All language subtitles for Murdoch.mysteries.S16E18.BAE.English-WWW.MY-SUBS.CO

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Good morning. I'm Dr. Julia Ogden.

How can I help you today?

Mrs. Prescott.

Hello, Doctor.

- Oh, I hurt my arm.
- Ah, let me take a look.

It appears you may have
fractured your distal radius.

That's your wrist.

It hurts terribly.

Here, take this.

Laudanum.

It will help with the pain.

How did this happen?

I fell.

Anything you say will be held
in the strictest confidence.

You can trust me.

You said he would be
jailed and I would be free.

Your husband did this.

- I thought that he was convicted for larceny.
- He was released.

Alderman Prescott is a
changed man. Haven't you heard?

He hasn't changed one bit.

Where is my wife?

Abigail!

Please,

forgive me, dear husband,
it's just, my arm.

If you weren't so damn clumsy.

Have you no compassion?

Your wife has a broken wrist!

Then she should be in a proper hospital

under the care of a legitimate doctor.

- I am a legitimate doctor.
- Right.

Abigail, come.

Just let me finish splinting her

and you can take her to the hospital

- to get a plaster cast.
- Please, Adrian. It hurts so.

Very well.

But hurry up.

You don't have to live like this.

I don't know how to live any other way.

Let me help you.

Are you done yet?

This will keep your wrist immobile

until you can get a proper cast.

Come on, then.

Green Leaf Café. 2 pm.

I'm not sure I understand
all the scuttlebutt.

But she's the mayor's wife
attending a public function.

- And?
- And she was hatless!

Well, it's a wonder people
could even control themselves.

I hesitate to disrupt
such riveting debate,

but there's been a death at
the Stanford Berkshire Gallery.

George?

Oh!

I'm Sydney Finch. I
made the telephone call.

- Um, Detective Murdoch.
Constable Crabtree.

I found him when I arrived
to help hang his new exhibit.

Stanford Berkshire was many things,

but he did not deserve this.

Is anything missing, Ms. Finch?

Oh, the artwork itself
appears untouched.

Apart from the, um...

Yes, of course.

Uh, I may have more questions
if you could wait outside?

Gladly.

Cause of death seems obvious.

Sir, have a look at this.

A safe.

Sturdy-looking one at that.

Seems someone was
trying to break into it.

What do you suppose is in there?

Motive for murder would be my guess.

Sir, perhaps I should
get in touch with Harry?

- Harry?
- Harry Houdini, sir.

I've seen him open a
safe just like this.

Mind you, he was inside
of it at the time.

I believe he's in California these days.

Incredible, sir. You'll have
to teach me this technique.

Considering a career change?

Is it money or jewels?

Art, it would appear.

Good gracious.

She is not wearing her hat.

Or anything else for that matter.

Why would a respected art collector

have such a stash of indecent images?

And I wonder if Mr. Blue
can shed further insight.

No telephone number or address.

"8 am, Kamasaki Shunga,

the Shroud of Secrets."

Shunga?

I just saw something.

The Shunga of Hokusai.

- Shunga is a form of Japanese erotic art.
- Detective?

You asked me to locate a family member.

W-Wait! That's my grandpa... my...

- Pardon me, sir!
- My grandfather. Is he, uh...

Is he deceased?

I'm afraid so.

Please, have a seat.

I'm Detective Murdoch.

And you are?

Gregory Berkshire.

What happened?

I'm afraid your
grandfather's been murdered.

What is all this?

These are artworks that we recovered

from your grandfather's safe.

Why would my grandfather have
illicit materials in his possession?

Is it... isn't that
sort of thing illegal?

- It certainly is.
- Oi!

If it ever becomes public knowledge

that he collected pornography, it...

It would destroy everything
he ever worked for.

We're not here to expose
your grandfather's secrets.

I'm simply looking for
insight into his whereabouts

this morning prior to his arrival here.

I know he left the family
estate early to do some banking,

but other than that I...

Would appear there was a lot about
my grandfather that I didn't know.

William, why isn't Alderman
Prescott behind bars?

It's nice to see you too, Julia.

I... ah, sorry, William.

Wasn't he found guilty
of extorting money

- from the Star Bright Club?
- He was.

I believe he received
a very light sentence.

As men in high places often do.

Julia, what's this about?

Abigail Prescott came
into the clinic today.

I believe her husband broke her wrist.

- Are you sure?
- Quite.

