Murdoch Mysteries (2008–…): Season 1, Episode 13 - The Annoying Red Planet - full transcript

Elmer, stop.

I don't want you
getting too close.

- What's gonna happen?
- I don't know.

It just fills me with dread.

Can you see what it is?

Looks like Henri,
from down in the valley.

Item two, boys.

The North West Mounted Police

have asked us to keep an eye out
for this man.

He's a confidence artist
who goes by Claude Benoit.

Watch yourselves.



He's considered
armed and dangerous.

Well, then, sir,
goodbye and thank you.

Ah, do consider our proposal.

We can use
an ambitious man like you

representing the constabulary.

I'll need to discuss it
with the wife, obviously.

Of course. Of course.
You take your time.

Appointments won't be made
until the spring.

- Detective Murdoch.
- Chief Constable.

"Appointments"?

They're looking
for an active copper

for the Board of Commissioners.

"They"?

Men with the means
to make their will manifest.



Ah. And what will they be
wanting you to do for them?

"Congratulations, Inspector. "
"Why, thank you, Murdoch. "

"It's well-deserved, sir. "
"Oh, you're too kind. "

- Sir?
- What?!

Constable Crabtree
has just telegraphed.

There's been a suspicious death
up in Rouge Valley.

He asked that you
bring your boots, sir.

Toodle, pip.

What do we have, George?

Henri Gaston.

Suicide, eh?
Why call for me?

Well, actually, sir,
upon arriving at the scene,

I realized I should check
for the victim's footprints,

to eliminate foul play.

However, there were none.

- No footprints?
- No.

Not besides those of myself

and the farmer
who discovered the body.

As you can see, his end
about 20 yards shy of the tree.

You're certain
there are no other footprints

leading to
or away from the tree?

None.
I've checked several times.

And when was
this field plowed, George?

Yesterday morning.

So there's no chance the farmer

would have missed
seeing the body then?

Well, I can't imagine.

Hmm. Curious.

So just how did you get
into that tree, Mr. Gaston?

Full rigor mortis
has not yet set in.

So he died relatively recently.

Within the last eight hours
or so.

So this confirms he died
after the field was plowed.

I won't know until Dr. Ogden
performs the full postmortem.

In the meantime, see what you
can find out about Mr. Gaston.

I'll be back on the 4:00
from Toronto.

- Sir.
- Oh, and George...

See if you can round up
a couple of bicycles for us.

Sir.

Ligature marks.

And some superficial wounds
to the arms and hands.

- Were they defensive?
- No, they seem random.

Most likely from
the branches of the tree.

The longest runs from the back
of the arm to the scapula.

Mmh.
And time of death?

Between 2:00 and 4:00 A.M.
last night.

That's consistent
with what I thought.

Does that trouble you?

It means that he climbed
into the tree

before the field was plowed.

Waited all day and most of the
night before hanging himself.

And in my experience,
suicidal individuals,

if given enough time,
will likely change their minds.

But this wasn't suicide.

Oh?
What makes you say that?

Mr. Gaston's neck was broken

between the second
and third vertebrae.

Such a break would require
a dead drop of 7 or 8 feet.

Ah, yes.
The hangman's calculation.

If the rope is too short,
the neck doesn't break...

Too long, the head comes off.

It's quite a precise art,
actually.

But in this case, the scarf was
too short to cause the break.

So his neck was broken
before he was hung in the tree.

A most elaborate attempt

to make it seem like a suicide,
I should say.

Why would anyone go
to such efforts?

Ah, George.

Have you found out anything more
about our victim yet?

Very little so far.

Mr. Gaston
liked to keep to himself.

He was a bit of an odd duck
by all accounts.

- Any enemies?
- None that I could determine.

There's a sister who lives here
in the village.

Oh.
Have you interviewed her yet?

I thought you'd like to
speak to her yourself, sir.

Very good.

I haven't
known what to do with myself.

I try to stay busy, but...

I'm very sorry for your loss.

Henri was so clever,
but his mind, it, um...

- It troubled him.
- How so?

He stopped talking to people.

