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Murdoch tells Detective Watts about his sister the next day, over a corpse.
He'd meant to do it much sooner. But this seemed like news one might want to hear with more privacy than was generally afforded at their desks or in a witness’ house, and even when he did find a lull in activity he’d been immediately interrupted. Most recently had been George, who this morning had caught him staring across the station floor to where Watts was clutching a case file in one hand while he absently terrorized a fern with the other.
“Poor thing,” George said, following Murdoch’s gaze. “Constable Hodge thinks we should put a fig tree there, and spirit that one there away into Brackenreid’s office. Tough little devils, figs are.”
Murdoch had also gotten very close to getting Watts alone last night in the morgue, except then Watts had discovered a bright red fibre under one of the victim's fingernails, which between them induced simultaneous epiphanies regarding her grandmother and meant they needed to rush off immediately to make the arrests.
If Murdoch is perfectly honest, not all of these delays and allowances may have been strictly necessary.
In any case, the moment he has been waiting for finds him in a darkened solicitor’s office, and unfortunately there are no other interruptions to be had. The constables are outside. Julia has completed her initial assessment of the body and departed.
"Your sister Clarissa has returned to Toronto," Murdoch says.
Watts barely glances up from the pair of spectacles he's just pulled from the body's breast pocket.
"Mmm," he says.
Murdoch waits but no other comment seems forthcoming. He clears his throat. "I saw her yesterday morning on Fisher Avenue. Buying eggs. She looked well," he adds, after a moment.
"Look at this," Watts says, passing the spectacles over to Murdoch, who blinks twice before taking them.
"Like new," Murdoch says, turning them over in his hands.
"They are new, Detective Murdoch. Did you speak to her?"
"I did not."
Watts makes a small absent humming noise and begins prodding at the dead man's fingers, which are sporting about two rings more than Murdoch sees reason for.
"I thought she had gone overseas...?" Murdoch says.
"Boat sank," says Watts absently. "Too much sun." Here he gestures vaguely at the sky without looking up. "Signs from the heavens."
"You already knew about this."
"I'm a detective," Watts says simply. He bobs his head and shoulders to one side and back again, an allowance: "Admittedly it is much easier to keep abreast of a person's whereabouts when you are beginning with the correct set of assumptions about them."
Murdoch does not find fault in this logic, although it does beg the question-
"Now that I know she's likely to be found in large estates at the centre of invented societies, I mean, instead of chopped into several pieces at the bottom of Lake Ontario being slowly devoured by time and salmon."
Watts' voice had risen in crescendo over the course of this explanation, and now he clears his throat.
"This man attended the Université Laval."
Murdoch rises from his crouch, ignoring the way his right knee creaks, and steps over the dead man's legs to join Watts' on the other side. Watts produces a pencil -- not, Murdoch notes with resignation, the pen that Murdoch had provided him not ten minutes before, which has vanished into the depths of Watts' coat, likely never to be seen again let alone returned -- and uses it to direct Murdoch's attention to the dulled gold on their corpse's middle finger.
"So he did," Mudoch says, although he would not himself have been able to verify the crest with any confidence. "Class of 1885. I'll have one of the constables call their offices first thing in the morning."
"Mmm," Watts hums.
The dead man in the solicitor's office is Thomas Bouchard. His cousin Gilles admits first to a disagreement over the future direction of their shared business, and then to an argument, and then to an accidental discharge of his weapon, and then to murder.
They do not speak of Clarissa Watts again, and Murdoch is relieved to consider his duty there fulfilled and the matter closed.
***
Today’s is a brutal scene. Murdoch wouldn’t confess to having favourite murder scenes, on account of that being ghoulish, but he feels it’s only natural to have least favourites, and this would be one of those. It’s the kind that’s blood-soaked and expansive and bitter, that years and years ago, before he knew better, Murdoch would have been reluctant to let Julia assess.