The crown seems to be convinced

that he has dedicated himself
to charity since his release.

But he's still abusing his wife.

Honestly, I'm surprised she
hasn't filed for a divorce yet.

Well, I'm not.

A society that castigates
women for going hatless

is even less tolerant of
women who leave their husbands.

And what would you like
me to do about this?

You could arrest him for abusing her.

I could, but she would need
to agree to press charges.

And, even then, there's no guarantee

that anything would come of it.

And she risks angering
an already violent spouse.

Exactly.

Well, I'm meeting her for tea.

Perhaps I can convince her
to stand up for herself.

Do be careful, Julia.

Let me know how it goes.

Good gracious.

- What's wrong, George?
- Oh, uh, Doctor!

Uh, uh, cataloguing
confiscated material.

Lewd confiscated material.

Venus in the mirror.

Anatomical accuracy is quite remarkable.

Yes, well, let me tell
you, Doctor, this one,

tip of the iceberg.

Well, enjoy.

George,

are these all pictures of naked ladies?

- Some are naked ladies.
Some are naked men.

Some are naked ladies and
naked men doing naked things.

- No!
- Yes.

Erotic Scene with Three Women
and One Man by Henry Fuseli.

You should see Prostitution
and Madness Dominating the World

- by Félicio Rops.
- Well, can I?

The trash that rich men hoard in safes.

Bloody degenerates.

Sir, what's going to become
of all these materials?

Well, I've informed the chief constable.

He's sending us a morality officer.

How goes the cataloguing, George?

- Sir, it is eye-opening.
- No doubt.

- Henry...
- Uh, I wasn't.

What did you learn from
Stanford Berkshire's banker?

Well, I found out that Mr. Berkshire
withdrew $300 this morning, sir.

Did he, now?

I paid Mr. Berkshire's attorney a visit.

Apparently, he had a meeting
set with him for tomorrow

in which he wished to discuss
"matters of family honour."

Family honour and a withdrawal of $300?

Perhaps Mr. Blue was
blackmailing Berkshire.

Certainly is a person of interest.

And perhaps this...

The Shroud of Secrets is
at the crux of this case.

Well, sir, the calling card also
mentioned Shunga, which is...

I mean, what this woman and this octopus

- are trying to accomplish, I have no idea.
- Let me see that!

That's enough!

Higgins, about your business.
Crabtree, you're dismissed.

You'll see to it she's
well taken care of.

Thank you.

Abigail.

Abigail.

Dr. Ogden?

Are you here to escort
me to the reformatory?

Reformatory? Absolutely not.

When I didn't see you at the
tea house, I came straightaway.

What's going on?

My husband's sending me for treatment.

For your wrist fracture?

For my delusional hysteria.

Abigail, you are neither
delusional nor hysterical.

My husband brought me before a judge.

He said the Mercer
helps incorrigible women

improve their mental hygiene.

I am well acquainted with
the Andrew Mercer Reformatory

and you most certainly
do not belong there.

It's got to be better
than living with him.

Abigail, do you trust me?

Will you come with me?

Driver. Head west along Queen Street

and then further west along Lake Shore.

I'll give you more
specific directions later.

Why didn't you tell
him where we are going?

Your husband has a great
deal of power and influence.

He could track us down.

No one knows we're leaving Toronto.

I telephoned my husband from a call box,

but I assure you, he
wouldn't tell a soul.

So, where are we going?

I'll find a hotel at a railway
station and we'll stay overnight.

In the morning, I'll purchase
two tickets to Chatham.

Why Chatham?

I have a friend there,
Dr. Rebecca James.

She'll be more than willing to help you.

Officer Bishop.

- Thank you for coming in.
- A pleasure, Detective Murdoch.

What are we looking at here?

It appears you're in possession
of a cache of lewd documents.

Oh. We also found this
in the deceased's pocket.

Does that name ring any bells?

Yes, I have heard
rumours of this Mr. Blue,

a notorious purveyor of pornography.

I've yet to track down
his true identity, though.

Any idea where we might
begin to look for him?

There is a bookshop on Queen Street

where degenerates gather
and trade erotic materials:

Findlay's first editions.

I've tried to infiltrate,
but to no avail.

Infiltrating the bookstore
seems to be our best chance

at finding this Mr. Blue.

I propose we send someone in undercover

posing as a buyer of erotic art.

And who would that someone be?

One person immediately jumps to mind.

Ah.