Even me.

He stayed in his shop,
and he wouldn't come out.

His shop?

He was, um, an artisan.

He worked with wood.

But he didn't even
do that anymore.

He would have
lost the business soon.

But I never thought
he would hang himself.

Miss Gaston.

We have reason to believe
that someone killed your brother

and placed his body in the tree.

Do you know of anyone who might
have wanted to harm him?

No.

The last few times
I talked to him,

he told me
someone was after him.

But I just thought it...

There's no way
you could have known.

I should have believed him.

He was telling the truth.

Ah, George.

We'll need to go and visit
Mr. Gaston's shop.

Have you procured those bicycles
like I asked?

Not quite.
But meet Gertrude and Whitey.

Gertrude here is named after
the owner's late mother,

and Whitey...
Whitey's all white.

Very good, George.

Well, Gertrude, let's see
what you're up for, eh?

Have you never
ridden a horse before?

Um, we had a Shetland pony
when I was a child, sir.

George, every constable is
expected to know how to ride.

How did you get your job?

Uh, I may have exaggerated
my equestrian prowess, sir.

Squeeze your legs together.

Hurry up.

I've been doing some thinking

about how Mr. Gaston
ended up in the tree.

What conclusions
have you arrived at?

Well, most of my conclusions
I've had to rule out

due to sheer impossibility.

But the most feasible solution
I've come to

is that he was
shot out of a cannon.

A cannon?

I once saw the Great Farini
fire a man out of a cannon.

100-and-some feet he flew.

Well, the man was a she,

and she wasn't actually fired
from the cannon.

I beg to differ, sir.

There was an explosion, fire,
smoke coming out of the barrel,

along with one human projectile.

The firing mechanism
was a spring,

and the smoke and fire
were merely effects.

Are you sure?

Quite certain.
I inspected it myself.

I wouldn't have pegged you
for a circusgoer, sir.

I was a boy once too, George.

The only boy at the circus

inspecting the equipment, I bet.

The windows
have been boarded shut.

Why would Mr. Gaston do that?

He believed
someone was after him.

This is where he worked?

Yes, and likely lived
from the looks of it.

A telescope.

Not just any telescope.
A very powerful one.

And a shotgun.

Looks like
he was ready for trouble.

"September 7th... Lights. "

"September 19th... Circle. "

What's this?

Well, this is a map of the area.

He's notated it,
for some reason.

And these are charts
of the solar system.

An amateur astronomer, then?

Possibly.

But it seems as though
Mr. Gaston's interests

were focused on Mars.

Sir.
Listen to this.

This must be his journal.
He's kept a letter.

"Dear Mr. Gaston,

Many thanks for your thoughts
re possibility of life on Mars.

Agreed that such existed.

Whether or not said life is
extant remains to be determined,

but your observations require,
nay demand, further study.

Your fellow scientist,
Percival Lowell. "

He's the leading expert on Mars.
Published a book about it.

Right. He's the one who saw
the canals on the surface.

Well, claims to have seen.

At any rate,
keep Mr. Gaston's journal.

Perhaps he wrote something in it

that'll give us a clue
as to who was after him.

Sir, you think his observations

had something to do
with his death?

Possibly, but I suspect
the reason for his death

is decidedly more terrestrial.

Well, it wasn't just
Mr. Gaston's land we were after.

We were buying the whole valley,

from Steeles Avenue
to Plug Hat Road.

Yes.
For... For what purpose?

Come and see for yourself.

Thank you.

Our plan was to dam
the Rouge River here,

where we would then build an
electrical generating station.

That would flood all of
the lands in the valley.

Which is why we had to
buy it all up.

In your letter,
you offered Mr. Gaston $600

for 200 acres of land.

By my estimates, that's three
times what the land is worth.

It's what we were
willing to pay.

And Mr. Gaston
was the only holdout.

He wouldn't sell?

No.
He would not.

Then it seems this company
would have very strong incentive

to get rid of Mr. Gaston.

By any means necessary.

Are you suggesting
we had something to do

with Gaston's demise?

Somebody did.

