Chapter 3
TUESDAY MORNING
Station House No. 4
Thomas's eyes followed his wife's bustle as she sailed out through his office doorway to the front door and the street, wifely-disapproval radiating from Margaret's stiff shoulders and the rat-a-tat of her heels. He bit back a caustic remark, deciding that she was probably right about his "idiot plan" and "there would be hell to pay," replaying her angry words to himself. He sighed in frustration, completely aware that he was a difficult man and lucky to have such a fiercely loyal and protective mate…If only his loyalties were not so divided in this case. It was a good thing she did not try to forbid him or threaten to stop him, although after all these years of marriage she should know better.
I was always going to do it anyway, he knew, come hell or high water. He sat back down in his desk chair, pushing a litter of papers aside, to try and concentrate. The hated telephone, which had not stopped its infernal clamor for the last few hours, was blessedly silent, allowing him space to sort out his thoughts.
God, I want a scotch! ... was all that came to his mind at the moment, even so early as this in the morning. Murdoch gone from his rooms, likely kidnapped, and the by all accounts Dr. Ogden disappearing into thin air right behind him, was enough to try any man's mettle. He poked into the basket Margaret brought for his mid-day meal, approving of the savory smell, but unable to find any appetite for the contents. His drink lay untouched as well. Probably laughing at me, he grumbled to himself, thinking ambivalently of the alcohol. He looked from the half-full glass on the credenza he tried to hide from his wife, to the photographs of his natural family—Margaret and the boys—to the ones of his own men and of previous generations of the constabulary lining his office walls. He decided his loyalty was not in question after all—Loyalty to one was loyalty to the other in the grand scheme of things. What was required now was leadership of a different kind.
Initially the personal visits or telephone calls were supportive and "rally-'round-the-flag-boys" in tone. Other colleagues, inspectors, aldermen, even the mayor's office offered help to find Worsley's killer and solve the mystery of who shot Dr. Odgen and where Murdoch was. That lasted only for the first few hours before turning sour, with pressure and innuendo; ugly power struggles in the wider and deepest levels of Toronto politics bubbling up from the muck.
…If you ever want to be Chief Constable, this can't end badly... one visitor whispered confidentially. Another caller was blunter: If you can't keep your own house clean, your career could be over as well… Thomas slammed his hand on the desk. Bugger that! That was the last straw. He told that particular sniveling little bastard to mind his manners, yelling that as long as he was Inspector of Station House No. 4 he'd be the one to decide how a case was handled, then hanging up on him in a righteous disgust. That was before a cold shiver washed over him at the realization of what he'd just done and just whom he managed to offend, right after breakfast this morning.
Christ…what next? He swore under his breath, not caring if he was overheard. Thomas centered the slip of paper Constable Crabtree had given him on the empty green desk blotter, somehow hoping that would bring a bit of order to the chaos in his head…to no avail. His thoughts darted like the minnows he used for bait, he wished for all he was worth that fishing with his sons was the only thing on earth he had to attend to. He took his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose, feeling an annoying headache blooming behind his eyes, probably caused by turning the problem over in his thoughts so many times; but he found no way around it, only that he must go through it. There really is nothing else to do, I just have to decide how to do it, and be quick about it. He checked his watch, as if he could dictate the time and laughed bitterly at his own stubbornness: Something else my wife pointed out this morning. Smoothing his hair with both hands, he straightened his shoulders in his habitual manner of preparation, then inhaled deeply.
"Crabtree!" His shout reverberated, startling several officers into looking up through station house's glass office walls. The recipient of his summons immediately set down a map he'd been pouring over and presented himself with a crisp, "Sir?"
Thomas, who had been so sure of his path mere seconds before, now hesitated, critically assessing the officer standing before him. I can think of no better man than George Crabtree … which is why it is unfair to ask this of him. He held his breath, seeing the constable waiting expectantly, and then shook off his brief lapse of indecision. Crabtree knows his own mind. All I can do is ask…
"Crabtree, I am going to follow up on this," he said with an abrupt exhale, tapping the paper on his desk which contained information about land owned by Miss Pearce's family. "While I am gone I want you on duty as acting detective and for you and Jackson to take over the investigation into Constable Worsley's death as I am not satisfied we have enough information. You can follow up with Miss James as well; she'll have to do until we get another coroner. We have a list of men from the other station houses who will fill in for interviews and canvassing for witnesses who saw anything. When he gets here, Detective Slorach will assist on the case, but you will still be our point man." Thomas felt his face get red, and allowed his irritation to show. "Our men were called off their duty and I want to know more about who and how. And another thing: it makes no sense that someone just waltzed in easy-as-you-please into that hotel and shot Dr. Ogden, vanished into thin air, and then turned back up like a magician to spirit Murdoch away like that, all with a cloak of invisibility around them. Someone from that hotel saw something. Shake them up if you have to. Bring the whole bloody staff down here and show them our cells if that's what it takes to get a straight answer!" He noticed George had a confused expression. Thomas paused to take a breath when the other man interrupted him.
