Murdoch Mysteries (2008–…): Season 2, Episode 9 - Convalescence - full transcript

After the owner of a French restaurant is found with his own pickled finger in his mouth, Crabtree fills in for an injured Murdoch to solve the crime.

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Item number two.

Pertaining to the recent escape
from Kingston Penitentiary.

There's been reports
that the fugitive, Joel Harris,

has been seen in the vicinity
of Union Station.

Take a good look
and keep your eyes peeled.

If this character is out there,

I want this station
to bring him in.

Understood? Right, then.

- Detective Murdoch.
- Item number three.

There's been sightings
of swindlers

playing a three-card monte con



in the area of Shuter
and Parliament.

Thank you.

That's two blocks away
from our station.

That, gentlemen, is...

It's a bloody disgrace
is what it is.

Now let's get out there
and do some real policing.

None of this standing
on street corners,

chatting up
bloody factory girls.

So, am I a statue, then?

Statue.
Yes, thank you.

You walked straight past me
while I was addressing the men.

- There were snickers.
- Oh.

- Terribly sorry, sir.
- Yes.

The sincerity of your apology
touches me deeply, Murdoch.



What have you got there, anyway?

They're for a device
I've conceived.

Convex or concave?

Parabolic, actually.

They're a special design
that allows incoming rays

to focus on a specific point
in space,

vastly amplifying ambient light.

If you say so.

I intend to build
a goggle-like device

that will allow me to see
in the dark.

Night-vision goggles, eh?

Suppose they could come in handy
one day.

Sirs?

There's been a murder.

What have you, George?

Uh, sir.

The body was found here
as it lies.

He was stabbed in the neck,
but there's no blood on the ground.

I'm thinking he was killed
somewhere else and dragged here.

Sound analysis, George.

Perhaps the killer
wasn't quite finished.

You there.

Toronto Constabulary.

Identify y--

Sir!

- Whoa!
- Sir!

Sir!

You have
a concussion, two cracked ribs,

a bruised ankle, torn ligaments
in both your knee and elbow,

and a gash the size
of Yonge Street

running up the length
of your forearm,

and you're whimpering
about a little needle.

I just don't see it
as necessary is all.

It's just a little mercury
to help ward off infection.

Come in.

Hah.

Mrs. Kitchen, Mrs. Burgess.

I'm just checking on
our young man.

Here.
I made him his favorite dessert.

Tapioca. Yum.

Now, you just remember,
if you need anything,

anything at all,
you just tap on my door.

Oh, um, excepting
for the next hour or so,

because Mrs. Burgess and I,

we have a church meeting
to attend.

I do hope you feel better soon.

Thank you.

It's not your favorite?

Mrs. Kitchen is a lovely woman.

But a cook she is not.

Acting detective?

Just until Detective Murdoch recovers,
of course.

Well, you'll have to do more
than just strut around

acting like a detective.

Well, sir, I believe my tutelage
under Detective Murdoch

has more than prepared me
for the role.

I'm involved already.

To bring in
an outside detective now

seems like
some sort of admission

that our station can't handle
its own business.

Hm.

Very well.

But you'd better solve it.

I won't disappoint you, sir.

All right.

I've left you with
a loose dressing on your arm.

And I want you to check it
twice a day for infection.

I will.

Come in.

Enid.

Mrs. Jones.

I'm sorry. I didn't know
that you had company.

Where are my manners?

Mrs. Enid Jones,
Dr. Julia Ogden.

Pleased to meet you.

Likewise.

Well, I should go.

Do keep an eye on that wound.

Yes, I will.
Thank you.

Oh, William.

Look at you.

Oh, I'm quite all right.

So, it's the old bloody tin, then,
is it?

Tin, sir?

Tin flute -- suit.

Oh. Yes. Well, it seemed
only appropriate.

A detective can't go about
dressed as a constable.

No, I suppose not.

So, what's your plan, then,
Detective Crabtree?

I'm off to the morgue to get
the results of the postmortem.

Right.
Off you go, then.

Sir, I'm wondering,
in the interest of efficiency,

if I shouldn't have
my own protégé.

Someone to assist
in the investigation.

Protégé?

Young Higgins has shown
some initiative.

Young Higgins it is, then.

Thank you, sir.

Crabtree.

The victim died
as a result of blood loss,

which you've probably surmised.

It doesn't look like much,
I'll admit,

but it sliced the jugular vein,
and that was pretty much that.

There's also a scratch
on his cheek.

Suggesting a struggle, perhaps?

Let's take a look
at the stomach contents, shall we?

