Thanks to all who have reviewed so far! I had a whole lot of fun writing this chapter. Poor George.
Chapter 2
Were it not for the blood on Murdoch's shirt, the desk clerk and the other guests at the inn might have thought the big city coppers were staggering in drunk. George was quite outdone by the hike, and Murdoch was hanging onto him for dear life.
Bullet wounds, from such mishaps as hunting accidents and conflicts over land claims, were not uncommon in the area. The clerk's perfunctory inquiries into Murdoch's condition were satisfied by George's mention of the medicine woman. Other men in the bar nodded sympathetically at the pair as they passed. By the time they reached the door of Murdoch's room, George was bearing nearly his entire weight, and had to do quite a balancing act to unlock and open the door without dropping him.
George shepherded his senior officer to the bed and sat him on the edge while he arranged Murdoch's bedroll under the pillow, recalling Doctor Ogden's admonition that wounds should be elevated above the heart. George then gingerly laid Murdoch down, holding a hand behind his head, and then helped him swing his legs up onto the bed. He pulled the detective's boots off, one at a time, and placed them next to the door. Murdoch grunted slightly in thanks.
"Are you hungry, sir?" George asked. Murdoch grunted again. "Is that a yes or a no?" George snapped, his patience razor thin.
"Yes. Sorry, George. I'm hungry." Murdoch did not open his eyes.
"Right, then, I'll go down and get us some food. I'll be back shortly." George departed Murdoch's room, closing the door behind himself and leaving Murdoch to rest alone for a time.
Murdoch had been keeping himself going on adrenaline, but stopping and lying down meant that the full weight of the trauma he'd suffered had time to settle back into his bones. The hike of nearly two hours very shortly after a bullet entered—and was then dug out of—his upper chest had wiped him out completely, and whatever the medicine woman had given him was wearing off. He was spent. Every time he coughed it felt like the shot was ripping through him again, and he lay in misery waiting for George to return.
The younger man was gone for what seemed like forever. Murdoch's thoughts kept returning to the moment in the woods when Mack had pulled the trigger. Searing pain in his shoulder. A hard landing on the forest floor. Every time his mind replayed the memory, his heart began to pound. He drifted off into an ugly dream with Mack firing shot after shot at him as he stood unable to move, as if a paper target in a shooting gallery at a carnival.
"Sir." George was back. Murdoch jerked awake at his greeting, then gasped from the pain of the sudden movement. "Oh good, sir, I was afraid you had passed out," George continued. I brought you some venison stew and an analgesic." He set the bowl down, and waved a small brown bottle at Murdoch, who looked at him groggily.
"I didn't hear you come in, George. Was… Was I asleep?" George nodded. "The stew smells good. What's in the bottle?
"Some sort of patent medicine. The innkeeper said it was a most effective preparation for pain relief. It's, ah, I believe one of the ingredients is laudanum. I dare say the innkeeper maintains quite the impressive dispensary." George unscrewed the cap of the bottle as he spoke.
"Laudanum, George? Isn't that a bit strong? I hate feeling so… foggy."
"Sir! You are nursing a gunshot wound. You're clearly in agony, and you're already… foggy, as you put it." He smirked a little. "The laudanum will just give you a nicer time of it."
Murdoch chuckled humourlessly. "Well, I suppose. All right." He shrugged, and then winced. "I imagine Julia would insist." He smiled at the thought of his treasured wife while George filled the eyedropper and eyed it carefully to make sure the dosage was precise.
"All right, sir, ten drops of whatever this is. 'Doctor Percival Peckingham's Pain-Pacifying Elixir.' Here you are." George handed the eyedropper to Murdoch, who squeezed its contents into his mouth and wrinkled his nose.
"Cinnamon. Quite strong." He swallowed, and shuddered a bit before coughing a few times.
"The innkeeper said this would also be a quick remedy for the coughing."
"Good. Very good," Murdoch answered. "Thank you, George." He paused. "Would you mind getting me some water?"
"Of course, sir. I filled the canteen just now." He unscrewed the lid and handed it to Murdoch, who took a long draught.
Crabtree regarded the detective appraisingly. His anger had dissipated somewhat since they had arrived back at the inn and Murdoch was safely ensconced in a proper bed, and now he was feeling protective. Much as he wanted some solitude, he decided that duty called. "Sir, if you don't mind, I should like to keep an eye on you overnight. You're badly injured, you hiked at least ten miles today, and you've just had a narcotic. I should think you'd best have some company."
Murdoch lay with his eyes closed, waiting for the laudanum to kick in. "What?" he said distantly. "Company?"
"Yes, sir. I spoke with the innkeeper about the matter and he's willing to move a bed in here. You've a large room and I don't think Doctor Ogden would forgive me if I didn't stay with you, given your current circumstance. Should you require anything in the night, all you need do is ask."
