Murdoch Mysteries (2008–…): Season 11, Episode 13 - Crabtree a la Carte - full transcript

Our contestants are really
in the thick of it now!

Whose dish will be the finest?

Who will make the most
out of the delicious,

nutritious Madison's Fine Beef?

What do you have for
us today, Mrs. Tucker?

Ahh! Another mélange of 100
unappealing ingredients it seems.

Isn't he great?

He's just insulting all the dishes.

And you assured me the
turnout would be better.

Ah, Miss Cooper.

Yours looks even worse, if
such a thing is possible.



My cream toast is divine, sir.

Thomas!

Thomas!

- Try this!
- What is it?

It's my frizzled beef.

It's the only thing I could make
to disguise this God-awful meat.

- Mm! It's not bad.
- No, Thomas!

More lunch counter
slop, eh, Mr. Douglas?

Loose-meat with stale
Sally Lunn, it appears?

Mr. Crabtree!

Spare your insults, sir.

I promise you, you have never
tried the likes of my aunt Fern's

- apple beef balls.
- How appetizing.

You know, this really
is a wonderful set up.



Much better than I have at
home in my boarding room.

You wouldn't believe how hard it is

to make jiggs dinner on a camping stove.

It's a wonder you find joy in life.

- Ah!
- George!

Finally Mrs. Brackenreid...

Sir.

Achevez, Monsieur Gordon !

A-ha! We have a dish.

Let's see...

Oh my, this looks unappetizing.

Is this the best a
finely-trained chef can conjure?

Mm! This is slop.

Terrible !

Inedible! You really are
just a frog-faced buffoon,

aren't you, Prideaux? You should be a...

ashamed...

ashamed... you should be ashamed of...

you should... I wouldn't pay...

- Oh, dear!
- What's happening?!

- Is he all right?
- Is he all right?!

What have you done to me?!

Non ! Non ! Mon Dieu !

C'est pas moi !

He was fine one moment, sir,
full of his usual acrid vigour.

Then he had one bite of
Monsieur Prideaux's dish...

The Frenchman poisoned him.

It's impossible to say at this
point. I mean, I suppose he could have

had a stroke.

Perhaps we'll have a word
with the Frenchman nonetheless.

The circumstance suggests
a sudden onset of symptoms.

Prussic Acid came to mind.

Well, it wouldn't cause
this level of paralysis.

Can you swallow, Mr. Gordon?

Not easily.

- What about speech?
- Can't...

It must be a neurological toxin

but I've never seen symptoms
quite so devastating.

That bastard tried... to kill me!

One bite of this and he fell ill?

Sir, he positively keeled over.

I mean, the whole contest
had to be cancelled.

A shame. It looks terrific.

I think I'll go out for
lunch, anyone care to join me?

This disappoints me, but I soldier on.

Right. We'll have to test the dish

to ensure that it is indeed
the source of the poison.

I assume you'll want to
get started right away?

That poor man has lost
nearly all of his faculties.

Indeed.

- So you'll test the dish?
- Hmm?

- Yes. Of course.
- Thank you.

George, the chef?

Sir, he's in your office.

A little bit loopy, you
know, he's... very French.

I did nothing, I swear.

Well, I could hardly blame you. I mean,

the man did call you
a frog-faced buffoon.

- I am not a frog-faced buffoon!
- Well, I'm not calling you a frog-faced buffoon.

I'm merely saying that Mr. Gordon

called you a frog-faced buffoon,

and you did not seem
to care for being called

- a frog-faced buffoon...
- Stop saying that!

Du calme, Monsieur Prideaux.

Je m'excuse, Detective.

The fact is, our constables
interviewed the other contestants,

and they claim you called
him a "damnable boor"

with "the heart of a vile despot,"

"unworthy of a swift demise."

I may have said some
of those things, but...

it was only talk. We
are rivals after all.

So then who poisoned your dish? No one!

C'est impossible. I am
always in control of my plate.

The most common neurological
toxins are heavy metals.

Cadmium, lead, arsenic, mercury...

