Chapter 6

WEDNESDAY

Toronto General Hospital, Room 442

William spent the rest of the brief night and next morning comforting Julia, going so far as to hold her in that small bed while she shivered with fever. The nurses' objections to his behavior were silenced after he demonstrated he was competent enough to attend her and then they left him alone. He did not ask any of the hospital staff to help, changing the bed and sponging her brow as her needs dictated while monitoring her pulse, temperature, blood pressure and respirations as Isaac outlined, and carefully writing the measurements and data down on a clip board. Only later it occurred to him that Isaac may have done so to give him something concrete to do in order to feel useful.

Unfortunately, William sighed to himself, nothing is changing. Julia is unresponsive.

William stood immediately when Isaac arrived a little after eleven A.M., attempting to run the fingers of his left hand through his hair and straighten the borrowed shirt an orderly had given him for decency's sake. "Good morning doctor, er…Isaac." He gestured to Julia. "She had a rough time with fever but that broke a few hours ago. There has been no more bleeding and here are the measurements you wanted me to take." William fetched the clip board and stood at attention while Isaac scanned the numbers, his right hand elevated on his left shoulder.

"Good. This is good, William. I am impressed you did all this one-handed as well. According to this," he tapped the hard surface of the board, "she is stable, not deteriorating and that is a positive sign."

He heard the doctor's words as well as the tone in which they were delivered. "Isaac, please tell me, what else do you really believe?"

Isaac paused, rechecking the collected data and then went over to do his own assessment of Julia's condition, her eyes, lungs, and heart. He opened her gown to check the wounds, smelled the incision sites, and pressed the lumpy area that troubled him yesterday. William saw the leeches had done their work and the lump was diminished. Isaac did all his probing without Julia moving a muscle. He put his stethoscope down and cleared his throat, unconsciously straightening himself. "William, your Julia has strong vital signs, considering… but while she is not in a coma per se," he returned to Julia and showed William she did respond to pain stimuli, "She is still unconscious and I consider her condition to be grave."

William remained at attention, holding himself stiffly erect to hide his disappointment. He had ached for different news. "What can we do?" William inquired, trying to fathom exactly what Isaac was not saying.

"We are going to monitor her just as we have…so far what we have done is working, but I must tell you is does not address if she has a septic infection brewing in her guts." He crossed his arms. "I wish I knew what Julia dosed herself with because I could then determine if it was helping and if I could do it again…"

William shrugged. "I know she has been experimenting with native remedies ever since I was shot and then cared for by an Indian healer. Something about bread mold, I believe. Do you think she has an internal infection?"

"I do not know but we are not giving up!" Isaac went on: "A simple paper cut can kill a man under certain circumstances, let alone wounds like Julia has. However, at this stage I hesitate to open her up to find out. As strong as she is, I am not certain she could survive another major surgery and I have no reason to take that step—yet."

"..We are not giving up!" William liked the sound of that. He saw Isaac frown. "What about another transfusion?" he asked hopefully. Part of William knew he was grasping at straws, but he could not help himself. Before the doctor could answer, there was a knock at the door and George peered in.

"Oh, hello George. I, um… wasn't expecting you quite yet." William waved George in and then resumed his conversation with Isaac. "A transfusion?" he prompted.

"Yes, as long as you drink more fluids." He saw William nod. "You have done an admirable job caring for Julia, perhaps you'd feel better if you got cleaned up yourself?"

William looked down at his attire and flushed. "I will consider that."

Isaac put the clip board down and nodded. "Excellent. William, I will be back later with the transfusion equipment. Gentlemen, Good morning."

When the doctor closed the door behind him, George piped up. "How is she, sir?" He set his helmet down and unbuttoned his coat.

William carefully at Julia's face and skin, checked her breathing and shrugged. "Dr. Tash says she is stable at the moment," he went back to sit by Julia.

George dropped his voice. "Does he have any idea when she will wake up?"

William tried not to sigh or betray his distress. "No."

"Oh." George paused. "I am so sorry for what's happened and for all your troubles." The man's expressive face was sad and worried.

William grimaced and tried to turn it into a smile of gratitude, not sure he succeeded. "Thank you, George. At least we have our lives, more than can be said for Constable Worsley, God rest his soul." William turned again to look more intently at George, focusing on the case for distraction. "I assume you are here to take my official statement?" William spent many hours in the carriage and in the dark hospital room formulating what he planned to say, coming to no firm conclusions. Having it be George who took his statement was going to make it harder.