"But George. You haven't slept," protested Murdoch.
"Sir. I'll sleep here. I insist. The innkeeper asked me just to say the word, and I'm going to do so. We'll be back in a few minutes with my belongings and a bed, and then I'll sleep here."
Murdoch admitted defeat; the argument hardly seemed a worthwhile one. "Very well… uh, of course, George. As you wish."
George didn't wish—he wanted nothing more than a quiet night in a private space—but duty called. "Thank you, sir. I'll be back."
Murdoch was finishing the venison stew and smiling beatifically when Crabtree and the innkeeper returned, and he was most entertained by the proceedings as they worked to manoeuvre the second bed into the room. It was quite an operation, as they had to turn the bed on its side to get it through the door, and then shift some other furniture around to make space. Murdoch was giggling openly by the time they were finished, and the innkeeper glanced at him with patient amusement as George tipped him and he departed the room.
"That was… quite funny, George. The bed on its side. Imagine anyone trying to sleep in a sideways bed! One would keep falling on the floor!"
"Ah, hello, sir." Crabtree tried to keep himself from tittering. "I see Dr. Peckingham's elixir is doing its work. Are you feeling any better?"
"Oh, yes, George. Much better! My shoulder hurts, but it's over there. See?" He smiled widely, and gestured vaguely at the other side of the room. "By the way. By the way. What a strange expression, 'by the way.' By the way! Have you noticed what a beautiful room this is? So clean and white!" He giggled again.
A corner of George's mouth rose in amusement. "Yes, sir, it's certainly comfortable here. Much more so than on a horse or in a tent or on the train."
"Yes. Yes it is, George. I agree." Murdoch nodded hard a few times.
George wished for a moment that the detective could be this amenable when he was not under the influence of opium or whatever else was in that bottle. He suspected that, enthusiastic as Murdoch was now about a comfortable bed under a solid roof, he would insist on departing Haileybury first thing in the morning, even if he was in no shape to do so. George sighed, then spoke: "Sir, do you have another shirt? The one you're wearing is rather bloody."
"Why, yes! I believe I do. The other one has a collar, though. It's a nice shirt. Julia got it for me." He paused for a moment, pensive. "I miss Julia. She's not here."
"No she isn't, sir," George acknowledged. "All right, if it's a nice shirt it's probably best you not sleep in it. I assume you have a spare undervest or two? Might I help you into one of those, so I can wash the blood out of the shirt you're wearing?"
"Blood!" Murdoch declared cheerfully. "We see a lot of blood in our work, you and I do, don't we, George?"
"Yes, sir, yes we do. Your shirt, sir. It's bloody. I'm going to help you out of it." George took the bottom edge of Murdoch's shirt and started to work it up toward his chest.
"Oh! Yes. Blood, on my shirt! My blood! Look at that. We should clean that up."
"Yes, sir, that's what I'm trying to do. Could you pull your right arm out of the sleeve, please? And then I'll take care of getting the left sleeve off."
It took a few minutes to wrangle Murdoch's shirt over his head. The detective found the effort most hilarious, while George nursed a complicated mix of lingering anger, deep fatigue, and great amusement at the dopey, sanguine detective. Once the shirt was off, George put it in the basin in the corner, and poured some water from the room's pitcher over it.
"Oh! George! Is that water? I need water. Could you get me some water?"
"Is your mouth dry from the laudanum, then, sir? Of course." He retrieved the canteen, filled it back up from the pitcher, and handed it to the man in the bed. Murdoch took another long drink, and smiled, wonder in his eyes.
"George, have you ever thought about water?"
"Water, sir."
"It is truly a remarkable substance. Every life form on Earth owes its existence to water! And it takes different forms! Solid, and liquid, and gas!"
"Yes, sir," George said indulgently as he helped Murdoch into an undervest and then pulled the covers up over him. "So very ordinary, and yet quite an extraordinary thing as well, water." He could humour the detective for a few more moments, he thought as he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots. He was going to climb into his own bed with his very own cherished pillow, and he was finally, finally, going to get some sleep.
"Yes!" replied Murdoch, excited. "Water is marvellous!"
George nodded absently. "Mm-hmm." He turned the covers down and burrowed underneath them. The bed felt absolutely glorious. His pillow, smelling of home, welcomed him like an old friend. He didn't care what the detective thought of his bringing it along—this moment made it all worthwhile. Sleep. Blessed, marvellous sleep. He blew out the lantern, and welcomed the darkness and silence.
"And did you know what else, George?" Murdoch chirped.
"What," George said dully. He did not want to know what else.
"Laudanum is a most intriguing substance! Did you know that it is most properly referred to as tincture of opium, as it contains all or nearly all the opium alkaloids from the poppy flower?"
"Mmf," said George.