Ah!

You mustn't worry, Abigail.
I've covered our tracks.

And we're not even registered
under our true names.

Thank you, Doctor.

I just...

Kept thinking he would change.

It's hard to leave a marriage.

But men like that do not change.

Took me a broken wrist to realize that.

I won't be long.

I'll buy the train tickets
and I'll be right back.

And then we're off to Chatham.

- That's right.
- I can't believe I'll finally be free.

Ah. The medication must be wearing off.

There's a single dose of
laudanum on the nightstand.

Take it and get some rest.

I'll be back before you know it.

Thank you, Julia.

There you go.

- Hello.
- Good morning.

Is there anything I can help you with?

I do hope so.

I've heard this establishment
caters to uncommon interests.

Now,

I'm interested in artworks
of a specific genre.

- I lean toward the taboo.
- Mm.

I may be able to accommodate
you, but I warn you:

Uncommon tastes command
uncommonly high prices.

Ah!

Ha, ha!

Well, sir.

- Money is no object.
- Hm.

Come with me.

Ah!

- Do you need a lift, ma'am?
- Oh!

No, thank you. I'm only
going a short distance.

Maybe you could help me find my way.

- Is there a doctor in this town?
- Oh.

- Actually, I am a doctor, but...
- Praise Jesus!

My dear Bianca is terribly ill.

I'm so sorry. I-I would
like to help you, but I...

- I don't have much time.
- Please. Even five minutes of your time.

- Please.
- Well, I suppose I have five minutes.

Bless you. Climb in.

Bianca is just up the road.

Ah! I found it!

- Oh!
- And what would that be?

- Salomé by Oscar Wilde.
- Ah!

Illustrated by the
great Aubrey Beardsley.

Are you familiar with him?

Not as well as I'd like to be.

- His line work.
- It's truly exquisite.

You know, this book destroyed Beardsley.

After collaborating with Wilde,

only pornographers would
employ him and on his death bed,

Beardsley begged his
publisher to destroy

all obscene drawings
that he had produced.

- What a damn shame that would have been.
- Mm.

Yes.

And you? Are you in search
of anything in particular?

I'm not exactly sure
what I'm looking for,

- but I'll know it when I see it.
- Mm-hmm.

I hear a Mr. Blue offers the
finest selection. Is he here?

Mr. Blue is extraordinarily secretive.

- Ah.
- And I don't blame him.

Toronto is rotten with petty prudes

and self-righteous snitches
and don't get me started

on the stuffed shirts
at the police department.

Oh, they're the absolute worst.

Actually, I have taken an
interest in Shunga of late.

- Shunga?
- Shunga.

Wow.

Greetings, all!

I have a thrilling offering
up for purchase today.

The Shroud of Secrets,

a volume of Shunga woodblock prints

by Kamasaki Ono.

Looks like it's your lucky day.

Name your price and I'll take it.

You have sublime taste, sir.

It's a beautiful volume.

Now, regarding the terms of our deal...

No. Here's the deal.

I know that Mr. Blue was
about to sell this book

to a man who ended up dead.

Stanford Berkshire wanted
to buy the Shroud of Secrets?

So, you admit you knew the dead man.

Yes! I was interviewed by one
of your detectives already.

But Stanford was a dear friend of mine.

I assure you I did not kill him.

We'll see about that. In the meantime,

I'm arresting you for possession
of obscenity, Mr. Blue.

Come with me.

Uh, ma'am, you can't go in there.

- This is a crime scene.
- Abigail!

Uh, I warned you, ma'am.

That is my friend, Abigail Prescott.

There's no Abigail Prescott
on the hotel registry.

Well, that's her name! I'm
her doctor, Julia Ogden.

We stayed in the hotel last
night. I need to examine her!

You're a doctor?

Well, we found an
empty vial of laudanum.

It appears your patient overdosed.

Overdosed? That... that's impossible.

I suggest you review your
pharmacopoeia, Doctor.

She's dead.

Constable, escort Dr.
Ogden to the station house.

You need to answer some questions.

Sydney Finch reported the
murder of Stanford Berkshire?

She was waiting at the
gallery when we arrived;

seemed quite bereft.

Well, let's talk to her.

Detective Murdoch?

Yes, Henry?

The Port Credit constabulary called.

Your wife has been arrested.

What?

Go. I'll deal with Finch.

I assure you I am not Mr. Blue.

I've never even met Mr. Blue!