But those wouldn't react quickly enough.

No, but some animal toxins
work almost instantaneously.

- Maybe bufotoxin.
- So how do we test for it?

First we need to make sure the
poison came from the dish in question.

I am sorry.

- Detective Watts.
- Oh, you.

- Yes?
- I have a tip for you.

It's on the subject of processed meat.

Let's assume Mr. Prideaux
is telling the truth.

Is it possible that another
contestant interfered with his dish?

I should think it possible, sir.

And Mr. Gordon's not the kindest of men.

Dickie Douglas warned us of that.

- Who is Dickie Douglas?
- One of the contestants.

He works for Madison, the
sponsors of the whole thing.

He's a cook at their lunch counter.

Apparently, Mr. Gordon
ate there every day

- and never failed to hurl a fresh insult at the man.
- Gentlemen...

- I may have broken your case.
- Oh?

- Oh.
- George, William, hear me out.

A few days ago, someone telephoned me.

They refused to divulge their identity,

calling themself "The Good Samaritan."

The last anonymous source
you brought us was a fake.

- This one's real.
- Forgive me if I maintain skepticism.

He had information regarding
Madison's Tinned Goods.

He said their new product
was a hazard to public health.

The tinned beef? What kind of hazard?

Tainted meat.

It was most certainly tainted.

- Botulism.
- Botulism?

- What's botulism?
- A bacteria found in sausages,

- if I'm not mistaken.
- Very good, Detective.

Its defining factor is that it
grows in anaerobic environments,

sausage casing being one.

- A tin can would be another.
- Precisely.

Occurrences have been on the rise
with the popularity of tinned goods.

So we all could have
been cooking with poison.

Not exactly. It takes effect
between 6 and 36 hours.

So our victim wasn't
poisoned by this dish.

Our friends here ate it one hour
ago and remain in perfect health.

Although I did ask Mr. Gordon
to give a list of everything

he'd eaten over the last two days,

and he says he's had
no other tinned goods.

That's not entirely so.

All the contestants and Mr. Gordon

had a publicity photo
taken yesterday afternoon.

And for the camera, he ate a
big spoonful of the tinned beef.

Now, he spat it out
right away afterward.

Well, even a small amount
can have a severe effect.

Well, that timing would make sense.

But he... he'll be all right?

His mind will remain conscious

while his body shuts
down from the inside out.

He will remain aware even
when his lungs stop working,

slowly suffocating him to death.

Everything all right, George?

Sir, Mr. Gordon wasn't the only one

who ate the tinned beef
for the camera yesterday.

We all did.

I suppose there's a chance that
your tin wasn't tainted, George.

Sir, how can that be?

Presumably if one can is
bad, the whole batch is.

- That's likely true.
- So I'll die.

I'll never get to see Egypt.

Or Asia.

Or any of those new provinces we
have now. How many do we have now?

- Nine.
- Nine.

Perhaps in the future,
we'll have even more.

I'll never know. I'll be dead.

It must be difficult

to confront the prospect of
one's own demise, George...

Oh sir, that's wonderful.

I thought you would at least
have some words of reassurance.

Well...

the mortality rate from
botulism is no more than 80%.

80%?!

What is this, some kind of gambit
to knock me out of the contest?

I'm afraid not, Mrs. Brackenreid.

I mean, there are constables rounding up

the other contestants right
now so I can inform them.

What nonsense! I feel just fine.

I feel cold.

I feel we should maybe go
home and talk to the boys.

Oh, Thomas! Stop! Clearly I'm not dying.

However...

if some of the other contestants
have weaker constitutions, so be it.

Crabtree, take your feet off the couch.

Sorry, sir.

I'm afraid a tin of Madison's beef

is the only possible
source of the toxin.

Well, what are we to do?

First you'll surrender any can
that could possibly be tainted.

How do we tell which ones are tainted?

We have to assume that any one
of them could contain the poison.

- But that would mean...
- You'll have every last tin.

- What?
- We'll go to the papers.

Inform everyone. Call
on all of our customers

to return to us every can.

