Murdoch Mysteries (2008–…): Season 1, Episode 4 - Elementary, My Dear Murdoch - full transcript

Mr. Doyle?

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?

I suppose it's a book
you'd like me to sign.

No, no.
We have an engagement.

My name's William Murdoch.

You, sir.

Good God, man. I was expecting
someone twice your age.

Well, there's no time to dally.
We're late.

- Late?
- Yes.

You see, I, unfortunately,
have double-booked myself.

Here we are.



It's an awful habit of mine.

I do hope you'll forgive me.

Of course, of course.

I'm honored you agreed
to meet me in the first place.

Your Sherlock is an inspiration.

Was, sir, was.

The man is dead and gone
and good riddance, I say.

Ah, in any case,
if anyone's honored to be met,

it's me by you.

Detective William Murdoch.

Your work on the Cabbagetown
murders, sheer genius.

Thank you, thank you.

Might I inquire
where we are going?

Suffice it to say that you're
not the only Toronto resident



who's come to my attention.

My dear Mr. Doyle.

What an honor, a pleasure,
and a coup to have you with us.

May I present
Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle?

Doctor, adventurer, and creator
of the most brilliant

of all detectives,
Sherlock Holmes.

And now spiritualist.

Thank you very much indeed,
Miss Pensall.

And this must be the police
officer you mentioned.

Yes, this is
Detective William Murdoch

of the Toronto Constabulary,

who, I can assure you,
is not a fictional creation.

Please do sit.
We're about to begin.

Thank you.

Tonight, we are attempting
to once again contact

the unfortunate young son
of dear Conrad Hunt.

The angels came too soon
for James.

Are you ready, Conrad?

More than you can ever know.

I ask that everyone in the room

think of their own
dearly departed ones.

Ask them to join us
in exhorting young James

to travel to our welcoming den,
if only for a moment.

Yes.

He's coming.
James?

James?

No.

Not James.

Someone else.

A young woman.

To whom do you wish to speak?

She wants to talk to you,
Detective.

She says she was murdered.

What?

Murdered?

She was buried
in a shallow grave.

What are you talking about?
Is this some sort of joke?

Quiet, man!

This young woman,
where is she buried?

Here we are.

Ah, 20 paces from the road,
towards the water tower.

Where we will no doubt find
the elusive wild goose.

Really, Mr. Doyle,
I'm surprised at you.

A man of science,
being taken in like this.

It is as a man of science

that I'm interested,
Detective Murdoch.

If these things are not true,

they must be disproven
scientifically.

19 and 20.

There.

And... 19 and 20.
It was 20.

Satisfied, Mr. Doyle?

Unfortunately,
there is no cable strung

between our world and the next.

Perhaps the message
may have been garbled somehow.

But, yes, I am satisfied.

Excellent, because
I am exceedingly hungry.

Oh, wait.

- Shh.
- What is it?

There, you see.

Psst!

Psst, psst, psst, psst!

The earth has been disturbed.

Bugger.

Your murder bag, sir.

Excellent.
Some light, please, George.

Uh, what's this?

A little something I rigged up.

Turn it on, George.

Good God.

Daylight in a box.
How extraordinary.

Two sets of tracks.
One wider than the other.

I'll have molds taken of these.

Yes.
Yes, well done.

This will be the doctor
from the coroner's office.

I hope I didn't take you away
from anything important.

Ah, in fact, you rescued me
from a rather wretched comedy

at the Princess Theatre.

You're Arthur Conan Doyle.

Guilty.

Yes, Mr. Doyle,
may I present Dr. Julia Ogden?

Mr. Doyle is in town...

To give a lecture
on spiritualism.

I have a ticket already, and I'm
quite looking forward to it.

Yes.
Yes, yes.

May I see the body?

Uh, yes.

I counted two bullet wounds.

This one seems to have
powder residue.

Yes. The first shot
would have been fired

from a distance
of at least 10 feet.

I would think the second
at much closer range.

The finishing shot, as it were.

- Help me roll her.
- Oh, may I?

Allow me.
Here we are.

1, 2, 3.

Well, given rigor,
I'd say she was killed

within the last 24 hours.

There's one exit wound.

Second bullet is lodged
in the body.

Excellent!

