CHAPTER FIVE

1710 Hours, Saturday June 24th, 1922

Toronto City Morgue

Julia just sat down to her coffee when Detective Murdoch and one of his constables finally waltzed in. She recognized Constable Crabtree from Friday night at the Crown Club, a slight, youthful-looking man she guessed was no more than twenty-five. She always found it hard to tell about the ages - or heights - of men in uniform, finding the uniform to be a great equalizer and to add extra years or gravitas to a man's bearing. The copper's topper added four inches, minimum.

Both Murdoch and Crabtree had the same grim expression.

Julia was not particularly chipper either, the two autopsies she completed today making her arms and feet and back ache miserably. Stretching had not helped one whit; she complained to herself about having gotten to feel so old. But she tried to smile, mindful of her bet with Ruby about seducing the detective. "Gentlemen," she set her cup down, "you are here for the results of my day's work?"

"Yes, Doctor. Do you have any more information?"

The detective removed his hat, prompting the constable to remove his helmet. Politeness aside, he remained focused on the case. Julia mused if he ever was not focused on work.

It certainly wasn't making her wager with Ruby any easier.

She found herself starting with a complaint. "Aside from a traffic accident victim whose cause of death was relatively easy to determine, I have eight other dead individuals to autopsy." She gave a last, longing look at her cup of coffee, then turned to the folder she prepared, and opened it. She cleared her throat. "I can tell you at least one of them, Mr. Landswell, did not die of natural causes. He was an otherwise healthy individual. Sectioning of his liver indicates there is no evidence he was alcoholic and there is no other tissue damage. I have concluded he was poisoned."

"And which poison, Doctor?" the detective said, a little too quickly. Instead of apologizing for his impatience, he clamped his lips tighter.

"If the poison was cumulative, I would have seen visible organ and tissue damage in the samples I took. I did not. I also confirmed it with a test for inorganic compounds, which was negative." She saw the edge of the detective's mouth twitch. He already knows that, Julia, she told herself.

"And…" he prompted.

Clearly his version of restraint. She withheld her exasperation, but he got the message, making an apology in her direction. But he still held steady for an answer. "The scientific process requires systematic analysis," she reminded him. "I did a general test for alkaloids in each of three samples, blood, stomach contents and the bottle of cognac, which were all positive."

He continued to stand there; pencil poised over his notebook.

"Mr. Landswell's death was due to asphyxia brought on by chemical poisoning of the neural pathways which control breathing." Julia handed him a prepared page. "I have a list of chemical compounds which result in respiratory arrest to test for, but I only had enough reagents for four tests-the four I already conducted. I put typical chemicals which are used to denature alcohol at the top of the list." She paused. "It is still a long list."

"Do you have an informed hypothesis, Doctor...?"

"A guess, Detective? You don't strike me as the type to appreciate guesses. I am still without enough material to complete the list, not to mention the comparative analysis for court on all eight corpses and the accompanying reference samples of presumptive tainted alcohol." She said this plainly trying not to be defensive under his scrutiny. Previous coroners figured it out despite inadequate resources and this persnickety detective with whom to contend, so she can too. "But whatever it was, he consumed it within hours of his death."

The detective nodded to Constable Crabtree, who pulled out his own notebook. "Sir. My investigation indicated Mr. Landswell came to the club directly from his office for his supper a little after six, was served and ate by six-thirty or so, then opened his liquor vault and began drinking from it after he finished his meal. The only bottle removed was the cognac, and he did not offer any to another member. He sat alone at his table drinking, but it was not unusual."

Julia's recollections of the evening were similar. "Your time-frame is consistent with my assessment of his stomach contents and assumptions about the toxic substance which killed him. That will figure into determining the poison and the official time of death."

Detective Murdoch scribbled again in his notebook. "Yes. Well… Thank you, Doctor."

He made to leave, when Julia reached out to stop him. She nearly got her hand on his arm when she pulled back. "I will require more materials, which I don't currently have, and a careful analysis to pin it down. Moreover, I have no idea if it is the same chemical which caused all the other deaths."

"Point taken," he said, with the ghost of a smile. "Constable, please collect Mr. Landswell's effects and meet me in my office. Thank you again."

Julia watched him tip his hat and leave. Still no connection with him, but now she had an eager younger constable with whom to make inroads.

With Detective Murdoch gone, Constable Crabtree relaxed, smiling as he turned to her. "Good evening, Doctor. Quite a welcome aboard you've received here, haven't you?" he laughed slightly. "I... I must add I'm quite pleased to see a woman here...I've long been a supporter of women's rights," he added. "I... I don't believe we've formally met. I'm Constable Crabtree... George Crabtree."

Smiling, she walked back at her coffee. "Nice to meet you too. Can I offer you some?" she asked, gesturing at her pot.

"Much obliged. I... I used to hate the taste of the stuff, but ever since I shipped overseas..." He accepted a cup from her.

"Yes; a common experience...mine included," she laughed back.

"I didn't know you served in the war, Doctor." He took the seat she offered.