But that would ruin us.

Our competitors will
drum us out of business.

Honesty is our only option here.

We apologize and...

- hope the people forgive us.
- Mr. Madison.

Lives are at stake.

I think that I have a fever.

Do you think I hen a fever Havry?

Oh my goodness, did you hear
that? I'm jumbling my words now...

this is definitely it for me.

I may not even have time to tell Nina.

Maybe you shouldn't.

It could be my last night on earth,
Higgins! I have to tell my lover.

Please don't use that word.

My sweetheart. You know what
I mean. I have to tell her.

I don't think you do.

You'll be dead by morning.

I wouldn't want to spend my
last night watching a girl cry.

You're telling me if it was your
last night, you wouldn't tell Ruth?

Definitely not.

So, what would you do?
Spend your life's savings on

a bottle of whiskey and
a trip to the bordello?

I didn't say I wouldn't
spend it with Ruth.

I'd just...

want one last beautiful night.

That's actually quite thoughtful, Henry.

Well...

if this is really it.

Goodbye, Higgins.

So long, old chum.

And finally, the case that was
opened for the promotional photograph.

We should start there.

I don't think this is a good idea.

- Why not?
- What are we to learn?

It's all just ground up intestines,

barely worthy of feeding to farm
animals. Can't we simply destroy it?

We need to determine how
widespread the problem could be.

The only test we have
takes hours, and...

and we don't know everything
there is to know about this toxin.

It could be airborne.

But it's anaerobic.

So it says in one book!

It's barely been tested.

People are wrong about these
sorts of things all of the time.

We could all die!

Julia, is this because of...

Is what because of what, William?

Nothing. I don't know.

I need some rest.

Perhaps that's for the best.

Don't tell me what's for the best!

I should see her home.

The testing can wait 'til morning.

I could do it.

Yes, but it could take all night.

I never sleep much anyways.

Thank you, Miss Hart.

Higgins!

It's me!

Hi, George.

"Hi, George"? Henry, I'm
alive, for Pete's sake.

You could show a little enthusiasm.

I'm busy picking out a gift for Ruth.

Do you want me to tell the Detective?

The Detective knows. He
called on me this morning,

as did the Inspector,
presumably because they care

about my existence on this earth!

George, I knew you weren't gonna die.

Ruth has a psychic.
He said you'd be fine.

So you're telling me you knew I
wasn't going to die because Ruth

has a psychic?

And you didn't tell me?!

- Come in.
- I've taken at least one tin from each case,

incubating each individually
and examining for botulinum.

Thank you, Miss Hart.

I must say, your work
ethic is remarkable.

Thank you, Detective.

- And your results?
- Nothing.

Every single can tested negative.

Perhaps the tainted tin
was simply an aberration.

But wasn't there one more tainted can?

The one that was sent to the reporter.

Miss Cherry!

- Miss Cherry, a word.
- Detective! Hello.

Is it about George Crabtree?
I hear he's likely dead.

- He is not.
- Oh.

There is no epidemic.

- You think I made it up.
- Not exactly out of character.

The Good Samaritan is real.

He sent me a tin of Madison's beef
that was most certainly deadly.

- Was it sealed?
- It was.

I opened it and it proved lethal.

There's a dead cat behind my house
if you'd like to see for yourself.

That won't be necessary. But I
should like to examine the tin.

Even though no one but
Mr. Gordon has fallen ill,

- I think my caution was wise.
- Oh yes, very wise.

- You're placating me.
- No, I'm not.

I am not some silly child, you
are allowed to disagree with me.

- But I don't.
- Stop it!

Well, Detective...

There is in fact botulinum in this tin.

It appears your friend was right.

Thank you, Miss Hart.

- Only one other tin was poisoned?
- So it would seem.

And none of the others
who consumed the meat

the day of the photography
session have fallen ill.

Well, then they're isolated incidents.

It could be just one man
on the line being reckless.

Or malicious.

There's something odd about this tin.

- How do you mean?
- I'm not quite sure.

It just feels... off.

Hold on...

I swear there's something
different about it.