"Now the one alkaloid absent from certain preparations of laudanum is called noscapine. Noscapine happens to work as a strong emetic. I'm sure you can see why one might want one's laudanum not to cause vomiting. Can't you, George?"
George whimpered.
"And noscapine has such a strong smell! The French chemist Pierre Robiquet was able to isolate it in 1817, naming it 'narcotine,' and ever since then, denarcotised and deodorised tincture of opium has become far more popular than the unprocessed form. Did you know that, George?"
"Sir," said George thickly.
"Now laudanum these days—well, ever since Thomas Sydenham's experiments in the seventeenth century—laudanum is generally mixed with alcohol."
"Jesus cod-kissing Christ," George muttered under his breath. He thought he might lose his mind if he had to listen to another word about the damned laudanum. "Sir?"
"Yes, George?"
"I need to sleep, sir."
"Oh! Of course, George. Sleep. Sleep sounds lovely. Let us sleep, then. Good night, George."
"Good night, sir."
Murdoch fell silent, and George gratefully began to drift off. Oh, how excited he was to say hello to the welcoming arms of Morpheus. He took a few deep breaths, relishing the quiet.
"George."
George began contemplating whether a jury would convict him of a crime if he did the detective in right here. Surely the circumstances were mitigating enough.
"Sir."
"One more thing, George. I should like you to know that you are a most agreeable travelling companion. In fact, you are a most agreeable companion in nearly any circumstance."
George swallowed. The conversation, which he did not at all want to be having in the first place, had taken quite an unexpected turn. "Uh… thank you, sir. As are you."
"You are most welcome, George. I believe I have neglected to mention this, but I've thought so for quite some time. Perhaps even as long as we've worked together. 'George!' I have thought. 'What a loyal, decent, kind, reliable, good man.' I am quite blessed to work with you, George. Even if your theories are sometimes quite outlandish."
George rolled over, trying to process what was happening. He had never seen Murdoch more than a little tipsy, let alone well into the "I love you, old chum!" stage. He was grateful for the kind words—he'd been waiting for them for years—but in his own current state he was finding it quite difficult to absorb them. "Now sir, my theories have often helped solve cases," he replied, a little defensively, having no idea what else to say.
He heard Murdoch shift in his bed. "Why, yes, George, I do believe you're right! The way you look at things opens… possibilities I might not otherwise have considered. George! My goodness. Constable George Crabtree!" he continued. "You're my best friend. The best right hand a man could possibly ask for. You are quite marvellous."
George was wide awake again, and smiling in disbelief. "Thank you, sir. I… I dare say I'm grateful you've noticed." It was too dark for Murdoch to see George's crooked grin. "Given your frequent impatience with me, I've sometimes wondered whether you had."
"Oh, never mind my impatience, George, your insights are always welcome! Right hand. And now here you are looking after me. I don't think I ever make it clear how fond I am of you. George! I lo—"
"Thank you, sir!" George cut in, slightly agitated. This was becoming a little too strange. "Sir, I do appreciate your praise and your bonhomie. And I must say it has been one of the greatest honours of my life to serve with you. And I should very, very much like to sleep now." George could not let this conversation go any farther. He was too tired and too embarrassed, and who knew what else a garrulous, gleefully drugged William Murdoch might say? "Sir. You are injured, and we have had a long and extraordinarily unpleasant day. I should very much like to go to sleep now," he repeated.
"Of course, George. I'm sorry. Good night. Sleep well."
"You as well, sir."
Blessed silence. A door closed somewhere down the hall. George drifted off.
"George?"
"For the love of God, sir."
"George, what exactly was in that bottle from the innkeeper?"
George felt a vein throbbing in his forehead. "I don't know, sir." He pulled the covers up over his head. "Sleep, sir."
A few more moments of silence, and George was drifting off again.
"I am feeling curiously energetic, and far too restless for sleep. Perhaps the bottle also contained some sort of stimulant. Would you be so kind as to check the label, George?"
The blood roaring in George's ears drowned out Murdoch's words. A storm cloud over his head, he rolled out of his beloved bed and fumbled around in Murdoch's bag for the flashlight. Finding it, he turned on the beam and spotted the bottle of patent medicine. He picked it up, and inspected the label. Cocaine, it read.
"Cocaine!" Murdoch exclaimed. "I suspected as much. Now I was recently reading an article in one of the medical journals, I believe it was the April issue of the British Medical Journal, about the toxicity of cocaine and a recent series of unfortunate deaths it appears to have caused in Calcutta. Now I suppose you do know that cocaine and opium come from entirely different plants, but you may find it fascinating to learn that…"
George dropped the bottle like a hot coal. Bloody, bloody Hell, he thought. Anguished, he slithered back under the covers, wrapped his pillow around his head, and whimpered. It was going to be yet another very long night.