The constable gestured. "Inspector Brackenreid said you wanted to stay by Dr. Ogden's side. Would you prefer to tell me here or shall we go someplace else?"

He thought about it seriously. I must believe Julia is still aware, still in there. I don't want her to hear this…"Perhaps outside." he answered. "Dr. Tash is coming back in a little while and I don't want to disturb Julia…" William checked on Julia one more time, leaving a kiss on her forehead and tucking the already perfectly-tucked sheets around her again. "Julia, I will be right back. I am just going out of the room for a little while with George. Someone will come in to stay with you." It took determination to pull himself away and get out into the hall.

Outside, Miss Belle DuBuisson, a young female parishioner Father Clemens sent over to offer support, was sitting on a bench reading the Bible. She rose, smoothed her grey skirts and came over to William and George as they left the sick room.

"Monsieur Murdoch, how is Madame?" she asked.

"Thank you for coming. Nothing has gotten any worse. She is still unresponsive," he answered. In a moment he continued. ""Pardon, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle DuBuisson may I present Constable George Crabtree one of my colleagues? Constable, this is Mademoiselle Belle DuBuisson from my church."

"How do you do?" Pleasantries exchanged, William asked Belle to sit with Julia while he spoke with the Constable and she agreed. "We will just be down the hall if you need me," said William before leading George to a tight room at the other end of the corridor after commandeering a pitcher of water and two glasses.

While fetching the water, William could not help but overhear angry and aggrieved comments made by a couple of passersby about how shameful and disgusting it was that the hospital was becoming a de facto flophouse for homeless, probably drunkard men, who malingered in order to get a warm bed and a meal, and it was about time the police rousted them out….before realizing those comments were directed at him. He gathered his reflection in a windowpane to his left and grunted at the sight: dirty and unkempt with hollowed out, darkly-circled eyes, he barely recognized himself.

One in the room with the door closed, they each took a chair, while George found a flat surface upon which to take notes. The short walk from Julia's room to this one emphasized to William just how stiff he had become so he tried to stretch a bit before starting. George declined a drink so William dutifully started working on the cold liquid to satisfy Isaac, while thinking about his statement…This is going to be interesting. George appeared to be waiting for him to begin, so William prompted him.

"George, this is your investigation. Where would you like to start?"

The constable shifted gears then got rapidly organized to begin. "Yes. Of course, sir. We already have your previous statement about Dr. Ogden getting shot in your hotel. Can you start with what you remember about your kidnapping?"

"I remember nothing. I have a vague recollection about drinking some awfully sweet tea and then nothing clear until I work up in the cabin. I cannot tell you what time that would have been." William decided to say only what he observed and could testify to with reasonable certainty and without unwarranted speculation. This was how he conducted his own investigations and what he always did at a trial or inquest, so, saw no reason to deviate from that in this case.

"Once you were in the cabin, what happened next?" George's pencil was poised, and William looked at it with an odd combination of fascination and dread.

William answered simply. "I was kept both drugged and physically restrained." Unless George asks a follow up I am not going to reveal any more.

George's pencil scribbled. "Did Miss Pearce make any statements or threats to you?"

"Yes." William kept a closed fist on his composure, neutralizing his tone and his facial expressions. "Miss Pearce stated to me she killed Constable Worsley and that she shot Julia and believed she killed her as well. I made an escape attempt…" William waved his right hand for emphasis, "and Miss Pearce hit my hand with the butt of her revolver, the same gun I assume was used to shoot Julia."

George nodded and paused meaningfully, pencil hovering over the pad of paper. "And, sir, I must ask, did Miss Pearce give you any motive for her crimes?"

William's voice was steady. "Yes. She expressed what I believe was a delusion that she was in love with me. She made a veiled threat by quoting an old folksong; the message was she was going to stab me to death if I rejected her…" He needed to stop and swallow, a drying of his mouth and turning of his stomach making it hard to talk. He was appalled at the idea that any of Miss Pearce's more obscene actions would become part of a permanent record or that he would have to say as much in front of George. His heart rate elevated and he squirmed in his seat, praying that George would leave the detail alone. Even that, he knew was not the worst of it…

George's eyes were wide in alarm, and his pencil forgotten. "Good Lord, sir! It sounds like Dr. Ogden got there just in time!" George has the grace to be slightly embarrassed at interposing himself during an official statement and returned to his set of questions. "What can you tell me about the events surrounding Miss Pearce's death?"

