Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Newt emerged from Toronto’s Union Station into the brilliant sunshine of a late summer’s day. It felt so good to stretch his legs after so many hours on the train. He heard a scuttle sound coming from his case. He hugged it to his chest and whispered, “I promise, not much longer! I’ll be there soon!”
He glanced around, making sure he hadn't been overheard while taking in the sights with admiration. Toronto was a lovely city. Though not as bustling or large as London, or some of the other world capitals he'd seen, there was something undeniably charming about Toronto. He began to meander along Bay Street towards the Bank of Toronto to exchange British Pounds for Canadian Dollars.
After the bank, Newt stopped at a street corner and pulled out the copy of Baedeker’s Canada Mundane & Magical that Dumbledore had given him. Though he’d looked it over multiple times on his journey, he was hoping he’d find something of use this time. As happy as he was to explore Toronto for a while before moving on, he knew there was a reason why Dumbledore had been so insistent for him to stop here.
Thumbing through the book, he paused on the section titled Toronto-Accommodations . There were numerous hotels and boarding houses in both Magical and Muggle Toronto. He’d prefer to stay in the Muggle side for anonymity, but he figured it (whatever it was) must have something to do with Wizarding Toronto, otherwise, Dumbledore would not have him travel so far out of his way. He resolved to make his way towards Toronto's Wizarding district. Newt figured he ought to send word to his mum that he’d arrived safely. Perhaps also a message to Dumbledore, prodding the man for more information on just what he should look out for in lovely Toronto.
He sighed. Perhaps rather than the Magical Post Office, he should look for a transatlantic floo.
According to Baedeker , the new entrance to magical Toronto, the McGill Street Arch, had just been constructed a few years before. It was a brilliant piece of enchantment: A freestanding stone arch completely invisible to muggles. If one were magical, one need only to walk through, under the plaque that read Toronto Wizarding District, founded 1793 , to enter magical Toronto. It was conveniently located, just a stone’s throw from Queen’s Park, which apart from being home to the muggle Provincial Government Offices, was the entrance to the Canadian Magical Parliament of the Province of Ontario (accessed via the Queen Victoria Monument). Newt began to make his way to the Arch. The charming streets hummed with activity. He glanced around taking it all in, allowing his mind to wander.
As he neared the soaring, elegant, Romanesque Revival structure that was Toronto’s City Hall however, Newt found his way blocked by quite a commotion. A large group had gathered on the steps, under the shadow of the famous clock tower. Many people were shaking their heads and laughing while others seemed to watch with attention or perhaps morbid curiosity.
Young shabbily dressed children were weaving their way through the gathered throng, distributing leaflets. A woman’s shrill shouts could be heard over the general din. She stood before a giant banner that read ‘New Salem Society’ and featured images of red whorls of flame and hands clutching at what looked like... broken wands? What in Merlin's name? Newt drew closer, his curiosity getting the better of him.
He passed a young woman dressed in smart dark clothes with short brown hair who’d stopped to ask elderly muggle man, “What’s all this about?”
The man sighed, “It’s those New Salem-ers, making trouble again. Preaching about witches...accusing them of murder...load of rubbish if you ask me.”
The young woman huffed, “I don’t have time for this today,” and pushed roughly through the crowd towards Queen’s Park, but the word witches had caught Newt’s attention. He glanced around at the gathered people - ordinary people. This was a muggle crowd, Newt was sure of it - he had even passed some muggle aurors on patrol (He thought they were called pleasemen? Constables! That was it!) carrying batons and dressed in their funny helmets and dark tunic coats. Something was very wrong if muggles were preaching about witches. Perhaps this had something to do with Dumbledore’s insistence that he come to Toronto?
Newt wanted to ask the man for more information but he had begun to walk away before Newt could draw nearer. Instead, he made his way forward weaving through people to try to get a better look.
* * * * * * *
Watts and Murdoch made it to the demonstration in record time. They dismounted from their bicycles and left them leaning against the wall of a bakery shop before making their way into the gathering crowd.
On their way, they passed George.
“Anything to report, George?” asked Watts.
“Nothing, Sir. Miss Barebone is here, with the New Salem Society. They are preaching about the evils of witchcraft of all things. The woman was making some wild accusations about murders and impropriety…”
Watts made a noise he hoped was vaguely sympathetic sounding. He was still far too rattled by their discovery of the Reverend’s files.
“Anything suspicious?” asked Murdoch.
“No, Sir. Though the crowd seems to be disbelieving, and in some cases, ridiculing the New Salem-ers.”
He nodded at a band of children who were following one of the New Salem children, teasing and calling names. Watts recognised the Barebone boy with a jolt. He watched as the boy took off into the crowd. He followed urgently, with George and Murdoch following in his stead.
* * * * * * *
Newt had made it almost to the center when all of a sudden, a small form collided with him, jostling him. His case flew from his hands and clattered to the floor. A boy had toppled over into Newt before falling to the sidewalk, pamphlets fluttering from his hands. Behind him, a crowd of children laughed, jeering. Some nearby adults chucked as well. A constable made his way over as Newt helped the boy to his feet.
