The Queen's Plate

by espark

A series of stories from the point of view of three female characters in Murdoch Mysteries - Julia Odgen, Ruby Odgen and Emily Grace. The three installments revolve around suspicious circumstances at the longest running horse race in North America - The Queen's Plate.

3. Chapter 3

This final installment is from Emily Grace's point of view. Setting: 1899/ right before season 5 - the one year out of eleven that Seagram Stables didn't win the horse race.

I put down the medical journal and sighed at my empty waiting room. The furious quiet was eroding my optimism. I had done the calculations and, at this rate, unless I got some more paying clients, I would only be able to keep my private practice going for another month. Nonetheless, my spirit was buoyed by the anticipation of a good scientific lecture, in even better company.

I peered outside the window before leaving. Jerome Bradley, my former fiance, had a habit of pouncing on me, but he was nowhere in sight. I put on my hat and jacket, then locked up.

All week I'd been looking forward to meeting Julia Ogden for the lecture and I wasn't about to let Jerome interfere. It'd be just like him. Ironically, I owed much of my friendship with Julia to Jerome. I'd started spending more time with her to quench his jealousy. Leaving Jerome had been the right thing to do, but my heart was still raw.

Minutes later, when I saw Julia, poised and professional at the entrance of the lecture hall, my confidence rose to mirror hers. I greeted her with a smile. She asked after my work and I told her of my struggles to attract clients. Talking with my friend was just what I needed, like drinking a warm cup of cocoa after a long walk in the cold.

She reassured me, "Remember, even for male doctors, earning patients to trust can be asking quite a lot."

I confessed. "Sometimes I get tired of having to put on a fresh smile, even when I feel down; to stay polite and professional when people are demanding and rude; to prove myself over and over to skeptical clients. It is so draining."

She sighed and nodded in understanding, "Yes, I used to feel that way. It helped quite a bit when I started working as a coroner."

I laughed, "What, because none of your patients could complain?"

"Yes, there is that," she smiled and then continued more seriously, "but equally important are the people I work with, the constables and the detectives. They respect and appreciate me, especially the men at Station House No 4. Sometimes who you work with is just as important as what work you do. Of course, not everyone is gracious and kind, but at least they are all civil. And some in particular are … well... wonderful." She sighed sadly, caught herself, and then added hastily, "and my husband is supportive of my career, for which I am most grateful." Her words rang false and I was about to ask her more, when the chime sounded, announcing the start of the lecture.

We listened to Dr. T. D. Crothers, professor at the New York School of Clinical Medicine, give a lecture on the medicinal benefits and risks of neuroses from alcohol, opium, chloral, cocaine and other narcotics. Like two bright yellow dandelions sprouting in a tidy green lawn, we were the only women in the audience.

The next day passed with only one consultation and the woman offered a chicken as payment. I was desperate enough to actually consider it.

As usual, I peered out the window, making sure that Jerome wasn't lurking on the street. The sun was about to set, but there was enough light to see outside. The street was empty, except for a small man in a bowler hat entering the horse surgeon's office across the street. Satisfied that my ex-fiance wouldn't ambush me, I finished locking up and left the office.

I walked down the street a few paces before I heard a crash followed by horrible, strangling sound. I whipped around to see a bald man in shirt sleeves holding onto his chest and gasping for air. It was Dr. Green, the horse surgeon from the office across the street. He fell out of the doorway and sank to his knees shouting, "HELP!"

I rushed to his side. I kept calm and noted his symptoms - chest pain, rapid breathing, irregular heartbeat, and nausea. (Thankfully, I avoided the vomit.) The man looked around wildly, "Good lord, the horses are everywhere. It's a stampede! The horses, the horses will kill us all!" Also, I noted, hallucination.

People were gathering around the stricken man and a woman shouted, "Someone, get a doctor!"

"I am a doctor!" I replied fiercely.

I knew what to do. I raced to my office, but getting the medicine took longer than I'd hoped. By the time I got back Dr Green, now surrounded by a small crowd, was lying motionless in the street. I felt for a pulse - nothing. The nitroglycerin wouldn't do him any good now.