Stanford Berkshire had an
appointment to meet Mr. Blue

to purchase the very item that you came

waltzing in the bookshop trying to sell!

I don't understand. Mr. Berkshire
wasn't even an enthusiast.

On the contrary, Berkshire had a
safe chock full of "enthusiasm".

- You killed him to try to get to it.
- No!

I've not a violent bone in my body.

I am a patron of the arts.

You were all set to sell
Berkshire the Shroud of Secrets.

You fought over the price, killed him

and then tried to abscond
with the rest of the goods

- that he had stashed in his safe.
- Wrong on all accounts.

I received a message from Mr. Blue

offering me the book at
a very attractive price.

I saw the chance to make a profit,

so I left the money
at a predetermined spot

and came back half an hour later

to find Kamasaki's masterpiece waiting.

I don't buy all this
cloak-and-dagger stuff, Miss Finch.

You had motive, you had opportunity

and you had, in your possession,

physical evidence connecting
you to the deceased.

I'm arresting you for the
murder of Stanford Berkshire.

Here in Port Credit,

we have our own proper protocols.

None of which involve
allowing outside investigators

access to our files, or our prisoners.

I haven't been entirely
transparent about my motives.

The prisoner in question is my wife.

Your wife

was the deceased's physician?

Why were they in Port Credit?

That's a matter between
doctor and patient.

And this doctor was treating
her patient with laudanum.

She'd suffered a broken wrist.

Julia is a superb physician.

Administering 10 times the normal dosage

doesn't seem the work
of a superb physician.

- Ten times?
- That's our coroner's estimate.

How can that be?

Ask your wife.

Come with me.

William.

You've got 15 minutes.

I don't know how this happened.

Clearly, you should not
have ventured out hatless.

It's all right.

We'll sort this out.

Together.

Sir, have a look!

It's the inventory lists you
requested from Station House Three.

- Good work, Crabtree.
- What are you looking for?

Guidance. I see no rhyme nor reason

as to what the morality
police consider obscene.

Hm.

You spoke to that
morality cop, didn't you?

Ah, yes. A Constable Bishop.

Did he say what happened
to the contraband

once it was surrendered
to his department?

Yes, sir. He said they destroyed it.

Chucked on the bonfire, apparently.

Like bloody hell, it is.

- Sir?
- Look.

This is the list that I compiled;

the materials taken
from Berkshire's safe.

And this is the list that
Station House Three catalogued

from a raid a few weeks prior.

Notice anything?

The same items are on both lists.

Some of which are
one-of-a-kind originals.

The exact same items
were confiscated twice

even though Bishop said
he destroyed all of it.

Then I suppose he's lying.

Bugalugs, bring him in.

Good work.

Ten times the dosage?

Is it possible you miscalculated?

Absolutely not. I would never
make such an egregious error.

There must be something else.

Could foul play have been involved?

I just don't see how!

We were so vigilant
in covering our tracks.

William, all she wanted was to be free

and I failed her!

This is not your fault.

Inspector Brackenreid?

- Officer Bishop.
- I know who you are. Have a seat.

I see you've been washing the scum
off the streets of our fair city.

- Cracking fine work, Inspector.
- Hm.

Tell me,

what do you do with all this
stuff once you've whisked it away?

I burn it.

And like a Phoenix, it
miraculously rises again?

Ha!

I beg your pardon?

Do you remember this
one? An original painting.

The Passionate Milk Maiden

by Maude Berniece Proulx.

Uh... yes. I recall that one.

Although, it was not the milk that
the maiden was passionate about.

Believe you me.

So, you burned it?

That is what I do. Yes.

What's this, then?

Perhaps Maude Berniece
Proulx painted a series

- of passionate milk maidens?
- Or perhaps you don't burn the erotica,

but resell it at profit, Mr. Blue.

Sir, I am an officer of the law.

Oh, drop the act. I know who you are.

The proof's all over the table.

Inspector Brackenreid,

have you looked at these images?

I mean, really looked at them?

For hours.

Who do you think did the inventory?

- So then you must know.
- What?

That this is art.

That it's beautiful.

Take a look at this.

Now consider the milk maiden.

Every freckle on her bosom,

every crease in her dress

tenderly rendered by
the hands of a virtuoso.

Should the work of Maude
Berniece Proulx be kept away

from the eyes of those
who would cherish it?

It's not for you to judge, Constable.