We're businessmen, Detective.
We deal in money, not blood.

If a business venture
falls through,

we move on to the next one.

- So the project is dead?
- Not at all.

We simply dam
above Gaston's property.

There.

"Strange Happenings
in Perth County.

The luminous craft hovered over
the forest

before shooting off to the east
at high speed. "

What's my motto, Murdoch?

You have several, sir.
All gems.

No. No, no.
Those are aphorisms.

I only have one motto,
and that's "Follow the money. "

Who would stand to profit
from Henri Gaston's death?

Ordinarily I would say
the Rouge Valley Lands,

but apparently they plan

to relocate their dam
further upriver.

Mmh. So let's look at this
the other way.

Who stood to lose?

Well, by not selling,
Gaston did render

one tract of land downriver
from him worthless.

There's nothing like having
a sudden windfall

snatched from your grasp to get
the blood pumping, is there?

Find the owners
and check it out.

Follow the money.
Hmm?

Follow the money.

Looking for something?

Ah. Gentlemen.

I'm Detective William Murdoch
of the Toronto Police.

- Are you Jake and Kirk Maclsaac?
- That'd be us.

I'm here to investigate
the death of Henri Gaston.

Oh.

That was some terrible news.

Henri was a good man.
How can we help you?

I understand you received
a rather generous offer

from the Rouge Valley Land
Company to sell you property.

That's right.

I also understand
that Mr. Gaston's refusal

to sell his property prevented
you from selling yours.

- What are you getting at?
- You accusing us of something?

Where were the both of you
the night before last?

Asleep in our beds.

Mmh.
Not much of an alibi, is it?

Look, mister.
Henri was our friend.

We wouldn't wish him harm, let
alone hang him from that tree.

Gentlemen, do you honestly
expect me to believe

that you have never
confronted Mr. Gaston

on the sale of his land?

You best go ahead.

We did try to talk to him,
but he wouldn't listen.

It was like
he didn't even hear us.

Instead, he kept going on

about how there was something
happening in the corn field.

Did he say what, exactly?

He thought
someone was in the corn.

Watching him.

Going by Mr. Gaston's journal,

he had something of an obsession
with this field.

He had several entries about

seeing lights over it
in the night.

I'm more interested
in whether or not

he mentioned who was after him.

- Oh, he did.
- And?

Well, sir, he believed he was
being watched by Martians.

Martians, George?

He felt they were among us.

Clearly Gaston was more
delusional than I thought.

Sir.

You may want to come
take a look at this.

What is it, George?

It appears to be
a track of some sort.

Sir, could this...

Could this be
a Martian footprint?

George,
don't let your imagination

get the better of you.

The tracks appear to be
going this way.

Maybe we should call in
some other constables.

That's not trepidation I hear,
is it?

No, no, sir. Just we don't know
exactly what we're getting into.

Well, it's not Martians.

- How can you be sure?
- Occam's razor.

- Occam's... Sorry, what?
- Occam's razor.

It's a principle of logic
that states

the simplest answer
is usually the correct one.

Before we believe that Martians

have flown millions of miles
through empty space

to kill Henri Gaston,

perhaps we should exhaust all
other earthbound alternatives.

Uh...

Tracks split here.

You follow that set.

Uh...

George?

You might want to come
have a look at this.

Actually, sir...

...I think you might want to
come take a look at this.

Sir, I counted
five circles in all.

Arrayed in a pentagonal form.

How did you determine that?

- I climbed a tree.
- Oh. Very good.

Sir, Gaston's journal
had clippings in it

dealing with
something like this.

This?

Yeah, circles.
In crop fields.

Apparently it's happened in
England, Australia, now here.

He seemed to think it was
something happening worldwide.

Yes. It's called
Mother Nature, George.

What?

Localized wind shear.

When two air masses
move in opposing directions,

it causes the wind to spin,
like this.

Like what... A small tornado
touched down here?

Exactly.

But, sir, the pattern
of the other circles...

It's almost mathematical.

You can climb the tree
if you'd like to see.

George, a bee's honeycomb
is an array of hexagons.