Guilt shot through him. Julia came to rescue me and now look what misery we have… He poured the last glass of water and drank some of it to give him some time to tamp down his feelings. "I tried to escape again the next morning by luring Miss Pearce out of the cabin to get me some water. Miss Pearce carried the gun she was holding on me, outside with her. It was at that time Julia arrived. I heard sounds of them fighting. By the time I got out of my restraints, Miss Pearce was on top of Julia trying to kill her, but Julia fought back by stabbing her with a knife she had for protection. Miss Pearce died very quickly, saying nothing intelligible. She bled out within perhaps thirty to forty-five seconds after the carotid artery was cut. There was no way to save her. There is no more, really, I want to say in the matter. We decided to bring Miss Pearce's body and the evidence back with us to Toronto, since Julia needed to get back as soon as possible and leaving the body there would subject it to predators." William watched George move his pencil and flip pages as he took the statement notes. As he drained the last of the water, he thought: This is the worst part, right here. He waited on their fate.

George looked up, meeting William's eyes. He could see the constable was considering additional questions, running though the various angles of inquiry. Just as I taught him to do, thought William. George would know there were holes in the narrative, would likely know that William was hiding something, or failing to disclose something. He could practically see George's internal struggle with wanting to know and not wanting to know. What will George do? William wondered. What would I do? William kept George's gaze. What is the truth worth?

He saw George reevaluate, the mental processes of choosing his next question and how he would pose it flipped over his face just the way the amusement-cards worked, one sketch replaced at regular intervals by a new one. George's eyes signaled he found the correct one. He began by sitting up very straight in a formal manner, before saying, "Sir…Detective Murdoch, although it may be unfair considering you and your wife are the victims in this case, can you swear with certainty as an officer of the law who witnessed the events, that you have no doubts Eva Pearce was going to kill Dr. Ogden, and that Dr. Ogden acted in self-defense?" The constable's eye contact never wavered.

Bless you George! Exactly the right question for the bottom-line truth. William masked his relief with a cough then clearing of his throat. He sat up straighter as well. "No doubts at all, constable. What I observed, and what I can attest to, was self-defense."

George looked back in understanding, and then wrote William's words down verbatim. After reviewing them in silence, William signed the preliminary statement.

"George, if I may ask…Did the finger marks on the gun match Eva and the bullets taken out of Julia match the gun?" As much as he trusted George to have conducted a thorough investigation, he wanted to know the answer officially and for certain.

"Yes, Miss James and I did the work together-the bullets match. Eva's finger marks are in your suite of rooms, on the gun and Miss James even found one in blood on poor Worsley. All of that is written up and in the report-the only thing to add is your statement since we, um… cannot get one from Dr. Ogden." George appeared uncomfortable, and bowed his head briefly before going on. "The inspector will take it directly to the Crown for a determination, most likely of justifiable homicide in self-defense since we have no evidence to the contrary, and especially since we have one of her co-conspirators in custody. By the looks of it, she was planning this crime for quite some while."

Now William smiled. "Thank you, George. Excellent police work." He hiked his bandaged hand. "I always thought of you as my right hand, well now," he attempted a chuckle, "you will get the job officially."

George's mood lightened, sharing a slant-wise grin in return. "Yes, sir, I can see that." William saw George's eyes give him and additional once-over and hesitate.

"If you don't mind me saying, sir…you look… well I'm not sure I should say this, but you hardly look like yourself…" George sighed. "Actually sir you look like a wreck. If I didn't know it already I might not have recognized you. Perhaps getting some rest and cleaned up as the doctor suggested is not a bad idea after all? Higgins brought you a new set of clothes from your closet, and, oh…!" George scrabbled in his pockets before producing a small gold object he offered in his hand. "We found your watch. There you go, sir, it was in the bottom of a laundry cart at your hotel if you can imagine. I bet you'll be glad to have that back."

William wrapped his hand around the smooth round timepiece, pressing his thumb over the case and fingering the chain. His composure started cracking with this reminder of losing Liza. Please God not Julia as well… George either didn't notice or was gracious enough to give no indication.

"Your apartment is still a bit of a mess though, so not quite ready for the two of you…"

George stopped leaned forward with his invitation. "You can stay with me if you like, sir. It will be like camping again…" George as his usual generous-self.

