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George blew out a tense breath, his leg bouncing up and down, trying to release some of his nervous energy.
“Get out.” The words made George jump. Chief Constable Davis strolled into the cells, motioning for the constable on duty to step out.
The on-duty constable and George exchanged a nervous glance.
“I won’t say it twice,” snapped Davis, shooting the on-duty constable a dirty look.
George subtly tilted his head, nodding towards the exit. I can handle it, he said with his eyes.
The constable swallowed, slowly shuffling up the stairs.
Chief Constable Davis unlocked the cell, the door opening with a squeal. He slowly strode in, sitting down on the bunk beside George. The mattress sank further down under his added weight.
George had always been good at sensing danger. It was almost a clandestine ability of his, to know that something wasn’t right before it happened, and the alarm bells in his mind were ringing in full force. He kept his gaze locked on the floor, trying to conceal his accelerating breaths.
“First, let me say,” said Davis, clasping his hands in his lap. “I understand the chain of command.” He paused, as if waiting for George to respond, but, when he got no reaction, he continued. “I understand loyalty to a superior officer and, most importantly, I understand loyalty to a friend.”
George prickled at the word ‘friend.’ ‘Friend’ didn’t begin to describe their relationship, and hearing the word in Davis’s mouth almost felt like a taunt.
Davis leaned closer to George. “Your Detective Murdoch is a lucky man.”
George glared at the floor. “I don’t see much lucky about his situation,” he said, purposefully leaving off the standard ‘sir’ at the end of his sentence. ‘Sir’ was reserved for those George respected.
“Ah, well, he put himself there.”
George clenched his jaw. “I highly doubt that.” It took all of his self control not to say anything stronger.
Davis paused for a moment. “Well, I’m not interested in your opinion.” His voice dropped to a more sinister tone. “What you need to be concerned about is your record.”
George squinted, but said nothing.
“You have spent time in jail, your career is limited as it is—” as he spoke, George stood up off the bunk, gripping the bars of the cell and peering out to see if he could spot the constable on duty. It made his skin crawl to be sitting so close to Davis. “If you don’t cooperate with me,” continued the Chief Constable. “Your career is over.”
George grit his teeth, turning to glance at Davis over his shoulder. “I don’t give a damn,” he snapped.
Davis looked at the floor before rising ominously to his feet. “Well, I do.” He strolled towards George. “And I want answers.”
In hindsight, George probably should have been anticipating the punch. It sent his head smacking into the cell bars, stars and dots flashing and dancing in his vision. George reflexively brought a hand to his nose, grabbing the bars so that he wouldn’t fall to the ground.
Davis raised a warning finger as he spoke. “Now, I know you two have been staying in contact,” he seethed. “And I want you to bring him in.”
Breathing hard as the pain slowly dwindled, George shook his head. “I won’t do it.”
Davis glared, lashing out to grab the constable’s lapels. He whirled him around and slammed him into the cell bars.
George let out a pained yell.
“Answer me!” hissed Davis. “Give me the right answer!”
Dizzily, George shook his head again. “No.”
Davis let go of George’s shirt, straightening up. “Fine, then,” he said, his voice low, his fingers curling into fists. “Have it your way.”
George barely had time to process what was happening before Davis threw him on the ground. He grimaced, crying out as the Chief Constable sent kick after kick into his ribs. He couldn't fight back; hitting a superior officer was grounds for immediate dismissal, and he was in hot enough water as it was.
George would be no use to Detective Murdoch if he lost his job.
He curled in on himself to protect his head, whimpering as Davis sent a particularly cruel blow to his stomach. He gagged, tasting blood.
"Not so tough now, are you?" Hissed Davis in between kicks. "Don't have your precious detective to protect you now." He delivered another set of brutal blows. "Let's see how tough you are without anyone to hide behind."
Inspector Brackenreid poured himself a glass of scotch, swallowing it down in one go. Usually, the sharp, malty bite of the alcohol was enough to take his mind off of stress. Today was the exception. He couldn’t shake his uneasiness. He was worried for Murdoch, of course, and the fact that George Crabtree was sitting in his cells wasn’t helping matters, but the moment Chief Constable Davis had stepped into the station house, Brackenreid’s anxiety had doubled.
He glanced at the clock on his desk, shifting uncomfortably. Davis had been in the cells for far longer than he liked.
Brackenreid drummed his fingers on the surface of his desk, sucking in a deep breath. He looked at the clock again. He poured himself a second glass of scotch, swirling it as his mind raced.
What’s he doing down there? He wondered. Probably chewing Crabtree out, that poor bugger. He squinted. What does that bloody tosser Davis want with him?
