Author's note: I missed the last section of this when I posted it. New bit added May 8, 2019.

Chapter 9

The two men stood near the entrance of the telegraph office. George began, "Now sir, I've put a great deal of thought into the wording of the telegram to Doctor Ogden, and—"

"It doesn't have to be complicated, George. Just 'BEEN SHOT. ARRIVING DON STN 06:55. Wm.'"

"Sir!" George was indignant. "We… we… we can't say that! Think of her distress!"

"Well I think it should be clear that I'm all right, given that she's receiving the telegram in the first place…"

"Sir." George scowled at Murdoch. "Let me write it. She needn't know of your injury until we return home—I shouldn't wish her to fret."

"George. She will want to know. She'll be quite angry if the first she learns of it is when we get off the train."

"That's as may be, sir, but I shouldn't wish to worry her before there's anything she can do about it."

"I'll handle that, George."

"How—how can you 'handle' that, sir, if you're not there with her?"

Murdoch frowned, and rubbed his forehead. "She needs to know, George."

George squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "All right, sir, if you insist. She is your wife, after all. But I should like it known that I obj—"

"Just send it, George."

After some more arguing about wording, they finally agreed: "CASE SOLVED. WM UP POST SHOT TO CHEST. DON STN 06:55 TMRW. GC."[i]

"There, sir. Now she'll be aware of your wound, but she'll also know that you're, ah, out of the woods, so to speak."

"Very good, George. I suppose you were right to insist on rewording it. I shouldn't wish to alarm her needlessly."

George opened his mouth to retort, but then thought better of it. What would be the point of continuing to squabble? "Indeed, sir," was all he said.

They had several hours to kill in North Bay before the train departed, but without funds, the two men agreed there was nothing to be done but wait at the station. They retrieved their suits from the lockers, and Murdoch disappeared off to the washroom while George remained on the uncomfortable bench with their belongings.

George caught a whiff of himself, and shuddered in disgust. He reeked of old sweat and stale smoke and fresh deer hide, and he was very much looking forward to a long, hot bath. Had they any money, he might have suggested a few hours' stay in a local hotel, solely for access to the facilities, but here they were instead. He wondered what Murdoch was up to. The man had been gone for quite some time. George was beginning to think he should lock up all their bags again and go see if he was all right, when Murdoch finally emerged, dressed in his suit and, to George's astonishment, clean-shaven.

"Sir! You look like a new man!"

"Well, thank you, George, but not entirely. I wasn't able to do as thorough a job as I had hoped, and I shall be most pleased for access to a proper bathtub once we return home."

"Indeed, sir, as will I. As will I." George noticed that the detective's outfit was not complete. "Your tie, sir. Here, let me help you."

Murdoch flinched slightly. "It's all right, George."

"Are you quite sure, sir? I confess you don't look quite yourself without the tie. And Doctor Ogden will be reassured to see you looking much the way you did when we left, save for how you're now guarding your chest."

Murdoch glanced around unhappily. "Well, I suppose."

George moved in to fix Murdoch's tie, and the detective wrinkled his nose. "Good heavens, George, that is quite a pungent smell coming off you. I can see why the people on the street gave us such a wide berth."

George smiled wryly. "Very well, then, sir, perhaps I shall assist you after I've taken the chance to freshen up a bit."

"That would be much appreciated, George."

George did the best he could with the small sink, washing himself as surreptitiously as he could in case someone came in. He was glad that he had brought a small toiletry kit complete with soap and a razor and brush, but the dim light and the tiny size of the mirror made it difficult to see himself as he was shaving, and he nicked himself more than once. He still ached all over, and it was a challenge to get out of his filthy, rank clothing and back into the suit he had worn on the train six days before. He boggled more than once at Murdoch's ability to wash, shave, and dress himself in such tight quarters with only limited use of one of his arms. Perhaps he emerged from the womb perfectly groomed, with not a hair out of place. Maybe he was even wearing a tiny suit and an infant-sized hat. George snickered at the thought.

He found that even the cursory wash made a world of difference, especially with the fresh clothes. For the first time in days, he began to let himself believe that a return to his life as a big-city constable was within reach. There were times in the woods when he had not been so sure.

When he returned to the bench where Murdoch awaited, he found the detective asleep again, his good arm draped protectively over the bags resting next to him. George eyed him appraisingly. Murdoch was pale and drawn: he might have slept well in the tent and on the wagon, but the man had been shot and nearly suffocated within the past forty-eight hours. The suit and homburg could do only so much to restore him. He still needed time, and more rest.

George sat down on the other side of the bags, and recoiled slightly from the smell. Murdoch himself no longer reeked—in fact, George found the familiar scent of his pomade quite pleasant—but the bags and the bedrolls still did, and George was nearly despondent about his dear pillow. To be perfectly blunt, it stank. He fervently hoped that it would be salvageable after a good airing and a fresh pillowcase. He loved that pillow.

Murdoch awoke at about eight o'clock, ravenous. George had been snacking on more moose pemmican and some venison jerky while a few squares of hardtack soaked up water next to himA few passerby looked at him askance, startled to see such a citified-looking man eating such backwoods food. And in the middle of the station, no less!