William was temporarily overwhelmed by the offer as he was feeling so painfully dislocated; having George to talk with brought him back around a bit. "Thank you George, that is very kind. I just may take you up on it." His eyes were misting up for some reason. "For now I want to stay with Julia, I need to be here when she wakes up."

"I'm sure she will be awake soon, sir; she just has to," George said sympathetically. "And I wonder if Dr. Ogden might better prefer to see you looking more like your old-self when she does…"

William pocketed his watch and stood, signally the interview was over. Having seen his appalling dishabille only in reflection, and having heard the hallway comments, he could well-imagine what a sorry sight he probably was. George just confirmed it. Julia does indeed deserve better. "Thank you, George. That is very good advice."

William anxiously returned to Julia's room where he submitted to Isaac's transfusion procedure, after which he found himself back in the hallway clutching a paper bag with his clothing folded in it.

"William, go home. Now you are the one who is dehydrated with an abnormal pulse rate and I need you to get some rest if you are going to be of any use to us for the long run." When William balked, the doctor played his remaining card… "Do it for Julia's sake…" Isaac showed him the evidence to back up his claim, logically and firmly, leaving William defenseless; hence the bag and orders not to come back until he was in better shape. William felt vaguely like a schoolboy dismissed from class and ordered home to face his parents: reluctant to go and uncomfortable in staying. He did feel reassured turning Julia's care over to the devout Mademoiselle DuBuisson, who made a solemn vow to inform the doctor immediately if Madame's condition changed.

]# # #

Toronto General Hospital

William first tried the small hospital water closet he cleaned up in before, but it was no use. He was shocked at what he saw in the mirror under good light: his eyes were bruised-looking and sunken in a drawn, heavily stubbled face; his hair was an unruly nest. Upon further inspection he became aware he was untidy in the extreme, indeed as filthy as a street-bum and smelled like one too. A small wash-up was not going to do it. His fine gold watch looked completely out of character to the rest of him, so much so an eager constable might assume he'd stolen it. He riffled around in the bag anyway only to be disappointed—no shaving kit was to be had.

There was nothing for it: he would have to either go back to the Station House or to his rooms—unsure which was a better choice. That was until he was on the hospital grounds with his bundle and discovered he had no cab fare. He dithered for a second or so, too embarrassed to go back in and beg money, then dejectedly made his way all the way to the street. I don't suppose this was what Isaac had in mind when he asked me to rest, he protested to himself.

He almost turned around, thinking this was a ridiculous exercise, when an image of Julia's limp body spurred him on. He envisioned her in her hospital bed so still and unmoving, her eyes sunken, with waxy skin stretched tightly along her fine cheek bones, her ragged breathing echoing against the hard white walls.

He wrapped the borrowed coat more tightly to him and forged on ahead into the cold, deciding that walking to the Station House would get him in a familiar place with resources the fastest. As he walked he turned over Isaac's latest assessment in his head, looking for clues. Unfortunately, the doctor was compassionate but blunt. Julia's condition was grave: unconscious, with several serious problems including an infection and unstable blood pressure.

"Julia is fighting for her life, William." Isaac had taken him aside to talk. "That machine you made shows us her brain is working, but cannot tell us when she will awake. She is a strong woman, and between us we have done everything I can think of doing for her. Now we wait." Those were the doctor's words right before he was ordered out of Julia's hospitalroom.

Wait for what? William's disquiet grew the more time he spent walking alone down the empty sidewalk under grey skies. Wait for her to wake up and live, or for her to succumb and die? were the choices which chased in his head.

Moving through space usually helped William solve problems via a long walk or, better yet, a ride on his wheel; today he felt as mentally clouded as was the weather above him. He was finding it more and more difficult to sort out his ideas. His emotions on the other hand were in full flight. Emotions are not my strong suit, he knew. He had them of course: wrestled with them, used them or suppressed them as necessary… but to let go and fully react to them was somewhat foreign to him; or at least that was the truth before Julia. He used to believe he knew himself as a man-intellectually quick and mild of temperament. He thought he knew delight, excitement or sorrow before he met her, then discovered it all was washed out or pale in comparison to the depth and brightness of his existence since she came into his life. He was more aware of his feelings now, less afraid of them Julia would say, but still not comfortable when these strong surges ran through him.

Sometimes he believed the more powerfully or deeply he felt, the less he could express himself, accounting for a serious flaw in his character, but one that was so ingrained and essential to his nature it was not going to be altered. He and Julia spoke occasionally about the difficulties of being a person who lived in their head, agreeing it can lead to too much internal dialogue, too many assumptions and not enough social exchange.

