After the Funeral

8th September 1925

The burial was a quiet affair. It had all been expertly and quickly done, with an efficiency that was almost magical in nature...perhaps because it was magical in nature. 

Their investigation had been tied up neatly, the loose ends had been secured, the cover story expertly woven and spun to explain away any oddities.

The plots had been procured in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Miss Barebone’s a little ways away from Chastity’s and Credence’s, Llewellyn Watts noted with morbid satisfaction. At least in death, the children would be free of her. 

He sighed. He hated funerals. He’d been to enough funerals in his life. 

Just over a week had passed since the events of the 25th August - the “ball lightning and localized tornado” (as it had been reported in the press, despite Miss Cherry’s disbelieving inquisition) - that wreaked havoc on the streets of Toronto. Newt had left just days before. He could not believe how much his life had been turned on itself, how in such a short time his very understanding of existence and his place in it had been totally reconstructed. 

He never imagined how much Newt would come to mean to him in such a short time, and how empty his life felt without him. He missed Newt constantly; it was a dull ache in his chest and stomach that would not go away. 

Llewellyn stood a little apart from the Goldstein sisters as he watched the coffins lowered into the ground. It was a sombre afternoon, despite the sunshine - the last remnants of early September warmth clung desperately to the Toronto air, hoping to stave off the coming winter for as long as possible.  

He shook his head of his poetic philosophical musings resolving to be present mentally as well as physically. He owed as much to the children, and to Newt who was plagued by guilt for missing  the burial. 

Oh Newt. 

They’d spoken the night before, as they had every night since he’d left. Llewellyn lay his head on his pillow and propped his communication mirror up beside him in the half of the bed he’d come to think of as “Newt’s side.” In the dark of the room, with the blanket to his chin, he could pretend for a moment that Newt was still there. He pulled himself back away from the was and the could have been to the here and now. 

He observed the preacher as he read a passage from the bible. He was struck by the little curiosities...how different funerary rites were for different faiths. The man’s words washed over him - they were hopeful words about green pastures, still waters... Psalm 23 . 

He observed the way the man’s vestments swayed and his voice swelled in prayer, the way the sun filtered through the leaves of the beech tree to cast dappled shadows that danced in the breeze on his vestments and the ground, turning the scene into an odd game of hidden pictures. 

A rustle of fabric caught his attention. He glanced to Queenie, who had shifted to slip her arm through George’s. George stood somberly at her side, a bunch of viola, thrift, rosemary, and balm flowers clutched in his hand. Ah George!

In the time he’d come to know him, Llewellyn found himself repeatedly awed by George Crabtree - his capacity for kindness, his steady warmth and compassion. He truly was one of the best men he’d ever met. He smiled sadly to himself - George Crabtree knew his flower meanings as well as most knew their ABC’s...sympathy, mourning, remembrance, innocence. Queenie met his eyes and shot him a half-smile before giving George’s arm a little squeeze. She clearly had heard his thoughts, and she appreciated George’s thoughtfulness as well.

Tina stood at Queenie’s other side, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Llewellyn felt for her. Though Newt had initially bristled at the elder Goldstein sister’s ferocity, Llewellyn had understood her almost instantly. Tina was a protector - fiercely loyal and adamant about always doing the right thing. He saw some of himself in her He recognized just how much the loss of the Barebone children had hurt her. 

To their left, Dr. Ogden stood beside Modesty, a hand on each of her shoulders. Modesty looked far healthier than she had previously. In a short time under Dr. Ogden’s watchful eye, Modesty’s hair seemed brighter; her skin less sickly pale. Despite her better physical health, he couldn’t help but look at her with concern. It appeared that her emotional and psychological distress continued. She looked at the world with blank, unseeing eyes, a harrowed expression on her young face. He felt for the poor child - Modesty’s short life had been filled with such abuse and trauma that he feared that she would never fully recover. 

He glanced to Murdoch, who had his eyes closed and his head bowed in prayer, and Brackenreid who stared at the children’s graves with a fierce intensity. Of course. The Good Inspector was a father himself, his younger son not much older than the Barebone children. Did he too feel the pang of guilt and failure that plagued Llewellyn in his long lonely hours awake at night? 

Newt’s soft and loving presence had somehow managed to chase away those feelings, but in the cold, dark, silence of his absence, Llewellyn was left alone with his thoughts. He had seen the signs of abuse in the children from the moment he locked eyes on the Barebone woman. He could have done more, should have done more to prevent this. It was why he’d joined the Constabulary. To protect the defenceless...like his brothers…like the Barebone children. To advocate for those without voices, to bring justice for those who had been wronged. He’d failed his brothers, and now...now he’d failed the Barebone children as well.