Oh, good.

Hmm.

Shallots.

French cuisine, I believe.

Perhaps he ate
in a French restaurant,

um, before he was killed.

Mm. I'd look for one
that serves finger food.

Oh, like hors d'oeuvres
and such?

No.
I mean finger food.

Oh, my.

It appears to have been preserved.

I wonder.

Yes.

I noticed that his finger
was missing.

Now the question would be...

What was it doing
in his stomach?

Better you than me, mouse.

We have reason to believe
that the victim dined

at a French restaurant
shortly before he was killed.

French?
Didn't even know we had those.

Well, we do now.
Several, apparently.

Higgins has the addresses
over here.

I don't really like them
that much.

French restaurants?

No, the French.

I've got three addresses here, sir.

Excellent, Henry.
Read them out.

La Bonne Nuit
at 29 Wilton Street.

Chez Pierre at 99 Albert.

As well as Le Petit at --

Stop, stop, stop, stop.

Is it not obvious?

Here's Chez Pierre,
and here's where you found the body.

And you call yourself
bloody Murdoch.

William! Stop!

Shh!
Listen.

Mrs. Kitchen?

Mrs. Kitchen?

I heard a noise.

Are you all right?

Mr. Murdoch.

Mrs. Burgess.

What are you doing?

Where is Mrs. Kitchen?

She left.

Where did she go?

It's her sister.
She's in a bad way.

What's wrong with her?

Typhus.

The doctors say
she won't last the weekend.

Oh.
Oh, I'm very sorry to hear that.

I'm going to take responsibility

for everything here
until she returns.

Is there anything
I can get for you?

No. No.

I-I heard thumping sounds.

That would have been the porters
with her luggage.

I see.

If there's anything you need,
just shout.

Perhaps he was like a --
like an irate customer, you know?

Took things too far.

You know what?
It could have been a gang killing.

I've heard of them happening
in restaurants.

Well, let's not be speculative, Henry.

We're not even sure
that the murder took place

in the restaurant.

Now, the body was found here.

The restaurant is right there.

You go. You go now.

- There's someone in there.
- Sounds mad, too.

Hello!

You go!
You get out of here!

Did he just tell us to scram?

Cheeky bugger.

Hello?

Show yourself.
This is the police.

They may be trying to sneak out
the front.

Higgins, wait.

It's blood.

Henry... I believe
we've found our crime scene.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Polly want a cracker?
Polly...

It's no good.
Now he won't talk.

Try speaking to him in French.
You know French.

Uh, Polly...

uh, voulez-vous un...

um...

cracker?

Do you even have a cracker?

I've got a biscuit.

You call this vomit quiche?

Bloody cheek.

Bloody hell, a parrot.

Tu es un cochon.

Tu es un cochon.

- Tu es un cochon.
- What did he say?

I believe he just called you
a pig, sir.

He what?

"Cochon" is French for "pig."

You go.
You get out of here.

Cochon. Cochon.

I spit at you.

He doesn't seem to think
much of you at all, sir.

Yes.
Well, the feeling's mutual.

What's he doing here, anyway?

Well, it seems he was abandoned
at the crime scene.

We had no choice.

Well, you've got one now, Crabtree.

I want him out of here.

Henry, put him in my office.

Did you find anything
besides a cheeky bloody bird?

Uh, well, sir,
it seems the victim

was the proprietor
of Chez Pierre.

An acquaintance is coming by the morgue
to identify the body.

What evidence
have you uncovered?

We found a bloody knife
at the scene.

Any fingermarks?

- Several.
- Several?

Well, it was a kitchen knife.

Still, Higgins is about to take
statements and fingermarks.

I'm convinced we'll have
the killer by noon.

Noon?

Well, afternoon.
Late afternoon.

If you nail him by the time
that we're all ready for a pint,

I'll kiss that bird
on the bleeding beak.

Come in.

Oh, good morning.

Well, you've been busy.

This is your night-vision apparatus?

Not quite.
Almost.

Parabolic, are they not?

- You know about --
- Of course.

It's what they use
in reflecting telescopes.

I made one with Alwyn last year.

You made one?

I couldn't afford to buy one.

Alwyn was so keen.

So I found a book
at the library.

There really wasn't much to it.

Good morning! Mr. Murdoch.

Good morning, Mrs. Burgess.

I made you some eggs and beans
if that suits you.

That's perfect.
Thank you.

Mmm.

What?

I can't believe
you made a telescope.

It turned out a bit blurry
after all that.

I think the focal length
was off.

Oh. Here.