In this case Julia has come and gone away already. By now she will be back at the morgue, waiting for them to complete their study of the alley so they can deliver the body to her for autopsy. Murdoch allows the thought of Julia tucked away in her offices to warm him, briefly, before he returns his attention to the horrors at hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a soft rain of detritus drift to the ground. Murdoch is able to discern the word "BEES!!!!!!!!" on one of the little paper scraps before page and smudged black ink are both carried away by the wind. Watts squints at the swollen face of the corpse, pressed between the body and the brick wall and clutching his raggedy notebook. He does not appear to notice he's loosed two pockets of jetsam upon Toronto’s less-than-fair streets.
Jetsam. Flotsam?
"Flotsam," George confirms, when Murdoch voices the question. "Jetsam is on purpose, flotsam is accidental. Are you taking up sailing, sir?”
"I'm not. I hope none of that was important, Watts.”
"Yes," says Watts. His voice sounds strange, like he's being strangled up against the wall, but when Murdoch looks up he is the picture of normalcy. Or, well. If not normalcy, quite, then the picture of what Murdoch has come to think of as the "unoccupied" version of Detective Watts' standard form: relatively still, hunched nearly double, hands stuffed in his pockets, left shoulder buried in the wall.
Except from there Watts abruptly straightens, towering over them briefly before he spins on his heel and marches back to the mouth of the alley. There, he slams one hand against the brick and is violently ill all over the cobblestone.
"Sir!" says George.
Watts wipes at his mouth. His complexion has drained away to white, leaving him flat and insubstantial. Ghost-like. He presses the palms of his hands against his forehead.
"I'm afraid something has disagreed with me," Watts says from behind his hands, his voice still thick with that strange, strangled quality.
"We'll send you home," Murdoch says immediately. "George, fetch a carriage."
"Right," says George. He looks over at Watts, and then back to Murdoch. “Wait here a moment.”
Murdoch waits, less because he was instructed to do so and more to see what additional explanation is forthcoming. The answer is none; George is already trotting up to Detective Watts.
Upon approach he hesitates. “Detective Watts,” he says.
“Mhmm,” says Watts, still strained, still through his hands.
"Now, sir, don't be alarmed."
"George," says Murdoch, alarmed.
Watts' response is cut short. Murdoch believes it would have been the squawked little what? he's come to associate with the detective's attention snapping back into focus. Whatever it would have been, it’s stoppered by George quietly closing the remaining space between himself and Detective Watts, wrapping his arms up and firmly around.
Detective Watts’ hands have flown from his face. He stares over George's shoulder into the middle distance with what can only be described as furious bemusement, and Murdoch is about to tell George to let the poor man be when Watts' gaze drops and he tips his forehead down into George's shoulder.
"I'm sorry about your brother," George says softly. Murdoch has heard him take this tone before, on occasion, with young John Brackenreid. Like he's a tired old man who can only talk through sighs, and says difficult gentle things like I don't know and it's too late and it's not your fault.
This crime is not... dissimilar... to what happened to poor Hubert Marks, Murdoch supposes, although that murder had happened a full two years before and he would not have thought to associate them if George -- and Detective Watts, apparently -- hadn't done so first.
They’ve investigated other violent deaths since then, Murdoch thinks, distressed. Mr Mertens last spring. Roberta Banting, not six months ago.
George steps back. Detective Watts' preoccupation with the middle-distance returns, but so has some of his colouring. He scratches at his cheek, and then his nose, and then snaps his fingers in the air.
Murdoch waits for a brisk with me but none follows. Watts takes off at speed out of the alley. George trails along in his wake.
*
Murdoch has already taken several pages of observations when George returns.
"Is Detective Watts all right?"
"Oh I very much doubt it, sir," says George, and Murdoch looks up, concerned. George immediately raises a hand and recants. "He'll be well enough, though, I reckon. Takes time, you know.”