It wasn’t just the children’s deaths that plagued at Llewellyn’s heart, but the lives they had led before their untimely deaths: The abuse and violence they had been subject to; the constant fear in which they had lived. Even if there had not been an obscurus involved, in his heart of hearts, he could not fault Credence for lashing out - he understood why so many destitute children turned to violence and crime. How could one expect a child who had been failed by society, who had been treated with so much violence, suffering, and abuse to abide by society’s rules? After withstanding so much pain and suffering, how easy it is to lash out in turn. Most bullies are born out of bullying. It takes tremendous love, strength and a great deal of luck to be able to come out of such a situation unscathed. 

How differently could his life have gone if Mrs. Marks hadn’t taken pity on him? If she hadn’t taken him in, alone, devastated and desperate as he was, when she found him curled up, weeping bitterly on her doorstep. Her kindness had saved his life in more ways than he could possibly count. 

He had seen the charity houses for children. He had felt the sting of the rod - the sharp hateful words that so many of these men and women like Miss Barebone served along with a bowl of thin soup when he was hungry and cold, and he and his sister had not been able to scrape together enough money to afford food. In opening her door to him, Mrs. Marks had given him life. She showed him compassion and understanding. She made him a part of her small family, and the Marks boys became his brothers in all but blood.  If angels existed, the Marks family had surely been three of them. In his darkest moments, it was the memory of their compassion that kept him going. 

After the final blessing, the small band of mourners gathered in single file to pay their last respects and strew handfuls of soil into the graves. George lovingly placed the flowers at the children’s graves. 

When it was Llewellyn’s turn, he paused, hesitating. What could he possibly say? He silently prayed El Maleh Rachamim , allowing the soil to slip from his fingers. In that instant, the emotion grew and swelled around him. He felt a child again, standing before his parents’ graves. He felt himself as a young teen, in the city clerk’s office, being informed that his sister had been declared dead in absentia . He relived the horror of losing Hubert and Daniel, and Mrs. Marks, the pain he felt at Constable Jackson’s death. He thought of Credence and Chastity, and for a moment, he felt overwhelmed in his grief. 

I’m so sorry , he breathed to them all - the ghosts of his past standing before him invisibly, frozen forever in time as he remembered them. Then swallowing the lump in his throat, he abruptly moved out of the way to allow Dr. Ogden, Murdoch, and Modesty to approach the graves. 

Feeling cold, shaken, and vulnerable, Llewellyn made his way to stand beside Queenie and Tina in the sunshine as he watched Modesty staring unblinkingly and unemotionally at the graves of her adoptive mother and siblings. 

Queenie gently nudged him, and he glanced up at her startled from his musings. 

Are you okay? She mouthed.

He managed a vague shrug of a nod. Queenie gave his arm a squeeze. 

“Hamakom y'nachem etchem b'toch sh'ar availai tziyon ee yerushalayim ,” she whispered, “I didn’t know you’re Jewish.”

He appreciated the subtle shift in subject while trying to ignore the humiliating fact that his deepest and most private thoughts were always clearly on display for Queenie. 

“By heritage,” he said with a sharp intake of breath, “My parents - the Wattenbergs - our surname was changed to Watts when they came to Canada, they were Jewish. I...I...lost them young, and wasn’t raised in the faith, but I’ve been rediscovering it slowly.” 

Queenie smiled sadly, and squeezed his arm again.  

Dr. Ogden, Murdoch, Modesty and Brackenreid made their way back to them. 

“Sad business,” said Brackenreid, gruffly. 

“Indeed, Sir. The loss of life of a child is always difficult,” said Murdoch gently. 

“Particularly when it feels it could have been avoidable,” Llewellyn felt himself say - the words had slipped out before he could stop himself - as they always did when he felt this vulnerable. He winced. 

“You’re not blaming yourself for this, Watts?” said Brackenreid incredulously.

“No, Sir. Not as such, but I can’t help but feel that I should have done more.” 

“None of that. I said the same thing to Scamander - you can’t save everyone, Watts. Sometimes life is unfair, and most of the time it's out of our control. We just do what we can when we can. We try to ensure that justice is served, and when we can’t we promise ourselves that we’ll do better next time.”

Llewellyn nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.  

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

It was a subdued group that found their way back to Stationhouse Four after the funeral. Llewellyn excused himself to the washroom to wash the memory of graveyard dirt from his hands. He let the cold water pour through his fingers and washed his face for good measure. He took a moment, leaning against the sink feeling the cool, smooth porcelain under his fingertips. He wished for the upteenth time that Newt could have been there beside him. Just being near Newt made him feel calmer, more grounded. His hand paused over the pocket he knew contained his communicator mirror. He knew he could not use it, but its gentle weight was a comfort to him.

He finally steeled himself and made his way back out, wishing that a case had miraculously come about in the last few hours to occupy his mind. 

He was between cases at the moment, and it made him incredibly antsy. Normally he would be happy to take a leisurely lunch, to stroll in the park and observe the people of Toronto. Today, such idleness would not be beneficial. He longed for a distraction to occupy his mind. 