Davis came strolling out of the cells two whiskey glasses later, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He walked straight for the exit and left without looking anyone in the eye.
Brackenreid swallowed his last mouthful of scotch, getting up from his seat. Deftly placing the glass on his desk, he marched out of his office and through the bullpen. He wanted to talk to Crabtree. The poor lad should be released now anyway.
As he made his way down the staircase leading to the cells, Brackenreid felt a chill in the air, like something wasn’t quite right. “Oi,” he called into the silent cells as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “What did bloody Davis want with you, Crabtree?” He paused, frowning at how still and silent the air was. “Crabtree?” He scanned the cells, paling when he saw the figure lying slumped over on the ground. “Crabtree!”
The door to the cells was unlocked, hanging eerily open. Brackenreid flew inside, practically sliding down beside the fallen constable.
Crabtree was face down, lying perfectly still except for the stilted rising and falling of his shoulders whenever he took a hoarse breath.
Swallowing, Brackenreid reached out and, as gently as he could, turned the constable over onto his back. “Bloody hell, Crabtree.”
His face was littered with cuts and bruises. Blood was congealing under his nose and around a nasty-looking gash on his forehead. His hair clumped together in places, sticky with blood. There were patches of red staining his white shirt, communicating a legion of unseen injuries.
Brackenreid’s jaw clenched. His pulse pounded in his ears.
He blinked, and suddenly he was in the alley behind the station house, being knocked down and beaten by a half a dozen unseen hands, feet, and tools. A sharp jab of pain stabbed through his chest. The echoes of barely heard cries of “sir!” played and replayed in his mind, like a record with the needle stuck in the groove.
Brackenreid squeezed his eyes shut. Shut it, he told his mind. You’re not there. It’s not the O’Sheas. This is bloody Davis’s doing. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed hard.
Davis, that bloody monster, had strode right out of the station house as if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn’t just beat a constable half to death.
Brackenreid’s fingers curled into fists. “I’ll show you what happens when you mess with my men, Davis,” he hissed under his breath. “You mess with the bull, you’re going to get the bloody horns.”
He took a deep, shaking breath. Davis wouldn’t have gone far. Besides, Brackenreid knew where his office was. He’d need his gloves. Perhaps his cane too. He’d show Davis what happens when he messed with one of Brackenreid’s men.
Once I get a hold of you, Davis, he thought. There will be hell to bloody pay.
On the floor, Crabtree coughed faintly, stirring slightly. Half-lidded eyes blinked weakly up at the inspector. He groaned, which, if Brackenreid listened very closely, almost sounded like the word ‘sir.’
In an instant, the inspector’s rush of anger tumbled out of him, a surge of concern taking its place. Davis can wait, he thought. There are more pressing matters right now. He bent over the constable, forcing his face into a reassuring smile. “Crabtree,” he whispered. “You’re alright. It’ll be alright.”
George coughed again, a small trickle of blood spilling out from the corner of his mouth. “‘M… sssso—rry.” His voice was barely audible, and Brackenreid had to strain to hear his words.
“Shh. Don’t talk.” Brackenreid shook his head, gently scooping up the constable and resting his head in his lap. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out an embroidered handkerchief, and used it to wipe the blood from Crabtree’s mouth. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”
George shook his head, wincing as he struggled weakly to sit upright. "De...tective Murdoch…"
"Oi, Bugalugs, don't worry about Murdoch." Brackenreid smiled tightly, pushing the constable back down.
George fought him, shaking his head again. “... Find out… about… Rob… Robert Graham. Murdoch… said…”
“Alright, alright.” Brackenreid nodded, pressing the constable back onto the ground. "You just rest, alright? You've done a bloody brilliant job. Just rest now."
Letting out a breath, George fell limp again, blinking dizzily.
Brackenreid swallowed. “I’m just going to check you over, Crabtree. I’ve got to see where you’re hurt, alright?”
Crabtree cleared his throat. His nod was barely noticeable, but Brackenreid caught it.
“Right.” As gently as he could, Brackenreid patted the constable down, feeling for blood. His fingers came away red behind Crabtree’s head, and the constable whimpered in pain at the slightest touch of his torso.
Broken ribs, thought Brackenreid grimly. Poor lad's probably got a concussion too. He glanced at Crabtree's blood-matted hair. Several concussions. It’s a wonder he’s awake at all.
As if on cue, Crabtree’s eyes slipped shut and his head lolled to the side.
“Crabtree?” Brackenreid swallowed, gently patting the side of the constable’s face. “Oi, Crabtree? Can you hear me?”
There was no response. George was unconscious.
Bringing a hand to his mouth, Brackenreid sucked in a breath as he considered his options. Crabtree needed a hospital, the inspector knew that quite well. But the inspector also knew that a hospital wouldn’t be safe.