"But, sir! How can youleave? Constable Worsley is dead, one of our own, sir. His family needs to know we are putting in a full effort. You probably should stay here and take charge of the investigations and meet with whomever the mayor sends over or the press, considering the number of telephone questions we have fielded already. Some of them not so nice… Why not just telephone or telegraph the local sheriff up there and have them check on that property for us rather than take a chance on a wild goose chase? It might even be faster." George said reasonably.
Exactly what Margaret suggested. Thomas tried not to fume, and stood up, coming around to the front of his desk. "Crabtree, you don't want to have untrained men on the scene if by any chance that's where Murdoch and Miss Pearce are, do you? A cock-up like that in this case would be a disaster, might even put Murdoch in danger." He hoped he was being convincing.
Unfortunately Crabtree still objected. "If it is important that we do it ourselves, then let me go with one of the other men and follow up on this address. If you are that concerned, perhaps I should organize a full search party…?"
Thomas drew himself up as authoritatively as possible. "No. I don't think so. Too much noise might cause even more problems. No. I want you to take over here while I investigate this cabin; you are more than capable and I will not be gone that long." Thomas said this firmly and bored into the younger man's worried eyes with as much resolution as he could give. "Are you going to waggle your gob all day, or follow my orders?" He said, willing him to comply. Take it, just take it and don't ask any questions, he repeated to himself, as if the power of his determination could make it so.
"Sir, I must protest. It is unwise for you to go out like this alone." Crabtree gave one of his crooked, awkward smiles. "It violates the 'Murdoch rule' you insisted upon, that says no officer can ever go alone into a situation without back-up. As you recall you established that rule with good reason…" Of course, no one at the station house called it the 'Murdoch rule' to the detective's face, but everyone was perfectly clear that rule came about due to the unfortunate frequency with which the detective got into jams when he was investigating solo. "I will do whatever you ask me to do, but I must insist someone goes with you, several someones in fact…"
Damn Fool! Thomas eyed Crabtree, who was standing fish-faced and floundering on the carpet. He usually has such a vivid imagination, what's wrong with him that I have to spell it out for him this time? He wanted Crabtree to understand what might be at stake. He closed the distance between them, putting a hand on the other man's shoulder to speak directly in his ear, hoping no one could eavesdrop.
Thomas lowered his voice to a whisper, keeping his speech clear and calm. "Crabtree. George. Listen to me, damn it! … Officer Worsley is dead in Murdoch's rooms, tucked away in his bed no less. This is on top of no one having any witnesses to who actually shot Dr. Ogden." He paused for emphasis. "And now Murdoch's disappeared as is his wife." He nodded his head at the pile of message slips scattered near the desk blotter, then gestured with his hand to include the two of them. "We might believe it is all the work of a deranged patient of Dr. Ogden or an enemy Murdoch has made while doing the constabulary's business, possibly Eva Pearce on both accounts, but plenty of people appear to want to think that Murdoch has something to do with this, perhaps is the one who caused all of this…and they don't want him to be rescued, mind you, but to be brought in for questioning."
"But…but sir! That's ridiculous…" Crabtree answered, then stopped suddenly, looking like his throat was working for some spit. Then his wide eyes froze for a second, before slanting back and forth, obviously thinking through the implications. Thomas saw it was sinking in how serious this was becoming. It was possible Detective Murdoch had enemies at City Hall and in the constabulary who might take advantage of the situation to wish him harm; very possible.
Thomas collected his coat on and reached for his scarf and gloves. "Now you've got it, Sunshine! Even if it is bloody-well ridiculous, I don't want anyone but me to be the first on the scene." Thomas thought this next part through carefully, his words ground out slowly through tightened jaws. "You have two choices. You can stay here and be acting detective on this case, hold the station house together for me while I am gone…." He paused, recalculating the options. "Or you can come with me."