Who gets to decide what full-grown
adults are allowed to see?

Surely burning art is a far
greater crime than selling it.

I know you agree with me.

Be that as it may, my opinions
are as irrelevant as yours.

With all due respect, sir, our
opinions are not irrelevant.

Art matters and it
is our God-given right

to be able to appreciate it!

This conversation is over.

I'm arresting you for the
murder of Stanford Berkshire.

- What?
- Constable! Cuff this man!

What? Hold on now! Hold on!

I-I sold to Berkshire,
yes, but I didn't kill him.

I... I-I never even met the man!

Look, he would leave the money in
a crawlspace behind the gallery.

I would collect it and
then leave the art behind.

But that morning, the
money wasn't there.

So I sold the Shroud of
Secrets to Sydney Finch instead.

You have to believe me.

After being caught selling stolen
evidence on the black market,

I most definitely do not!

If my wife bears any responsibility
in Abigail Prescott's death,

it is purely by accident.

Well, accidents that result in
death have consequences, Detective.

And the charge would be what?

The crown decides the charges.

Criminal negligence, at the very least.

Dr. Ogden is no criminal.

That's for the court to decide.

Regardless, I would like
to take my wife home.

She will, of course, appear in
court at the appropriate time

to face the charges, but I
see no need to keep her here

locked in a cell on a negligence charge.

What is he doing here?

Alderman Prescott.

- My condolences.
- Condolences?

Oh, that is rich.

His wife murders mine and he has
the nerve to offer condolences.

Murdered? That's absurd!

Do you have any evidence
to support this accusation?

The evidence is overwhelming:

Julia Ogden kidnapped Abigail,

dragged her to a grimy hotel

and plied her with drugs
and when Abigail protested,

Julia Ogden killed her with an overdose.

I have spoken with the crown.

Your wife will be charged
with first-degree murder.

- Think, Julia.
- I haven't stopped thinking

since I saw her dead
body in that hotel room.

I just can't conceive how
this could have happened.

Is it possible that Mrs.
Prescott committed suicide?

I don't see how.

I left her with a
single vial of laudanum

when I went to get the tickets.

That's not enough to cause harm.

And you're certain it
was the correct dosage?

Well, yes. Of course.

Any news?

Regrettably, no. I've
scoured the police files,

but I found nothing to help our case.

- I'll double-check them.
- And together we'll triple-check them.

Don't lose hope, Julia.

Did anyone know you were staying
at the hotel with Abigail?

Not a soul.

We even registered under false names.

Perhaps I did make a mistake?

What if I grabbed the wrong
dilution from the clinic?

What if I did kill her?

Worst case, it would be
considered an accident, correct?

In the absence of any alternate
explanation of how this happened,

we will have to appeal to the
hearts and minds of the jury.

The crown will try to paint
you as a radical zealot,

an unhinged kidnapper.

But as your attorney,
I will provide them

with the true measure
of Dr. Julia Ogden,

a brilliant hero who would risk anything

to rescue a woman from a life of abuse.

You were only trying to help her.

The jury will see that.

Ah. Inspector Brackenreid?

Uh, what's this about?

Do you need me to testify at
my grandfather's murder trial?

We might, but I brought you in
on another matter. Have a seat.

Your grandfather was in the process

of purchasing this when he was murdered.

I felt it only right
that you should have it.

- Is this banned art?
- Yes.

But it shouldn't be.

Your grandfather was a man
of culture, ahead of his time.

He wasn't a criminal.

The Shroud of Secrets.

You read Japanese?

No, no. No, I don't. I, um...

What are you insinuating?

The erotica in the safe
was yours, wasn't it?

Sir, I am the heir to
the Berkshire fortune.

Why would I jeopardize the family
name by collecting pornography?

Oh, I agree.

It was a very stupid move on your part

and when Grandpa
discovered your collection,

he threatened to write
you out of the will.

And that's why he made an
appointment to see his lawyer

to discuss family honour and
that's why you caved his skull in!

That is nonsense and I
deeply resent the accusation.

Oh, well, you're gonna hate this:

Gregory Berkshire,

I'm arresting you for the
murder of Stanford Berkshire!

Constable!

Did you notice anything unusual

about the two women during
their stay at your hotel?

Nothing especially.

Except they used fake names.

And the one lady did all of the talking.

Which lady?

That one there.

The killer.

My lord, I object to this speculation.

My client has not been found guilty.

Sustained. The jury will
ignore this accusation.