I don't understand.

- Did that company change cans at some point?
- No, never.

All of our tins are the same,
across all of our products.

Someone has taken a Madison's label

and cut it down by a fraction of an inch

and made it fit on a
different tin altogether.

So it's some other meat?
What does all this mean?

The photograph. Do you have it?

There was a series of pictures taken...

Here's a clear shot.

There.

The stripe at the top
of the can is missing.

It's been tampered with.

Ah!

- So the poison isn't our product?
- No.

This was a deliberate
attempt at sabotage.

Someone set out to kill Mr. Gordon.

So, the poisoning was
intentional. But to what end?

Sir, you do have a handsome office.

I'm sorry?

Oh, well, it's just...

Sir, since my recent brush
with mortality I've found

a new appreciation for
the little things in life.

Like your office for instance.
It's sophisticated yet...

warm, yet officious.

In fact I suppose the root of officious

is office. Ha! Ha!

The wonders of language.

Yes. Well...

We know that the killer
went to great lengths

to disguise the poisoned
meat as Madison's.

- Perhaps to disparage the brand.
- Indeed.

And Mr. Madison did express some
concern over his competitors.

Which could explain
why the "Good Samaritan"

sent a second tin to the press.

Well, perhaps the Good
Samaritan is our killer.

George, find Miss Cherry
and see if she can recall

- any more details about him.
- Sir, do I have to?

- Yes.
- What, the reporter?

She seems fine.

She once called the Detective a bore.

Huh...

The least of her offenses.

She once impersonated
a sequential killer

- simply to sell more newspapers...
- I'll work with her.

People are not to be defined
merely by their words,

thoughts, and actions.

What the... Are they not?

Sir, I can't believe there are
so many types of canned meat.

Do people really eat this stuff?

Henry, you've only had access to
your fiancée's chef for a few weeks.

Surely you've eaten
canned meat prior to that.

Sir, I try not to think
about that time in my life.

What we're looking for, Henry,

is a can that matches
the size of this one.

The Madison tin.

Yes. But half-an-inch shorter

because this isn't
actually a Madison's tin.

It says it is...

Let's just find a match.

Now, there are plenty
that match the true size

of the Madison's tins, but...

Oh, wait.

What does this mean?

It means I need to have
a word with Mr. King.

Right. Thank you all for coming.

I've just been speaking with Mr. Madison

and I have an important
announcement to make.

What, are we gonna die again?

- No, nobody's going to die.
- Well,

except for Mr. Gordon, I suppose.

- Oh non !
- Mon Dieu !

- My dish has made me a murderer.
- Your dish is not the culprit.

The contest is still going ahead,

with a new judge, and
an even bigger prize.

Whoever wins the contest now

will become the new face of Madison's.

How brilliant!

So the poor man is at death's door

and we're going to be
competing to be his replacement?

Right. In any case,

the competition will be going ahead
this afternoon at four o'clock.

I hope to see you all there.

Will you be re-entering in
the contest, Monsieur Prideaux?

Fate beckons, madam.

Whether I will answer
remains an uncertainty.

I certainly hope you do.

And I'm sure all those nasty
rumours are just nonsense.

- Rumours?
- Hmm-mmm.

- The Frenchman resigned?
- Hmm-mmm.

People are saying whoever
poisoned Mr. Gordon

is trying to kill all
the best chefs in Toronto.

He was worried he might be next.

Exactly which people are saying that?

Oh... people. In any event,

this means my path to
victory is now open.

Imagine, the face of Madison's.

- What, you?
- That's right, Thomas.

You could be married to a celebrity.

Of course, there's still George.

He's my biggest competition now.

If only he'd resign...

But that's just silly!

I'm gonna have to beat
him fair and square.

We commissioned a slightly smaller
can to increase our margins.

I hardly think it's a crime
worthy of a police investigation.

So yours is the only food
cannery to use these smaller tins?

As far as I know, yes.

Well then, Mr. King,

this must be one of yours.

All right.

So someone put a Madison's
label on my tin...