The turns of a snail's shell
follow a Fibonacci sequence.

The what?

Nature is full
of regular patterns

that follow an underlying
mathematical sequence.

Why should wind
be any different, George?

Well, the footprints, then.

Do you think the wind
created those?

The footprints are a curiosity.
I'll grant you that.

Make a plaster cast
of the best one you can find.

- Yes, sir.
- And ask around with the locals.

See if anyone's noticed
any other unusual goings-on.

Sir.

These things...
the circles, the footprints.

You must think
they're connected.

Possibly.

But they don't answer
the central question...

How did Henri Gaston
end up in that tree?

And precisely when
did you hear these odd noises?

Really?

And these lights in the sky...

What direction
were they coming from?

- Just over there.
- Hmm. Toward the Rouge Valley.

Where exactly
did you see this cow?

In the field
in the back of Johnson's farm.

What's this, then?
Another Sunday school project?

It's a model of the crime scene.

Ooh.
Some nice work.

Please, sir.
It's quite delicate.

"Precious" would be
a better word.

Now, what's it supposed to mean?

It demonstrates how the killers
got the body into that tree.

So we're tracking two killers?

Yes. The scheme I've devised
is a two-man operation.

Um...

A grappling hook
with a rope attached

is fired from atop this tree
into this tree.

The body is then sent down
the rope on a pulley.

The first man
then follows behind

and hoists the body

into the upper portion
of the tree.

All of this
is straightforward.

You're bloody crackers!

Why not just roll the body
into a ditch?

I believe it's meant to confound
us for some unknown reason.

Think you're wasting your time.

I thought we agreed you were
going to follow the money.

I am, sir,
but whoever killed him

still had to hoist the body
up into the tree.

And this is the only earthly
means that I could devise.

Earthly?

Constable Crabtree believes

that Martians
might have been involved.

Martians!
You're both bloody crackers!

If it does turn out
to be a Martian,

I want him handcuffed, booked,
and sitting in that cell.

Them.

Oh, right.
I forgot.

It's a two-Martian operation.

Julia?

William.

Good Lord.
Were we just on the same train?

W- Where did you get on?

- Union Station.
- Don Station.

Oh, how funny.

I came to see you
at your office, but...

What are you doing here?

I had an urgent telegram
from Constable Crabtree

asking me to perform
a postmortem.

There's been another homicide?

Bovicide, actually.

Now, you might think this is
just a typical dead cow.

But upon a closer look

you'll see that she appears
to have been hollowed out.

Good Lord.

You're right.

It looks like someone
drilled a hole into her abdomen

and emptied the contents.

I should note, sir,

that Mr. Gaston's journal
had a series of clippings

dealing with incidents
like this...

a rash of them in both
New Zealand and the Falklands.

George, how does
this connect to our case?

Sir, I think this is further
evidence of Martian activity.

George, I know I asked you

to be on the lookout
for anything unusual.

But to drag Dr. Ogden
20 miles out of town

to look at a dead cow...

Actually, William...

...I agree
with Constable Crabtree.

Something has happened to this
cow that merits investigation.

Yes, and I suspect you'll find
that it is a natural phenomenon.

Cows get bloat
from eating wet crops.

Gas pressure builds
within the animal

and, unless released,
it can prove fatal.

I'm familiar with bloat,
William.

In severe cases,
the gases build up to the point

where the animal literally
explodes, expelling the viscera.

Exactly.

Here someone has tried
to prevent that

by lancing the cow's stomach.

Thus the hole in the abdomen.

It's a small hole for the kind
of evacuation you're describing.

Sir, the dead cow's
not the half of it.

People have been seeing lights
in the night sky.

People have been hearing noises.

There... There's still the issue
of the Martian feet.

What in heaven's name is that?

It's a rendering of a so-called
Martian footprint.

Note the numerous bumps on the
surface of the bulbous toes.

Now, it's my hypothesis, Doctor,

that these bumps
are sensory organs

designed to discern
the chemical content of the soil

much as our noses discern
the chemical content of the air.

Uh, well...