While waiting for Crabtree to answer, he went to the coat rack and donned his winter garments before looking around. His eyes strayed to the tumbler of scotch sitting forlornly on the sideboard. Grimacing, Thomas went over and poured it back into his decanter, banging the stopper in sharply with a meaty fist. "It's your decision, but I am going, and going now. So, do I ask Jackson, instead of you, to take over until Detective Slorach gets here…or not?" Thomas felt his heart pound the headache deeper and more painfully into his brain, anxious about how the man would answer. When Crabtree only stood there, blocking the doorway, he pushed in ever closer to the constable's face, hissing: "Choose, George. Now!"
"Sir. I'll drive," was the answer.
# # #
TUESDAY MORNING
A cabin somewhere Northeast of Toronto
William groaned, reaching with his senses. He vividly remembered Julia's scent in his nostrils. It felt so real…Julia with me… It felt comforting, energizing, and so powerful… it's hard to believe it was only a dream and not something more substantial…
A realization niggled at his brain, swirling away at the edges of awareness. Was it in my dream or not? He concentrated on the flow of words...Something in what Eva said… what was it? He re-ran her conversation, finding the pertinent statement: Eva said 'She surely is dead.' That was all! Eva did not say she killed Julia or knew Julia was dead…and she would have crowed about it if she knew absolutely… What if Julia survived? The hairs on William's body stood out like bristles and his brain buzzed with excitement. He narrowed his attention on exactly what he knew and remembered.
Unease and lethargy lifted a bit as sunlight peeked through the cabin windows, elongating shadows that now stretched across the floor. He saw the glow moving, thought how far the light had already travelled from the sun to earth: Sometimes we cannot see the sun, but it is always there, just as Julia and I are always there for each other… Our connection is so deep… He reflected on his dream: so realistic… Was Julia calling me across whatever distance separates us? Hope and happiness hesitated within him… Can it be true? Is there always hope? William suspended his brain full of logic, listening instead as his heart gave him the answer….
I can feel it…Julia is alive!
He slammed back into his body, solid and sensible, resolve taking root and faith reasserted itself in his guts, banishing questions or doubt with a blaze of heat. I would not allow gloom in Julia's presence, so I will not allow it to capture my mind either. I have us to live for! Julia to live for! And I will never make the mistake again of giving up, even for a second.
Psychic sending or vision, hallucination or not, William determined to take Julia's advice about handling his situation, wherever it came from, however he received it. He started to calculate, confident he was on the right track: Eva will expect me to fight, or to be angry or try and take control, which will get me nowhere. He felt the throbbing pain in his hand as evidence of the wisdom in that, and recalled a time when Julia coaxed some well-buried awareness out of him: that he can be reactive, predictable and unbending, which Eva used at one time to her advantage. Not this time, she won't…
Now I just have to remember Eva does not indeed know me, does not really know me at all…And that is her weakness and my opportunity to exploit… I must give Eva enough of what she wants until I can turn the tables on her and get out of here…. He noticed his mind was sharp and clear while he chose, evaluated and discarded options.
Now, it was William's turn to lay in wait…
# # #
On the Road
Ultimately the stable-hand, Hicks, drove their carriage while Thomas and Crabtree jolted uncomfortably in the rear seat, thrown left and right as the wheels grabbed at a rutted trace only an optimist would have counted as a proper road. Fortunately there was only a dusting of snow or travel would have been impossible. Hicks had been the one who saddled a horse last evening for Dr. Ogden from the Stations House's stables, dumb-founded as he was by the sight of the woman dressed in her husband's trousers, boots, shirt, coat and hat, demanding a horse, entreating him to helping her. Thomas had reduced the man to a quivering mess upon learning about it, so by way of recompense, Hicks agreed to harness the horses and take the carriage reins, with a mutual vow of silence about the whole business.
A small bundle of supplies lay crammed by Thomas' feet, a shot gun for the constable and blankets beside his empty lunch basket, that fed the three of them instead of having to stop, not that there was any place to stop. According to Crabtree's map, there was no direct route to get from Toronto to the Pearce's land, forcing them to jog east, then north, then east again, and back north in a crab-like slant past cleared farmland into thick forest.