That means you can match
the bullet

with the gun
that it was fired from.

Match the bullet?

Yes, a Frenchman has been doing
some excellent work.

Yes.
Lacassagne.

Do we know the name
of this woman?

Ida Winston.

She had a number
of calling cards in her purse.

Winston.

We were told in briefing that a
woman by that name was missing.

Have the next of kin
come round to the morgue

in the morning, George.

Yes, sir.

Have you found
the hidden levers, Detec...

Oh, good heavens.
Are you all right?

Fine, fine.

Tell me, Miss Pensall,
how is it you come to know

the precise whereabouts
of a murder victim?

I was told.

You were told.

Are you familiar
with Ida Winston?

Well, of course.

She's a member of
the Toronto Paranormal Society.

Mrs. Winston
is the murder victim.

- Are you sure?
- Yes, quite.

I would have thought her spirit

might have mentioned that
to you.

The voice, it wasn't Ida's.

Who, then?

Mr. Doyle, if you don't mind...

Tell me about
this Toronto Paranormal Society.

They investigate people

who claim to have
supernatural abilities.

Individuals such as yourself?

Yes, Detective.

They have the gall
to question my ability.

And...

And the term they're using
is "inconclusive. "

Where were you yesterday?

I was here.

I was conducting
a series of s?ances

that went well into the evening.

I never left this room.

And you have witnesses
to this effect?

Dozens of them.

Miss Pensall, I do not believe
in psychic phenomenon,

and I suspect
that you are somehow involved.

I was only passing on...

What the spirits
conveyed to you, yes.

I can assure you,
the killer will be found,

and in the here and now.

Good night.

Miss Pensall.

Do you really believe
the clairvoyant

had something to do
with the murder?

The woman led us
straight to the body.

She may not have committed
the murder,

but she certainly had knowledge
of its undertaking.

Knowledge gained
through her psychic abilities.

Really, Mr. Doyle.

Tell me, Detective,

do you think she'd hold a s?ance

knowing that a police officer
was in attendance

and then point you straight
to a body she'd just buried?

She'd be marching herself
to the gallows.

It makes no sense.

Perhaps not,
but she is hiding something.

Thank you.

Ah, top of the morning to you,
sir.

Mr. Doyle,
what are you doing here?

Well, truth be known,
watching you work last night

has rekindled my interest
in sleuthing.

If it's not too much
of an imposition,

I would like to tag along
for a few days.

Well, actually, sir,
it's going to be quite hectic.

Murdoch!

What's all this bollocks

about a corpse being found
by an alleged psychic?

Not alleged, sir.

And who the bloody hell are you?

Inspector, this is Mr. Doyle.

Doyle?
As in Arthur Conan Doyle?

One and the same, sir.

Mr. Doyle, Thomas Brackenreid.

Inspector Thomas Brackenreid.

- Call me Arthur.
- Arthur.

I'm a big fan of yours.
A bit of a shocker,

what happened
in your last "Sherlock. "

I trust you'll find a way
to bring him back, no doubt.

As a ghost, perhaps?

An interesting idea,
but I think not.

What brings you
to our humble station?

- Your Detective Murdoch.
- Murdoch?

Yes, I was hoping
that I could accompany him

on his latest case.

Murdoch, why?

Research.

Ah, yes, a book perhaps?

However, of course,
I understand if you're too busy.

He told you that?

Well, sir, with the Aitken
murder and now...

Nonsense, Detective!

I think you two make
a lovely couple.

Now, do you need
some office space?

Perkins, clear out your desk!

- This way, Arthur.
- Thank you.

- Which one's Perkins?
- Uh, the big one.

- Ah, he is a big lad, isn't he?
- Yes.

It took me almost an hour
to find the bullet.

It was lodged
in her spinal cord.

- Always the last place to look.
- Of course.

That was meant as a joke,
Mr. Doyle.

Of course.

Ahh.

I'm afraid the bullet's far
too damaged to be of any use.

Do you have a time of death?

Midnight the night before last,
give or take three hours.

That would corroborate
Miss Pensall's alibi.

I take it you're not averse

to the sight of congealed blood,
Mr. Doyle.

My dear lady, I have been
performing postmortems

long before it became
the purview of women.

Perhaps you'd care
to demonstrate.