"I see," says Murdoch. He does not see, particularly. There is a line between Detective Watts’ losing his brother and George Crabtree embracing him in an alley about it two years later. Clearly there is. But the finer details of how one of those things has suddenly now sprung forth from the other -- and after all this time -- elude him.
George, bless him, senses this. It really is a shame he'll never make detective; even setting his skills of logical deduction aside, his intuition alone would have served the city well in such a role. A misfortune all around.
“The thing is in one sense," George begins, "it has been a long time since the murder of poor Hubert Marks. But in another sense, it has not been very long at all. And while you or…” he trails off. Reconsiders. “While I might experience events I would rather not dwell on, I do dwell on them, if only briefly, so that I can stop dwelling on them later. Or dwell on them more predictably, anyway. But with a fellow like… I mean… you know Detective Watts. He’s….”
“Yes,” says Murdoch.
George claps Murdoch on the shoulder. "Well, there you have it, sir."
“But why now? What’s different about this one?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“But you immediately discerned the connection anyway.”
“I… it’s... “ George shrugs. “Sometimes, sir, you just have to guess.”
***
“May I join you?” Murdoch says, several weeks later.
"'M quite busy, thank you," Watts slurs.
Murdoch looks pointedly at the empty glasses on the table but, as is so often the case, his silent judgement goes completely unnoticed.
“Busy with what?”
"Solving the case."
"Which one?"
Watts finally lifts his head from the table and sweeps an arm through the air, nearly saving the barmaid from having to clear the table. "All of them."
Murdoch begins relocating the glassware to the next table over. "Sorry, thank you," he says, giving a quick smile to the pub patrons already sitting there. When the tabletop seems less actively hazardous, Murdoch places his hat next to Watts’ and slides into the chair opposite him.
“What brings you here, Watts?”
“What brings you here, Murdoch?”
“I’m working on the Fielding case. His brother told me I should talk to a woman staying at the Black Bull, so here I am.”
“An’ does she?”
Murdoch frowns. “Does she what?”
“Know things. About Fielding.”
“No idea. She wasn’t here.”
For a few moments, Watts watches Murdoch watching Watts. Eventually Watts rests his chin on his hands. "They’ve swapped," he says, miserably.
"What? Who swapped?"
"Dead!" Watts declares, holding out one empty palm. "Alive!" he adds, extending the other. He waits for Murdoch to drink in this portion of the demonstration before continuing on to the next, where he flaps both hands violently side to side. The "swapping," Murdoch presumes. Watts drops his arms back to his lap and leans back in his chair, immediately sliding down several inches. He stares at Murdoch over the top of the table, eyes wide and glassy and awaiting response.
Murdoch does not have much experience with either side of inebriation, he'll readily admit, but he supposes the rules are similar to that of dealing with the regular kind of incomprehensible people, and Murdoch does have plenty of experience with that.
"I see," says Murdoch.
Apparently satisfied, Watts slides down another inch. "I was worried about the wrong one," he says, slurry and mournful. "This whole time, all those years. The wrong one. How could I be so foolish?"
"Ah..."
"I'm a detective, for God's sake." A great sigh. "He was so furious for me," Watts says, a small sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rubs it away with the back of his hand. "When she came back the first time."
Murdoch snaps his fingers. "Your brother."
Watts' gaze swims up to Murdoch's face, looking touched. "You're a detective," he says, with precisely the cadence Julia used when he'd last brought her flowers to acknowledge the anniversary of the day they'd met. You remembered, she'd said, surprised and pleased.
Emboldened, Murdoch rises from his chair. "Detective Watts. It's time to go home."
Watts’ face crinkles up in distaste before dropping his head back to the table. A moaned "Nooooooooo" drifts out from behind his folded arms.
*
Murdoch would not have previously described Detective Watts' mannerisms as particularly sharp or precise, but the second time he's nearly capsized on the street by Watts realizing he's forgotten some nonsense that needs to be attended to immediately in the opposite direction, Murdoch is forced to consider the disturbing possibility that, in a sober state, Watts might actually be exercising restraint.