“Sir, a message was delivered for you.” Llewellyn blinked and looked up at McNabb who stood before him. He nearly sighed in relief. Perhaps his prayers were answered.  

“Good! What is the message, Constable?” 

“Just this, Sir…” he handed over a parchment envelope bearing “Detective Watts” in a rather old-fashioned hand. Llewellyn was puzzled. It felt incredibly light in his hands. With furrowed brow, he turned the envelope over. 

Could it be from Newt? Why would he send a note here? He subconsciously brushed a knuckle against the place right over his heart where he felt his portkey ring, a constant comforting presence - his connection to Newt.

He slipped the envelope open and looked inside intently. 

Inside was a calling card. 

Hisown card. 

Utterly perplexed, he stared at his own name printed plainly on the white card for a while, before gingerly sliding it out of the envelope and onto the nearest desk. George’s. He wouldn’t mind.

On the back of the card, printed in pencil, were written two words: thank you . 

Thank you?  

Who was thanking him? For what? 

“Constable!” he called, and McNabb made his way over. “Sir?”

“Where did this envelope come from? It’s not postmarked.” 

“It was hand-delivered , Sir.”
“By whom?” 

“A young lad, I…”

“Can you describe him?” 

“He must have been no older than eight. Dark hair, dark eyes. Raggedly dressed. He said someone gave him a few pennies to deliver this letter to you.” 

Llewellyn hesitated. He desperately wanted to know who’d sent him the note. Perhaps he’d ask Murdoch or George to help him dust it for fingermarks?

“Is something wrong, Sir?”

“No, thank you, Constable. It’s just a curiosity. An unsigned thank-you note.” 

“Oh,” said McNabb with a smile, “Perhaps she’s shy.” 

“She?” he asked looking at McNabb, perplexed. “What made you think it’s a she who wrote to me?”

“Men don’t usually send anonymous thank-you notes, Sir.” 

Watts was, if possible, even more confused, but nodded. “Is George around by any chance?” 

“No, Sir. He has gone to lunch with Miss Goldstein.” 

“And Detective Murdoch?” 

“In his office, Sir.” 

Llewellyn nodded, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Well, thank you, Constable.” 

He picked up the card and envelope using his handkerchief and made his way over to Murdoch’s office.

Perhaps it was nothing - perhaps he was making it into something. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be thorough. 

Murdoch was crouched over the desk, intently fiddling with some invention or another. He startled as Llewellyn pushed open the door. Sheepishly, and far too late, Llewellyn knocked on the open door. 

“Can I help you, Detective Watts?” asked Murdoch in an exasperated tone.  Llewellyn cringed internally, but carried on in, undeterred. 

“I was wondering if I could confer with you on a matter, Detective Murdoch...” 

“What kind of matter?” 

He strode over and plopped the envelope and card onto Murdoch’s desk. 

“I received this - I was wondering if I could have your assistance figuring out who sent it?”

“One of your cards?” asked Murdoch, still somewhat irked at having been interrupted. 

“It says “thank you” on the back,” said Llewellyn, as if that explained everything. 

Murdoch raised a singular eyebrow. 

“...and?”

“Can we dust it for fingermarks? Or perhaps send the handwriting for analysis - I can’t tell if the person who wrote my name on the envelope is the same person who wrote “thank you” on the card...one is hand-printed, the other is cursive - why the variation? Perhaps one of your devices…”

“Why?” interrupted Murdoch. 

“What?” asked Llewellyn, derailed. 

“Why would you like to check for fingermarks?”

“Well, I can’t...erm...think of anyone who would be thanking me for anything right now…” he finished lamely.

“There doesn’t seem to be cause to be so suspicious of this note, Watts. Just a simple thank you. It could be anyone you’ve helped in the course of your career...Why are you so concerned?” 

Llewellyn stared at Murdoch.

“Erm, well...it could be some kind of clue.” 

“Are you on a case?”

“No...but...,” said Llewellyn awkwardly.

“A clue to what, then?”

When Llewellyn didn’t respond, a  look of understanding crossed Murdoch’s visage. 

“You know, Watts...What the inspector said was absolutely correct. You of all people should not blame yourself for what happened. You tried so hard to save them all, your instincts were right on this from the beginning. Why don’t you go home, take the afternoon. Get yourself a…pretzel or something...” said Murdoch gesturing vaguely out the door. 

Llewellyn’s expression was unreadable. Murdoch sighed and continued-

“It can be exceedingly difficult to pull fingermarks off of a cardstock such as this - the paper is porous, any oils from skin contact would likely have been absorbed into the paper, particularly the more time that elapses since it was last handled. A glossier material, like those pamphlets from the New Salem Society, would be significantly easier to pull, but on something like this...there’s also the nature of the object, a card - it gets handled frequently, possibly by different people - if there is any fingermark evidence on this card its likely to be smudged, smeared or otherwise obscured by anything in the atmosphere, or even multiple prints from multiple people….” 