He knew that the only reason Davis cared about George was because of his close relationship to the detective. He knew that Davis knew that Crabtree and Murdoch would still be in contact, which meant that Davis knew that Crabtree knew where Murdoch was. Most of all, he knew that once Davis knew that Crabtree wouldn’t be talking, the constable was useless to him and incredibly useful to Murdoch.
Davis wouldn’t want to give the detective any advantage.
This wasn’t just excessive force. Davis had been trying to kill. A hospital wouldn’t be safe.
Brackenreid swallowed. “Well, Crabtree,” he whispered. “We can’t take you to a hospital, but we can do the next best thing.” He knew the constable couldn’t hear him, but talking out loud was helping his anxiety. As gently as he could, he scooped Crabtree up in his arms. Brackenreid stumbled to his feet, trying his best not to jostle the constable.
He took the back exit from the cells. The fewer people who knew about this, the better.
The chilled night air snapped and swatted at Brackenreid’s coat as he stepped outside. The moonless sky was black as a man’s pupil.
The inspector awkwardly staggered and shuffled down the street. Crabtree was heavier than he looked. He was grateful that Crabtree wasn’t wearing his constable’s tunic. That would have attracted more than a few gazes.
He stopped a cart driver and paid him generously to take him where he wanted to go and to keep his mouth shut. The driver was hesitant, but once Brackenreid threw in an extra dollar, he was more than happy to oblige.
During the cart ride, George blinked his eyes open, coughing faintly. "Sir?" He mumbled, his voice slurred and muddled as he awkwardly spoke around cuts and bruises.
"It's alright, Crabtree," said Brackenreid. "We're going somewhere safe."
Just outside Brackenreid’s house, the inspector thanked the driver and helped George out of the wagon. The constable could barely keep himself upright. Brackenreid had to lean way over to the left in order to fully support his weight.
George groaned, sluggishly raising a hand to cradle his head. His feet shuffled aimlessly, his left foot dragging slightly more than his right.
"One foot in front of the other, Bugalugs," said the inspector. “We’re nearly there, just a little longer.”
They stumbled slowly up the pathway towards the door. George’s legs gave way once they stepped onto the porch, and Brackenreid had to lunge to hold him upright.
“Sorry, sir,” murmured George. His right eye had swollen shut.
Brackenreid fumbled in his pocket for his key and unlocked the front door, all but dragging the constable inside. He hoisted Crabtree back up to his feet, pulled him into the sitting room and laid the constable down on a sofa. “There we go.’ He let out a breath, scratching the back of his head. “We’re bloody lucky Margaret’s off to visit her sister,” he said. “This would take some explaining.”
George shifted, grimacing.
The inspector smiled tightly. “Right,” he said. “Let’s get you fixed up. I’ll be back,” he said. “Don’t fall asleep, alright, Crabtree? Not until we get you patched up.”
George nodded faintly.
The inspector gently squeezed the constable’s shoulder, rushing off to fetch a variety of supplies: a basin, several clean cloths, a bottle of iodine, a bag of ice and a roll of bandages. Once he gathered everything, he dashed back to the sitting room to find Crabtree lying still with his eyes closed.
"Crabtree." Brackenreid dropped the supplies on the seat of a nearby armchair. "Crabtree." He squeezed the constable's hand.
George groaned, cracking his left eye open.
Brackenreid exhaled his relief. "Here," he said, wrapping the bag of ice in a cloth and pressing it against Crabtree's eye. He wet a cloth and wiped the blood from his face, soaking another cloth in iodine and dabbing at the larger cuts to disinfect them, leaving a golden tinge behind.
After nearly an hour, all of Crabtree’s cuts had been disinfected. The water in the basin had turned a translucent pink, the towels stained red, yellow and orange from blood, iodine or both. Brackenreid bandaged the constable’s head, tying the gauze into a tight knot. “How’s that, Crabtree?” he asked softly.
The constable nodded, quirking the right corner of his mouth into what vaguely resembled a grin, whispering something that sounded something like the words ‘thank you, sir.’
Brackenreid smiled warmly, patting George’s hand. “Get some rest, Bugalugs,” he said.
Crabtree nodded again, closing his eyes. Within a few minutes, his breathing evened out to a slow, steady pace, and he was asleep.
The inspector sighed, sinking into an armchair. As he often felt in high stress situations, he had been operating almost as if possessed since he’d found the constable in the cells. Whatever entity that had taken over him had released its grip, leaving him exhausted.
He closed his eyes for about three seconds, but when he opened them again, warm, golden sunlight was streaming in through the windows.
