story does include a case, Julia and William's relationship will remain the main focus. I am using the case as a device through which to explore their issues. That is not to say that I have not been careful in planning the case details - in fact, in many ways, that was the most difficult part! I have done a fair bit of research, which I will include after the final chapter of this story.