- So what?
- Well, sir,

this particular tin tested
positive for botulism.

It was one of your cans
that poisoned Mr. Gordon.

Dear God!

But those cans were destroyed!

I can assure you, Mr. King,

not all of the tins in
question were destroyed.

I oversaw it myself.

Who first discovered this problem?

My Vice President, Arthur Power.

He happened to sample a tin
from that batch and fell ill.

They paid me off.

I can't work anymore. What
other option did I have?

You promised to keep quiet.

They said they fixed it.

No one else was going to get hurt.

Someone has, Mr. Power. Randall Gordon.

Gordon? That's Madison's beef.

He was poisoned by a can of Mr. King's

disguised to look like Madison's.

He tried to take them
both out in one go.

- Who?
- King.

He wanted Gordon to be his spokesman.

But Madison stole him.

I thought you said you could
contact him via post box.

Well... I feel the fool.

I should have checked
that the post box was real.

I have a notion. Follow me.

Sit down and close your eyes.

- Why?
- For my notion.

- What's your notion?
- You'll see.

- Not if I close my eyes.
- By taking away your sight

and focusing only on sound,
you will place your mind

in the reality of that telephone call,

and unearth a forgotten detail
that will lead us to his identity.

That's stupid.

If I'd heard something,
it would be in my notes.

Nothing of interest...

What about this? "I-N-D."

- Indecipherable.
- Yes, but why was it indecipherable?

There was a noise.

Almost as if it were on top of him,

- a loud grinding noise.
- Grinding? Like...

No, more like...

Yes.

And there was another noise on
top of that. Sharp, metallic...

Eeeeeeeee...

A moleta.

Crabtree! George...

Margaret's winning that contest.

And you're making sure of it.

Sir, I... I have no control
over the other contestants.

No. But you do have
control over one contestant.

You.

You mean...

- Sir, I couldn't.
- Oh yes, you could.

You can, and you will.

Sir, if I don't try my best,

I'll be impugning the whole spirit

of the Madison's Fine
Beef Culinary Challenge.

Let's just say it'll be
in your best interest.

I couldn't take your money, sir.

I'm not offering you any money, George.

But the next time you ask
for a Saturday off work,

you'll already know the answer.

And it won't change for the
rest of your bloody life.

- You're heading out?
- Oh!

Yes. I need to speak with Mr. Gordon

about who was at the
photograph opportunity.

There may have been an agent
of Mr. King's Tinned Foods.

Oh, good! I want to
check on his condition.

I'll join you.

- How are you feeling?
- Fine.

Why wouldn't I be?

No reason at all.

Oh! I've purchased something for you.

- Oh! What is it?
- Tobacco.

You want me to take up smoking?

- Well, only when you're feeling...
- Feeling what?

I've read that for
women in your condition,

it can have a calming
effect on emotions.

Oh...

Where did you get that tip,

the New England Journal of Quacks?

Nicotine is a stimulant, William.

Or have you forgotten?

I've also read that
you're not to quarrel

in your state.

Let's focus on work, shall we?

Good idea.

Mr. Gordon?

He can't speak.

Is there something you want to tell us?

Mr. Gordon,

if Mr. King was present, blink once.

Do you know who did this?

That's it! That's the sound I heard.

He must have placed the
call somewhere around here...

Unlikely. This is the
only moleta in Toronto,

but he sets up in a
different location each day.

The call came on Tuesday of last week.

I'll read out the rows
by the first letter.

When I read the right one, you blink

Then I'll proceed along that
row and do the same. Yes?

A-F...

- K-P...
- Yes.

- P
- Q...

- R-S.
- Yes.

- S.
- S.

A-F...

- V-W.
- Yes.

- G-H-I...
- I.

- S-W-I.
- Switch.

Mr. Gordon, are you saying
you had a tin in your hand

and it was switched that day?

Who did this? Who was it?

A...

- Yes.
- A...

B-C... C...

- F... K...
- Yes.

- M... N...
- N.

C-O-N.

Contestant?

One of the contestants
switched your tin?

But you don't know which one?