Crabtree kept tracing the map, calling out directions to Hicks when a decision needed to be made at various forks in the road and trying to calculate how long the journey was going to take. "If Dr. Ogden left late in the day yesterday, and went cross-country, she still could not have gotten all the way there. It would have been too dark," he commented.
Thomas did not answer. The two men were mostly quiet, as Thomas insisted it was important Hicks did not get any more knowledge than he already had, including the gossip about Murdoch. "No need to have yet another man running his mouth," Thomas warned.
Crabtree kept glancing at him though, opening his lips as if to say something and then changing his mind and closing back up. Thomas considered the younger man who sat by him in the carriage. He had an inkling about what the unasked question was, and thought perhaps it was fair to take Crabtree fully into the matter, since the constable was here with him more on faith than anything else. He let himself rummage through their history together for a while, watching the landscape pass.
Thomas reviewed what he considered to be the pivotal decisions in his life: leaving Yorkshire for London, going to war, coming to Canada, getting Margaret to marry him, and joining the constabulary…all were critical to getting him where he was now in his career. These were the sort of turning points in any man's history that defined his station in life, producing a common-enough story: nothing much special in that. Hundreds, if not thousands of men's lives were similarly arranged.
Less obvious but equally important were a different set of decisions a man might make; the small ones that do not seem particularly significant, but which, like a degree or two on a compass heading, can throw a man towards a completely unintended destination if enough time and distance unfold. He counted four such decisions: two of which included taking on quirky, irritating, question-everything, overly-intellectual Murdoch as his full detective, and the second was bringing George Crabtree into Station House No. 4, a dozen some-odd years ago.
Murdoch, who had a penchant for ferreting out obscurities that more often than not wound up solving cases; who is so bloody serious and cannot tell a joke (or sometimes recognize one) if his life depended on it…And Crabtree, a solid man with a quick sense of humor and flighty imagination that grows on you after a while….No one in their right mind would have predicted how well the two of them, seemingly opposites, would work so effectively together.
Thomas looked about himself, stuffed into an uncomfortable carriage in the middle of the frozen nowhere going towards who-knows-what with only the slimmest chance of it doing any good. Satisfaction bloomed in his warrior's heart. I would not change a thing, he thought.
He reflected on his life and some other less fortunate decisions, and made a face. Well maybe a few things… He turned to his companion and finally asked, "I suppose you want to know exactly what we are doing out here?"
Crabtree nodded, apparently relieved to talk about it. "Well, some of it is obvious. I suppose that we are doing our due diligence," was the vague answer. "And I suppose we are going to make sure Dr. Ogden is all right, poor lady. I can't imagine how hard a ride she will have, wounded like that…"
"And you also want to know what we are going to do when we get there?" Thomas offered.
Crabtree nodded again, pulling his coat tighter and turning the collar up against the cold. "Well, sir, it occurs to me that will depend on what we find..." He saw George flick his eyes to the driver, and grunt.
Thomas nodded and silently agreed, pitching his voice to be heard over the racket of the carriage but not so loud for the driver to eavesdrop. "Nemo resideo," Thomas announced.
Crabtree look at him and just blinked quizzically. "Sir?" he asked.
Thomas chuckled. "Murdoch isn't the only member of Station House No. 4 who knows a little Latin. Nemo resideo means that you never leave a man behind. Something I learned in the war. We are going because we have to, me ole' mucker, because it is the right thing to do when a comrade is missing." He laughed again, staving off the uncomfortable truth. "You rescue someone once and then you sort have to keep on doing it…Have you ever counted the number of times we've had to pull Murdoch's arse out of the crapper?"
Crabtree's face took on an embarrassed smile, but Thomas noticed that as loyal as Crabtree was to Murdoch, he did not disagree.
Thomas continued, more seriously now. "This could indeed be a wild goose chase as you suggested earlier. However, if you are right and Miss Pearce has Murdoch out there and still alive because of some insanity on her part, believing she's in love with him or he with her…" Thomas thought briefly about his marriage with Margaret; as tumultuous as it was, that was at least love as he understood love to be, not the lunatic ravings of a harpy like Eva Pearce. "We get to rescue him and capture her, also alive, and secure the evidence of her other crimes—including the death of Worsley."
Thomas patted the rifle positioned between his knees to underline what was left unsaid. Between them, the threemen had only the two weapons, hardly an army or arsenal equipped to lay siege. But as far as Thomas was concerned it was better this way, a tactic he learned in Afghanistan: a small force, lightly armed, making a focused strike at a single target, could be more effective than a brigade. There were also fewer witnesses….