Yes, well, I have not been
a doctor since...

Well, truth be told,
I was never much of one,

which is why I became a writer.

And what sort of writer
kills off his finest character?

One which does not want to be
shackled to his own creation.

Oh, Lord Jesus.

Have the next of kin arrived,
George?

That would be the husband, sir,
and I'm afraid not.

Said he couldn't possibly
come down now.

To identify his wife?

Too distraught, I believe.
He sent this along, sir.

What is it?

Have you an address, George?

Mr. Winston,
I'm Detective William Murdoch.

My condolences.

This is an acquaintance of mine,
Mr. Doyle.

Our fine police force.

If you'd acted
on my missing person's report,

my wife might still be alive.

Perhaps we could speak
in private.

Can this not wait?

We're in a house of mourning.

I am trying to find the person
or persons responsible

for your wife's murder.

Do you care to help me?

Forgive me, Detective.

As you can well imagine,
it's been a trying day.

Of course.

Is there anything you can tell
me about your wife's activities

the day that she went missing?

I was at my practice
and couldn't say for certain.

I suspect, however,
that she was at the offices

of the Paranormal Society.

What makes you say that?

Because, Detective,
she had fallen more and more

under the influence
of those people.

Might there by anyone
to corroborate your whereabouts

that evening?

I was at the hospital,
tending to a patient.

Now, I ask that you
please leave.

And you, a fellow doctor,
lending your name

to these fools who pretend
to speak to the dead.

Shame on you.

Excuse me, sir.

Detective William Murdoch.

Yes.
How do you do, Detective?

Couldn't help but overhear.
Terrible tragedy.

Honor to meet you, Mr. Doyle.
Frederick Waters.

Looking forward to your talk.
Shame about the circumstances.

And the upset.

There's no need to apologize,
man.

Did you know the deceased well?

I did.

In what capacity?

Why, as a member of
the Toronto Paranormal Society,

of which I am the head
and she, um, an adherent.

What exactly is an adherent?

Lots of fakers at the moment.

Madame This, The Amazing That.

Taking advantage
of the vulnerable.

Mrs. Winston, like myself,

dedicated to exposing
these frauds.

Identifying true clairvoyants.

Mr. Winston seemed upset

at his wife's involvement
with the Society.

Well, we're a devoted group.

Long hours.
Perhaps too long for some.

What is your opinion
of Miss Pensall?

Certain members
convinced of her ability.

Well, that's certainly
understandable.

We have witnessed them
ourselves.

Which members, exactly?

Conrad Hunt, for one,
would be lost without her.

I trust this makes you
a believer.

I've seen things, Detective.

Things I can't explain.

What was Mrs. Winston's stance
on all of this?

Less convinced.

Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me,
must be going.

Certainly.

Was Ida Winston about to reveal
Miss Pensall as a fraud?

And if she was, potentially,

she would have been a threat to
her reputation, her livelihood.

If Miss Pensall's authenticity
is in question,

I have a suggestion.

A s?ance?

Gotcha!

Are you stark raving mad,
Murdoch?

I'm afraid the idea was mine,
Inspector.

Yours, Mr. Doyle?

Yes, Inspector, I realize

that this must seem absurd
to you, sir.

Mr. Doyle,
this is not the literary world.

As police officers, we're
obligated to build our cases

based on concrete evidence.

But, Detective, we both know

there are numerous ways
of uncovering that evidence.

And you believe a s?ance
might shed some light on things?

- I do.
- Nonsense.

I fear this would be
nothing more than a diversion.

Perhaps.

But the spirit
could give us a clue

as to the killer's identity.

Or it may be that you'll
just be able to prove

that the clairvoyant is a fake,
in which case,

you'll have reason
to suspect her of complicity.

Point taken, Mr. Doyle.

Proceed with the s?ance,
Murdoch.

Close your eyes.

Concentrate.

Think of your loved ones.

Exhort them to ask
the young woman

that came to me yesterday
to appear again.

Have them tell her
that there's nothing to fear.

Think of them.

Speak to them.

It's a...

a beautiful park.

And there's laughter.

A silver horse.

A woman in red.

She's beautiful, this woman.

Liza.

She has a message for you,
Detective Murdoch.

Stop this.

