Authors Note: In honor of Demosthenes23's birthday, I present to you the most guilty of pleasures. There's more coming, but this seemed like a good place to break.
It was already late in the evening, and far past the time when William should have come home, and Julia grew increasingly worried-not for his physical safety as she knew he was at the station, but anxious that he was upset at her and avoiding her.
Rather than being able to clear things up in the light of day, they'd only gotten worse.
That morning as soon as she had arrived at the asylum, she'd frantically called the artist's studio to ascertain if the necklace was there when she'd been informed that the police were there investigating a murder of one of the artists-but not Monsieur L'Artiste, she'd been assured. The studio could not divulge any further details of the investigation, per police request.
Dammit! The studio was well within the area covered by Station House 4, and Julia hoped that William had not been the one to interview Monsieur L'Artiste. Rather, she hoped that it had been Constable Crabtree or even Constable Higgins-but knowing how Higgins could be a bit of a lech while Crabtree could be counted on to handle the matter with delicacy, she hoped it had been George Crabtree.
But there was nothing she could do but wait for William to come home-where she would come clean about the necklace as well as answer any questions he had of her. He was far too good a man to continue to hurt with her deception-however well intentioned it had been.
At first, she hadn't been entirely truthful with William because she hadn't wanted to ruin the surprise, and would explain all (as well as clear her conscience) when she presented the painting to him. But last night, when she realized that the necklace was gone she'd been too scared to tell him that she may have lost it, and had taken the coward's way out by excusing herself and avoiding him. After she retired for the evening, and feigned sleep when William had tried to check in on her, she'd heard the door close and knew he'd gone out for a walk to clear his head.
No doubt he'd realized that something was up, and there was no question that her reluctance to assuage his fears at her increasingly strange behavior had hurt him. She'd lain awake for hours last night, waiting for him to come back, and had been half-disappointed and half-relieved that when he did return, he did not come to their bed, but had slept on the couch instead, leaving the hotel before she awoke.
In other words, she'd taken the coward's way out again. Something she'd done before when she ran away to Buffalo, and no one needed to tell her how disastrous that had turned out. She would not make that mistake again.
For the fourth time that evening, Julia called the station, hoping to hear his tired yet beautiful voice if only for a few seconds, and for the fourth time, an extremely apologetic George Crabtree told her that the detective wasn't currently taking any calls, and was working a case.
"Did you pass on my messages from earlier, Constable Crabtree?"
"Yes, Doctor. I told him that you needed to speak with him most urgently," George replied.
Julia was pretty sure she could detect nervousness and discomfort in his voice, and knew that he was uncomfortable at being caught in the middle between her and William.
Julia felt somewhat bad for him, but not enough to desist from trying to make some form of contact with her husband.
"He won't even take a moment to speak to his own wife?" Julia queried, her anger rising.
George sighed heavily into the phone, "Dr. Ogden, he specifically mentioned that he did not wish to speak to you. I'm sorry."
Julia laughed bitterly and ended the call before she started crying. She drank an entire decanter of wine, upset that William was avoiding her, before falling asleep, still fully clothed.
She woke the next morning and immediately glanced at the side of the bed where William should have been, but there was no trace of him other than yesterday's suit lying in the pile of clothes to be laundered. He'd clearly slipped in during the early hours of the morning to freshen up, but had made no effort to wake her, kiss her, or make love to her-as was their custom routine when he was caught in an all-consuming case. Despite the demands he faced, he'd always managed to steal a few minutes here and there to show her that she was still important to him as well as how much he missed her.
But not this time, it seems. She called out for him as she walked through the suite looking for him, but he had long since departed again, with nary any communication-save for her once missing necklace lying on her vanity-with a short note scrawled on the hotel's stationary:
Found this while investigating a murder at an artist's studio.
W
Grabbing the necklace to clutch to her chest, she collapsed onto the vanity stool and began to cry once more. The note was so cold, so impersonal, and devoid of his usual "love" that he usually signed off with. Things were worse than she had even imagined.
And she had no idea how to fix it when he wouldn't even talk to her.
Despite the emotional ruin the case had brought him from a personal standpoint, it had been fairly open and shut. One of the artists had entered into an affair with one of the women whose portrait he was supposed to paint, and the husband had gone into a jealous rage. He'd seen it before, was experiencing it now himself, and knew he'd see it again.
What was it about an artist that drove a woman to betray those she loved?
He'd once told Giles that lovers deceive in an interrogation with the former Chief Constable, and he laughed bitterly at how true the statement really was. Men may have the social, political, and economic power, but was there any question as to held the real power in the relationship? A woman of course! Who else could reduce a logical, sane, sentient person into a former shadow of himself? And he was a sad, pathetic man, he'd decided. Despite her betrayal, he still loved her to ruin-which only served to make him despise himself all the more.
And it was clear that his love for her had indeed ruined him, making him a foolish cuckold oblivious to the fact that he'd failed yet again to arouse her passions, and he'd lost her to one who did; again.
He'd slipped back to their suite last night late enough for her to finally be asleep, but not yet early enough to be awake, and despite his anger at her, he couldn't help but watch her sleep for a few minutes, beholding her beauty before he gathered his things and freshened up for another day.
He knew she wanted to talk to him, had called the station leaving imploring messages with George, but he couldn't trust himself to talk to her-not yet, anyway.
He also felt like a right bastard for putting George in this situation, but to fix that would mean talking to her-something he didn't yet trust himself to do.
Pounding his desk in frustration, he got up and began to pace around his office. As angry as he was, he would not turn into his father. He had never hit a woman and wouldn't start now, although at that moment, he certainly understood the temptation.
But he had hit a man his wounded ego reminded him, and grabbing his hat, he left the station and made his way to the studio of Monsieur L'Artiste. He had a few scores to settle.