People were murmuring and shaking their heads. Their skeptical curiosity mingled with my failed gallantry and threatened to spill over into rebuke when something unexpected caught my attention. I examined the dead man more closely. He was warm to the touch, extremely warm. Also, his pupils were dilated. Thinking back to the lecture I'd just attended, I realized that this had not been a normal heart attack.

A constable appeared, shouting directions, "Stand back, stand back." Then seeing me kneeling next to the dead man, he demanded, "What's going on here?"

I looked around for the small man in the brown plaid suit who had entered Dr. Green's office mere minutes before. I spotted him lingering suspiciously on the periphery of the crowd.

I stood and spoke softly to the constable, "I suspect that man in the brown suit has something to do with this man's death." With a nod, I indicated the suspicious man.

My subtlety was lost on the constable as he shouted, "You there, in the bowler hat, come here." His words had the opposite effect and the suspect bolted.

The constable made no attempt to chase the runaway but turned back to me. He eyed me curiously, "And who might you be?" He boomed, as if he had to make up for my previous lack of volume.

I introduced myself and explained the situation. He scoffed when I told him I was a physician, "I guess anyone can call themselves a doctor these days." He added patronizingly, "You just wait here until the detective comes. We'll see what he says about this mess."

I sat down on a bench to wait while the constable interviewed some of the bystanders and went inside Dr. Green's office to look around. Over an hour later, a barrel-shaped man with bold mustache arrived in a carriage. It was dusk now and my stomach was rumbling, telling me it expected dinner.

"What you got constable?" the mustached detective asked.

"The deceased is a Dr. Edward Green, horse surgeon for the Ontario Jockey Club. This is his office. He collapsed of a heart attack about an hour ago. Witnesses say this clever little lady tried to help him. She thinks she saw a suspicious man hanging around.. She also claims to be a doctor." He spoke loudly and haltingly, like motor car sputtering to life.

"Well, they say even pigs can be clever, that doesn't mean they can be doctors." The detective replied and laughed at his words.

I was boiling with indignation, but determined to stay professional. I recounted calmly what I'd witnessed. The detective didn't seem to be listening to what I said. He merely took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, twice.

I tried to capture his attention, "Detective, from the man's behavior and symptoms shortly before his death, I suspect the victim died of an atypical heart attack, probably induced by a strong stimulant."

He said nothing, merely replaced his handkerchief in his pocket.

I tapped down the urge to scream or cry, or both.

Then, a young constable with a blotched complexion came out of Dr. Green's office and handed the detective a green glass vial.

The detective took the small bottle and read the label. "Look like some kind of horse medicine; it's got cocaine and some other stuff in it." He wrinkled his brow and then proclaimed, "Yup, I'd say the victim had a heart attack, and it was caused by taking too much this here cocaine concoction. We're all done here. Case closed."

I continued, "Wait, you can't determine the cause of death until a post mortem is performed. And even if the heart attack was caused by an overdose of that drug, you don't know if it was self-administered."

The detective looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

I stamped my foot and declared, "He might have been poisoned!"

He shook his head wearily, "Nah. I'm sure it was an accident. It wouldn't be the first time some poor bugger took too much cocaine and blew his heart out. I wouldn't worry your pretty little head over it."

I was stunned. My testimony had been dismissed and there would be no investigation - just like that. Stubborn pride took root and I knew I could not give up.

I thought about going to find Julia. After all, she was the city coroner. Then I realized I would waste precious time crisscrossing the city to find my friend. Who else could I turn to? The scene needed to be investigated properly and quickly, before evidence was lost. Julia's gratitude for the people with whom she worked rose to my mind. I knew where to go.

I hailed a carriage and told the driver to take me across town, to Station House No 4.

It was full dark when I arrived at the reassuring, brick building. As luck would have it, I entered the station and found a dark-haired constable reading, what looked like a novel, behind a desk.

"Excuse me. I'd like to report a crime, a murder, I suspect." I said to the constable.

He stood up, suddenly alert. "Of course, Miss." He eagerly pulled out a notepad and a pencil. "And what's your name?" He spoke with a quaint Newfoundland accent.

"I am Dr. Emily Grace." I said.

"Oh really? Dr. Grace you say?" He was surprised.

