Reach of Destiny

Untitled Part 1

Reach of Destiny 

Authors' Note: We don't own MM -- that honour goes to Maureen Jennings and the show writers, to whom we owe a great debt for bringing us these wonderful characters to play with. But if Miss Jennings were to allow series novels based on the show, we'd like to be asked to write them! (Even if it took us more than a year to write this one!)

The full-length novel you are about to read is an A/U set in 1922. We kept some of the back story (not all!) and moved them up almost 30 years -- instead of 1893 (2 years before the TV show opens) William and Julia meet in 1922. We bent them a bit, but we promise we did not break them...

Instead of the constabulary as it was in 1922 we kept the show's fiction of individual station houses and detectives in each one (See Maureen Jennings' book, Let Darkness Bury the Dead, for a more accurate depiction of post-WW1 constabulary.) We did, however, weave in many historical people, events and references to Toronto and its environs of 1922.

We will post the 45-chapter novel in chapter 'chunks' and we hope you read and enjoy the story. Reviews, comments, dialogue are welcome!

CHAPTER ONE

9:15 pm, Friday, June 23rd, 1922

The Crown Club, Toronto

Dead was dead.

The location of the death never mattered much to him. He expected a body or he would not have been sent here in the first place.

Death was his job after all.

And it was about the only thing which made him feel alive anymore.

"Detective Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary!"

His loud announcement and battered police badge opened a hole through the crowd of smartly dressed people large enough for him and his superior, Inspector Thomas Brackenreid, to shoulder their way into an elaborately paneled lounge. His feet sank into thick maroon carpeting which absorbed the hubbub from outside while his nose informed him of overtones of expensive tobacco lingering in the warm air. The corpse, whose upper body and balding pate were splayed face down across a polished mahogany table, was prosaic enough as crime scenes went, even in such posh surroundings.

...Yet, the rest of what he beheld was frankly disconcerting: A woman appeared to be kissing the dead man's cheek, violating his crime scene. Was she his wife? A lover? Stealing his wallet? Behind her was another young couple, gaping at the proceedings.

"Madam, please! I must insist you move away this instant!" His sharp command produced no reaction from the woman, who continued with her caressing of the corpse. He was about to grab her naked wrist, when beside him he heard Brackenreid chuckle.

"Meet our new city coroner, Dr. Ogden."

The woman smiled. "Don't worry, gentlemen. I haven't murdered my date for being boring in quite some time."

He did a double take. A Dr. Lionel Ogden, a habitually imperious and taciturn man, did occasional rotations as coroner, and he wondered if there was any relation. The woman calmly finished what she was doing, pushing herself away from the table with long fingers at the end of firm arms, then fixed her blue eyes on his as she gracefully straightened up. His attention traveled the length of her body before he caught himself and forced his awareness back to her words.

"Dr. Julia Ogden." She placed her hands on slim hips, and a curve on her lip told him she thought she knew exactly what he'd been thinking about...

Good Lord, give me strength. Not another new coroner.

"May I introduce the late Mr. Conrad Landswell, member of the Crown Club?" Dr. Ogden cocked her head. "No smell of bitter almonds around his mouth."

He had no trouble detecting a mild mocking behind her smile. He dug out his notebook and wrote: No cyanide used as poison. She turned, gesturing to the couple standing behind her. "And this is my sister, Miss Ruby Ogden and her escort, Mr. Clifford Blackburn."

Murdoch tipped his homburg out of polite habit and wrote the names down, but Brackenreid pushed by and made sure he shook hands with Blackburn, a man of medium build with dark brown hair who sported a black-tie dinner suit. Murdoch vaguely remembered Clifford Blackburn as one of the men who ran for city control board in the last election -- and lost. He tried to recall if Blackburn's election platform was decidedly pro- or anti- prohibition, considering all of them were in what amounted to a high-end speakeasy. Ruby Ogden, whom he guessed to be in her early twenties, was petite, dressed in a red gown whose hem skimmed just below her calves. More shocking was her light blonde hair, cut in a smooth, extremely short bob and crowned by a crimson silk scarf. If Dr. Ogden looked to be a cool pagan goddess in a star-sapphire colour dress, her sister Ruby was a literal firebrand.

Behind the pair was an entire wall of shelving, floor to ceiling, full of bottles of wine and spirits -- hundreds of them. Each member here had a separate 'cellar' – an ornate cubby with a decorative metal grille, lock & key. Since going officially "bone dry" last year, Ontario never lacked for alcohol, if you knew how to exploit the loopholes and where to look.

Out of nowhere, he experienced a sudden, visceral, urge to drink, his mouth involuntarily watering. The violent sensations -- strong as a gut punch -- nearly staggered him. He immediately covered up by tracing a symbolic cross over his upper body, unmindful of the disapproving stares it usually brought his way -- just one of the long list of things he no longer gave a damn about.

Brackenreid gave him a sour look before assessing their surroundings more closely. "Lots of high-end slosh served in the establishment," his ginger mustache twitching. "Ah! Cognac." Brackenreid snuck a look over his shoulder then flipped over a snifter to splash a little of the amber liquid in the glass and raise it. His eyes were closed and the crystal rim was just at his lips when she spoke...

"I wouldn't do that, Inspector. I think that is what killed him."