Are you sure?

If you didn't see it
occur, how can you be...

Mr. Gordon?

Mr. Gordon!

Is everyone ready?

We will begin henceforth.

Fine work, Mr. Rhodes.

I may well get out of all this
awfulness with my company intact.

We only did what was right.

The people saw that.

Ladies and gentlemen,

the competition will
commence shortly. But first,

we will prove once and for all

that Madison's Fine
Beef is entirely safe...

Come.

Madam, please.

Watch you step.

Even safe enough...

for this baby!

See, she loves it!

OK. Very well.

- George!
- Sir?

Mr. Gordon believes that his
tin was intentionally switched

- by one of the other contestants.
- I'm inclined to agree, sir.

If I was you, sir, I
would speak to Lolo Tucker.

She said Mr. Gordon
"got what he deserved".

- Right. I'll speak with her.
- One other thing, sir.

Do you think it's...

ethical to let somebody win unfairly?

George, I don't believe anyone
wins in a murder investigation.

No, I don't mean the investigation, sir,

I mean in general competition scenario.

Something like this.

Well, not this. But
let's say like this, yes.

Well, I suppose if you were
to do it for your own gain,

that would be wrong.

But if it's a selfless act,

then I see little harm.

Mr. Gordon certainly
deserved what he got.

God does the right thing
every once in a while.

- Perhaps He had some help.
- Not from me.

But if you...

need to bring me in for
questioning, I won't object.

- That won't be necessary, Mrs. Tucker.
- Oh.

Then perhaps I can help you.

I've heard a thing or two about

little miss sunshine over there.

Miss Cooper? What have you heard?

That she is not "Miss Cooper" at all.

Oh, that!

I simply changed my name.

My real name is Zagorskis. Latvian.

It's too long for a poster.

And I intend to be a star, Detective.

You plan to pursue fame
through a cooking competition?

Once you're famous you can do anything.

No one minds how you got there.

Ladies and gentlemen,

the competition is about to begin!

- Inspector! We found the moleta.
- The what?

When the Good Samaritan called,

there was a grinding
noise in the background.

It was a knife-sharpener or a moleta.

You're saying you know where
the man was calling from?

Precisely. His location
on the day in question

was right beside Madison's cannery.

- The killer called from Madison's.
- He is likely an employee.

And one of our suspects
works at their lunch counter.

Good work!

We know it was you, Douglas.

We know the killer worked for Madison.

I didn't kill anyone.
It was the Frenchman.

Mr. Prideaux's dish
did not kill Mr. Gordon.

What is your relation to Mr. King?

- Do you work for him?
- King? I'd never work for him.

That meat is disgusting.

Aren't they the ones
who tried to pass off

their bad batch as Madison's?

We never told anyone about
King being the culprit.

People knew. I was told
by a customer weeks ago.

- About the fake tins?
- No, no, no, about the bad batch.

- I just put two and two together.
- Who told you this?

He did, him over there. Mr. Rhodes.

- What are you doing?
- Nothing.

- Are you fiddling with my salt?
- No, I would never!

It must have been someone else...

Baking soda! You cheat!

Mrs. Brackenreid, I was going
to do you a kindness this day.

But now you can be sure
to see George Crabtree

- at his culinary best!
- Contestants!

Ready your pans!

On your marks, get set, cook!

Please, gentlemen.

Mr. Powers, the man who
was poisoned by King's meat?

He's an old friend of mine.

I telephoned the reporter, nothing more.

Why would you want to
destroy your own company?

"The man who saved Madison's."

Guiding the company through a crisis,

taking responsibility, engendering
the good will of the public.

They'll teach students
about me in business schools.

I'm sure they'll include the fact
that you were hanged for murder.

I don't think so.

I put a few Madison
labels on some bad tins,

I sent one to Miss Cherry.

But I have no idea
who gave one to Gordon.

I'm not sure anyone will believe that.

But it's true, Detective.

I wasn't even at the
photograph opportunity that day.

It's true, sir. Mr. Rhodes wasn't there.

You see?