William grimaced at himself: Precisely what I am doing now, he thought disgustedly of his mental meanderings. But if my mind is my greatest strength then how can I not bring it to bear on this greatest and most dire crisis?

# # #

Toronto General Hospital, Room 442

Belle DuBuisson's thumbs were rigidly pressed on two corners of the small sheaf of papers, locking them in her hands. If anyone had looked through the hospital room door at the tableau inside, they would have been amazed that this slender woman was holding three large men at bay with a firmly set chin and flashing grey eyes. The top-knot of her smooth red-gold hair brought her height to barely five-foot three, but every inch was as steely as the colour of her plain dress. "Non!" she said quietly. "I tell you again. This was given to me for safekeeping, just as you gave this poor lady to me to watch over the first time she was here in hospital, and again tonight. This is my duty. C'est vrai." Despite thirteen years in English-speaking Canada, when her emotions were aroused she uttered automatic phrases in her mother tongue.

Belle had been a reluctant witness to events of the past few days, but once drawn in to the drama, she found herself firmly taking sides. Her usual no-nonsense, practical nature had been affected by what she had experienced in this small room, leading her to feel protective. Guardian Angel, was the astonished praise she received from Father Clemens. Up until this point in her difficult life, she had always believed romantic notions were for silly girls and novels, allowing her to turn her nose up at such foolishness… That was until she got to see a grand, tragic passion played out before her.

She set her shoulders, leveled her gaze at her companions and waited.

Dr. Tash grimaced, before covering it up with a cough, then an anxious sigh. Julia's condition was grave: unconscious, with several serious problems including an infection and unstable blood pressure. Tash had no idea that this spit of a woman that Father Clemens sent over to allow (or rather force) Detective Murdoch to get some rest, would end up at the center of such a controversy, let alone be so tenacious in her responsibilities. "Gentlemen," he said in a mild voice to Inspector Brackenreid and the priest, "unless you plan to pry those pages from Mademoiselle DuBuisson's fingers, we have to find another way to decide their fate."

Inspector Brackenreid moved forward to challenge anyway, tiredness and worry etched on his face. "Miss, we all understand that you have been… unfortunately involved in this case," he eyed Dr. Tash then lowered his own voice to a whisper, "And we appreciate you might have scared away a murderess from finishing off Dr. Ogden, but that note does say 'confession' does it not? Considering Dr. Ogden's, er… condition, it may contain information we need to understand just what happened out there, since we do not have her to ask." Brackenreid was getting a taste of this young woman's obstinacy; despite being grateful that such flinty-eyed behavior may have quietly yet efficiently prevented Eva Pearce from killing Dr. Ogden, he did not appreciate the implacability turned his way.

"Exactly my point," interrupted Father Clemens. "And as the family priest, confessions are in my domain. I am here at her husband's request, to bring comfort to them both and minister to his wife's soul." The priest knew that the first parts were accurate and the last was a bit of an exaggeration, but he felt he needed to intervene, hoping William (and especially his wife) would understand his duty to God and his parishioner. "What goes between penitent and priest is sacred and sealed. I believe I should take care of the passages since you, Dr. Tash, are, sadly, not optimistic she will recover." He turned to Brackenreid. "In these circumstances, her immortal soul should take precedence in the hour of her death, Inspector. You have her husband from whom to get your information, do you not?"

"He did not witness the actual fight that resulted in Eva Pearce's death." Brackenreid's eyes focused inward momentarily, thinking about what Miss James had told him about the dead woman's other wound. He was not all that certain he wanted to know exactly what happened, but now that this 'confession' letter surfaced, he'd rather be the one that got to see it first before it was common knowledge and before it could be bandied about, to no one's good, he thought. Newspaper reporters were already camped out in the hospital's main floor, the only half-way accurate and un-sensationalized article coming from that Rita Love woman, but even she was ensconced in one of the hospital lobby's chairs. The bloody phone calls started all over again from 'concerned citizens' who were putting pressure towards getting this whole business sewed up as fast as possible. Brackenreid believed it was necessary to have these papers in the Constabulary's hands, since failure to control potential evidence would be a nightmare in such a high profile case.