She... She wants you to hear it.

She needs you to hear it.

I said stop this at once!

This is a trick.

This is all just a trick.

Are you satisfied,
Detective Murdoch?

I was in an alley
off Richmond Street

doing some service
for Miss Pensall.

And what was the nature
of this service?

Spirits are fickle, Detective.

They don't always come,
to quote Shakespeare,

"when you do call them. "

I believe I asked Mr. Gall.
I won't be needing a medium.

Sometimes
we need information, sir.

About the people taking part
round the table.

In other words, you cheat them.

"Cheat" is such a strong word,
Detective.

Miss Pensall, I will not ask you
again to keep quiet.

You've been following me,
haven't you, Mr. Gall?

Looking for scraps
of information?

Yes, sir.

Is that how you found out
about Mrs. Winston?

I was in the alley
behind the Paranormal Society

on account of all the guests
being members.

My plan was to sneak
into the office

and find out a thing or two.

I was startled
when a figure stepped out.

He was struggling
with something very heavy,

which struck me as odd
so late at night.

Naturally, I followed him,

seeing as this could be
of interest to Miss Pensall.

And I ended up
in the middle of nowhere.

He was burying something.

I waited till he was gone,

then pulled in closer
for a look.

Then I discovered
the horrible truth.

- And this figure?
- I never got a clear look.

Can you describe the carriage?

It was a wagon.

It was brown, I believe.

Or black, perhaps.
It was dark.

Why did you not go
to the police?

Because I couldn't risk
betraying the fact

that I was gathering evidence
for Miss Pensall.

You didn't think to leave
an anonymous tip?

No.
No, of course not.

Because solving this crime
with a supposed vision

would have been quite a feather
in your cap.

I know you believe
I'm a charlatan, Detective.

But I provide a service
to those in pain

who seek closure
from those they cannot reach.

You should be ashamed
of yourself.

Trafficking
in the pain of others.

Well, I may resort
to embellishment, Detective,

but I assure you, I am no fraud.

And you, of all people,
should know this.

Tell me, Detective,

just what do you expect to find
in the Paranormal Society?

A crime scene.

- Is that all?
- You think otherwise?

Yes, well, I can't help thinking
there's something more.

Perhaps it has something to do
with this Liza person.

I trust you were close.

- She was my fianc?e.
- I see.

Well, may I ask what happened?

She died of consumption
over a year ago.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Um, Miss Pensall mentioned
a silver horse.

Does this mean something?

It means she has
a vivid imagination.

Listen.
You hear?

- Someone's distressed inside.
- I hear nothing.

Ah, very good.

- Mr. Doyle.
- Hmm?

Slight discoloration.

Yes.

This portion seems
to have been cleaned recently.

A blood stain from Mrs. Winston?

Seems likely.

So, if her body
was lying here...

...where was the killer?

Mr. Doyle.

Shoot me.

Excuse me?

Shoot me.

Ah, yes.

Bang!

Wait.

The first bullet was fired from
a distance of at least 10 feet,

so the assailant
would have been further back.

Bang!

No.

Bang!

No.

Bang!

So, if the bullet entered
her torso through her stomach,

exited out of her back,

then the bullet would be...

In the bookcase.

Sheer genius.

When we find the bullet,

we can match it to the gun
from which it was fired.

Yes, "we" can,
provided we find that gun.

I must say,
I'm pleased to hear you

putting your faith
back in science

and not spiritualism.

Your world may consist
of cold logic, Detective,

but I'm afraid
I need something more.

I do have something more.

My faith.

Oh, so, you do believe
in an afterlife?

Yet you cut yourself off

from the possibilities
of communicating with it.

Common sense tells me

that if we were indeed able to
communicate with the afterlife,

we wouldn't require the services
of an intermediary.

Yet you make your confessions
to a priest.

A sort of intermediary.

Where is your common sense
in that?

Confession is about earthly sin,
not heavenly imaginings.

But last night,
when Miss Pensall revealed

that this Liza person
may have a message for you,

were you not
the least bit hopeful?

Well?
Detective?

This book gets interesting
around page 143.

Elementary, my dear Murdoch.

Ida was murdered here
in my building?

I'm afraid so, Mr. Hunt.