Let me.

Oh, God.

It's him.

It's Pierre.

Pierre LaRue.

The proprietor
of the restaurant, correct?

Mon bon ami.

So you knew him well?

15 years.

We used to own a restaurant together
on Wilton Street.

He was a brilliant chef.

Right. Yes.
La Bonne Nu-it.

La Bonne Nuit.

Yes.
It's mine now.

Pierre and I had a falling-out
a few years back --

over a parrot, of all things.

Oh, yes. I think we have
said bird in our care.

In fact, if you'd like
to take possession --

Good Lord, no.

Horrid beast.

Said the most terrible things.

To the customers, no less.

Do you know anybody who may have wanted
to hurt Mr. LaRue?

Well, uh, I heard he had to fire
his sous-chef last week.

For what reason?

Some tiff over a crème brûlée.

Came to blows, apparently.

His kitchen staff
will be able to tell you more.

Hmm.

Yes.
Well, thank you, Mr. --

Oh, I'm sorry.
I didn't get your name.

Brighouse.
Hugo Brighouse.

Thanks again.

Oh, yes.

Mr. Brighouse,
you wouldn't be able to tell me

how he came to lose his finger,
could you?

Pierre lopped that off years ago
while julienning carrots.

Kept it pickled in a jar
as a reminder to his staff.

What a character he was.

Mr. Murdoch!

What are you doing?

I thought I heard someone
in the attic.

Nonsense. No one's up there.
Now you come down!

What do you think you're doing,

gallivanting about
in your condition?

I suppose it could be people next door.

We do share
a common attic space.

Most likely it's just squirrels.

You get right back into bed,
and I will bring you some lunch.

Oh, no, thank you.
I'm really not hungry.

You're feverish.

You know what your mother said.

"Feed a fever, starve a cold."

Actually, I think it's --

No. Shh, shh. No.
Enough of that.

So, what have you discovered, then,
Detective Crabtree?

- Fisher, file these.
- Thank you, sir.

Well, we've questioned
the restaurant staff.

Higgins is checking
their alibis now.

My money's on the sous-chef.

Motive?

He and the victim didn't get on.

In fact, had a physical altercation
just last week.

It's bad news, sir.

All the restaurant staff's alibis
check out.

Even the sous-chef?

His presence
in the Laughing Beagle was noted

by no fewer than four patrons
as well as the bartender, sir.

That's impossible. His thumbmark
was on the murder weapon.

Not to overstep my place,
Detective,

but chefs use knives, sir.

So, what's your next step, then,
Murdoch?

William, what are you doing?

Hello.

Someone's removing
the lathing and plaster

from the walls
in the house next door.

Maybe they're doing some work.

The owners are away.

What better time
to have work done?

Oh.

Yes.
I suppose you're right.

Are these
your night-vision goggles?

- Oh, I wouldn't exactly --
- Can I try them?

Be careful.

Can't see anything.
Everything's too bright.

That's because they're meant
to be used in the dark.

Are you gonna eat your meat pie?

- No.
- Can I have it?

No. I don't want you to spoil
your appetite.

Besides, Mr. Murdoch
needs his energy.

That's all right.
I don't intend to eat it.

Your fever's getting worse.
You need to eat.

- Aaa...
- Aaa...

How is it?

Worse than Mrs. Kitchen's.

Allô.

Allô.
Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Not now, parrot.

Any new developments?

No, sir. We've come to a bit
of a dead end.

You go now.

You go now.

You get out of here.

- You keep your beak shut.
- Cochon.

You know what you have to do now,
don't you?

Cochon.

No, sir, I don't.

Get to work.

You didn't think
it was gonna be handed to you

on a silver platter, did you?

No, sir.

Cochon. Cochon.

I spit at you.
I spit at you.

If you want spit,
I'll put you on a spit.

That'll keep
your bloody trap shut.

Mange le doigt.

No. No.

Mange your own bloody doigt,
you daft bird.

Liven up, Crabtree.
Start thinking.

Sir?

Sir?
What was that all about?

Oh, the inspector
was just giving us

a bit of a dressing-down.

Mm. Yeah.

But why did he tell the parrot
to eat his own bloody finger?

Eat his own fin--

What?
Sorry. What?

"Mange le doigt" is
"eat the finger" in French, sir.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Why can't we always be
like this?

Because we want
different things.

You want children.
You want a family.

I only want you.

That's not true, William.
You know it.

All I know is that I will never love
anyone like I do you.

We never love the same way twice.

But you will love again.

Love is like gravity, William.