Not this again. I was so sick and tired of people questioning my credentials. What could I possibly say to this ignorant swine to convince him to take me seriously?

Then he added, "I think Dr. Ogden mentioned you. Yes, she was talking about you with the Inspector, yesterday."

My protests died on my lips and I breathed, "Oh. Yes, Dr. Ogden is a friend and colleague of mine."

He smiled at me, "Right this way, Dr. Grace. You're lucky Detective Murdoch is still in his office. You can give him your information." He led the way through to a cluttered office. Several scales and measuring equipment lay on the large table, as well as various coils of rope.

A conservatively dressed, middle-aged man looked up from the piece of rope he was weighing. "Yes, Crabtree, what have you?"

The constable introduced me and I relayed my information to the detective. Constable Crabtree took careful notes and Detective Murdoch listened intently, occasionally asking me questions to clarify a point.

"How well did you know the dead man? What can you tell us about him?" He asked.

"We'd spoken a few times, just in passing. We occasionally greeted each other, as we went to and from work. His office is directly across the street from mine. He works as an animal doctor, mostly a horse surgeon, and provides care for many thoroughbreds at the Ontario Jockey Club. He was successful enough that he recently took on an apprentice."

Constable Crabtree turned to the detective, "Sir, that area is Station House No. 5's jurisdiction. I wonder why a local constable wasn't involved."

I stammered, "Oh, well … a constable arrived shortly after the man died, and a detective." The two men eyed me suspiciously.

Detective Murdoch asked me, his tone carefully neutral, "Then why did you feel the need to come across town to make a report to us?"

I explained how the constables had dismissed my assessment and pronounced the death an accidental overdose with no further investigation. I finished, "There needs to be a post mortem exam of the body and a proper investigation."

Crabtree said tentatively, "Sir, didn't Ruby Ogden run an exposé about doping in horse races?"

Murdoch nodded, "Yes, I remember that the article accused certain constables of taking bribes - Station House No 5, I believe. But at the time, there was no proof." He paused. I could almost see the wheels of thought turning in his mind. "We'd better talk to Inspector Brackenreid about this before we act. There could be bigger implications to this case than just one suspicious death."

After talking to the inspector on the telephone, Murdoch looked pleased, "Inspector Brackenreid agrees we should investigate, and quickly. In fact, he was rather giddy at the opportunity to catch Station House No. 5 in some wrongdoing." He continued, "Thank you for coming forward Dr. Grace. We may need you to answer some further questions later." I could tell his gratitude and respect was genuine. Julia had been right, these were a different breed of men than Jerome and the barrel-shaped detective from Station No. 5. These people saw me as a thinking professional, not just a frivolous swish of skirts.

A day passed and I was surprised, and even disappointed, that I didn't hear anything more from the constabulary. So I was glad when Julia came by later the next day and asked me to lunch.

I couldn't wait to ask about the case. "Did you determine the cause of Dr. Green's death? Was it a cardiac arrest due to cocaine?"

Julia answered, "I am afraid I can't disclose information in an ongoing case," but her broad smile and twinkling eyes told me I'd been right.

She continued, "I can tell you that Detective Murdoch spoke highly of you. Also, Inspector Brackenreid was positively gloating over the information you provided. Finding ways to make Station House No 5 look bad makes him nearly as happy as showing a new painting."

I said conspiratorially, "I must admit, I see now why you enjoy your job."

Julia frowned, "Actually, I'm seriously considering leaving my position." My shocked expression made her hurry to explain, "It's for personal reasons, but when I resign, I thought I might lessen the blow by offering to train a highly recommended replacement."

I didn't know what to say. I was sad to hear Julia was having personal problems and it was clear she didn't want to discuss them. "Is there anything I can do? To help?"

"As a matter of fact, I was going to suggest you for the position," she added politely, "if you are interested."

"I don't know," I answered cautiously. I had dreamed of having my own practice and was hesitant to give up my independence. On the other hand, the reality of long, empty hours and unreliable payment was not measuring up to my expectations. "Let me think about it."

The following day, my office again lacked any patients. By the afternoon, I had made up my mind to inquire about the position as city coroner. I decided it would be worth it to trade the vagaries of independence for steady, meaningful work.