Well, after we received
the call at the station,

we arrived on the scene to
find the victim deceased.

Shortly after, the defendant appeared.

And what was your initial
impression of Dr. Ogden?

At the time she appeared
somewhat bedraggled

and she seemed confused and agitated.

And what were the coroner's findings?

The coroner's report described

a massive amount of laudanum
in the victim's body.

Can you read aloud,
please, for the jury,

this section of the report here?

"It is this coroner's opinion
that the administration

of this massive overdose of laudanum

was either an act of gross negligence,

or a deliberate attempt
to harm the victim."

And is it true you were unable
to find a single other suspect

- in the death of Mrs. Prescott?
- That is true.

In fact, by the
defendant's own admission,

no one else knew where
they were, correct?

Correct.

Julia Ogden claims she
was your wife's physician.

I'm sure Julia Ogden would claim

she was the Queen of England if that lie

somehow served her purposes.

She has been a Thorn
in my family's side,

desperate to drag my dear
Abigail from her loving marriage

and into a life of
extreme feminist beliefs.

Objection, Your Honour.

The witness cannot claim
knowledge to the inner workings

- of my client's mind.
- It is as obvious as the nose on my face

that Julia Ogden is a zealot,

intent on destroying
the very foundations

upon which our society is built!

Sustained. Alderman Prescott,

- I'll ask you to refrain from further outbursts.
- Yes, Your Honour.

But how did you know Gregory
Berkshire was the murderer?

Even you couldn't
make this up, Crabtree.

He claimed to have no knowledge
of the world of erotica,

but tipped his hand when he
identified the Shroud of Secrets.

He was stealing money out
of his grandfather's account

to finance his hobby.

Then, when Grandpa
threatened to cut him off,

he killed him and
tried to frame Mr. Blue,

who turned out to be our
very own Officer Bishop.

Come along.

- Speak of the devil.
- Oh, come on, I'm not that bad.

That's debatable. But at
least you're not a murderer.

- Uncuff him, Higgins.
- Thanks.

That's the nicest thing anyone's
said to me in a long time.

So, I'm free to go?

Yes, you can go. Oh, and, uh,

find yourself a new job. You're fired.

- Fired? But...
- Not another word.

You're lucky I don't re-arrest you.

Strangely, I don't feel
very lucky in this moment.

Bishop.

For what it's worth, you were right.

- I agree with you.
- I knew it.

Doesn't let me keep my
job, though, does it?

I'm afraid not, son.

What did you agree on, sir?

Mind your beeswax, bugalugs.

You have heard from Alderman Prescott

about the alleged character
of Dr. Julia Ogden.

I am here to tell you
that his description

is the slanderous fabrication of a man

who seeks to conceal
his own culpability.

Dr. Ogden is no zealot.

Her actions are driven by prudence,

intellect and compassion.

Throughout her career she has
fought to better the lives of women,

especially women like Abigail,

who was powerless against
her abusive husband.

My lord, I must object!

Alderman Prescott is not on trial here

and there's been no proof
that he's ever been anything

but a loving husband
and a diligent provider.

Sustained.

Very well. I will let
Dr. Ogden's brilliance

and eloquence dispute the
alderman's claims of her.

I call Dr. Julia Ogden to the stand.

Dr. Ogden, please recount for the jury

the history of your relationship
with Abigail Prescott.

A few months ago, Mrs. Prescott
came into my care covered in bruises,

which were clearly the
result of a brutal assault.

And who was her assailant?

She told me it was her
husband, Alderman Prescott,

who was later imprisoned
for other misdeeds.

My lord, again I object.

My lord, as you and my
learned friend are aware,

the alderman's sentencing and
conviction are a matter of public record.

And is not relevant here.

Continue your testimony, Dr. Ogden.

When the alderman was
released from his sentence,

Mrs. Prescott returned to the clinic,

this time with a fractured wrist.

It was obvious that the
abuse was escalating.

Alderman Prescott arrived
and removed her from my care,

before I was able to
properly treat her wrist.

And what happened next?

Abigail asked me to meet with her.

But when she didn't show
up at the designated time,

I proceeded to their
home, where I discovered

that her husband had made
arrangements to have her committed

to the Andrew Mercer
Reformatory for women.

And how did you respond to that?

Well, I offered to take her away.

That reformatory is unfit
for human habitation.

At least she would still be alive there.

Oh, spare... you are a monster!