“Are you alright there?” he asked. The boy blushed with shame under his stringy bowl haircut. He mumbled something that Newt couldn’t catch, then sprinted off into the crowd. The jeering children chased after him. Newt picked up a pamphlet, and straightened himself, then felt his heart sink straight to his stomach as his gaze fell on his case, which had landed on its side a few feet away. To his dismay, a small furry creature had wriggled its way out, and was now slipping through the feet of the gathered muggles.
‘Nick! Sneaky little bugger!’ Newt swore under his breath, grabbed up his case and began to follow quickly.
“YOU THERE!” came a shrill voice, as Nick vanished behind a young mother and her pram. Momentarily distracted, Newt glanced around him, before looking up. The preacher woman was staring straight at him, her finger pointing towards his chest. “Are YOU a seeker of the Truth?” She asked.
Newt, now very close to panicking managed a pained smile and replied, “I’m more of a chaser, really. Pardon me,” and then he took off at a quick trot, in the vague direction in which he'd last seen Nick.
BOOM!
An explosion rent the air, shaking the very ground beneath their feet.
Dust and debris rained down, and Newt fell to the floor, hitting his head hard against his case, which fell open again. As the panicked masses began to scream and run, he slipped into unconsciousness.
* * * * * * *
Shouts filled the air, punctuated by the constables’ shrill whistles.
Watts scrambled to his feet, thoroughly winded but unharmed. He registered the screams around him as if from a distance, his ears still ringing from the boom of the explosion. He glanced around and was relieved to see that Murdoch was already making his way through the debris helping people to their feet. He’d lost sight of George, and felt his stomach sink - he hoped the constable was unharmed. In the time they've worked together, Watts had come to think of George as a friend.
It was pandemonium.
Constables and volunteers gathered the wounded - at least 30 men, women and children in various degrees of injury. They dug through the rubble looking for survivors and casualties.
The explosion had torn a newsstand to shreds, the proprietor was slumped on the sidewalk, covered in blood and not moving. Watts couldn’t tell whether he was alive or not.
Volunteers were making their way over to young boys who were also sprawled, unmoving on the floor nearby. He forced himself to move on, walking into what appeared to have been the epicenter of the blast.
Murdoch poured over the debris looking for signs of, well, anything. So far his search was turning up empty. He found no markings or shards of incendiary devices.
“There’s a lot of dust, but no smoke or signs of combustion - what on Earth could have caused this destruction?” asked Watts desperately.
Murdoch was staring fixedly at something on the ground a few feet away.
“Detective Watts, come take a look at this,” his voice sounded strangled.
Watts quickly picked his way through the debris to stand next to Murdoch.
“Are my eyes deceiving me, or are these…”
“My word!”
There in the middle of the explosion were what appeared to be footprints imprinted into the paving stones.
Watts knelt down and cautiously touched the treads of the sole that had been stamped into the cracked ground.
He looked up at Murdoch utterly flabbergasted.
“Could the force of an explosion have…”
“I’ve never seen anything like it…”
“Detective Watts, Detective Murdoch!” came a voice nearby, and Watts was relieved to see a shaken George Crabtree relatively unharmed, though his uniform was covered in dust.
“Ah, Constable. I’m glad to see you’re alright.”
“Sirs, we were very fortunate. None of the lads were harmed. At the last count, we have thirty-five injured - some quite seriously so. Those boys and the man at the newsstand...well it doesn't look good. We’re having them transported to the hospital. We’ve begun taking statements from the witnesses.”
“Did anyone notice anything at all, George?” asked Murdoch, “Particularly in this area - it appears to be the location where the bomb went off.”
George indicated with a slight nod of his head, “That blond woman with the baby claims that a red-headed man was acting very suspiciously. She said he was talking to himself as he ran right past her, and then, not a moment later, the explosion occurred. She claims he was running away from the explosion before it happened, Sirs! She identified him as one of the injured. Higgins is taking him to the station for questioning.”
“Excellent, George.”
“Sirs have you found any trace of a bomb? This was most unlike any explosion I’ve ever witnessed. There was no light, no fire, just,” he extended his fingers in the air, “BOOM! It’s making me think again on your Electric Field Weapon theory...”
“About that, George…” started Murdoch uncomfortably, “Do you have an imprint making kit with you? We discovered some...some curious markings on the floor in the area where I believe the explosion occurred and we will need to analyze them further.”
“Of course, Sir. I’ll fetch it straight away.”
Watts watched George trudge his way back through the debris, when he noticed a solitary figure sitting on the steps of City Hall.
It was the Barebone boy.
He left Murdoch still examining the debris and began to make his way over to the boy. A field medic station to treat the injured had been set up near where the Cenotaph was under construction. Higgins was standing guard beside a copper-haired man who had blood trickling down his forehead. Watts vaguely remembered the young man had exchanged words with the Barebone woman before the explosion. He resolved to ask him about it back at the station. He walked on.
