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All William Murdoch could hear was a dim roar. Everything was surreal.
One moment: his entire being sang with overwhelming joy. Finally, finally, he could shout it from the rooftops (or at least from atop George’s chair in the bullpen):
Doctor Julia Ogden and I intend to marry!
The embraces, the congratulations, the well wishes: he thought his heart might burst. Happy faces surrounded him and his love. Julia was more beautiful than ever, and he was finally, finally to marry her.
Yet one familiar face was missing. The inspector must have stepped out. It’s a shame he missed the big announcement. I suppose I should have waited, but I couldn’t help myself.
Then Jackson skidded in, ashen.
Sir. You’re needed.
Julia was really the one who was needed, Murdoch realized later. Jackson was too upset to speak as he sprinted back outside, leading them to a sight that would plague Murdoch’s nightmares: the usually imposing, sometimes terrifying Inspector Thomas Brackenreid lay flat in the alleyway, almost unrecognizable, his familiar features beaten to a bloody pulp. Every shallow, irregular breath hitched somewhere low in his chest.
“Sir!” Murdoch cried, again and again, as a frantic Julia loosened the inspector’s tie and pressed her fingers to his neck to find a pulse. For a moment Murdoch hadn’t the slightest idea what to do as he tried to hear himself think over the thudding in his chest. Should he stay with his mentor, or give chase to those who had done this to him? The answer came quickly, though: with the inspector incapacitated, he was in charge now.
Very well. He had to manage the situation, and that meant staying put. He resisted the urge to make the sign of the cross—he’s not dead!—and then drew a deep breath. “Jackson! Round up some of the lads and see if you can find who did this. They can’t be far. Julia. Doctor Grace. Help him!”
Both doctors were already crouched next to the inspector, Emily unbuttoning his shirt and lifting his undervest so Julia could palpate his chest and abdomen. Brackenreid groaned loudly as she pressed against his sides. Ugly bruises were already making themselves apparent, and Julia’s voice was high and tight. “At least five broken ribs, likely more. One may have punctured his lung. Certainly a great deal of internal bleeding. Likely grievous injury to his liver. I’m concerned for his spleen as well.”
While Julia gave her grim diagnoses, Emily gingerly pried Brackenreid’s reddened eyelids open. “I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry. We’ll find whoever did this to you.” She turned to Julia. “His pupils look all right for the moment, but his jaw certainly isn’t. And this gash on his head looks like he took quite a blow from something narrow.”
“Noted, thank you, Doctor. That will be of use for the investigation.” Murdoch felt completely detached from the words as he spoke them.
“We’ll need ice, to keep the swelling down.” Julia’s hands were moving toward the inspector’s hips and legs to check for broken bones.
“Of course. George!” Emily cried out. Murdoch felt the stunned constable flinch beside him. “We’ll need my stethoscope and some clean towels from the morgue. Just… just my whole medical bag, if you would. And the towels. And half a block’s worth of ice. That much should be chipped already. And would someone please call an ambulance carriage!”
“Yes, Doctor, of course,” George called over his shoulder as he dashed toward the morgue door. “Higgins! Call the ambulance!” A bug-eyed Henry nodded and sprinted away as well.
Julia and Emily looked at each other, and Murdoch saw something unspoken pass between them before they turned back to the man on the cobblestones. Murdoch guessed they were negotiating who would take charge. “We should put something under his head,” he said, starting to remove his jacket to offer it.
“No. Wait,” Julia stopped him. “We’ll need to assess him first before we move him at all. We’ve no idea yet whether the spine is involved. Inspector!” Julia called to him. “Tom. Can you hear me? I need you to move your feet for me. Don’t try to speak, or move anything else. Just wiggle your feet.”
For a moment, there was horrified silence, punctuated only by the sound of blood gurgling at the back of the inspector’s throat. A long pause, and then a low moan. All eyes on the inspector’s shoes.
A collective exhale when they finally moved.
“Very good, Tom,” Julia told him, a little too loudly, and laid a palm on his cheek. “We’re waiting for an ambulance carriage and we’re going to get you to the hospital as quickly as we can. Lie still, Tom. Don’t try to move.”
“Sir!” Murdoch squatted back down next to the inspector as he offered his jacket to Julia to drape over Brackenreid. “Sir, who did this to you? Did you see them?”
Another moan, and a slight shake of the head. Glassy eyes squinted out from between rapidly swelling eyelids. Julia lifted Brackenreid’s head to tuck the folded jacket beneath it, and then shot Murdoch an irritated look, all but shooing him away.
“Not now, William. He mustn’t speak.” She was laying gentle hands against Brackenreid’s face, examining his jaw. “I agree with your initial assessment, Doctor Grace. Dislocated, possibly broken.” She lifted the undamaged eyelid, and then steeled herself before she lifted the swollen one. “I’m sorry, Inspector. Stay still. Don’t try to speak,” she whispered before she confirmed Emily’s observation: “His pupils are still reactive and equal, and the eyes themselves look unharmed.”
“At least that’s good news,” Emily breathed, moving her own hands down the inspector’s legs to check for further injury. He hissed sharply as she reached the outside of his right thigh. “I’m sorry, sir,” she told him as she pressed on it again, closing her eyes to concentrate on what her fingers told her. “I don’t think it’s broken, Julia, but it’s clearly injured.”
“Thank you, Emily, but at the moment I think that’s the least of his worries. We’ll need to sit him up some more so he doesn’t choke on his own blood. Constable Jackson? Some assistance, please.”
Jackson was stooping down just as a breathless George came stumbling back, waving the bag and thrusting the towels toward the two doctors.
“Thank you, George,” Julia told him as Emily all but snatched the bag and dug into it. Murdoch detected a whiff of something unpleasant, and looked up to notice that George had a decidedly greenish tinge. The constable absently wiped at the corner of his mouth while he placed a stack of towels and a cotton sack of ice next to the fallen man, and then took a wobbly step backward.
“Are you quite all right, George?”
“Truth be told, sir, well, nnnno,” he answered sotto voce. “I fear I’ve left rather a mess near the drain on the floor in the morgue. I, I’ll need to go back and give it a mop. I, I thought it best to return here as, as quickly as possible.”
The clouds of Murdoch’s own shock and grief parted enough for a moment that George’s bright distress peeked through. Murdoch glanced back at the body on the ground—Doctor Grace was handing Julia a stethoscope, and sliding a cuff up the inspector’s arm so Julia could measure his blood pressure—as Brackenreid coughed a crimson mist into the air.
Murdoch grimaced, and set his jaw. George doesn’t need to see this. “George. Why don’t you do that now. Julia and Doctor Grace will make sure that the inspector is safely off to hospital, and then we can begin a proper investigation.”
George squeezed his eyes closed and exhaled. “Thank you, sir.” He was gone as quickly as he had arrived.
Murdoch squatted down at Brackenreid’s head. “Get the ice around his head, won’t you, Detective?” Emily murmured as Julia looked skyward and listened to the rhythm of the injured man’s pulse.
“His heart is beating much too fast, and his blood pressure is dropping.”
“Internal bleeding.” Emily grimaced.
“Yes,” agreed Julia. “Quite severe. He’ll likely need extensive surgery. Where is that damned ambulance!”