"Never-the-less," Father Clemens inserted. "I learned about the confession first, so no matter what it contains…"

"Gentlemen! S'il vous plait. It is not possible to know to whom this letter was addressed unless we open it. Regardez ici?" Belle pointed at the blood-soaked outer pages. "See here?" She noticed all three men wince slightly at the sight, thinking perhaps of where these pages had been found, stuck between her patient's wound and clothing as a temporary bandage. The nurse who peeled them away was initially going to throw them out, until she saw writing on them, so she set them aside for later. After surgery, the nurse passed them along to the hospital room as a curiosity, ending up in Belle's hands as no one else was present. "I believe this says 'To be opened in case of my death,' and Madame Murdoch is still with us!" She gestured to the narrow iron bed upon which the lady in question was clinging to life.

This shocked the men into remembering just where they were, exactly as she knew it would. Madame was flat on her back, unmoving, her eyes sunken, waxy skin stretched tightly along her bones looking like she was already a corpse—yet her ragged breathing continued. Talking about Madame Murdoch as if she was not there offended Belle, who wanted this tussle to be over quickly so she could get back to tending to her. But if any of these men thought they could move her to surrender the pages through persuasion or intimidation, they were going to be disappointed. In her twenty-six years, Belle had spent half of them raising her two younger brothers and a sister while scraping a living for the four of them. Big, self-important men no longer had any power to impress her, no matter their authority or station. She had to restrain herself from chastising all three about their deportment as she would have done for her siblings when they got rowdy or forgot their manners.

"Mademoiselle is right. Gentlemen, we should not be squabbling. The pages are damaged, some of it unreadable, and perhaps it is premature…" Dr. Tash offered, hoping against hope that it was true. Julia was hovering between life and death, kept alive, he suspected through the sheer willpower of her husband; certainly the limits of medicine were on full display. He cleared his throat, "…Premature to investigate—one way or another." He pointedly eyed the policeman and the priest, his long, gentle face, set in a frown.

"Can we not wait for her husband?" asked Belle, thinking this was the most logical and respectful of outcomes.

All three man uttered "No!" simultaneously, then shared embarrassed silence at the unspoken, rather spontaneous agreement. Belle was surprised at the outburst, then it came to her that each man was trying to protect Madame Murdoch's husband, for what were likely very different reasons, from any more immediate grief.

The conspiracy lengthened in uncomfortable silence. Dr. Tash took control of the situation, ushering the other two men into the corridor to resolve their dilemma, leaving Belle alone with her patient, a small bedside light and the stiffened papers. Before closing the door he gestured to her, indicating she should hang onto the pages, at least for now. Well, she thought, I have no other intention!

Belle was grateful for the privacy; so much commotion was not good for her patient. She checked Madame's breathing and sponged her face, while humming a snatch of Channel Island lullaby. She had done that countless times for her own mother at the end—cancer eating away at her vitality, the dream of coming to Canada morphing into a nightmare when first one parent and then the next succumbed to illness. She looked again at her patient and thought, though it might be a trick of the light, Madame's color might be slightly better. For a moment Belle had a surge of hope that the medicines were working, then shook her head: Madame is in God's hands, she knew. She settled down in a hard-backed chair, brought out her rosary and began to pray, the Hail Marys and Lord's Prayers flowing smoothly.

# # #

Streets of Toronto

Without realizing it, William's feet brought him habitually along the streets of his old neighborhood close by the hospital, part of his life before marriage to Julia. When he looked up at the façade he was surprised, having no idea why or how he came there. He shook his head, feeling embarrassed and a little lost, then considered the house. He saw that there were lights on in the first floor front room, imagining the warm, tidy space and familiar environs. William felt an internal struggle overtake his sensibilities, making his whole body waver back and forth on the street with the tension rattling inside of him.

It was too much to resist, so he walked up the path and knocked on the door and waited.

# # #

Toronto General Hospital, Room 442

One rosary completed, Belle's concentration strayed to the bundle of pages resting under a circle of illumination by the bedside. The angle of the light hit the pencil strokes in a novel way, making them somewhat easier to make out. The pages had been wrinkled and folded over on themselves, with the most obvious sentence being "…two confessions to make," which of course was the source of the tug of war for these papers. The other side of the bundle carried what looked to her as being written: 'To be opened in case of my death.'