You have to let yourself fall.

Alwyn!

You should wake up now.

Why?

Because someone's in your room.

No. No.

Are you telling me that
that bloody parrot is a witness?

Sir, the parrot said,
"Mange le doigt,"

which means "eat the finger"
in French.

And, of course, the victim had ingested
his own severed finger.

Since when do you speak French?

Oh, Higgins told me.
His mother hails from the Gaspé.

Mm.
Eat the finger, eh?

Sir, it's my theory
that the parrot

is reliving the trauma
of the murder.

What are you now --
a bird alienist?

Well, it's just speculation
based on observation, really.

But, yes, you and I are thinking
along the same lines.

That's
a chilling thought, Crabtree.

Sir!
It's Detective Murdoch.

There's been some attempt
on his life.

I'm telling you,
someone was in my room.

He tried to smother me
with a pillow.

Then why are you still alive?

Perhaps he wasn't trying
to kill me.

He was just looking
for something to steal.

Like your night-vision goggles.

You don't have much here
to steal, sir.

It has something to do
with the noises.

I'm sure of it.

- Noises?
- Yes.

From the attic.

And the walls.

Sir, is it possible you're having
a touch of delirium?

I mean, you do have
one devil of a fever.

But I'd already woken
from my dream.

Yes, but do you know
how sometimes you can awake

from one dream
into another dream?

I mean, once I dreamt
that I could pull plums

out of my navel.

And then I woke, and there was still
a plum sticking out.

There.
You hear that?

I heard something.

Someone's up there.

Well, let's have a look,
shall we?

There's no one up here, sir.

Ah.

That's your problem.
That's your prowler.

- Oh.
- I'll sort it out.

Oh!

Sir!
Are you all right?

No, I'm not.

I'm sunk to my bloody pebbles.

Oh.

What were you thinking?

We were investigating a noise
in the attic, ma'am.

I tripped over a bolt.

Simple clumsiness on my part.

What a bolt was doing
sticking up

through an attic floor
in the first place.

What am I going to tell
Mrs. Kitchen?

Poor thing.

There she is,
watching her sister die,

and then she has to come home
to this.

It's all too much.

Dreadfully sorry, ma'am.

The police department
will pay for the damages.

I accept your apology,
but I must please ask you to desist

from wrecking Mrs. Kitchen's property
any further.

Yes, ma'am.

Right, then.
Back to work.

But -- But, sir, we have to investigate
this further.

Murdoch, there's nothing
to investigate.

Do try to get some rest, sir.

- Constable.
- Higgins!

Uh, excuse me.
Detective.

A Mr. Struthers to see you, sir.

Ah.

Ah.

I understand
you have parrot troubles.

He's here.

I know he's here.

William.

William!

How long has he been like this?

Most of the morning, I'm afraid.

He's got quite the fever.

It's more than that.

I'm going for help.

I need you to apply
a cold compress to his forehead.

Yes.
Of course.

He's sleeping right now,

but when he's awake,
he's very talkative.

Ah.

The African gray!

Oh, smart bird.
Very smart.

I captured one of those
in the Congo Free State

as a gift for Beatrice.

Princess Beatrice?
The queen's daughter?

Mm.

Cochon.
Tu es un cochon.

Pig. You go.
You go now.

Foul-tempered brute, what?

You go.

You get out of here.

We best do as he says.

We don't want to aggravate it
more than necessary.

They hold grudges, these things,
you know.

- Is that right?
- Oh, yeah.

So, do they understand
what they're saying, then?

If you mean verb for verb,
suffix for suffix, no.

But they get the gist of it.

A parrot knows
when he's cussing you out.

Oh, yes.
Sorry about that.

No, they're fickle creatures.

Like women and bull elephants.

You never know
what they're going to do.

Had one charge me once.

Across a dry lake bed
in Tanganyika.

A woman or an elephant?

Ah, yes. That's very good.

Oh.

Mr. Struthers, is it possible

that the bird is prone
to these outbursts

because he's been upset
by the murder?

I mean, do they have the mental capacity
for such trauma?

Absolutely.

These birds form
strong social attachments.

They mate for life, you know.

Still, he's very mercurial.

I haven't been able
to figure out what it is exactly

that sets him off.

Well, it could be anything.
Could be my pipe.

The clothes I'm wearing.

Perhaps I remind him
of the murderer.

Excuse me.
Dr. Ogden.

Oh, hello, Mrs. Jones.

It's William.
He's weak and feverish.

Really?
Sounds like an infection.

It's not just the fever.
It's -- It's the way he looks.