The boy sat hugging his arms around his chest. His shoulders hunched. His dark clothes and hair were surprisingly devoid of the dust that clung to everyone else present.
“Do you mind if I join you...Mr. Barebone, Credence was it?” The boy was staring out into the destruction numbly. When he didn’t answer, Watts sat down beside him, ignoring the dust that coated the stairs.
“Are you alright, lad?”
He remained silent for a while. Watts didn’t push him.
Finally, he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, “Will he be alright?”
“Who?” asked Watts softly.
“The man at the newsstand...he looked…he looked...” he closed his eyes.
Watts felt for the boy. Witnessing such violence and devastation was never easy, especially for a child. “I don’t know. I’m very sorry.”
The boy looked up at him, a questioning and mistrustful look in his eyes.
Watts continued, “It’s always a shock to witness something like this, especially so young. Life seems particularly cruel and chaotic in the face of such tragedy and suffering.”
Credence averted his gaze, his shoulders stiff.
He fell quiet for a moment. Watts looked about him, then continued, “You know, I was an orphan myself…”
The boy looked up at him again.
“My parents died when I was just a lad. I was raised by my sister for a couple of years, but we were in and out of children’s homes for a while, largely dependent on the charity of strangers, until one day she vanished without a trace. Luckily, my parents’ landlady took me in and raised me with her sons. I was fortunate to have her and her family...to have a home again, but it’s not easy. Not easy at all. It’s a cruel lot, being an orphan.”
He hesitated, “Credence, if things ever get bad, if you ever feel alone, or in danger, do you have someone to turn to?”
The boy stared firmly at the ground. The only indication he gave that he’d heard Watts was the slightest shrug to his shoulder.
Watts took out his card, and said very seriously, “If ever you need help, Mr. Barebone, you can find me at Station House Four. If ever you need assistance, they will send for me, any time of day or night.” Watts held it out for him to take. When the boy didn’t move, after a beat, he placed it on the step next to him.
They say in awkward silence for a little while.
“It looks like your mother has finished giving her statement to my colleagues.”
“She’s not my mother,” he breathed, the words barely audible.
Watts nodded abruptly.
“Does she hurt you, Credence? And the other children?”
The boy didn’t answer, but Watts did not need an answer. He sighed, wishing he could do more.
“We will be stopping by again later, to speak to Miss Barebone, and hopefully you and your adoptive siblings as well. Take care of yourself, lad. Please don’t forget what I said,” finished Watts softly, standing. He dusted his trousers roughly with his hands, and walked away a short distance to observe.
Miss Barebone made her way over to the boy and tugged him up by the scruff of his neck.
“What were you doing, Credence?” she snapped at the boy.
“Nothing, I promise.”
“You’re always sneaking around and looking shifty. It looks like you’ll need disciplining when we get home.” She yanked him hard, and dragged him back along the square.
Watts felt his stomach churn. He hated abuse of any kind, particularly abuse of children. He thought to his adoptive brothers, Hubert and Daniel, and just how much they’d suffered at the hands of others. How he’d tried so hard to be their protectors, and how brutally he failed. There were countless stories like theirs, children forgotten and unloved in the world. Children who carried the weight of the world on their shoulders, who were constantly met with cruelty rather than love.
Watts was a philosopher. He recognized his personality was not one that often drew people in. Part of it was because of the number of people he lost in his life - it was difficult to willfully form a connection to others knowing there was always a chance of losing them. Part of it was his own nature which was always a little odd. He himself had been a victim to bullies through his childhood. In his many solitary hours, Llewellyn Watts reflected on his life, saw the natural progression as he floated from loss to loss, tragedy to tragedy. He felt untethered and relatively invisible. Watts did not allow those tragedies or the loneliness to make him cruel or indifferent however. He sought meaning in philosophy, learning, and constantly striving to better himself. He searched for joy in the little things...a good book, trying new delicious foods, savoring a drink of wine, sharing a few words with a stranger, traveling the world when he could save a little money.
He devoted his life to defending the defenseless and protecting those who could not protect themselves. This need to care for others, like finding the forgotten disappeared women like his sister and protecting people like his brothers, was his driving force. It brought him to the Constabulary where his brilliant-but-unorthodox methodologies brought him up the ladder to detective rather quickly. Though he still struggled to make friends, he’d finally found a sort of family in Station House Four (it was a great deal better than Station House One at any rate).
Perhaps Watts saw something of himself, his brothers, his sister, and any number of unfortunate children in Credence Barebone; any child that was forced to face the cruelty of the world too young. Watts sighed. Part of him hoped that Miss Barebone was guilty of something so she could be locked away, and the children could be free of her.
With a sigh, he checked the step where the boy had been sitting and was relieved to see that his card was missing.
* * * * * * *