It's an interesting theory,
Constable.

Thank you.

Wait.

Scales.

Yes, it's my belief that the
Martians are covered in scales.

So while they might be
smarter than us,

I have a feeling
they're a great deal uglier.

Sir, where are you going?

To arrest your Martians.

Detective Murdoch.

What can we do for you?

This will only take a moment.

Golfers, eh?

A gift.
From our aunt in Scotland.

Is that right?

Constable, arrest these men.

Let's go, gentlemen.

- Chief Constable.
- Thomas.

I'd like you to meet
Terrence Meyers.

Mr. Meyers is the owner of
the Rouge Valley Lands Company.

Inspector.

Can I get you gentlemen
a spot of tea?

No.

Thank you.

Well, we'll get to the point.

I understand that
your Detective Murdoch

is focusing his investigations

on the land dealings
in the Rouge Valley.

That's correct.

Inspector, I stand to lose
a great deal

if my name were to be associated
with any of this.

- Do you?
- Thomas...

Mr. Meyers is a very good friend
of the force.

I see.

Well, we'll do our best
to make sure

that Mr. Meyers' name
stays out of the press.

Well, we'll have to do
better than that.

I'm not sure
there's more I can do.

I give you my word
I'm not involved.

Mr. Meyers, that alone isn't...

Thomas.
Mr. Meyers gave you his word.

I think that's enough.

Don't you?

The crop circles
would have been a snap.

A central stake and a rope

is all you would have needed
for that.

But the footprints...
That's more difficult.

But you're skilled men.

A blacksmith's
dragon-scaling tool.

For the scales.

Golf balls.

For the toes.

Yours would have been
made of metal

and likely fastened
to the bottom of a boot.

Every blacksmith has a scaler.

Anybody can get golf balls.

But not every blacksmith
had motive.

- You did.
- We're not murderers.

You were trying to scare him
into selling his land

by bringing his obsession
with Martians to life.

But instead of running,
he dug his heels in,

so you had to kill him.

- No.
- No?

Maybe it was an accident.

Eh?

You wrestled.
He fell awkwardly.

- Broke his neck.
- That's not what happened.

Then perhaps you were working at
the behest of Rouge Valley Lands

as a couple of hired thugs.

Murdoch.

A word.

If it was an accident,
you'll likely not get the noose.

Something to think about.

Sir, I was mid-interview.

- Release them.
- Release them?

I believe
they killed Henri Gaston.

Based on what?

The only hard evidence
you've got

is a blacksmith's tool
and a few golf balls.

Inspector, you told me
to follow the money.

I believe this is where
that trail leads.

And this is where it ends.

We don't have
any evidence against them.

Since when do you care
about that?

You're pushing your luck,
Murdoch.

- Sir?
- What?

There's been
another murder, sir.

How long has he been dead?

Four to five hours.

The Maclsaacs were in custody
at the time.

So it appears that I was right,
after all.

- Strange, though.
- What's that, sir?

I feel I've seen him
someplace before,

but I just can't think of where.

And the cause of death?

Well, there is this.

I won't know
until I do my postmortem,

but it would seem his viscera
have been evacuated.

Just like the cow.

And, sir, you should
take a look at this.

- What's wrong?
- Walk down the line.

Four train tickets
to Toronto, please.

I've got rather
a large piece of luggage.

Sir, what do you suppose
this all means?

Perhaps it's a warning.

Perhaps they know
we're onto them.

Are they so superior

that they think of us
as no different than cows?

That is a scary thought.

Doctor,
please don't encourage him.

Right, then. Looks like
we're stuck here for the night.

Stuck?

Train lost a wheel
further down the track.

They won't clear the line
till the morning.

I'm afraid I'll need to perform
the postmortem right away.

- We'll take a carriage, then.
- That would take much too long.

Oh. Can you perform
the postmortem here?

I'll need to purchase some
supplies, but otherwise yes.

Oh, good.

Then I suggest
we use this opportunity

to find the identity
of the victim.

And let's keep the gruesome
details to ourselves.

There's no point
alarming the locals.