I'll need the names of everyone
who might have access

to the Paranormal Society
offices.

We have hundreds of members

who are free to come and go
as they please.

Then it will be a long list.

Uh, would any of these members

have any reason whatsoever
to harm Mrs. Winston?

I should think not.

And where were you
two nights ago?

With my sister, having tea.
What's this all about?

And Miss Pensall,
did she have access?

I don't think so,
but it's possible.

What was Mrs. Winston's
relationship to Miss Pensall?

If you're suggesting

Miss Pensall had something to do
with Ida's death,

you couldn't be more wrong.

And why would that be?

Because she had no reason
to fear Ida.

Not even being exposed
as a fraud?

In other cases,
I've had my doubts.

But I can assure you
Sarah's abilities are real.

She's touched many people's
lives, mine included.

Yes, I'm sorry to hear
about your son.

I lost him two years ago.

And now you believe
you have a conduit to him?

Perhaps you need to lose
someone you love to understand.

Thank you, Mr. Hunt.
I'll be in touch.

Well, this has been
quite an adventure.

Perhaps I could treat you
to a nightcap?

No, thank you, sir.

I've had enough spirits
for one night.

Detective.

What on Earth do you want
at this hour?

Normally,
I require some advance notice.

Think of Liza.

Send her thoughts of love.

Ask her to join us

to bring you a message.

Yes.

Good.
Someone's here.

You keep your eyes closed.
Think of Liza.

Think of her.

She's here.

William.

Liza?

You're still holding on to me,
William.

Yes, of course, I am.

It's time to let go.

Release me.

Release yourself.

I can't.

We'll find one another
in the next life, William.

Now you must rejoin the living.

No, no, Liza.

Liza!

She's gone, Detective.

She's gone.

What have we got?

Judge Edward Danby.

Died in the arms of a woman
not his wife,

which I imagine accounts
for the smile on his face.

That was meant to raise
your spirits, Detective Murdoch.

Spirits.

Are you quite all right?
You look a tad piqued.

What on Earth
have you got there?

A telephonic probe.

I thought you could use it

next time you were looking
for a bullet.

It's, um...

How unexpected.

Similar to the one used to
search for the bullet

in President Garfield's back,
with some improvements.

I'll be sure to make use
of this, William.

Something tells me this isn't
the only reason you're here.

I attended another s?ance
last night,

a private one.

Twice now, the clairvoyant has
claimed Liza was in the room.

There were things, details,

that no one could have possibly
known but Liza or myself.

There are ways to say things
in an ambiguous way.

Not these things.

Perhaps your mind found ways
to bend the details?

Perhaps.

I suppose you're right.

Inspector,
I normally only have one lunch.

Ah, there he is, hard at work.

You should have joined us
for lunch, Murdoch,

instead of pouring...

By the way,
what are you pouring over?

Carriage tracks.

These are molds
of two sets of tracks

found at the scene of the crime.

This is a mold of the tracks

belonging to a carriage
owned by Miss Pensall.

They do not match.

Which confirms her story.

Well, surely, we can strike
Miss Pensall as a suspect.

Now, if we can only find
the owner

of this other set
of carriage tracks.

Have you any idea
how many carriages there are

in this city?

I'm only interested
in ones belonging to members

of the Toronto
Paranormal Society.

What you're looking at
is the future of policing.

Dare I say,
the future of entertainment,

books and theater,
so on, so forth.

Forensics?

Too dull and gory,
I should think.

Quite the opposite.

I suspect the public has
an endless appetite

for this sort of tale.

I only wish
these new methods were around

when I was writing
my Holmes stories.

Then you should write more.

In fact,
I meant to mention it at lunch,

but we got sidetracked.

I have an idea for you.

A wonderful story
that I heard as a young man

while visiting my uncle
in Scotland.

I would love to hear it, Thomas.
Unfortunately, I must be going.

A little rest before the lecture
this evening.

I'll see you there, Detective?

Certainly.

As for me, I tried to get
a ticket, but, alas...

Oh, well, why didn't you
mention something?

Wonderful, wonderful.

I was sent to live with my uncle
in the Highlands one summer,

and he told me a story
about a neighbor,

whose vicious dog attacked
and killed a man.

Miss Pensall's gone shopping,
sir.

Actually,
it's you I wanted to talk to.

Me?

Tell me, Gall, what was it
you were really looking for

that night in the alley?

As I told you before, sir,

information
on Paranormal Society members.

But you didn't
need to persuade members.

They were already convinced.

With the exception of one.

Ida Winston.

But she wasn't
going to be convinced

by some s?ance hocus-pocus,
was she?

You needed something
far more concrete.

What was it?

I have no idea
what you're talking about.

Perhaps there was no man
in the alley that night.

Perhaps it was you who carried
out Mrs. Winston's body,

after you shot her.

We had nothing to do
with her death.

Convince me otherwise.

We were sure she was about to
revise her position.

Why would she do that?

Because I had found something
out about her,

and, if necessary,

that would have been revealed
at the next s?ance.

You've been holding
something back from me,

haven't you, Mr. Waters?

Not sure what you're
referring to, Detective.

Your affair with Ida Winston.

You didn't think
this was relevant?

Doesn't look good.

Murdered here.

Jealous lover.

Do you own a gun, Mr. Waters?

Owned.

It's gone missing.

Did you report the theft?

Never occurred.

Should have.

Another strike against me.

I'll need the make and model,
please.

Didn't kill her.

No reason.

Loved the woman, Detective.

Then who did?

Frederick Waters is a cunning,
treacherous no-account

who had the temerity to appear
in my house of mourning.

But instead of confronting him,

you snuck
into the Paranormal Society

and shot your wife
in a fit of jealousy.

If there's anyone
I would have shot,

it would be Frederick.

That man was trying to destroy
my life.

Do you own a gun, Mr. Winston?

A rifle,
which I use for hunting.

Forgive me for saying so,

but you don't seem terribly
shaken by your wife's death.

Grief is a private matter,
Detective.

We all have our own methods
of coping.

Ida and I had talked things
through.

She was breaking it off with
Frederick and coming back to me.

That's not what Mr. Waters
led me to believe.

She came to her senses,
Detective.

I should hope you follow suit.

- Mr. Hunt.
- Detective.

I'm looking
for Frederick Waters.

I expected to see him here
myself.

Is he not in attendance?

No, most unlike Frederick.

This is delicate,

but, uh, did you know Mr. Waters
and Mrs. Winston were...

It was impossible not to notice.

But it had ended.

- At her request?
- That's my understanding.

And how had Mr. Waters
taken that?

He tried not to show it,
but I think he was despondent.

Perhaps even angry.

I see.

Do you have any idea
where Mr. Waters might be?

All I know is the Society
is his life.

Thank you.

In the last few years,

a new idea has arisen

to replace the cold,
dead religions of the world.

This new idea
we call spiritualism,

which holds that alongside
this material world

there exists another world.

A world that is
just as real as this one.

Most of us can't see
this other world

and therefore deny
its very presence.

But there are among us

those who have been endowed
with a very special gift.

The gift of clairvoyance.

Now, I myself have seen
these spirit sensitives

make contact with the dead.

So convinced am I
that this other plane exists

that I stand here before you
right now

and I make this solemn promise

that when I shuffle off
this mortal coil,

I will return with a message.

And speak to you of what lies
ahead in the great beyond.

Hellhound...

of the Highlands!

Hurry up, lads!
Speck out.

- The holding cells, sir.
- Come on, then!

Sergeant Mulligan,
lock down the station!

What the bloody hell's going on?

Merely testing out a theory,
Inspector.

What's that, then?

To see if a building
full of coppers

will come running
at the sound of a gunshot?

Have you ever heard of
a gentleman named Lacassagne?

Yes, of course I have.

But remind me again.

Monsieur Lacassagne
is a forensics scientist

at Lyons University.

He has perfected a test

which matches a bullet to
the gun from which it was fired.

Whoa!

Uh, yes.

This is the gun that was found
in Frederick Waters' hand,

from which presumably came
the bullet which killed him.

We fired a bullet from that gun
into this barrel of water.

This is the bullet
that killed Frederick Waters.

This is the bullet
that was found

at the Toronto
Paranormal Society

that killed Ida Winston.

And this is the bullet
we just fired.

Note the striations
here, here, and here.

That's amazing.
They all match.

So that means...

It means that this is the weapon
that killed both of the victims.

But what's the point?

We already know the killer,
Frederick Waters.

He murdered his former lover,
Ida Winston, in a fit of rage.

And then with the constabulary
closing in,

he took his own life.

Only one problem.

Frederick Waters
did not kill himself.

Then who did?

Some spirit, no doubt.

Well?

I had Frederick Waters
write something down for me.

He was left-handed.

The gun was found in his right.

Hmm, tell me, Detective.

Have you ever heard the term
"ambidextrous"?

Yes, I'd already thought of that

and confirmed that he was,
in fact, left-handed.

Thomas,
about this dog story of yours.

I've been thinking
about the setting.

The Highlands.

Yes, I'm not entirely convinced
it's evocative enough.

- The Highlands?
- Yes, the Highlands.

I feel sorry for him.

Yeah, terrible shame.

He wasn't much older
than you or I.

No, not him.
Arthur Conan Doyle.

The way he droned on
in his lecture.

"I will return with a message. "

How a man like that goes

from devout Catholic to devout
spiritualist, it's beyond me.

Beyond me.

That's funny.

What if it is possible?

What if there is a second plane?

I mean...

You want to talk to her,
don't you?

There were a number
of fingermarks

on the murder weapon,

but none that match
Frederick Waters.

Well, then, the gun must have
been placed into his hand.

Definitely not suicide.

So we can rule him out
as the killer.

We've already eliminated
Sarah Pensall as a suspect.

And Hubert Winston
had reconciled with Ida.

That only leaves
the Toronto Paranormal Society.

And at the top
of that list is Conrad Hunt.

Why would he want
Mrs. Winston dead?

Because she was a threat
to Miss Pensall.

Enough to kill her?

I know how desperate one can be

to contact a loved one
beyond their reach.

Given the right conditions,

one might take drastic measures

to ensure that connection
is never lost.

If Hunt is our man,

the evidence against him
is tenuous.

And he's not likely to up
and confess now, is he?

Actually, he might.

He's here.
James?

You have a message
for your father?

Yes, I'll tell him.

What is it, Sarah?
What does he say?

He says something
is troubling you.

What?
Troubling me?

That you're living
under a dark cloud.

That you're afraid that he's
going to drift away from you.

There's darkness between you.

Darkness?

Darkness is in your soul,
Father.

- James?
- I'm leaving.

I've come to say goodbye.

No, no!
Why?

There's a river of blood.
I can't cross it.

Blood.
James, there is no blood.

The lies have to stop, Father.

James, I would never lie to you.

Something's happened to you,
what you've become.

Nothing's happened.
Nothing's changed.

It's because of me.

- No!
- Yes.

She didn't have to die.

You killed her because of me.

No, James, please.

I have to leave, Father,
for your sake.

- For your sake, Father.
- No, James, don't go!

I didn't do it for you.
I did it for us.

James, I did it for us!

He's gone.

James.

James.

Ida Winston was going to
discredit Miss Pensall,

wasn't she?

You would have lost your son.

I couldn't bear to lose him
again.

And Frederick Waters?
Why did you kill him?

I had to kill him.

To throw you off the scent.

Do you understand?

I understand grief all too well.

But the murders of two people...

Mr. Hunt, you are under arrest.

I'd do anything, anything
to speak with him again.

Well done, Detective.

Well done.

So, Hunt killed Waters

hoping it would look like
a lover's quarrel.

He knew we were closing in.

No, no, you were closing in.

Uh, right, then, Arthur,

I'll drop you at the train
station, me old mucker.

By all means.
I can't wait to hear the end

of this "Hellhound of the Moors"
story.

Highlands.
"Hellhounds of the Highlands. "

Yes, I'll be with you
in a moment.

Well, I suppose this whole thing

has done nothing to alter
your skepticism, Detective.

I will admit the boundaries

between physical and spiritual
happenings can be blurry.

It's a step.

It has been a great pleasure
to meet you, Detective Murdoch.

Likewise, Mr. Doyle.

I'd like to thank you
for all of your help.

I know at times I was
somewhat difficult, and I...

You're welcome.

Miss Pensall,

I was wondering if you could
help me speak to Liza again.

I'm sorry.

Liza gave you her message
already, Detective.

Good evening.