By the time they have staggered two blocks it is very late indeed, and Watts is increasingly unmotivated to do any more walking. Murdoch is not certain how far he can drag an unconscious body but it is safe to say whatever the distance, it will not be far enough to get them anywhere useful.
“Wait a moment,” he says.
*
Jack Walker is, in Murdoch's professional estimation, extremely alarmed to see them.
"Don't worry," says Murdoch quickly. "He's all right. Just indulged a bit too much this evening."
"Oh," says Jack faintly, and doesn't move from the doorway. "And so you've brought him... here. To me."
"You live very nearby where I found him," Murdoch explains. "I couldn't very well drag him all the way back to Sutton, I'm afraid. Not alone, anyway."
Detective Watts has proven much taller than he appears, although his frame is smaller. Viscosity is approximately what one might have expected.
"I've misjudged," Murdoch says. "I apologize for the inconvenience and the hour. Do you happen to have a telephone- ?"
"No," says Jack, sharply. He shakes his head as if to clear it. "I mean, no. I'm not inconvenienced, just... surprised. I didn't realize you knew Detective Watts and I were friends. And also where I live. Precisely."
"I am a detective, Mr Walker. I've seen you at The Wheat Sheaf together.”
"Right," says Jack.
"The particular door was courtesy of Detective Watts, however."
"Second door on the left! But don't tell Murdoch," Watts hisses against his shoulder.
"Good Lord, Llewellyn," Jack mutters. "What's happened?"
"His..." Murdoch pauses, uncertain of how much of a very private man to reveal, even to a friend. Thinks of George. Guesses.
"His sister is back in Toronto."
Jack ducks under Watts' arm to hoist him a little taller. Murdoch's shoulders could sing from relief. "His sister," Jack says, uncomprehending.
"He believed she was dead," Murdoch explains. "But in truth she abandoned him when they were children."
Jack twists around to stare at him.
"And I suspect," Murdoch confides, "his brother's death is still troubling him."
That Jack Walker does not seem to think this explains their presence in his hallway is not particularly surprising, but the confused downturn of his mouth is.
Jack didn't know about the sister or the brother, either one.
"You two are friends," Murdoch says, now uncertain whether, despite Jack's reassurances, he's misjudged this after all.
"Yes," Jack says, firmly. "Llewellyn is very dear to me. Thank you for bringing him, detective. Please come in.”
Jack guides their shuffling little party into his rooms. They clear the small dining table with ease but Murdoch’s foot catches on a corner of the carpet, and with a grunt, he finally succumbs to the fall he had been valiantly fending off for six blocks and a flight of stairs. Murdoch crashes back into Jack's settee, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the wooden frame, and pulling both Jack and Watts down with him.
"Well," says Jack, where he's now pinned to the cushions beneath Watts’ torso. "Are you all right, Detective Murdoch?"
"I am." He shifts Watts' shoulder slightly, so that it does not dig quite so painfully into his ribs. "Detective Watts?"
"'M supposed to be a detective," Watts says.
Murdoch searches for a place to rest his aching arms, which are currently held aloft. There is none available that afford any particular dignity so he settles reluctantly for practicality, and places one hand across Watts' arm and the other gently down on the crown of his head.
Jack has rested his own elbows awkwardly on Watts' ribs, looking as stiffly uncomfortable as Murdoch feels, which at least means he's in good company.
“Detective Watts, I’ll be on my way now. Mr Walker will let you rest here until you’re on your feet again in the morning.”
At that Watts bolts upright, wide-eyed. An inch to the left and he’d have broken Jack’s nose.
“We’re at Jack’s house,” Watts says. He sounds deeply disturbed.
“That’s right,” says Jack.
Watts screws his eyes shut and flops down again. “Aghhh,” he groans.
Murdoch thinks of Watts, alone and distressed in the pub. All those years, and I worried about the wrong one.