“Bloody hell,” Brackenreid mumbled, leaping off the chair and melting beside the sofa. “Crabtree?” he asked, gently shaking the constable’s shoulder. “Crabtree?”
George groaned, blinking his eyes open. He winced. The swelling in his eye had gone down, leaving a deep purple bruise. The cuts on his face and head had scabbed over, but his breaths were stilted and ragged, like every inhale hurt him. He was disoriented for a moment, frowning up at the ceiling and trying to work out where he was. Once he spotted the inspector, he blinked hard. “Sir,” he managed. “Where—” his voice broke off into a pained gasp. “Where are we?”
“My sitting room,” explained the inspector. “I thought it was the safest place. How do you feel?”
George tried to sit up, grimacing and swallowing a yelp of pain before quickly falling back down onto the sofa cushions. He brought an arm to brace the side of his chest. “I’ve been better, sir,” he hissed.
“Don’t move,” ordered Brackenreid. “You’ve got at least a couple of broken ribs.”
“Broken ribs?” George winced. “How did—” His face cleared as the memory flooded back to him. He paled. "Detective Murdoch." Struggling to sit upright, he gasped out in pain, clutching his side.
Brackenreid gently pushed Crabtree’s shoulders back down into the cushions. “Oi, stay where you are, Bugalugs,” he said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
George tried again to get up. “Sir, I need to help Detective Murdoch—”
“You need to rest, Crabtree.” Brackenreid pressed the constable into the sofa again.
“Sir—”
“Bloody hell, Crabtree, you’re going to get yourself killed. You won't be any help to Murdoch dead, now, would you?”
George sighed. "Fair point, sir." He winced, gesturing vaguely to the window. “Sir, could… Could you close the curtains?”
The inspector leapt to draw the drapes. The room was plunged into shadow. “Is that better?”
George nodded. “A bit, sir.”
Brackenreid pulled out his pocket watch, noting the time. “You hungry, Crabtree?” he asked. “It’s past breakfast time.”
“Perhaps a bit, sir.”
"I'll fetch us a bite to eat," Brackenreid said, rising from his seat. "Mind you, I'm a pitiful cook compared to Margaret, so don't get your bloody hopes up."
As it turned out, the inspector's cooking skills weren't half bad. In a few minutes, he'd whipped up two respectable English breakfasts, complete with fried eggs, sausages and mushrooms, toast, and a hearty heap of baked beans. Brackenreid helped George into a sitting position and passed him his plate. "Here," he said. As they tucked in, Brackenreid glanced at the constable. "What did Davis want with you?" He asked softly.
George poked at the beans with his fork. "He wanted me to bring Detective Murdoch in. I said no."
Brackenreid let out a breath. "He knows you're in contact with him."
George nodded.
Sawing off a nub of sausage, Brackenreid inhaled sharply. "What did Murdoch say? You were trying to tell me last night, but I don't think I got much of it. Has he gotten anywhere?"
George swallowed a mouthful of beans. "He wants me to look into Robert Graham."
"You won't find anything." Brackenreid sighed. “Does he know who killed Lydia?”
“No.” Crabtree shook his head. “ But it's clear they're trying to make it look like him.” He paused, wincing. “Surely sir, there's not a judge in the city who would believe that? I mean, it's William Murdoch.”
Brackenreid pushed his mushrooms around his plate wordlessly for a moment. “ They'll take him into custody, he won't even stand trial.” He exhaled a long, slow breath. “Murdoch will end up a Catholic wracked with guilt searching for salvation at the end of a noose.”
George paled. “My God.” He gulped. “So what do we do?”
“We help him without being seen to help him,” said Brackenreid.
“How?” asked George. “I can’t do much lying on your sofa, sir, and you can’t do anything without losing your job.”
“To hell with my bloody job.” The inspector waved his hand dismissively. “I’m due for retirement soon anyway. What matters is that Murdoch doesn’t see the noose.”
George looked down at his plate. “Why are they doing this?” he asked softly.
“So they don’t go to prison, Crabtree. I thought you knew that.”
“Yes, sir, but why Detective Murdoch? Why did it have to be him?”
Brackenreid sighed, scratching his chin. The stubbly beginnings of a beard were like sandpaper under his fingertips. “He was just there, Crabtree,” he said. “That’s it.”
George looked dissatisfied with his answer, wincing slightly as he shifted around uncomfortably. “He’s a good man, sir,” he said quietly. “He deserves good things.”
“Well, Crabtree,” sighed the inspector. “We don’t always get our just deserts. I mean, look at you. You certainly didn’t deserve to be beaten to a bloody pulp.” He met Crabtree’s sad eyes and forced a smile. “Things will come out right, Bugalugs. Don’t worry. We’ll see that they do.”