Belle sighed. She was well-acquainted with death having faced it with great faith and the fear of God, while accepting it as a necessary part of life. To think of this dear lady passing away into the hands of her Maker was to be celebrated for the sake of her immortal soul—assuming she would arouse sufficiently to accept the blessing of the One True Church and achieve a death bed conversion to Catholicism. Belle had initially resisted coming here and sitting a prayer vigil for a non-Catholic, and was surprised by the priest's unusual request to do so. She only agreed because it seemed so important to the Father, and because she was grateful for Monsieur Murdoch having allowed her sister, Delphine, to take a class he gave at St. Paul's on electricity. Her little sister had argued day and night for two weeks to be allowed to go, with Belle only relenting after deciding it would serve Delphine a hard lesson in how the world works and a woman's place in it. Privately she believed Delphine probably only had a crush on the handsome detective and no interest at all in a job skill which was clearly unsuitable for a female. Belle was suspicious as well about why he would allow her into the class, concerned about the propriety of it. Instead, Monsieur Murdoch was welcoming of the girl, was a kind and patient teacher, imparting a practical skill Delphine was already using to earn money, amazingly enough. Belle was forced to alter her opinion of her fellow parishioner.

Originally, when Father Clemens asked her to come to hospital, he offered it as a chance to test her resolve about joining the Sisters of St. Joseph as a novice and taking up nursing as an act of her faith. It was not completely unheard of for a woman her age to do so, and since her siblings were now grown enough to fend for themselves, she found herself thinking more and more about her own future, now that she could choose one. She had no belief in romance, or interest the practical benefits of marriage; having already raised three children, she had no appetite for more and need no man's income since she supported herself adequately. She was trying to decide if her calling to the veil was strong and genuine. While at the hospital, Belle took the opportunity to observe everything and planned to use the silence at the bedside of a comatose woman for prayer and reflection. She had no expectation other than to fill the hours with her rosary, waiting for death.

A smile prickled at her mouth. That was before she got wrapped up in the story of the shooting of Madame and kidnapping of Monsieur. The rushing to and fro of the doctors or police did not disturb her calm. Nor was she put off by the sights and smells of the hospital. Nothing here was more than she anticipated and she was prepared for her duty. What she did not in any way expect was an awakening of a different sort for herself.

What was most extraordinary to her, was watching Monsieur's devotion to God and his wife, deep loyalty and faithfulness demonstrated in even the smallest of his gestures. He tenderly held her hand and spoke to her as if she was aware and able to listen to his voice. He fought the doctors when he believed they were wrong and giving up on her. He prayed for strength to endure and praised God for the blessings in his life. When she shook with fever, he laid beside her. He made that most interesting device to prove that his wife had not left her body, but was merely locked in her mind… Belle's cynicism about love was melted away by his displays of warm affection for his wife, and the heat of anguish Monsieur Murdoch felt over her precarious hold on this world. Once she learned a few more facts about their history together, her heart went out to this couple, becoming fully invested in seeing to it that the brave Madame survived to be reunited with her dedicated husband after their remarkable return to Toronto.

She looked more closely at the pages, her rosary forgotten. Was that a salutation? Belle picked up the bundle and turned it slant-wise to the light, and examined the surface carefully. The blood had soaked both sides of the packet and seeped into the center. But if she pulled gently from the middle, could she open the pages up to see what was written? As slowly as she could, Belle teased the pages apart using her hairpins to separate the sheets. It was not completely successful, and much of the writing was obscured by the blood and disintegration of the fragile wet pages while they were used as a make shift bandage. She looked at the room's door which remained closed. There was no indication the priest, doctor and police officer were still without—light shown unobstructed from under the door.

She hesitated, then turned her attention again to her patient. Madame was so very still, then another breath animated her. Bon! While she lives no one should read these, certainly none of the men who wish to take it away, and not her husband it seems, to spare him more pain. But how to guarantee this? In her life, Belle learned to never shirk a hard task. Taking the pages one by one, she leaned into the lamp and began to read…

# # #

Streets of Toronto

"May I help you?" A raw-boned, grey-haired woman peered through a crack in the door at No. 22. William simply waited until she recognized him. Mrs. Kitchen, still looking to him as if the years had made no adjustment in the almost two decades since the day he arrived on her doorstep seeking lodgings, blinked several times in confusion before furrowing her brow. "Good Gracious! Mr. Murdoch? Is that you?!" She swung the door wider, her gaze raking his figure, huddled on her doorstep with an awkward parcel. "Come in, come in-whatever is going on?"

William reached to politely tip his hat before remembering he did not have one. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Kitchen…I…I'm not sure…" He shrugged diffidently. "There has been so much going on…I wonder if you would be able to help me?" William stammered.