And that means you, bugalugs.

Hello.

Could I have a bottle
of pure alcohol, please,

and a bottle of distilled water.

Oh, and a tarpaulin.

And a bucket.

I'm interested in learning
the identity of this man.

He's a couple
of inches taller than myself.

He wore an expensive suit.
Good shoes.

So you can't be sure it's him?

- He did look familiar to you?
- Yes, he does.

In what way
did he look different?

Hard to say.

Very peculiar.
No one knew the victim.

Yet everyone thought
they recognized him.

Just like I did.

But not as the man
in the picture.

It's almost like
he didn't want to be noticed.

Which worked.

Here we are,
and we know nothing about him.

As suspected,
the victim's internal organs

have been completely removed.

No stomach, no intestines.

- Presumably the cause of death.
- It would seem so.

Anything to indicate
how it was done?

They seem to have been removed

through this circular incision
made in his side

measuring 11/4 inches.

So they made a hole and then
pulled his guts out through it.

The hole is too small
to accommodate a hand.

Yes, well, they probably have
some sort of special tool.

I didn't find anything
to suggest a tool,

not even surgical.

Perhaps a tube was inserted
into the incision

and the contents drawn out
that way.

By means of suction?

Something along
the same principle

as an electrical fan,
let's say.

Only reversed.

Well, there is one thing

that should be of interest
to all of you.

Try to imagine him
without the mustache.

Oh, yes.
I recognize him now.

- He was here a day or so ago.
- Oh, so you knew him, then?

I did not know him at all.
But he seemed to know Henri.

At least,
he knew things about him.

What sort of things?

He knew about Henri's telescope
and his charts too.

Mmh.
What did he want?

- To know where Henri's shop was.
- Did you tell him?

- No.
- Why not?

I didn't trust him.

He spoke perfect English.

Almost.

Almost?

He had the faintest
of Parisian accents.

It seemed as if
he was trying to hide it.

Did he happen to mention
where he was staying?

He mentioned something
about a shack.

But I don't know
if he was staying there.

Sir.

Take a look at this.

- What do you make of that?
- A disguise kit.

Look at these.

Four travel documents
from different countries.

One Belgian... Pierre Gagnon.

One Algerian...
Francois Marchand.

One British... Phillipe Tristan.

One French... Claude Benoit.

He's a confidence artist
who goes by Claude Benoit.

That's where I know him from.

He's the con man that's wanted
by the North West Mounted.

He's unusually well-equipped
for a confidence trickster.

Two men, both killed
in a very strange manner,

who both happen to be French.

Zut alors, mon ami.

These are
the best accommodations in town.

Well, if we're here
for the night,

we might as well
make the most of it.

- Uh, sir?
- Yes, George.

I've been thinking
about what you said...

the principle
of Occam's razor and all that.

Yes?

Well, with your grappling hooks
and ropes

and suction devices
that we don't even know exist,

aren't you avoiding
a much simpler explanation?

There's no logical impediment

to the existence of life
beyond our planet.

George, the Bible says

God created the Earth
and life and man.

And there's no mention
of Martians.

But the Bible isn't right
about everything.

I mean, the Bible says that Cain
was banished to the wilderness.

It also says that he ended up
with descendants.

So who did he meet up with?

George, I...

I need some time alone
to think right now.

All right?

Yes, of course, sir.

Oh.

William.

William?

I'm sorry.
My mind was in the stars.

Oh, I... I-I didn't...

I thought that
I wasn't gonna see you.

Your hair, it's... it's quite
lovely that way.

Oh, well, would you like
to walk with me?

I'd be delighted.

- Inspector.
- Oh! Crabtree!

What are you doing
skulking around?

I couldn't sleep.
I saw you here.

I wanted to run some ideas
past you.

When I'm at home,

the missus prefers
that I don't partake

in this so-called filthy habit.

Which is why, given the
odd chance such as tonight,

I like to take a... a quiet walk
and enjoy a leisurely smoke.

Do you mind?

No.
Not at all, sir.

Cigars don't bother me a bit.

Now, perhaps Constable Crabtree
is correct.