Which was the point he needed to make to George. "Crabtree, what do you make of Dr. Ogden taking off like that?"
"Well I can't imagine she was thinking too clearly at all. I suppose she thought she'd be the one to somehow rescue the detective." Crabtree seemed uncomfortable now.
Thomas let sarcasm play in his voice. "And just how do you imagine she was she going to do that, even if she wasn't gut-shot and stitched? If she thinks Murdoch is there, what do you suppose are her intentions, sneaking off, on her own, armed, it seems, with a bow?" He paused dramatically. "Invite Miss Pearce to tea?" He waved his hand. "Or knock politely on the door, saying 'I believe you have something that belongs to me and I'd like to have him back'?"
Thomas shut himself off from speculating out loud about what they might find when they reach their destination, not sure which outcome he dreaded more. His old regiment sergeant always said that officers never told the whole truth to the men—in case it disheartened them. It enraged Thomas at the time, but since he'd been the head of Station No. 4, he'd slowly and unhappily adopted the wisdom of it.
George appeared not to breathe while he as working it out, then his face abruptly fell. "Holy Mother of God!..." he said in horror.
"Exactly." Thomas confirmed. "We are going to get there and pray for the best, but as my old commander would say, we have to be prepared for the worst."
# # #
A cabin somewhere Northeast of Toronto
He worked the rope restraints ferociously, spurred on by the sounds of an altercation outside. Once freed, he stumbled out of the cabin door to the impossible tableau of his wife, dressed as a labourer, on the ground next to Eva. Then he heard her speak:
… "William… I'm alive. I'm ALIVE!"
William was absolutely stunned.
An Archangel could not have poured sweeter, more miraculous words into his astonished ears. Hearing Julia say his name brought him such soaring joy, filling the aching emptiness of the last brutal hours, her voice slipping along a well-worn path deep into the core of his whole being to the place where he felt his soul resided. Even so, he needed to touch her, feel her solidly beneath his fingers, for it to completely sink in that this was not yet another illusion brought about by his desperate desire for it to be true, especially considering the hefty dose of drugs he'd been laboring under. Last night had been wrenching for him, tearing his hold on reality while ripping his emotions to shreds. He did not know what emotion to feel right now, or whether or not to trust the joy; in fact he was almost afraid to feel anything because the pain had been nearly too great to bear. For William, the next few seconds stretched and spun as his attention was captured by the sight of his beloved Julia, dressed in his clothing and covered in blood.
He found Julia's face, noticed her ungoverned blonde mane, the stubborn set of her chin and mouth, the curve of her eyebrows…It seems right. There is only one way, really, to know for certain…
He unconsciously held his breath as his eyes sought her eternally blue depths and held them, suspended for a heart-beat's time, praying for all he was worth she was real. His pulse throbbed once, then again in anticipation, awaiting the verdict…
Yes! He exhaled in a burst of air, and sensed his face alter in wonderment.
Julia is looking right back at me… Oh, Julia my love… And there it is! ….The deep connection that makes everything in my world right…
For the first time in days he was grounded again. I am free and she is safely with me! Dear Lord, thank you for this gift…
Part of him nearly giggled in relief.
And yet, his mind protested.
We are not truly free until it is over, once and for all. William felt compelled to pin his gaze on their tormentor by an urge stronger than he was able to resist…He had to go over and see it for himself, to see the manic lights flee Eva's deranged eyes, in order to know for certain if it was safe to turn his back on her. Safe enough to leave her in the past where she belongs, never to rise like some phantom in a penny-dreadful, or a James Gillies for that matter, to haunt us… He knelt to get a closer look.
"Miss Pearce…" It took no time at all to realize she was beyond saving for this world. He saw the amount of blood as it ran through her fingers and pooled by her body, and knew from experience the terrible wound was fatal. Automatically, he made the sign of the cross, needing a blessing to cleanse the evil permeating this entire gruesome business… How could she talk about love? This madness had nothing to do with love. He checked again to be sure, but in fact, Eva Pearce was gone. Grim satisfaction and blessed relief collided in his chest, surprising him with its power. Father Keegan did not know how right he was, so long ago, when he advised me we have nothing to fear from the dead. He hesitated only briefly, thinking of his former teacher, and wondered if the old priest would have been disappointed in his behaviour.