I was getting ready to leave, perhaps for the last time, when a man came to the door and slipped inside. I immediately recognized the small man as the person I'd accused of involvement in Dr. Green's death.

He looked me up and down hungrily, like a fox eyeing a hen, "Well, well, well. I'd like a word with you."

Fear crept over me and I blustered, "I'm afraid the office is closed for the day." I took a step back, positioning myself behind a chair.

My fear fed his bravado, "Don't be like that. I only wanna talk." He was lying and we both knew it.

I gripped the back of a large arm chair, using it as a shield. I was about to bolt for the door, but the sudden sight of a knife in his hand stilled my steps. My mind raced to find a way out. If I could distract the man, I might be able to escape.

I tried defiance, "You won't get away with any of this. The constabulary already suspects you for murdering Dr. Green."

He scowled, "It wasn't no murder, just an accident. I was proving a point, wasn't I?" He stepped one way and I moved the other, rotating around the chair.

I continued my bluff, hoping to provoke him into making a mistake, "How could giving a man a dose of cocaine intended for a horse be an accident?"

"That's just it. Wasn't no cocaine in them injections. After the second time my horse lost, I had em tested, even tasted some myself. That dope was just plain water. That's why my horses been giving up races they was supposed to win - races and good prize money. Because of him, and his phoney water dope, Mr. Seagram done lost the Queen's Plate for the first time in nine years and I done lost my job!"

I angled for the hallway that led to the side door. "But why would you inject him with what you believed was water?" I had to keep him talking.

"He said the dope was the real deal, but I knew he was lying. I told you, I was provin' a point!" He shouted.

I took my chance and made a dash for the hall. He was too quick and cut me off. "Come back here, girl!"

I dodged into my consultation room and slammed the door. "Please, leave me alone." I begged, pressing my back into the door to keep it closed.

"Stupid bitch." He pounded on the door and I felt the boards shudder against my back. "You think you're so smart, in your fancy office, playing doctor. You're nothing and I'm not gonna let an uppity girl like you send me to the gallows."

I grabbed a chair and wedged it against the door, reinforcing it. The door shuddered with his blows, but words hammered me more. I felt myself slip into the old, familiar pattern of defensiveness with Jerome, reflexively soothing. "I'm sorry. Please. I was just trying to help Dr. Green. I didn't mean any harm. Perhaps if you explained to the constables that it was just an accident, it'll be alright."

He belittled me,"You lying, filthy cow. You're the one who went across town to snitch on me." He moved away and the sounds of breaking glass chilled me.

Desperate, I looked around the room for something with which to defend myself. There were my files, medical journals, quills, ink, paper, examination instruments, and shelves with various medicines.

I considered, What would Jerome want to hear? I called out, "You are right. I'm just a witless woman. What if I said I'd made a mistake? Everyone knows that women have feeble, frivolous minds."

The man's voice came from farther away, "That mighta worked, if it were just between me and the boys at number five. They know me. I delivered their payments from the club. But those boys at number four think their detective walks and water and their uniforms are spun from pure righteousness."

Another crash from outside emboldened me. I grabbed a bottle from the shelf, uncorked the stopper and took my chance. I removed the chair from the door and rushed into the hall. Unfortunately, my attacker was fast on my heels, knife in hand. "Come back here!" He shouted.

Then, he grabbed me and slashed. I twisted away, but not before the blade cut into my arm. Pain and rage welled up inside me. I was tired of being treated like a worthless animal. I threw the bottle of undiluted carbolic acid on his face. His scream of pain fueled my determination. I raced to the side door and onto the street.

"Help me!" I called out.

From across the street, just outside Dr. Green's office, I saw a constable mounting a bicycle. I called out again, "Help!"

Relief flooded me as as I recognized Constable Crabtree's fresh face. He rushed to my side, "Dr. Grace? What happened?"

I saw my attacker emerge from my office, "Stop him!" I yelled and pointed.

The small man bolted, but Crabtree tackled him. The constable reached into his coat, pulled out a whistle and blew. The shrill sound quickly summoned another constable and soon my attacker was hauled away.