Her smile lifted a corner of his heart. "Of course I will," she answered. She took his paper bag and ushered him into her familiar front hall, closing the door against a cold wind that had come up and placing the parcel aside. Mrs. Kitchen, who fed him and 'mothered' him for longer than his own mother was alive, and who provided a more stable home for him for longer than he'd ever enjoyed in his entire life, gave him a second, no-nonsense appraisal. She did not hesitate. "Of course, Mr. Murdoch. Tell me what has happened and how I can help."

It amazed him he had the presumption to call on her in this way in the first place. Julia might have said my unconscious directed me, he thought. So now I am here, where do I start?

"It's Dr. Ogden, my wife…Julia- she's in hospital and I can't go back home…" he said disjointedly and swallowed, feeling stiff and graceless.

"Is the poor lady ill?" she asked.

Mrs. Kitchen clearly did not expect the answer he gave. "No actually, she'd been shot…"

She gasped and put a hand on her face in dismay. "Oh, my Gracious Lord! How awful!" She reached for his coat to hang it on the hall tree, giving her a better picture of his own disordered state. She didn't seem to care. "Is she all right? Why can't you go home? What about...?" Her questions ballooned around him, and he tried to answer them in order, all the while she pulled him down the hall and into her kitchen where tea was steeped and set out with a slice of bread with jam. When he filled her in as much as he could stomach he felt nerveless and exhausted. He supposed Mrs. Kitchen had occasionally seen him like this before over the years, after a particularly bad police case, or when Liza was dying… certainly when he was parted from Julia, therefore William reckoned she knew through experience just what would serve.

"Well, I can see you need to make yourself presentable." She put her hand to her lip. "Your old room is rented, of course, but the bath room upstairs is unoccupied at the moment. I have one of those new hot water baths now and it will get you done up in no time. I take it your clean clothes are in that bag?" She pointed. When he nodded she continued with businesslike efficiency. "You know where everything is, so help yourself. I will even shake out your suit and see what condition it is in…"

He interrupted her. "Oh, no. I am ridiculously imposing as it is…That is not necessary… you don't have to do that…"

"Nonsense! It is why you are here after all, isn't it? All those years you lived here, you left my boarding house immaculately pressed, so I am not about to change my ways now." He tried to interrupt again, but she gave him one of her fierce glares. "Mr. Murdoch. I feel very honoured you came here to me, to let me help you. It is much more than my Christian charity." He saw she was getting red in the face as she often did when she was feeling something deeply. "I suppose it is not a surprise Mr. Kitchen and I thought of you as more than just a boarder. Your talks with him were the highlight of his week, and don't tell me you did not know that. It was a kindness you did the old man, and I am beholden to you for it. I just know if he was here, he'd say, 'Mother? Now you take care of that young man.'" She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and sniffed. "It makes my heart glad you are here in the hour of your need." Putting her maudlin thoughts away she pointed up the stairs. "Now, go on with you. I will bring up your clothing as soon as I am sure it is fit be worn."

True to her word, his clothing was brushed, sponged, pressed and waiting for him when he was done scrubbing the layers of grime away. Even his shoes had a lick of polish applied. He was grateful beyond words, when she offered to get him buttoned up and shaved as he found, to his chagrin, he could not do it one-handed; the embarrassment at having to ask was worth the end result of a clean face and being fully dressed, so he submitted meekly. "I did the honours for Mr. Kitchen, so I know how it is done and I still have his old kit somewhere…"

When she offered him her husband's seal-skin coat in exchange for the ratty cloth one he had been wearing he choked up a bit. "That is too much Mrs. Kitchen, I cannot tell you enough how much I appreciate…"

"Now, now, Mr. Murdoch. Never you mind." Mrs. Kitchen had a light in her eyes, and a sly grin. "Since you won't let me feed you, at least let me get you on to wherever it is you need to go. After all, you let me have the whole finder's fee for that gold hidden in your room. It paid for the damage and a few extras, and I even have a little bit left. I'm sure there is a proverb to quote about it, but I insist."

He answered immediately: "…'And the multitude of them that believed were of one heart and of one soul; neither said any that of the things which he possessed was his own; but they had all things in common.' Acts 4:32." William sighed and looked at her with a quirk on his lips.

She smiled in satisfaction. "In the meantime, I am going to pray for Dr. Ogden."

He took her hand. is "And for me?"

She put some change in his palm and held it. "And for you, of course," she said. "I do every day."

# # #