Later, he told himself, later I will confess my sins, be ashamed of my weaknesses…Right now I am satisfied she is gone with my own eyes witnessing her end. Only this will keep Julia safe…
William hauled himself up from his knees and without a backward glance stumbled over to Julia to hold her fiercely, kissing her hair and cheeks, finding her lips to taste. Energy suffused his tired body while a stream of words rushed from him in between each frantic kiss. "Julia, Oh, Julia… It's really you! I love you so much…I believed…Well I thought… Then I knew…. You are here!... Are the men right behind you? How on earth…?" His usually rational mind and firm command of the English language were unmoored by his emotions, and his mouth could not keep up with his thoughts. Julia said nothing, only hung tightly to his neck for dear life then faltered as her knees buckled. William picked her up in his arms as she let go, resting her weight against his chest while he went up the cabin steps and pushed the wooden door open with his foot. She seemed so impossibly light and fragile to him. He bypassed the bed with its abhorrent memories and placed her gently on a long trestle table by the stove, folding a piece of blanket for her head to rest upon.
"Julia. You are bleeding!" He restated the obvious and pressed his hand over the wound to staunch the flow.
Julia drew up and winced. "Ow! William, no. Not so hard," she hissed. She tried to smile when she saw him blanch. "It's all right. I need to pack the wound, or add material to absorb the blood." Her voice was breathy and weak.
William grabbed another towel and helped her open her shirt to add the cloth, then re-bind the whole dressing snuggly. All the while he was doing this he looked out the door and windows, expecting more help to appear any second now, peppering her with questions as he worked. "How did you get here? Why aren't you still in hospital? When did you wake up?"
"William! Stop. One question at a time!" Julia pleaded. William's delight in seeing her was getting dampened by concern about her health.
William chose, to his mind, the most critical question. "Julia? Where, in Heaven's Name, is the rest of your party?" To his eye, she needed to be back in hospital and he was quite angry that someone discharged her from there in this condition, and worse yet, that Inspector Brackenreid allowed her to come all the way out here, wherever that was, let alone somehow get ahead of the search and rescue. He was already worried about the trip back to Toronto and how long it was going to take.
She motioned for him to help her sit up, then looked around the room before confessing in a shaky voice. "William, no one is coming—not any time soon. I am here on my own." She grunted, doubling over again in pain.
He was floored by her answer. "I suppose the fact that that no one is with you means that you left the hospital without your doctor's permission?" William helped her lie back down and checked to see if there was more fresh blood seeping through her bandages, struggling against his mounting anxiety.
Julia merely nodded, needing to catch her breath. In a short while she continued, breathing shallowly now. "Well, I am a doctor, so I discharged myself." She paused again, a small sardonic smile on her lips. "In my professional opinion, however, I am pretty sure I need to get back there as soon as possible."
William curled the edges of his mouth in return, pushing some of the hair out of her face and kissing her forehead to help calm himself down. "Yes, doctor," making sure she heard the emphasis and the smile in his voice. He gestured to their surroundings. "Do you know where we are?"
"We are a little past Stouffville. I knew it was Eva Peace who shot me, William, and I recalled she talked about land out this way. When I learned you were missing, I rode cross-country to get here…"
William was stunned again. "You RODE out here?" He had a very good idea of what she must have gone through. No wonder she looks so exhausted.
Julia answered as if it was a silly question. "Why, yes—it was the fastest way, although I had to stop when it got too dark. All I could think about was getting to you, hoping you were still alive…"
William remembered his vision from last night so clearly. He despaired when he thought she was dead, nearly ready to give up when it seemed to him, somehow, Julia was calling to him, impossible as that was. He felt her dear presence come to him, simply knew their connection still existed, which meant Julia had to be alive. He suddenly needed her to know the strength that knowledge gave him to endure... "Julia? I swear I could hear you, despite everything… heard you in my head... You...talked to me." He gazed deeply in her eyes. "It gave me great hope…"
She smiled a little at that. "Good, because I did not want you to give up, simply as you would not ever give up on me…have never given up on me." He saw her smile wider, saying so much about their past with her expression. "Do you know, I heard you William, while I was in the hospital…" At that, her face collapsed in pain once more, cutting off her story with a moan and starting another round of panting.
"Shhh, Julia…easy does it. I know you did... We'll talk about it later, I promise." He held her until her breathing calmed and he smoothed her tangle of hair away from her face.