Now, I appreciate your
diligence, gentlemen,

but I have a contest to judge.

Maybe he switched the tin beforehand.

Mr. Gordon was adamant that the
switch occurred at the scene.

It had to be someone who was there...

Three! Two! One!

Spatulas down, hands off your pans!

It's time to taste
these fine concoctions!

He had to have been involved somehow.

That second mislabelled
tin was no coincidence.

Then we have to presume that
he was working with one of them.

But why kill Gordon?

Sending the tin to Miss Cherry
would have achieved the same result.

An exposé doesn't create
the same splash as a death.

A warm hand for all our contestants!

He had to have another
reason to kill Gordon.

Oh no! It's truly horrible.

Mmmm!

Marvelous work, Constable!

What a unique showcase
for our Fine Beef.

Thank you, sir.

Fabulous. Fabulous!

Fine work, ma'am. Fine work!

Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you!

A very difficult decision, indeed.

But I can award victory only to one.

Miss Kathleen Cooper!

What?!

- What?!
- This is nuts.

No!

I can't have lost. There's
no way that woman won!

There's no benefit from
being a sore loser, Margaret.

I'm telling you she CAN'T have won.

I swapped out her salt.

You what?! You swapped out her salt?!

- I wanted to win! I deserved to win!
- Mr. Madison!

Just a moment. Just a moment.

Mr. Rhodes, perhaps you should taste

this dish one more time.

Why would I need to do that?

Because it's utterly inedible!

You wanted Miss Cooper to be the
new face of Madison's all along.

So the two of you
conspired to kill Mr. Gordon

and set your plan in
motion in the process.

I didn't do anything!

Look out!

Wait!

One question, Mr. Rhodes:

why add murder to your plan?

That part was her idea.

Hmm. You were happy to go along with it.

I wanted to be great,

to be renowned,

for the public to know my name.

The public will know your name.

I'm going to do it. I'm doing it!

Ladies and gentlemen, it is
my other to present to you,

the new face of Madison's:

Margaret Brackenreid!

Thank you! Thank you so much.

Yes!

Come on, look at us!

Fine work, Miss Cherry.

- For that, you have my thanks.
- And your apology?

- For what?
- For judging me unfairly.

It may once again be safe,

but I'm not sure I'll ever regard
meat with the same enthusiasm again.

Perhaps you should stick
to freshly butchered cuts.

I thought the same. Then I read up

on the abattoir conditions
in the stockyards.

The Shelleys subscribed
to a Pythagorean diet.

- Da Vinci too.
- Pythagorean? You mean vegetarian?

I do. "My body," said da Vinci,

"will not be a tomb to other creatures."

Yes.

Yes, it's the only
way to live, isn't it?

Join me, Miss Cherry.

From this day forward,
we shall follow the ranks

of all moral men in our strict adherence

to vegetarianism.

Uh, I don't think so.

What are we, cows?

William, are you going to
spend the next seven months

- too afraid to speak?
- I... I was looking for the right thing to say.

It seems I've become quite the burden

now that pregnancy has made
me just a little emotional.

Burden? No, not at all.

It's just that I spend
a great deal of time

trying to figure out
how best to help and I...

I feel useless.

I feel the same.

Let me just say:

Good choice, Crabtree.

Sir, to be entirely honest,

I didn't let Mrs. Brackenreid win.

- Eh?
- I tried my best,

she won fair and square.

I suppose I'm not such a
terrific chef after all.

Few men are.

There's an idea, sir.

What if bachelors like
myself didn't have to cook?

What if you could just
purchase a prepared meal?

- What for?
- For convenience.

It would be ready to heat, ready to eat.

That would be the slogan.
And I would call it...

"Tasty Vittles Dinner."

Bit of a mouthful.

Well, I suppose I could
shorten it. "TV Dinner."

And you could eat it
whenever you're watching

whatever you can see out your
window, I suppose. I mean,

the news of the day, some
copper solving a case,

- perhaps a cooking competition.
- That sounds ridiculous.

Why wouldn't you just
get yourself a wife?