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Murdoch let out a deep breath, his hands trembling as he paced the chilled, dusty cell. Slowly stumbling backwards, he lowered himself onto the cell bunk, feeling the mattress sink with his weight. He swallowed hard.
His conversation with Robert Graham had left him reeling, the needle of his mind stuck in the groove, replaying those words over and over and over until it drove him mad to hear it. Your inspector is not here for you, your wife is gone, and at least one of your loyal constables is dead.
He ran his fingers through his greasy, uncombed hair. The collar of his shirt scratched the base of his neck, his fingers poking and pulling at it, twisting it into a more comfortable orientation. The scratchy sheets covering the bunk were rough and coarse under his palms.
Your inspector is not here for you, Graham’s voice taunted in his mind. Your wife is gone.
Murdoch’s eyes closed as he breathed a fluttery sigh. The fidgety, disorganized Detective Watts was now his only hope, a fact that did not fill him with much confidence. He plunged his hands deep into his pockets. Things would come out right in the end, he told himself.
Robert Graham’s cruel voice whispered in his mind once more. One of your loyal constables is dead.
Murdoch swallowed. The cell bunk groaned, shifting as he leaned forward, bowing his head. Higgins… Jackson………… He closed his eyes, feeling the bitter sting of tears building behind them. George…
The air in the church had been chilled, silent and still as a cemetery. Leaves crunched under Murdoch’s boots as he stepped inside the sanctuary. The hem of his coat brushed against the pews as he rushed down the aisle. The constables were pale and still, twisted in impossible positions on the floor. The smell of blood hung in the air.
One of them is dead, Graham’s voice murmured. At least one.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Murdoch shook his head to push the sickening, hoarse sounds of their slow, ragged breaths out of his mind. Stop thinking about it, he commanded.
Graham was taunting him, lying to him, trying to get inside his head. He had to believe that what he said wasn’t true. He formed a counter to Graham’s words, repeating it over and over like a chanting mantra to give himself some semblance of hope: The inspector is all right; Julia is safe; Jackson, Henry and George are alive. The inspector is all right; Julia is safe; Jackson, Henry and George are alive.
A set of shuffling footsteps made their way down the stairs, and a stooped figure appeared, his hat in his hands and a pale, grim expression on his face.
Murdoch pushed himself off the bunk and rushed to grip the cell bars. “Watts,” he breathed. “Any news?”
Detective Watts motioned for the constable on duty to step out, taking several long strides until he was near enough to touch Murdoch through the bars. “Detective…” His voice was heavy and husky.
A weight of dread pulled down on Murdoch’s chest. “Where’s Julia?” he asked.
“Still missing,” Watts shook his head. “And we’ve lost track of the inspector.”
Murdoch swallowed, hardly daring to voice his next question. “Watts… What of the constables?”
Detective Watts shook out his curls, his long, spidery fingers gripping the brim of his grey hat tightly. “Constable Higgins should make a full recovery.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Detective Murdoch,” he said slowly. “I’ve just received word that Constable Jackson…” His voice broke off and he sighed thickly, continuing in a choked whisper. “Constable Jackson passed away in the hospital.”
Jackson… Murdoch’s eyes closed. God, Jackson, I’m sorry.
Looking at the scuffled floors, Watts continued hoarsely. “And Constable Crabtree…”
Murdoch’s gaze flicked up. Something in Watts’s tone alarmed him. “What’s happened to George?”
Watts cleared his throat behind a fist, clearly choosing his words very carefully. “I… I brought him to the morgue myself.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “There was nothing to be done at the hospital.”
Murdoch’s knees fell weak. No… His fingers grappled at the bars so that he wouldn’t sink to the floor. George… Tears burned behind his eyes, a sob building in his throat. He managed to maintain composure long enough to thank Watts and send him away.
Watts nodded, reaching a hand through the bars and gripping the detective’s shoulder. “Things will come out right, Detective,” he said. “There will be light at the end of this.” Retracting his hand, Watts tucked his hat onto his head and strode away.
The sob released itself once Watts was out of earshot. Murdoch sank to his knees, pressing a hand to his mouth. George…
George… the sweet, guileless, quirky constable who was the best friend Murdoch had ever had… dead.
He shook his head. George wasn’t dead. He was alive. He was alive somewhere. George was alive . He was hiding somewhere. He was hiding. Not dead. Just hiding. And any minute now, he’d come out of his hiding place and everything will be alright. George was alive.
But even as the words flooded into his mind, he knew they were wrong. George was gone. He was lying in the morgue and he was gone.
That funny, lopsided grin was lost forever. The eyes that would light up at a new development in a case would be dull and glassy, all the colour drained from his skin. How long had it been since the last puff of air released itself from the lungs? Had rigor mortis set in? Had it released itself? Murdoch swallowed, his throat gummy and thick. He shook out of his mind the image of George’s chalky, lifeless body lying in the morgue, a bloody ‘Y’ carved into his chest, a white sheet covering his legs.
There was an aching burn in Murdoch’s chest, one that refused to abate and only grew with every breath he took and every second that passed knowing George didn’t. George wasn’t a person anymore. Nothing but rotting flesh now.
His stomach rolled. He felt sick. He leaned over on his hands and knees, heaving, but nothing came out. His stomach simply lurched, his throat constricting over and over again until he choked out a faint, sobbing scream and fell back against the bars.
This was Murdoch’s fault. If only he hadn’t arranged the earlier meeting with George. George and Jackson had died for him. They had died trying to help him. In effect, Murdoch had killed them himself, just as if he’d pulled the blasted trigger.
Robert Graham and Franklin Williams were right. He was a murderer, but it wasn’t Lydia Hall he’d killed.
He shook his head. No. This was not his fault, it was Robert Graham and Franklin Williams’s. They were to blame. They were the reason the inspector was gone. They’d kidnapped Julia. They’d killed Edward Dobbs and they’d killed Lydia Hall and now they’d killed Constable Jackson and George.
Murdoch would kill them. He didn’t care if he’d hang. He’d kill them himself. Murdoch’s fingers curled into tight, clenched fists, as if wrapped around their miserable throats. He wanted to see them die, to watch the life slip away from them. They would deserve it. Unlike all the people they killed, unlike George, they’d deserve it.
Murdoch’s fist tingled, like it had in the moments right after he’d hit George. He hadn’t apologized for that. Not properly, at least. Now he never would.
Words would go unsaid, memories would fade. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
A sob escaped his throat and Murdoch leaned into himself, hot, aching tears slipping down his cheeks. He didn’t bother wiping them away. His shoulders shook, his lungs heaving. Every inch of him shuddered, his chest a hollow, aching tomb. I’m so sorry, he screamed internally. God, George, I’m so, so sorry.
“Things will come out right,” Watts had said. “There will be light at the end of this.”
No. There would be no light at the end of this. There was no end to this darkness. Not without George. As far as Murdoch was concerned, there could never be light again.