"I finished at the University of Toronto in spring of 1914. I fully intended to go to medical school in the fall, but my father argued it was unsuitable for a woman, and instead gave me a trip to Europe. I was in Britain visiting family when the war broke out, and well, it was the thing to do, I guess."

"I've, er...met your father. On the job...an inquest...I can't imagine your father took it well, his daughter joining the war - if you don't mind the observation. This coffee is delicious, by the way…"

"Thank you," she raised her cup. "And no, my father was not pleased, but he wasn't in England, and didn't understand the zeal of enlisting like they did in Britain. He was unhappy with me, but to order my return would have been equally unseemly for him," she shrugged. "After two years as a nurse at field hospitals in France - at the endless Verdun no less - he made me a deal. If I'd leave the war, he'd pay for my medical training. I was reluctant to abandon the war effort, but…" she stopped, hoping he would understand. She was glad when he smiled.

"I... I would have taken the deal as well," he nodded approvingly. "Besides, Verdun was a nasty place. I managed to avoid it myself...didn't get to France until January '18. By a stroke of fortune, I was assigned to Captain Brackenreid Royal Military Police unit with Lieutenant Murdoch as his second in command. I served with them for about a year. When they mustered out in February '19, they recruited me to apply for a position with the Constabulary when the war was over." He smiled. Proudly, she thought.

The men of Station House 4 had been comrades in arms, which meant an extra level of trust between them. Julia did a quick mental calculation: the constable was younger than he looked, perhaps only twenty-three. Inspector Brackenreid and the Detective must have volunteered right after Prime Minister Borden's 1916 New Year's address asking for more volunteers. "Has Detective Murdoch always been a demanding man to work for?"

"Well y... yes, and no. During the war he always set the best example for his men, was ...well he...he managed to be stern and congenial, even lighthearted at times, but then…" Crabtree stopped himself again, clearly uncomfortable.

"Don't worry, constable. I'm not here to get you in trouble, I'm just trying to figure him out, is all, trying to avoid the fate of the other coroners... I understand he ran the last one out."

"Yes, yes...well, you'd have to ask the Detective about that. Besides," he said, "Detective Murdoch is a man of science. His methods are exact and precise, but I understand they have to be...He asks nothing of us he will not himself do, or...or at least has done ...in the past I mean. Of course there is the matter of digging holes…." He stopped, then smiled more broadly. "I'm fortunate to be learning from the best. Detective Murdoch believes I can eventually be promoted to detective myself!"

"A paragon of virtue," she commented, hiding her doubts.

"He even encourages my imagination. I used to amuse my mates with games or stories when we were over there - you know, to deal with the boredom...days, weeks and months of it…You know when we were not..."

He stopped abruptly, this time with no smile. She recognized that particularly distant look because she'd seen it before on many a soldier: the holding in, the uncertainty whether any other living soul could possibly comprehend life in a bloody, stinking, vermin-infested trench, where the only relief from that misery was to be ordered over the wall to withstand a barrage from the enemy. She never faced that in person, but she'd choked on the stench of their blood-soaked and putrid clothing when they came to the aid station. She was there to listen to the pitiful whimpers or raw-throated screams of men's whose nightmares tore them awake in the middle of the night. She sat endless hours with men whose bodies and brains refused to let them rest, or were constantly alert, or were constantly in pain from limbs which were only ghosts. She heard from more than one of them that they wished they'd died instead of surviving.

Too late, she recognized she'd gone too far. She made sure she looked directly into his eyes. "Yes. I believe the phrase I heard from soldiers was 'months of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror…'" she said gently, thinking she knew why he spoke hesitantly at times - not a stutter exactly - but as a result of what he experienced in the war exaggerated a natural tendency. He covered it well, she thought.

He gulped and nodded, waving her off, eager to change the subject. "Well, um...Detective Murdoch encourages me to pursue creative writing, but does advise me to save it for my stories, not my official reports. I... I fancy myself getting published one day."

"I'm sure you've learned my sister is a writer. She'd be delighted to make a friend on the police force and could even instruct you on the finer points of journalism, but she will more likely than not get you in trouble here at your day job."

He gave her a lopsided smile. "You know, Doctor, this case about poison has inspired me to write a story about a couple of older women who poison lonely gentleman callers for their money...I'd call it "Cyanide and Sympathy", or "Satin and Strychnine" I... I will have to use a pseudonym because my Aunties might think the story is autobiographical. I have a... a great many Aunties you see…." He was clearly about to launch into a story when the phone rang.

Colouring, he stood up. "Goodness...That'll be Detective Murdoch wondering where I... I've gone. Tell him I'm on my way," he instructed, stopping only to grab Landswell's personal effects and head up the morgue ramp and out the door.

Julia just shook her head at his mad scramble to flee across the street to the station house. Getting to know Constable Crabtree was going to be delightful. Making those inroads into Detective Murdoch, however, was proving to be a challenge. She reached for the telephone, picking up the receiver.

"Toronto City Morgue, Dr. Julia Ogden speaking…"