After all, Henri believed
in Martians... Now he's dead.

The other fellow
who was connected to Henri...

Now he too is dead.

Just playing devil's advocate.

I believe the cases
are connected somehow.

But to accept
that Martians did this

is to accept that, well,
Martians exist.

Which you do not.

It's a matter
of calculating the odds,

starting with the likelihood
of intelligent life.

Sir, do you think the Bible
never mentioned Martians

because it simply
would have confused us?

As far as I know,
God only made man in His image.

- No mention of Martians at all.
- Hmm.

That was Detective Murdoch's
point as well.

Wonderful.

Now I'm agreeing with Murdoch
on the Bible.

Yes, but what if Martians have
been technologically advanced

for thousands of years,

and it's only now
that we're lighting our cities

that they can see us?

- Perhaps they see us a threat.
- A threat?

I suppose God takes on
the essential human form...

two arms, two legs, head, face.

Okay, but then, what if Mars has
its own intelligent beings

with two arms, two legs,
and so on?

I mean, as far as that goes,
what if Mars has its own Bible,

its own Martian Jesus?

And Murdoch works with you
every single day?

Hmm.

Gets to work with me.

Perhaps I'm just not
willing to accept

that the most incredible event
in human history

could happen in my time, to me.

It's just too unlikely.

Yes, but everything that happens
happens to somebody.

Just think about
all the amazing things

that have happened
in your lifetime already,

all the things
that are going to happen.

Do you hear something, William?

Do you hear that noise?

Sounds like an engine
of some sort.

Oh, bloody hell.

We have to follow it, sir.
We can't let it get away!

Bloody hell. What do you think
you're gonna do if we catch it?

I don't know.
I'll figure it out when I do.

- It's gone.
- What?

Nonsense.
It can't just vanish.

No, it's still
out there somewhere.

And I think I know
how we can find it.

So, what's your theory, then?

Gaston's observations.

The lights in the sky,
the sounds.

I believe I know
what he was describing.

The Martian flying machine.

No, not Martians,

but a flying airship
of some sort.

A- A dirigible.

A motorized one.
That's fantastic.

I believe Gaston was plotting
the sightings on this map.

Well, let's see.

Sightings.

June 18th.
North 43.85 degrees.

West 079. 14.

- Yes.
- Here.

Why would an airship
be in the Rouge Valley?

I don't know, but it does
provide a rational explanation

for how Gaston
got into that tree.

Perhaps he was in the airship
and fell out as it passed over.

And the question is,
did he jump or was he pushed?

Yes.
And the last one... July 3rd.

North 43.9.

West 079.3.

All the sightings seem to
radiate from one central point.

Yes.
Concession 51.

What about the second victim?
Where does he fit in to this?

That's unclear at the moment.

But I do believe it has to do
with this land sale.

Be more specific.

The Maclsaacs preyed
on Gaston's fears.

So too does this airship.

It's all too much
of a coincidence.

But the Maclsaacs
were in custody

when the second victim
was killed.

There's another party involved.

- The Rouge Valley Land Company.
- Most likely.

What would a land company
be doing with an airship?

Good question, Crabtree.

Right, then, I'll take
a carriage back to Toronto

and check on
the Rouge Valley Land Company.

You two find this airship.

Airship and a land company.

I think this is it, George.

We'll carry on by foot
from here.

Whoa.

Someone's playing silly buggers
with me.

You weren't the only one.

Chief Constable.
What are you doing here?

Thomas, we need to have
a wee chat.

- About how I was duped?
- How we both were.

So, what do we do about it?

Nothing.
Our hands are tied.

What do you mean?

No one ties
my bloody hands, sir.

Thomas!

As I said,
we need to have a wee chat.

I hear a voice.

I can't make out
what they're saying.

I don't think it's English, sir.

Perhaps it's Martian.

- Eastern European, I think.
- It's Russian, to be exact.

Professor, it is imperative that
we leave as soon as possible.

Our operation here
is compromised.

If we attempt to leave

without rectifying
the cooling problem,

we'll have to
abort our mission again!