In a moment she whispered, "William, we need to start back to the city, but first I have to rest a bit. Can you find me some water?"
William covered her up with a blanket to guard against shock then set about his chores. The both of us are in rough shape, but I do not have a gaping wound nor spent the night out in the open. He regarded her again. It is going to be a chore to get us back safely, so…first things first. He put fresh wood in the stove to heat the room and make tea, then found a jug for water and filled it from the pump outside. He brought two clay cups over to the table, helping her drink before finishing his own. At her direction he rummaged around and found a loaf of bread and jar of honey, bringing them to her. Julia declined the bread but accepted honey and water, which revived her enough to examine the cabin. Her eyes alighted on the bed.
"William, I take it you were restrained?" Julia indicated the white-painted iron headboard, an angry expression crossing her face.
He nodded, finding it hard to look there. He took a swallow of water to wash down some of the hard loaf spread with honey he was eating, feeling suddenly nauseous at the memory. "Yes…I was also drugged with chloral hydrate, I believe." He swung his back to her in order to compose himself, then brought two glass bottles over to where Julia was resting. He opened a stopper on one and sniffed, then dipped a finger into some of the contents and tasted. "This other one appears to be laudanum dissolved in alcohol, probably sherry. I think she fed that to me as well. Perhaps it will help with your pain?"
Julia examined the bottle as well and took a small swallow. "Not very good sherry at that…"she commented. "Snydenham-type preparation if I am not mistaken. I can't have too much or I will fall off my horse, but a little will make it more bearable." She laid back down and handed the concoction over to him.
William kissed her forehead again, his lips feeling heat coming off her skin and was nervous she might be feverish. His critical eye did not like what he saw, so he spent some time trying to figure out what their next move should be. Instead of announcing his unease, he tried humour to distract her while formulating his plan. "Julia, it looks to me as if it should have been you who was tied to your hospital bed, to keep you there where you belong."
Julia grazed her hand along his unshaven chin, offering him a wry grin along with her worried glance. "Then you would have never gotten rescued, William." She paused and took in a breath, then let it go slowly. "She was going to kill you," she said evenly.
He caught her anxious blue eyes with his and held them, willing her to understand. There is so much about you coming here to find me, to rescue me, so much about what we both have gone through in the last two days that I need to tell you, need to ask you… His chest was tight. So much I am also afraid to say and fearful to ask...
"I know," was all he answered, softly taking her hand and kissing it, grateful for her warmth and her presence, still marveling she was actually there with him. This is what truly matters, we have our lives and our future, thank God!
He saw Julia take in another long draw of air, disquiet written on her face. From that look, he knew whatever she was about to tell him was going to be bad, so he held his breath as well and waited. "She killed Constable Worsley, William. I heard that from the station house and I think I saw some of the evidence in our rooms. They did not tell me the circumstances…"
William's gut clenched and he exhaled as if he'd been punched. He'd completely forgotten Eva had told him that, the events of the last forty-eight hours refusing to line themselves up properly for him. "Oh, Dear Lord; his poor family," he said sadly. He was ashamed that in his happiness about Julia being alive, he failed to remember that Worsley died protecting him. "He was a good officer and a good man," he added, aware that they were the right words, and completely insufficient to mark such a tragedy. Anger at Eva, which had been muted, flared within him, mixing with bitterness about the constable's death. "I wonder who else was involved and if the constabulary has apprehended them yet."
"We will know when we get back." She shifted position. "I feel immensely guilty, William. I had no idea Eva was so deranged. She completely fooled me." Julia said, her voice rising in distress. "I was thinking about that the whole way here. I considered her to be sane, evil perhaps in her motives, greedy and homicidal certainly, but certainly not mentally ill."
William reached over to stroke her face and comfort his wife. "She fooled everyone, Julia. Last night…" his voice broke slightly, and he coughed before continuing. "Last night she tried to tell me a story—that her father killed her mother for marital infidelity, then took his own life." He recalled Eva's words and more—the way she told the story, and how she defended her father's actions had been quite chilling. "I think it...damaged her in some way."
"I see," she said. "I suppose that could explain a few things…" He saw Julia's face furrow in concentration, analyzing that revelation.