My words tumbled out, "That's the man I saw before, the one at the office. He said Dr. Green cost him his job with the race horses; he killed him to prove a point." My explanation was as rumpled as my hair and clothes.

My attacker spat and struggled, "You can die too, filthy bitch!" But the constables held him firmly.

I added, breathlessly, "Oh, and he's been delivering bribes to some of the men at Station House No 5. That's why they looked the other way when I identified him at the scene of the crime."

After securing the man, Crabtree told the other constable, "Send for Detective Murdoch. Also, get this man's fingermarks to compare with the one we found on the syringe at the scene." Then Crabtree came over to me, eyeing my bleeding arm, "Dr. Grace, you're injured." The worry was plain on his face.

I swallowed and nodded, the pain was bad, but bearable. "Come," I told him, "I've some bandages in my office." He wrapped my arm with a musician's touch, sensitive, but also firm.

He said, "You're amazing Dr. Grace. Not many people would have the presence of mind to escape an assault like that, let alone get a confession." Crabtree's words eased my spirit as the bandage eased the flow of blood from my wound.

I smiled up into his warm brown eyes. I decided then that I would be glad to take the coroner's job if it meant getting to work with people like Constable Crabtree.

Back on the street, Detective Murdoch greeted us. Even after pedaling across town, the detective was as composed as I was disheveled. The man practically wore a halo of decorum.

"Dr. Grace? What happened?" Murdoch asked.

As I carefully summarized what my assailant had said, the detective once again focused on the details that didn't add up. "When he told you the death was an accident, that he believed the injection was harmless, just water, do you think he was telling the truth?" He asked me.

I thought about it and answered, "Yes. He truly thought those bottles held only water, not cocaine."

Crabtree added, "And, Sir, why would he lie?"

Detective Murdoch's eyes narrowed and I imagined his mind at work, connecting the information and finding the gaps. He said, "We'll need to test the contents of those vials." The detective turned to his assistant, "George, please collect all the bottles labeled as the cocaine injection and have them delivered to Dr. Ogden for analysis. Be sure to preserve any fingermarks."

"Detective," I interjected, "You don't need to have the contents tested in the morgue. We can check them all here, right now."

Crabtree asked "Really? How?" He looked impressed and curious at the same time.

"Cocaine is a stimulant, but it is also an analgesic. It is often used in dental procedures to dull pain." I explained. "Assuming the dosage is concentrated, and it should be if it is strong enough to affect a thoroughbred, placing a drop on your tongue or lips should have an immediate and obvious numbing effect."

"Alright," Murdoch agreed, "let's test our hypothesis."

Between the three of us, we checked all the bottles of dope. Sure enough, pressing a drop to one's lips proved that most did contain the drug. However, four of the bottles, ones set aside in a small box, contained a clear liquid that did not have the numbing effect.

The detective thought out loud, "Who had else access to these bottles? And, if they really do contain only water, why replace the contents with something so benign?"

"Wait," Crabtree said and took out his notebook. As he flipped through pages, he mashed his lips together and mumbled, "That stuff really works; I can't feel my face." He found what he was looking for and nodded, "Ah yes. Dr. Green had an apprentice. When I interviewed him at his home, I saw stacks of pamphlets from the Toronto Humane Society."

Murdoch praised his assistant, "Excellent observations, George. Please, bring in the apprentice for questioning." The detective once again got that far-off gaze, envisioning how the pieces of the puzzle fit together.

"Right away, sir," Crabtree said to the detective. Then he smiled at me, touched his hat, and bid me farewell. "I look forward to working with you again Dr. Grace."

"Oh?" I asked, puzzled.

A smile was also on Detective Murdoch's face, "Yes, I sincerely hope we will see you again soon, but under more pleasant circumstances."

The next day, three things happened. First, Dr. Green's apprentice was confronted with the presence of his fingermarks on the vials that had been substituted with water and the man confessed to sabotaging the horse doping. (His defense was that he was preventing cruelty to animals.) Second, my attacker was formally charged with manslaughter and assault instead of murder, in exchange for testifying about giving bribes to constables at Station House No.5. Lastly, I was hired as the new Toronto City Coroner.