Detective Murdoch.
What a shame to see you here.

Although I'm not surprised.

You do seem to be
the persistent sort.

So you two are in on this?

Only you're not Jake
and Kirk Maclsaac, are you?

Colonel Thadeus Wainwright.
U.S. Cavalry.

Commander Reginald Sharp.
Royal Navy.

Military.
What are you doing here?

Gentlemen.
If you'll please come this way.

Sir.

Detective Murdoch.

Mr. Meyers.
If that really is your name.

- It will do.
- What's going on here?

What's going on here, Detective,

is nothing less than
the reinvention of warfare.

Like Rozier's hot-air balloons,
but with more control.

Ah.
A student of war?

I have some knowledge
on the subject.

Then you will understand

the importance
of controlling the skies.

The secret is the engine,
isn't it?

Engine... the power of 80 horses
but the size of a pig.

Thanks to
Professor Skrzhinsky here

we can go as high as we want
and as far as we want.

We can spy on our enemies.

And rain destruction on them
from above.

Perhaps.

So now you understand
the importance of secrecy.

Is that what happened
to Henri Gaston...

He stuck his nose
where it didn't belong?

What happened to Mr. Gaston
was a tragic case

of mistaken identity.

The British War Office
received information

about a French operative
in the area,

most likely to steal our design.

Henri followed the airship here
and was captured.

Because he spoke
with a French accent,

our men assumed
he was the operative.

How did he end up dead
in the tree?

Henri believed that our men

were acting in league
with the Martians,

so he refused to talk to them.

They took him in the airship
hoping to loosen his tongue.

By frightening him.
Nothing more.

But instead he panicked.

Before anyone could move,
he jumped.

And his scarf snagged
in the tree.

If only he had
simply taken our offer.

Yes, if only.

And what about the other victim?
Mr. Benoit?

He was the real
French operative.

Yeah.

How did you suck his guts out?

That was my idea, actually.
See that machine behind you?

We use it to rapidly deflate
the dirigible.

It didn't take much adjustment
to use it for... something else.

Anyway, I think we've answered

more than enough
of your questions.

How will you keep us
from talking?

Are we about to become the next
victims of Martian attack?

Yes.
Yes, you are.

Elmer! Stop that!

I don't want you getting
too close!

What's gonna happen?

I don't know.

But there's just something
devilish about them.

Oh.

Oh, my head.

Well. Perhaps if you weren't
such a drinker.

Yes, of course, ma'am.

- George.
- Sir!

Are you okay?

Fine, fine.
You?

Good.

I'm good.

Ma'am. Sir.

No.

It was... It was here!
It was huge!

Sir, there were
a dozen or more men.

Torches, equipment.
It was a massive setup.

We can't waste any time. We have
to start gathering evidence.

Murdoch, it's over.

What?

This letter
was hand-delivered to me

direct from
the prime minister's office,

requesting that we desist
with any further investigation.

But, sir,
two men have been killed.

If we do persist,
we'll be charged with treason.

Treason, sir.
That's the noose.

Exactly their point.

- Sir, we can't just give up.
- We have no choice, Murdoch.

This is outrageous that
our government would do this.

Using a... well,
an unidentified flying object

to cover
their own nefarious activities.

It's conspiratorial.

Listen, this is the government.

This operation
involved national security.

Security, yes.
But at what cost?

Yes. Henri Gaston didn't ask
to be involved in this.

His death
was an unfortunate accident.

We should
ignore their behavior

because it's our government?

I'm not saying that
it's right or that it's ideal,

but we do have a duty
to the Crown.

- Rubbish.
- It's not rubbish.

These people...
They'll do this again.

We'll just have to
keep an eye out for them.

Good luck, Murdoch. But you
can't take on the government.

You know, if I was gonna do
something like this,

I would set up shop out in the
middle of the desert somewhere.

Yes, like California.

Exactly.

The territory of
New Mexico... That'd be my pick.

Oh, yes, William.
That's a splendid choice.

Ah, you're
all crackers... Wales!

Now, no one in their right mind
would go there.