To William, his wife appeared calmer and more focused; he suspected she was less consumed by her pain, therefore able to have a coherent conversation. Perhaps the medicine is working, he thought, tempted to take a dose himself. His initial excitement at seeing Julia caused him to ignore his injury; however enough time had elapsed that the blow to his right hand was asserting itself with stinging pain. Thinking it over, he decided against the drug. I must have a clear head to focus on Julia and getting us home; the pain may be a benefit in the long run keeping me alert.
He saw Julia nod sharply as if she came to a conclusion. She declared: "Enough about Miss Pearce for now." She pointed to his injured hand, gently tracing the purpling bruise and palpating the swelling that had blossomed overnight. "How did you get hurt?"
He blushed involuntarily and wrinkled his face in a sidelong grin. "Trying to escape." He looked up at her from under his lashes and shrugged to give himself time to decide what he wanted to tell her. "Let us say I did not get my timing quite right." He hoped she would not press for details, as he certainly did not want to explain any further.
"Trying to get out of wielding a hammer building our home, is more like it…" Julia shot back, pulling another small laugh out of him.
"Julia!" He smiled in mock protest. Oh, she knows how to tease, he thought. "Speaking of getting back home, do you know the route we should take? It occurs to me we need to stick to the roads since we don't appear to have a map and the trails out here might be confusing."
She tugged on his sleeve again. "I know the way. If I can memorize the human circulatory and nervous systems, I can keep a map in my head—it's nearly the same thing. Besides a map is only two dimensional unlike the human body. I'm surprised at you, though, that you don't have one memorized already," she teased again. Her smile was so full of love for him his breath caught.
My God, this woman is magnificent! He made his eyes wide. "Well, I was unconscious during the trip here… Besides, I have never had a case this far out of Toronto before, although I do like to study maps." He made an arm gesture which resulted in his hand bumping against the table. He gasped then ground his teeth in pain, cradling his palm.
Julia reached over to soothe him, examining his injury more closely. Her prodding was professional-and painful. He trusted she knew what she was doing so he allowed her to tend to it; nevertheless he set his jaw to help him avoid wincing or draw his hand away. When she spoke she offered advice: "William, go outside and gather some snow, then pack it around your hand for at least twenty minutes to reduce the swelling." She gave him a wan smile and caressed his fingers. "Come right back, won't you? After all, I just found you…" She coughed, which made her groan and clutch her side. "I am going to rest a bit longer, then we need to head home."
William offered her more honey in water and sat with her as she drank it, then did as he was told while she rested. As he scooped up snow, he located Julia's horse a few yards away, and took it to a small outbuilding where he discovered a second horse was stabled. He secured the horses with food and water before carrying his bowl of snow back towards the cabin, having a better idea now of how to get them the long way back to Toronto.
He could not help his thoughts: I am impressed with Julia's determination, and appalled by her foolishness in coming here, his thoughts and feelings see-sawing between gratitude and loving outrage. Finding the rest of Julia's belongings only enhanced this conflict.
He took the path leading back to the cabin. To his right lay Miss Pearce's corpse, beyond the water-well's pump, past a few trees. From that distance he inspected her supine form, dressed in a light pink gown and grey sweater, lying amongst the brown leaves, and balancing the dignity of her being covered up against his desire to rejoin Julia as quickly as possible. Without hesitating, William turned onto the porch and in through the doorway.
Not this time…
William walked softly across the creaky floor to where Julia was lying, looking around for items that might prove useful, and made a mental list. He did not know the time, instead estimated by the sun it was mid-morning at the latest, so they would need to leave soon. He made sure there was wood in the stove and water nearby in case she asked for more, then sat on the wooden bench next her with his hand buried in snow. He checked on her, and saw she appeared to be sleeping, her color freshening and her chest rising and falling regularly. He listened for any rasp in her lungs and found none.
Good. He sighed deeply, touching one of her curls, running the silk of it through his left hand. He was so very happy to see her alive, to feel so close to her, he could almost imagine they were in their own rooms, and this was merely that wonderful time in the morning when he was awake before her, watching her sleep with her blonde hair fanned out on their pillows. He cast his mind back over Sunday morning when they were so contented in each other's arms. How can that have been a mere two days ago? It reinforced to him that place was not important, because being with Julia was always his version of home. He brushed his lips over her forehead again, wishing they might stay in some sheltered cocoon for a while before facing their next difficult tasks.
As he sat there beside her, he rehearsed his plan to himself: After we are done here, we will each take a horse, and hope to God we pick the correct route to meet up with the constabulary somewhere on the road.
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