Murdoch paused...seeing Llewellyn looking so vulnerable, crestfallen, and dejected was not a common occurrence, nor was it particularly pleasant. It pulled at his heartstrings. He sighed. His experiments would have to wait for the next rare free afternoon he stumbled upon.

“But if it means so much to you, I’m happy to try...”

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

When Murdoch missed their agreed upon meeting time, a puzzled Julia Ogden made her way into the Detective's office. He was never late to a lunch date without good reason. She imagined some last-minute inquiry had arisen, and was therefore unsurprised to find the two dark-haired detectives surrounded by books, papers, and fingerprint cards. She smiled at Llewellyn who was making some notes on Murdoch’s chalkboard, utterly unaware that his right sleeve was covered in chalk dust. Murdoch was staring fixedly into his microscope with furrowed brow. 

She smiled internally, marvelling once again that despite their obvious differences, William and Llewellyn were so incredibly similar. 

“Are you working on a case?”  she asked in a bemused voice, startling Murdoch from his work. 

“Not as such” said Llewellyn, his hand nervously making his way to scratch at his sideburns, smearing the chalk dust into his dark curls, “Detective Murdoch was assisting me in a personal inquiry.” 

“It’s actually a useful puzzle - the matter of pulling fingermarks from porous surfaces - if we could find a foolproof way to do so, it could revolutionize the way we gather evidence…” 

“And did you have any success?” asked Julia excitedly. 

The detectives exchanged a glance. 

“No,” said Murdoch. 

“Just smudges. No discernable fingermarks,” sighed Llewellyn as he put down the magnifying glass and smudges he had been examining. Looking down at the floor, he scratched at his cheek awkwardly and said, “I apologise, it appears I’ve wasted your time, Detective.” 

Murdoch didn’t answer right away, and Julia felt herself wanting to roll her eyes in exasperation. For all their intelligence, men could be so dense . 

“Time that was put to a useful or enjoyable pursuit is never wasted, Llewellyn,” she said reassuringly, shooting Murdoch a look . Understanding, Murdoch quickly interjected... “It was an interesting exercise, Watts. It’s given me much to think about for alternate methods of fingermark sampling. Perhaps we don’t need to so much pull the fingermarks from the surface so much as we can record the fingermark on the surface. It would take some experimentation but perhaps we can get the fingermark to react to chemical substances, much as a photograph develops in the right combination of chemicals...it would require a thorough analysis of the composition of oils that exist in the skin - perhaps Julia, you can assist us with this?”  

“Certainly...though, perhaps after lunch?” suggested Julia.

“Ah,” said Murdoch sheepishly, suddenly remembering. 

“Perhaps,” said Llewellyn, “Or some other time…” 

“Would you care to join us for lunch, Llewellyn?” asked Julia. 

William and Llewellyn both looked up at her; Murdoch shot her an incredulous look. 

She watched the emotions chase each other across Llewellyn’s face, embarrassment, appreciation, guilt, hope, shame...finally  he pursed his lips and smiled tightly, “Thank you for the offer, but I wouldn’t wish to impose, perhaps another time? Anyway, I’ve brought some lunch today,” he said, pulling a handkerchief-wrapped pretzel from one of his pockets. 

Did he always have pretzels in his pockets? thought Julia, bemusedly, “Well, you’re always welcomed, Llewellyn. If you’re sure.”

He nodded emphatically, taking a bite out of his pretzel for effect. 

“Another time, then.” 

“I’ll tidy these materials, you can go on ahead,” said Llewellyn, his mouth full, indicating at Murdoch's door with the pretzel in his hand.  

“Don’t...worry,” said Murdoch, “I’ll put everything away upon my return.” He nodded at the door. Taking the hint, Llewellyn retrieved his hat from the top of Murdoch’s typewriter, swallowing his mouthful of pretzel.

“Thank you for humoring my inquiry, Detective,” he said sincerely, and made his way out of Murdoch’s office. 

He wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting or hoping to learn from that card. Perhaps he was just so desperate for a distraction that he invented something with which to concern himself? 

Still, his instinct screamed at him that it was somehow significant, he just couldn’t see the full picture, like a half-remembered dream, or an overexposed photograph. He resolved to mention it to Newt when they spoke in just a few hours’ time (Llewellyn reassured himself). Everything would be alright. He would be visiting Newt at the weekend and the thought gave comfort. Somewhere in Saskatchewan or Alberta, they’d meet and spend a day together. They’d have time to just be .  He sighed, deciding that perhaps a walk would do him some good. Perhaps he’d stroll by the Greek street food vender, for some spanakopita and some baklava for dessert.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *