Murdoch Mysteries (2008–…): Season 1, Episode 9 - Belly Speaker - full transcript

Grimesby!

Get out here, you rat bastard!

You know why I'm here.
Come and face me like a man!

Grimesby, Roderick Grimesby!

You don't take favors
with a man's wife

and not answer for it!

By the faith Jesus, that hurts.

Ah, there's you done for,
Roddy boy.

What have we here?

Roderick "Roddy" Grimesby.

45.



Part-time dock worker,
full-time drunk,

according to the neighbors.

Alcoholic drinks himself
to death, not that unusual.

Why was I called?

Cause of death is still unknown,
Detective.

Quite right, Doctor.
Have you a time of death?

Between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m.
this morning.

Very good.

George, this, uh, Stanley Paulk,
the man who found the body,

why was he here?

He came seeking satisfaction,
sir.

I beg your pardon.

For his wife's liaisons
with the deceased here.

Ah, thus the broken-down door.



I'd like to have a word
with him, George.

Sir.

The tongue and throat
are swollen and burned.

Strong aroma.
Some kind of paint product.

Varnish?

Surely, he would have known
it would be fatal.

Perhaps that was the point.

Suicide? I don't think so.
Look here.

This bruising, it's recent.

He was held down.

By the shape of it,

I would say the attacker
was right-handed.

Then he poured varnish
down his throat?

Murder.

Detective, Stanley Paulk.

There he is,
the stinking pile of sheep...

Mr. Paulk,
I'm Detective William Murdoch.

I take it the door was locked
when you arrived, Mr. Paulk.

I didn't crack my shoulder
for exercise.

No, I guess not.

And when you broke down
the door,

this is how you found
Mr. Grimesby?

Facedown in his own filth.

Fitting, I'd say.

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

You don't have time to hear
the whole list.

And where was Mrs. Paulk
last night?

Home.

I don't let the tramp
out of my sight these days.

If your wife was safely at home,

then why did you choose last
night to confront Mr. Grimesby?

It was time to settle the score,
once and for all.

I guess he settled it for me.

Did you know
the Grimesby family?

We've been neighbors
almost 15 years.

Turns out for half of them,

he was having at it
with my missus.

Yes, thank you, Mr. Paulk.

Do you know
where the family is now?

Wife's been dead 15 years.

And the boy?

Harcourt.
Odd one, that.

But he did all right
by the old man.

Meaning?

Regular visits, food, and so on.

Drunken bugger
didn't deserve the care.

It's by rights
he's dead and cold.

Thank you.

Constable, see to it

that Mr. Paulk receives
medical attention.

Sir.

Sir, do you really
want to let him go?

I mean, the cheated-on husband?

George,
the attacker was right-handed.

He's still here.

He's still here.

He's still here.

By Jesus, that's him.

- Who?
- Harcourt. The son.

Ask me. Ask me.

Harcourt killed his own father!

How do you like them apples?

Hey!

What's your name, copper?

Constable Crabby or something?
Eh?

Ooh, what's the matter?

You don't like wooden people,
Crabby?

That's quite enough from you.

Thought so.

Now, this Detective Murdoch,
serious fellow.

Thoughtful, clever.

Mr. Grimesby, if you could
just sign this confession,

if you don't mind.

That coroner's not too shabby,
either.

Willowy.
I like that.

She married?

Okay, that's quite enough.

No!
Don't.

He stays with me.

Everything all right, Constable?

Fine, sir.

Well, that'll be
the written confession, then.

Why would a man
who's clearly right-handed

write with his left hand?

Because he's as mad
as a box of frogs.

I'll wait for the postmortem
report before I speak with him.

A confession's not good enough.

Now, you tell me
who the madman is...

Crabby.

Good timing, William.
I've opened Mr. Grimesby up.

Excruciating death,
I should think.

Someone wanted him to suffer,

perhaps suggesting
a personal motive.

Yes, well,
Harcourt was a drunkard's son.

Then you, of all people,
should understand the motive.

I suppose so.

You sound unconvinced.

Well, for years,
Harcourt played the good son,

caring
for an undeserving father.

Why choose now to kill?

Maybe he'd simply had enough.

I suppose.
What about the eyes?

One dark, one light.

Condition called heterochromia.
Usually a genetic phenomenon.

Oh, genetics.
Heady stuff.

I read Gregor Mendel's

"Experiments
in Plant Hybridization"

last July at the beach.

For some light summer reading.

Yes.

I'll need a sample
of the stomach contents

to verify the poisoning
by varnish.

A mystery under every rock,
eh, William?

Yes.

George, I'd like you
to bring in Mrs. Paulk.

But Harcourt Grimesby
has just written a confession.

Yes, I understand.

However, there are still
some unanswered questions,

and given Mrs. Paulk's alleged
relationship with the deceased,

I believe she might be
able to answer them.

- I'll bring her in straightaway.
- Thank you.

Oh, and, George,
how are things with the puppet?

It stares at me, sir,
like it knows what I'm thinking.

And it's always grinning
this grin.

Basswood and wires, Constable.

Murdoch, a word.

And when you pull
a puppet's strings...

Sir, if this is about
the Grimesby case...

Don't talk to me about that
nutcase and his demon puppet.

A friend of ours has dropped by
for a visit.

William.

Hail fellow, well met.

Mr. Doyle.

I am delighted to see you.

And it's Arthur, please.

My God, you're looking fit.

Thomas, have you shared my news
with our detective?

I thought I'd leave that to you,
Arthur.

My office.

- News?
- Brace yourself, William.

For I have decided
to base my next creation,

my next great detective, on you.

Me?

Well, not you precisely,
but a character very similar.

A colonial detective.

New World meets Old World,
science meets sleuthing.

But I thought you were basing
your next Sherlock Holmes' novel

on the inspector's idea

of the vicious hound
that kills the man

in the Scottish Highlands.

Much more compelling,
I should think.

Yes, and I just may someday.

But, unfortunately,
Mr. Holmes and I remain

at tiresome loggerheads.

You are the fresh blood
needed to fire my imagination.

But I'm working
on a case currently.

Oh, nonsense.

The inspector tells me
you already have a confession.

True.

However, this case
is more complicated

than we had originally thought.

That's the first
I've heard of this.

I'll hardly be any bother
at all.

I've already decided
that I will use a real-life case

as the basis of my story.

I merely require you to guide me
through your process.

And allow me, on occasion,
to observe your methodology.

What say you?

Do you really think that people
are interested in reading

about investigations
that are over and done with?

Cold cases, if you will.

Yes, I do.

So much so that I believe
that my little idea

will generate a lot of publicity
for this station house.

Then, again, of course,
fame can be such a nuisance.

Murdoch, on second thought,
what would be the harm, really?

Sir, with all due respect, I...

And what better case to let
Arthur Conan Doyle observe

than one that's already solved?

Impress him with your usual zeal

to see that even the scoundrels,
the obviously guilty,

get a fair crack at the whip.

Explore any wild theories
you like, Murdoch.

As long as you arrive
at the foregone conclusion.

Arthur, you have
our full cooperation.

Give me some soup.

No.
It's for me.

Cream of celery is my favorite.

Everything is your favorite.

If you don't feed me,
I could get upset.

You don't want that.

I need food.
You're made of wood.

Wood doesn't get hungry?

Where shall we begin, Detective?

Perhaps with the interrogation
of your suspect.

That would be improper,
I'm afraid.

Oh, then, I suppose I'll
just dive into the research

on my cold case.

Which case would that be?

It's the death
of an elderly Chinese gentleman

this March 22nd.

I read about the trial
when I was last here.

It stayed with me ever since.

I believe you're referring
to the Lee case.

Precisely.

As I recall, the victim
was beaten to death.

An open and shut case.

Why would it be of interest
to you?

The Chinese community
is an exotic backdrop.

Now, how would you handle
this case, Detective?

I would visit the crime scene.

Long gone, unfortunately.
Next.

- Speak to the witnesses.
- Presumably in the files.

Could you arrange for me
to see them?

Yes, I'll have
Constable Crabtree see to it.

Next step?

I would speak to the doctor
that conducted the postmortem.

Ah, the lovely Dr. Ogden.

Yes, it will be a great pleasure
to see her again.

You'll soon have your chance.

William, I have a...

Mr. Doyle,
what a lovely surprise.

Dr. Ogden.
Enchanting as always.

I wonder
if I might speak with you.

Speak with me?

Yes. I'm conducting research
on my new book,

partially inspired
by Detective Murdoch.

A most intriguing idea.

Yes, I'd like to discuss
some details

surrounding a postmortem,

and perhaps you might also
enlighten me

on some of our good detective's
personal habits.

Certainly.
When would be convenient?

Now's as good a time as any.

Unfortunately, Mr. Doyle
is unavailable at the moment.

He'll be observing my interview
with Harcourt Grimesby.

I will? Splendid.
Perhaps later.

Are you fond of French cuisine?

There are no French restaurants
in Toronto.

Perhaps something else, then.

I would love to.

I'd be more than happy to answer
any questions you might have.

I would prefer to discuss
the victim's stomach contents.

That's hardly
a suitable dinner topic.

He means this, Mr. Doyle.

Ah, yes, well, perhaps
it is best we dine later.

I must be off.
Gentlemen.

Oh, a belly speaker, no less.

From the ancient Greek
Baal Obh,

meaning spirit voices

emanating from
the ventriloquist's stomach.

Thank you.

Meet Harcourt Grimesby
and Mycroft.

A name
I'm all too familiar with.

I saw Fred Russell
and his puppet Joe

at the Palace Theatre.

Previously, they'd all used
hand puppets or small dolls.

That night, Russell introduced
the single figure puppet

like Mycroft.

Caused a sensation.

Now, of course,
everyone's using it.

Yes, well,
the entertainment industry

isn't exactly known
for its originality, now, is it?

Precisely my sentiments.

What sort of approach
do you intend on taking

in this interview, Detective?

I thought I'd talk to him.

Somewhat banal,
but effective, I'm sure.

Yes, I must ask that you remain
out here, please.

No interruptions.

Oh, no, you have my word.

Thank you, George.
You may step out.

Thank you, sir.

Good afternoon,
Detective Murdoch.

So good of you to drop by.

I'm sorry to have kept you
waiting, Mr. Grimesby.

Any audience is a good audience.

Oh, watch this, Willy boy!

Whoo, whoo, whoo,
whoo, whoo, whoo!

Thanks.

So, Detective,
what's on your mind?

Oh, there are
a great many things on my mind.

A great many things.

Ooh, things aren't looking good
for you.

Not good at all.

I don't understand
these questions.

My father was a violent,
drunken terror

who drove my mother to suicide.

- What more do you need to know?
- Please bear with me.

This is strictly
for our records,

and establishing a timeline

would be a great help
in that regard.

Ooh! Ask me.
I know!

Please, sir.
I will have the puppet removed.

No, please.
He'll be good.

I really must insist.

Otherwise...

Pardon me.

What is it, Mr. Doyle?

Brilliant strategy, threatening
to take away the puppet.

It wasn't strategy.

The puppet
is extremely annoying.

Ah, well, then, yes, straight
back at it, then, I suppose.

Off you go.
Go on.

Pardon the interruption.

We were discussing the events

leading up to the death
of your father.

Mycroft and I had just finished
our performance...

prematurely.

The little girl's songbird
escapes and is killed.

- She's compelled to bury it.
- Yeah?

But she's digging a big hole.

And the woman next door says,

"Dearie, why such a big hole
for your wee songbird? "

And the little girl says...

I needed room for your damn cat!

Don't you get it?
The cat ate the bird.

So, okay, just stop that!

Then I went home
and drank to excess.

And that's when the rage
against your father took hold?

Yes.

I set out for my father's flat,

and that's all I remember
until the end.

If, as you claimed,
you despised your...

You gave me your word,
Mr. Doyle.

Yes, but is it not unusual
that Harcourt,

if he was so hell-bent on murder
as he says he was,

that he brought
his puppet along?

I don't know.
Why don't you ask him yourself?

- That would be improper.
- Yes, highly.

But I'm afraid it may be

the only way I can get
this interview.

- Be my guest.
- If you insist.

Who's the walrus?

Arthur Conan Doyle.

That supposed to mean something?

Mr. Doyle is here
to lend his expertise.

Oh, he's an expert.

I'm curious, Mr. Grimesby,

on why you brought
your puppet along

if you intended to murder
your father.

What are ya?
Stupid?

Of course I brought him along.

You don't leave your best friend
alone in the dead of night.

And, yes, I know he's a puppet.

We don't like you, Doyle.

I take it you made Mycroft
yourself, Mr. Grimesby?

Excellent craftsmanship.

You should see my good side.

Thank you, Detective.

He looks very much like you.

- It gets the laughs.
- Says you.

One more thing.

If your father was
a vile drunkard, as you say,

why have anything to do with him
at all?

I'm an only child, Detective.

Regardless of my feelings
towards him,

a son has a duty to his father.

Yes, well, that'll be all.

Oh, you're right-handed,
I take it.

Yet you employ your left hand
almost exclusively.

To protect my right hand.

Operating Mycroft has caused
pain and numbness in it.

If I'm not careful, my days
on stage may soon be over.

Big parade on that day.

What am I saying?
I'm for the noose.

They can hack off both my hands,
and it's all the same.

Might he be angling
for an insanity defense?

Spare himself the noose.

And guarantee a wretched life
in an asylum?

Well, you were even throughout.
Never judgmental.

You praised the accused.

Do you pity the doomed?

A fragile psyche like Harcourt's
requires a delicate approach.

He seemed uncomfortable
in his own skin, didn't he?

Mind you, I suspect I'd feel
the same way

were I constantly barraged
with insults by my own puppet.

There does seem to be no love
lost on the puppet's part.

What are you suggesting?

Merely an observation.

He claims that his right hand
pains him with numbness,

yet the killer used the right
hand to hold the victim down.

No.
He wouldn't do that.

And in a drunken rage,
he thought to lock the door.

The Lee murder file, Mr. Doyle.

Yes, thank you very much,
Constable.

I don't know
why you're interested

in this particular case.

It's rather open and shut.
No secret panels or whatnot.

The suspect, Mr. Sing,
is he incarcerated?

He is.
Awaiting the noose, I believe.

Unfortunate.

I suppose for him.

Although he was found
standing over the deceased.

Was he?

Yes. The other tenants
in the rooming house

heard the victim moaning
in distress

and the police were called.

Could you find out for me
where he's being held?

Right away.

Um, I think it's quite something

that you're basing your new
novel on Detective Murdoch.

He's got an uncanny grasp
of the criminal mind

and just an unbelievably
observational eye.

Yes, you see, all these
platitudes are well and good,

but what I really need to know
is how he thinks.

Platitudes.

Sounds like you're talking
about a sea creature, sir.

Yes, I believe that you're
thinking of the platypus.

I don't believe I am.

George,
has Mrs. Paulk arrived yet?

She has.
She's in the interview room.

Very good.

Now, go immediately
to Harcourt's flat.

Retrieve any and all bottles
of shellac, varnish, lacquer,

anything of the sort.

I wish to compare their contents

to what we find in Roderick
Grimesby's stomach sample.

Now, sir, we have found
a bottle of varnish

there at the crime scene.

Yes, but someone took the time
to pour the varnish

from a can into a bottle.

So, if we find that same varnish
at Harcourt's,

it furthers our case.

The only thing is I was
about to help Mr. Doyle find...

I'm sure it can wait.

Sir.

William, I sense a reluctance
on your part

in this endeavor of mine.

Mr. Doyle...

- Arthur.
- Arthur.

How do I provide you
with insight into my mind?

It simply works as it does.

There you are, Arthur.

Creative juices flowing,
I trust?

All is well?

Excellent.

I've got a stomach that thinks
its throat's been cut.

Perfect opportunity for lunch,
yes?

Yes, is there ale involved,
Inspector?

Is the Pope a Catholic, Arthur?

Well, in that case,
I'm your man.

I've also had the idea

of adapting
my "Hounds of the Highlands"

to one of your new stories.

My character is investigating
a terrible murder

over at Scarborough Cliffs.

Murdoch, of course,
is assisting me.

Come on,
I'll tell you on the way.

Bluffs, sir.
Scarborough Bluffs.

Roddy never gave me a key.

'Fraid I'd get into his booze.

- Would you have?
- Of course.

Mrs. Paulk,
where were you this morning

between 3:00 and 6:00 a.m.?

Home.

Me husband Stanley says
he's got the nerve up

to take it to Roddy.

I says, "Rubbish, you've not got
the nerve, you spineless fish,

which is why
I've been flyin' me flag

on account
of your girlie aspect. "

And then I went back to sleep.

Are you sure
this demonstration's

absolutely necessary, Thomas?

Note the form, Arthur.

My character in battle

against that ferocious hound
on the cliffs.

Ah, yes, of course,
the climactic boxing match

between man and dog.

Fine form.
Now, what about Murdoch?

I can't fathom him
one little bit.

Uh, just spends half his time
sitting and thinking.

But he's done well,
all because of you.

Indeed, indeed.

But he lacks the fighter's
instincts to turn the screws.

A little fear of God
gets results.

None of this "Let's sit down

and have a nice, little,
friendly chat" business.

Mrs. Paulk, what do you know

about the relationship between
Mr. Grimesby and his son?

Was there any bad blood?

Haven't the faintest idea.

I was there to knock boots
with Roddy boy, Mr. Murdoch.

I'm not otherwise taking notice.

Well, that will be quite enough.

There was one odd thing.

One odd thing?

Every while in his cups,
Roddy'd get all teary-eyed,

talk about
that godforsaken Mycroft.

- The puppet?
- Yeah.

Nothing you could make out.

Just Mycroft this
and Mycroft that.

Boohoo and all.

I figure the loving's
top drawer.

If the man wants to bring
puppets into it,

I'm not complaining, am I?

You know, I...
Thank you, good fellows.

I was wondering
if I could meet the suspect

in the Lee case, Mr. Sing.

The suspect?

Oh, yes, I find it

as important to understand
the psychology of the villain

as it is the hero.

I suppose it can be arranged,
but I doubt you'll get much.

Why?

Well, my understanding is that
when they raided the flat,

they found a room
full of roots and herbs.

Most likely an opium eater.

Yes, well, nonetheless,
if I could speak to him,

I'd be in your debt.

Repay me with another pint,
Arthur?

Splendid.

These are samples
of the varnishes found

in Harcourt Grimesby's home.

Methanol.

Ethanol.

Isopropanol.

And methyl isobutyl ketone.

In other words, he only used
high-quality shellac

on his puppet.

Yes.

Now the stomach contents.

That's just low-grade varnish.

That would be consistent
with my findings.

How so?

Shellac affects
the muscular system,

while varnish
causes gastric bleeding.

Mr. Harcourt only suffered
gastric bleeding.

So, for some reason, instead
of using the shellac on hand,

Harcourt went to the trouble
of purchasing low-grade varnish

with which to kill his father?

Yet another inconsistency.

Yes.
Yet another inconsistency.

He's still there.

Shut up.

What did you do?

What did you do?

Shut up, you creature.

What did you do?
What did you do?

Shut up! Shut up!

Shut up!

What's happened to your puppet,
Mr. Grimesby?

We had an altercation.

Oh?
About?

Mycroft has a mind of his own,
doesn't he?

If I say yes, you'll
think me insane. I'm not.

You and I are very much alike,
Mr. Grimesby.

We are?

Yes.

Both our fathers were alcoholic.

Our mothers died
when we were very young.

And as a boy,
I, too, had an alter ego.

A stuffed bear toy.

What was his name?

Bear.

Straightforward.
Fitting.

My point is that my stuffed bear
also spoke for me on occasion.

He knew all of my secrets,

as I suspect Mycroft knows
all of yours.

May I see him?

You take very good care of him,
don't you?

He can be difficult,
but he means no harm.

I think he likes you, Detective.

He's very glossy.

It's shellac, I assume.

It strains the budget,
but he's worth it.

Yes. Low-grade varnish
would damage the basswood.

I wouldn't dream
of using the stuff.

Then, how is it
your father came to be poisoned

by cheap varnish?

We've taken very careful note
of your father's injuries.

They are not consistent
with poisoning by shellac.

You must be mistaken.

Why are you so determined
to hang for this crime?

Let me help you.

Here it is.
Haw See Lee.

I know you didn't personally
perform the postmortem, Doctor,

but anything you could tell me
would be most helpful.

Of course, Mr. Doyle.

I must say,
it seems rather routine.

Yes, yes, but it is the minutiae
that is the texture of a tale.

Well, the victim was found dead
in his rooming house.

He had suffered extensive
bruising to the upper torso.

And what was the cause of death?

The victim was elderly.

The beating was thought to have
contributed to heart failure.

The bruising,
was it to the back?

Yes.

By any chance, were there
specific shapes to the bruises?

Yes.
Distinct circular patterns.

The examiner thought perhaps a
potato masher or a large pestle,

some such item.

Tell me, Mr. Doyle, how did you
know about the shape?

I must have read about it
in the newspaper article.

Was the victim suffering
from consumption?

Mr. Doyle, you seem to know
far more about this case

than what one would find
in a newspaper article.

Tell me, Doctor,
have you ever heard of cupping?

Always
with the blackboard, Murdoch,

always with the blackboard.

Must you persist?

As I've said before, sir,

Harcourt Grimesby
is not being truthful.

He claims to have killed
his father with shellac,

yet the poison used
was a cheaper varnish.

- A quibble.
- A lie.

I reiterate, he confessed.

- But why?
- He's guilty.

- Of what?
- Killing his father?

But would guilt consume
Harcourt Grimesby

if he despised his father
as he claims?

Is this another of your
confounding Jesuit arguments?

I'll admit, it is possible.

I'm simply saying

that there are inconsistencies
in his confession

which make no sense.

Unless...

Bloody hell, Murdoch, say it!
Unless what?

Unless there was a third party
involved.

A third party?

All right,
I'll go along with that.

We've eliminated the cuckolded
husband and his lovely wife,

and Mrs. Grimesby is long dead.

So, you tell me, Detective,
who does that leave?

Stop it!
You'll kill him!

That's the whole idea, stupid!

I have no relevant theory
at the moment, sir.

Well, until you do, the belly
speaker stays locked up.

What I find puzzling
is Harcourt was in the room.

He saw the killer.

And if so, why does he insist

on protecting
the killer's identity.

William?

Inspector.
May we have a word?

Yes, of course.

Mr. Doyle has convinced me

that a great miscarriage
of justice has been carried out.

What are you talking about?

Thomas, it has to do
with Mr. Lee's death.

It was not murder.

This is very serious.
Are you sure, Mr. Doyle?

The bruising
on the deceased body

was a result
of an ancient Oriental treatment

for congestion of the lungs.

It's a technique called cupping.

Cupping?
What the bloody hell is that?

Yes,
I've heard of this technique.

It involves a heated cup
placed on the skin

to create a partial vacuum.

Drawing up
the underlying tissues.

And after a few moments,

the blood is drawn
to the surface of the skin.

Yes, much like...
What is the colloquialism?

- Love bites.
- Correct.

But more importantly,
the marks appear to be bruises

causing the illusion
that the victim has been beaten.

So, the victim
was cupped to death?

No, no.

The victim was suffering
from consumption.

Mr. Sing is an Oriental
medical practitioner.

That's what the herbs
in his flat were for.

So, Mr. Sing was employing
this cupping technique

to try and cure the victim.

But, being elderly,
he suffered a heart attack.

This all sounds like weird,

African witch-doctor business
to me.

Eastern medical practices
are very different from ours.

Regardless, Mr. Sing is innocent
and must be released.

Well, unfortunately,
you're a tad late, I'm afraid.

What are you talking about?

Well, I tried to get you in to
speak with the Oriental old dog,

but, uh, he met his maker
three days ago.

Damnation!

Mr. Doyle?
What on earth?

What's wrong with Arthur?

I'll speak with him.

Mr. Doyle, you have led me
on quite a chase.

Ah, if it's not
the great detective,

staring blankly into the face of
death without skipping a beat.

Sir, I am not Sherlock Holmes.

Now, please tell me.
What is going on?

What are you talking about, sir?

You are not here to write
some book about me, are you?

Barkeep, another!

Whatever it is
you are doing here

has something to do
with this cupping incident.

My reasons for being here
are my own, damn it!

Damn it all to hell!

Barkeep, I said another!

Barkeep, I want another drink!

Murdoch!

You can't do this to me,
Murdoch!

I demand to speak
to Inspector Brackenreid!

You will speak to him,
Mr. Doyle, once you are sober.

You can't do this to me!

I demand to speak
to Inspector Crabandpeed.

That all you got, Doyle?
Huh?

Oh, something on your mind,
Doyle?

Why are you mean to me?

You know.

I've done so much for you.
I made you part of the family.

- Oh, now we're brothers, are we?
- I tried.

Yeah, big deal.

Ooh, the pugilist wakes.

How's your head, Doyle?

How's your nose, puppet?

Clever.
You should be a writer.

Sherlock, Shmerlock.

You did what?

Doyle was drunk and disorderly,
sir.

Choffing hell, Murdoch.
He's not a thug.

Drag him out the pub,
let him cool down, yes.

But don't lock him up!

The man is a literary lion,

possibly the world's
greatest living author.

And now he's locked up in a jail
cell like a common ruffian.

Miller, release him!

If the broadsheets get hold
of this, we'll be demonized.

Arthur, please,
please forgive this injustice.

- I am appalled beyond outrage.
- It's quite all right, Thomas.

I beg your pardon,
but like bloody hell it is.

Allow me to buy you breakfast
by way of atonement.

A welcome gesture, Thomas.

Murdoch, I believe
you have something to say.

Yes, sir.

Inspector, if I might have
a word alone with the detective,

I'll be with you straightaway.

If you insist.

Set this straight.

- Arthur.
- William.

I apologize profusely.
I behaved a fool.

Hey, I'm the one you punched.
Talk to me.

Would someone please put
a termite

up that puppet's applecart?

Oh, now, that is just rude.

I have an applecart?

That's enough, Mr. Grimesby.

Apologies notwithstanding,
Mr. Doyle,

I daresay your behavior
last night

was not entirely
the fault of drink.

Yes, I suppose not.

Touie's very ill.

Touie?

That's my wife, Louise.

I call her Touie.
She has consumption.

Ooh, so sad.

So sad!

Stop it!
You stop it this instant!

William, what are you doing?

- Uh-oh.
- George, get in here!

William!

Get him away!

No!
Leave him alone!

Give him back!

- Please.
- Come on.

Please, please, please,
please give him back!

Give him back, please!

You and I, William,
have much in common.

My father, like yours,
was a terrible alcoholic.

I felt my only hope
was to have him committed.

He died recently.

I'm sorry.

And now Touie's illness.

Same that took your Liza.

Is that the reason for
the interest in the Lee case?

Consumption.

I've traveled extensively,
seeking some cure.

After I left Toronto,
I traveled the Midwest.

Chicago.

And there I met a man
who told me about cupping.

So I've heard.

Then I remembered reading
about Mr. Lee's murder

and the strange bruising.

I realized there must be
a practitioner here.

That's why you returned.

Yes, to confirm my suspicions.

And to free the practitioner.

Mr. Doyle,
why not simply tell me?

Pride, I suppose.

Fear of failure,
as is now the case.

I'm becoming
increasingly agitated,

as last night
painfully demonstrates.

Mr. Doyle,
I am truly sorry for you,

but I still don't believe
you're telling me the truth.

I assure you.

There is a very large
Oriental population in London.

Surely, you could have sought
treatment for her there.

Then what possible reason
could I have for being here?

I believe you're running, sir.

Running?

I know how painful it can be,

watching the woman you love
slowly die.

Powerless to do anything
to help.

How does one rise above it,
William?

You don't.

You descend into it.

And you cherish every moment
you have left with each other.

Mr. Doyle, go home.

Be with her.

Sir, pardon me.

I thought you might want to know

the suspect has become
quite agitated

since we took his puppet.

That might not be a bad thing,
George.

Just keep an eye on him.

- Please.
- Sir.

If I may return the favor,
William, of helpful words.

- An observation?
- Of course.

Your prisoner and his puppet
had a roiling bond between them.

I've seen it.
Its meaning escapes me.

It's like a war of the wills
or conscience.

Like I had on occasion
with my brother.

In fact, the puppet calls
Harcourt his brother.

Dismissively, but I think
it may be significant.

Ooh, ask me.
I know!

Hoo-hoo!

Thank you, Arthur.

Here are
all the "G" birth records

between 1865 and 1870.

Excellent.
Thank you.

So, I understand that you and
Mr. Doyle had a disagreement.

Yes.
We've sorted matters out.

And?

He revealed personal reasons
which explain his being here

that I'm not at liberty
to discuss.

So he won't be writing stories
based on you, then?

Uh, well, he didn't say exactly,
but I'd rather expect not.

Ah, here we are.

Baby Grimesby.

- Aha.
- What is it?

There are two Grimesby
birth certificates.

Two?

Mr. Doyle suggested that
Harcourt and his puppet Mycroft

were at a war of conscience.

Like brothers.

There was a twin, named Mycroft.

Oh.

I've been speaking
to the wrong witness.

I must speak to the conscience
of the killer.

He saw it all.

Mycroft.

Thank you, Detective.

I will only speak to Mycroft.

You can't be serious.

Only to him or I take him away.

All right, give him to me.

Mycroft...

why are there two?

Two what?
Two what? Show me.

I'm not speaking to you,
Harcourt.

Mycroft, in our first interview,
you said, "Ask me. "

You said you knew what happened.

There are two
birth certificates.

So, now tell my why.

No, don't answer.

- It's a trick.
- Let Mycroft answer.

No, Mycroft, don't.

Mycroft, you've been wanting
to tell me the whole time.

You speak
for Harcourt's twin brother.

- I don't have a twin.
- Be quiet.

Look at it.
Look!

The birth record.
Three minutes after yours.

It's not true.
It's a mistake.

He was there, wasn't he?

You watched your twin brother
murder your father.

I did not.

Who else would you be willing
to go to the grave for?

- Huh?
- Stop.

- Harcourt?
- Stop.

The truth is out.

You can't protect your brother
any longer.

It's over.

Where did you get that?
You have no right to have that!

Why isn't he in the photograph?

What happened to him?

He's still there.
He's still there.

Did your brother
kill your father?

Did he?

Yes.

It was Mycroft.

Why?

Mother and Father
couldn't afford to keep us both,

so Mycroft was given away
at birth.

Damn them, they didn't even
tell me he existed.

I had to find out
from Mycroft himself.

Mycroft found you?

By accident.

He saw a show poster
with me on it

and realized he had
an identical twin.

He wanted to be
a part of the family,

so I told him
where our father lived.

God forgive me.

You didn't know
he was bent on revenge

or that he would frame you
for the crime.

Harcourt,
the day of the murder...

I went to look in on Father.

You did this to me.

This is your doing, Brother.

Where is he now,
the real Mycroft?

I don't know.
He lives on the streets.

So, why just accept the blame?

I'm the reason
that my brother lives in hell.

I couldn't also send him
to the gallows.

Don't you understand, Detective?

Why was I the one they kept?

Why me?

Just dropping in to say
my goodbyes, William,

and to congratulate you
on a job well done.

Thank you, Arthur.

If you ever tire
of this detecting business,

may I say a career
as an alienist awaits?

What?
Still at it?

The Grimesby murder
even though Harcourt's released?

Well, we've yet to find Mycroft.

I'm confident
you will apprehend him.

You know, it's not the case
that bothers me.

It's the family decimated.

Yes, family, as we can attest.

Well, I thought
you'd like to know,

I've opted for the story
of the hounds,

with my old friend Sherlock.

Oh, the inspector
will be thrilled.

Perhaps.

Yes, there will be certain
modifications to his story,

however.

And your next adventure?

Home.
With Louise, where I belong.

Would you relay my apologies
to Dr. Ogden?

You could do worse than spend
more time with that one,

- I estimate.
- Oh?

Well, thank you, William,
until next time.

Good luck, Arthur.

And sad fortunes reversed.

Yes.
Reversed.

Sorry?

I can't believe it.

It's been right in front
of my eyes the whole time.

- What has?
- Look here.

The boy's eyes.
One dark, one light.

Yes, the heterochromia.
What of it?

The eye colors,
they're reversed!

- From what?
- From our suspect's eyes.

We never had Harcourt Grimesby
in custody.

It was Mycroft all along?

Well, good God, sir.

Where the devil
is the real Harcourt Grimesby?

He's still here.

He's still here.

Inspector!

So, this is Harcourt?

He looks to be
about 10 years of age.

And his body has lay hidden here
all these years.

So, Mycroft lived life
as Harcourt.

Apparently seeking out revenge
on his father

for a lifetime of wrongs

and perhaps also
for his brother.

Mycroft told a story
just contradictory enough

that you end up exonerating him

and believing the real killer
is on the run.

We'd have searched a lifetime
in vain.

Crabtree, come on.

I want every available man
looking for this nutcase.

Sir.

Harcourt Grimesby,
my sincerest apologies.