Silence! Any further outbursts
and you will be removed.

Dr. Ogden,

you were caring for Abigail's
fractured wrist all this time?

Yes. She was in a great deal of pain.

And laudanum's an extremely
powerful pain reducer?

Yes. Uh, uh, it is.

When used judiciously it's-it's...

Would you call 10 times the
recommended dosage judicious?

Well, of course not. But I-I
didn't give her that dosage.

- Are you sure?
- Yes.

- How can you be sure?
- Uh, well, I-I...

You're not sure, are you?

- Yes, I am.
- Ah, are you saying you're infallible?

No, I-I...

So you admit you are
capable of making mistakes.

- Well, yes, but...
- It's possible

you gave her the wrong
bottle isn't it, Dr. Ogden?

In the absence of any other explanation,

is it not most likely
that Abigail Prescott died

because you provided her with
the wrong bottle of laudanum?

Answer the question, Doctor.

Yes, it-it's possible.

Julia Ogden knew

that Abigail Prescott
was due to be admitted

to the Andrew Mercer
Reformatory for women,

a place where she would
have been cared for,

where she would have been safe.

Instead, she trusted this charlatan
with disastrous consequences.

Dr. Julia Ogden

is solely responsible in
the death of Abigail Prescott

and her misguided arrogance
would surely benefit

from the correction a lengthy
stint in prison would provide.

Thank you.

The jury will now be
dismissed to deliberate.

I'll expect your decision by tomorrow.

There has to be something we've missed.

We've scoured every file,

questioned every witness to
the point of near harassment.

- What's our next move?
- There is no next move.

We've explored every possible
argument for Julia's innocence.

It's in the hands of the jury now.

What verdict do you predict?

It's unwise to speculate.

Be unwise, please.

Just between us.

Have a drink, Detective.

There's a page missing.

What?

In Inspector McCrae's report:

Seven, nine, ten.

No eight.

- A page is missing?
- Yes.

Do you remember what it said?

Well, what's missing is my
interview with the hotel clerk.

She said they checked in
at 6 pm, uh, paid cash,

and that they didn't
leave the hotel until

the doctor departed the next morning.

The last time she saw Mrs. Prescott

is when she made a telephone
call in the middle of the night.

- She made a telephone call?
- Yes.

- Is that important?
- Yes!

It means someone else may
have known her whereabouts!

A new disclosure after the
jury has gone to deliberation?

This is highly irregular.

Furthermore, the fact
that Abigail Prescott

made a phone call seems irrelevant.

Don't you see?

Someone removed a page from
Inspector McCrae's report

precisely because the
telephone call is relevant!

Detective Murdoch, you are
overstepping your bounds.

Respectfully, Your Honour,
Detective Murdoch has a point.

My report contained several
pages and one was missing

when it was turned over to the
defense. It's rather suspicious.

Your Honour, surely you can understand

the detective's desire
to see justice served.

If Abigail Prescott made a phone
call in the middle of the night,

whoever she called could
have tracked her down

and administered the fatal
dose while Dr. Ogden was away.

Nonsense. If Mrs. Prescott
was secretly making phone calls

in the dead of night, she
was likely calling for help

- to be released from the clutches of Dr. Ogden.
- Oh, please!

- The missing page...
- This is your second warning, Detective.

Your Honour, I do submit
that the missing page

is worthy of further scrutiny.

I have no knowledge of this missing page

and my colleague's insinuations
are verging on slander.

Let's not resort to histrionics.

At any rate, I remain unconvinced

that this alleged phone call
has any bearing on the case.

We'll proceed with the jury's verdict.

William, I'm so scared.

- What if they find me guilty?
- They won't.

They might.

Keep your mind on the future.

All of those beautiful eventualities.

Such as?

Susannah's first words?

Her first steps?

With those plump little legs.

I can picture her first bicycle ride.

We'll share all of
those moments together.

You are innocent, Julia.

And I won't rest until
the world knows it.

The jury is ready with the verdict.

Thank you.

Julia Ogden, please stand.

The jury has found you
guilty of manslaughter

- in the death of Abigail Prescott.
- No!

- You are hereby sentenced to three years in prison.
- Three years?!?

This is ridiculous!

We demand a new trial!

What about the telephone call?

- If you just allow me to investigate...
- Detective Murdoch, sit down!

Bailiff, take Mrs. Murdoch away.

Her name is Dr. Julia Ogden!

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