"Listen, Watts,” Murdoch says, acutely aware that it is an ungodly hour and he is very tired and that he is now stepping out into an uncharted territory for which his own track record is, even in far better circumstances, rather poor. “No one gets it right all the time. Not even detectives.”
Jack is staring at him but he must do all right, because one of those thoughtful little Watts hums drifts up, muffled, from where Watts' arms are folded over his head.
Jack gently pets Watts' knee. "All right, Llew," he says. He turns to Murdoch. "Detective Murdoch, if you could please- I should be able to- "
Jack shimmies his way out of the sofa and, once released, assists Murdoch in doing the same. On the other side of several minutes, they have achieved two free men and one Detective Watts, dead asleep and more-or-less comfortably arranged beneath a patch quilt.
Job done, Murdoch gives Jack a curt nod. "Mr Walker."
"Detective Murdoch."
At the door, Murdoch pauses. "Tomato juice, raw egg and hot sauce,” Murdoch tells him. “May help in the morning.”
Jack's face does something indecipherable. "I will keep that in mind, detective. Thank you.”
*
"George!”
George sputters again, thumping at his chest. "I’m fine,” he croaks. “Thank you. Water just went down the wrong pipe, is all." He coughs. "Sir, you were saying?"
"The butcher. He lives very nearby to the Black Bull. They're friends."
"Oh," says George, faintly.
"To tell you the truth, even if he were in a condition to walk all the way home…. I believe Detective Watts' inebriation is related to his general disposition these last few weeks," Murdoch confides. "It seemed pertinent he recover in the company of a friend."
"Oh," says George. "Oh dear. Well. Well done, sir."
***
"WHICH MEANS!" cries Watts, brandishing the hairpin. George and Constable Harris both step smartly back. "Which MEANS, you could not POSSIBLY have had the time to post your letter before Ms Gideon witnessed you at the docks! Do you deny it?"
Ms Gideon and Constable Harris both gasp. Miles London, killer, twists his mouth into something ugly.
"She had it coming," he spits.
After that, Murdoch's official report does not take long to complete. They rarely do; his notekeeping during an investigation is thorough and precise enough that his paperwork is mostly a matter of struggling with the typewriter and then adding some concluding remarks.
As he’s leaving, he finds Detective Watts seated at his desk like he's been pinned there against his will. He has been, in a sense, as per Blackenreid's recent decrees regarding old report completion versus new case investigation and the acceptable degrees of overlap thereof. Watts' fingers are covered in ink and he's sifting carefully through a small mountain of notebook paper.
"You won't be staying too late, I hope," Murdoch says.
"Mmm? No, no. Nearly finished."
"That was good work today, Watts."
A smile flashes lightning fast across Watts' mouth, there and gone again. "A matter of simple deduction," Watts declares.
"Yes, and tidily done." He turns to leave.
"Goodnight, ah. Murdoch?"
Murdoch stops. Watts looks at his pile of paper, and then his typewriter, and then the office's ravaged fern, and then Murdoch's left ear, and then his own hands.
"I wanted to say. Ah. About my... earlier this week, and the weeks prior, with the.... Um. I apologize. For ah. My..." here he waves a hand, "behaviour. I generally try to conduct myself with a higher degree of professionalism."
Murdoch does not believe an apology is warranted in this case, but isn't sure why it isn't, exactly, and therefore finds himself unprepared to confidently respond either way.
"You do," Murdoch says instead.
Watts furrows his brow. "And... thank you. I suppose."
Murdoch nods. "Of course," he says. Watts deflates, visibly relieved.
"Oh, and you've..." Murdoch motions toward the floor, where a crumpled page has been trapped beneath the steady up-down vibration of Watts' right heel.
"Mm? Ah."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Detective Watts."
Watts waves him away without looking up, already consumed by whatever hieroglyphic lynchpin he's just discovered under his foot. On his way out, Murdoch spares some water for the fern.