George quietly noted the looks of disapproval to Murdoch, but the detective was unconcerned. Food was food, and he was hungry, and he could certainly vouch for the concentrated nutritional value of either of George's choices. He, too, tucked in. When the provisions were gone, Murdoch dozed off again, and George dug a novel out of his bag and began to read.

Two more hours inched by, until the first boarding call for Toronto. George heaved a sigh of gratitude that their time in the woods had reached its end. He awakened Murdoch as gently as he could, collected the bags, and guided the groggy detective onto the train.

The train ride was a quiet one. George found himself musing on the last time he and Murdoch had been on a night train, taking that monster James Gillies to be hanged in Kingston. George still had the occasional nightmare about watching Murdoch jump off the railroad bridge into the rushing river below after the escaped murderer, and he still, over a year later, felt a wave of nausea every time he recalled the frantic search for the detective along both shores. Doctor Ogden had been beside herself. After all she'd been through to be with this man…

The sight of Murdoch's limp, unconscious, bloody body hanging from a branch, his shoulder contorted at a terribly unnatural angle and his face only inches out of the fast-moving water, still haunted him. He shivered at the memory. That was a bad night.

George shifted in his seat, and turned to study the sleeping detective. George himself was one of William Murdoch's most dedicated admirers, and owed the older man more than he could ever express. George sometimes winced at the recollection of his young, naïve, poorly educated self during his early days in the Constabulary. Under William Murdoch's tutelage and mentorship, though, he had become a seasoned and effective investigator, and he had discovered in himself an aptitude for the written language that he might never have otherwise. Yes, George Crabtree held William Murdoch in very high regard indeed.

It was the strength of this regard that prompted George to mull over the tremendous anger he had felt toward his mentor back in those hateful woods. Murdoch's unquestioning dedication to what he perceived as justice often led him to recklessness, and this time, as on so many other occasions, he had endangered them both.

George had seen a lot of death. Indeed, this entire misadventure had begun when Edward Graham had staggered up to the back door of Station House Four and died right in front of him. He was intimately familiar with the risks inherent in their line of work, and he had long ago accepted them as part of the pursuit of justice. But what he found so hard to stomach was Detective Murdoch's willingness to increase those risks, to himself and those around him, especially when the chances of escaping that peril were terrifyingly small. George knew in his bones the kind of loyalty the man engendered, and he knew firsthand how keenly those close to him felt it when Murdoch flung himself into danger.

You would make a terrible politician, he thought idly, and gave a sad half-smile as he continued to contemplate his wounded companion. And you have a wife now, sir, after an exceedingly long and difficult journey to the altar, and I have an Edna and very likely a Simon to consider now as well. What would they have done had you got us killed?

It was about two o'clock in the morning, and George was sulking. Murdoch had fallen asleep on his shoulder, much the way he himself had accidentally done on Jeremiah Jenkins, and he was torn about what to do. He needed the water closet, and he very much wanted the rest of that moccasin flower tea. He had always been quite unable to sleep sitting up.

He sat for some time, debating, until the urge to relieve himself nearly overcame him. He was just about to shift Murdoch back over toward his own seat when the train jerked suddenly and startled him awake. "George!" whispered the detective in surprise. "Was I leaning on you?"

"Ah, I'm afraid you were, sir. If you'll excuse me, I need to…" he trailed off as he stood up with alacrity.

"Of course, George."

Murdoch had shifted to the inner seat by the time George got back, and he was asleep again, this time leaning against the side of the train. George shrugged saturninely and sat back down where Murdoch had been. He reached into the bag with the canteen, hoping to drink well of the sedative tea, but found less than half a cup left. No wonder he's sleeping so well. Drat his oily hide. Although I suppose I can't begrudge him too much. My hide has no bullet holes. He drank what was left, and hoped for the best.

The lights in the compartment were too dim for reading, and so George returned to his woolgathering, interrupted now and then by the occasional bit of dozing between jerks of the train. He mused over potential plots for a novel, his favourite types of vaudeville acts, the fountain pen display at the Timothy Eaton department store. He wondered whether to propose to Edna. He loved her, and he could hardly conceive of finding a better woman. And Simon needed a father.

George pictured himself down on one knee, holding a ring, and Edna's radiant smile in response to his question. The imagined scene filled him with happiness. Yes, he thought. Yes, I should wish very much to marry Edna Garrison Brooks, if she'll have me. His thoughts turned for a while to choosing an appropriate time to propose, and his mood brightened considerably.

By five o'clock, George found himself pondering the men they had met at the camp once more. Such an odd collection of persons. He thought again about which ones he had come to respect and which ones not, and suddenly it struck him. One could base the measure of another person, of the depth of a friendship or romance, of trust itself, on how that person acted when someone close by was in trouble. To him, he realized, the deep connection evident in caring for someone who needed help, and in the humbling of oneself enough to accept that help, could be far more important than ferreting out a potentially damaging fact. How shall we continue to seek justice if we die in its pursuit? And who are we, anyway, if we fail to take care of each other?

[i] It seems that the railway between North Bay and Toronto in 1902 did not come anywhere near Don Station, which was in the east end of Toronto—instead, it came in from the west, stopping at Davenport and Parkdale before its final arrival at Union. I'm saying Don here for consistency with the world of the show.