Not everyone responds well
to mercury and opium.

Perhaps I should go to him.

Hyah!

So, is it just you and your son?

Alwyn. Yes.

His father died two years past.
Quite suddenly.

I'm sorry.

That must have been
terribly difficult.

It was.

More for Alwyn than for me.

I lost a husband,
but I gained a purpose.

He had no such compensation.

You seem to be managing
very well.

Well, that's relative, isn't it?

Look at you.
You're a doctor.

That couldn't have been easy.

No, it wasn't.

I guess the things we care most about
are worth fighting for.

Yes, I suppose they are.

Hyah!

Now, this
is going to hurt a bit.

I thought your condition
would have improved by now.

Have you been keeping
to your bed, William?

More or less.

Like a jack-in-a-box
keeps to his box.

I'm taking you off opium.
That should quell the nausea.

But I don't like the look
of you.

I think I should stay for a bit.

Oh, no, no, no.
I'll stay.

I have nothing pressing
until dinnertime.

Well, it's quite all right.
I'm free all afternoon.

What this young man needs
is sleep.

And he can't do that
with you two hens clucking.

Shoo. Shoo.

Promise me you'll keep
to your bed, William.

Yes.
No more chasing strange noises.

Now, Mr. Murdoch.

I want you to eat this special
chicken soup I've made for you.

Sir, it's my contention

that the parrot is not reacting to you,
per se.

But rather,
there's something about you

that reminds him of the killer.

You saying
I look like the killer?

Both you and Mr. Struthers have
reddish hair and muttonchops.

The parrot took an instant and vocal
dislike to both of you.

Do any of your suspects
have red hair and muttonchops?

Well?

No, sir.

So, what are you gonna do, then?

Comb the city looking for men
with red hair and muttonchops?

Crabtree, I believe
you can solve this case,

but my patience
is running out.

If I don't see any results
by tomorrow morning,

I'm gonna bring Phillips in
from Station Three.

Pshh. Shoo.

I don't understand
why you're still so sick.

Do you know
what your mother used to say?

"Feed a fever, starve a cold."

It's the food.

I've been drugged.

There's been reports
that the fugitive, Joel Harris...

I want this station
to bring him in.

Mr. Murdoch?

I have a special drink
to settle your stomach.

Emily?

What's going on?

What's happened to the lights
up there?

Emily?

Emily?

I know you're up here, Murdoch.

I can hear you breathing.

You know...

we never wanted to hurt you.

But now...

...you are not leaving me
any choice.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Try the pipe again.

We tried the pipe already, sir.

Oh, you're right.

Bonjour.

You can take that wig off
if you want.

There must be something else
setting him off, but what?

What are you doing, sir?

Detective Murdoch
has these moments

where he'll stare at a problem,

and the answer
just comes to him.

Bonjour.

Cochon.
You go.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Get out of here.
Mange le doigt.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Cochon.

Oh, it's no use.

The inspector's right.

"And you think
you're bloody Murdoch."

Cochon!

Right, then, parrot.
I've had just about enough of you.

You want spit?

- I'll put you on a spit.
- Cochon.

- That'll shut your trap!
- Cochon.

Cochon.
You are a pig.

The parrot is not remembering...

- ...the way the killer looked.
- It's his accent, sir.

I say, old boy!

Cochon. Cochon.

You go.
You get out of here.

You go.

You go.

You get out of here.
You get out of here.

Hugo. Hugo.

Brighouse.
Hugo Brighouse.

Henry...

I believe our mystery is solved.

Mrs. Kitchen.

Oh.

It was just so dreadful.

And I thought she was my friend.

And a-a church friend, no less.

Mrs. Kitchen, did they say
what they were after?

No.

But I do know it was something
that belonged to Mr. Christie.

H-He used to rent the room
that y-you're in now.

He did it in exchange
for work around the house.

He was shady character,
let me tell you.

He did some of the most lovely
plasterwork, though.

Oh, dear.

W-We'd best hurry.

Mrs. Kitchen, I need your help.

You...

My help?

- Where is he?
- I don't know.

Tell me where he is.

All right.

He's...

...right behind you.

Aah!

- Ha!
- Aah!

Mr. Murdoch!

- Oh.
- Oh, Mrs. Kitchen.

I need you to do me
one more favor.

Of course, my dear.
W-What is it you want?

Get help.

Oh.

Help. Yes.

Help.

When he opened
his own restaurant,

I-I took it rather badly.

I played a prank.

He retaliated.

So I retaliated.
And so on.

Until things went too far.

He hid his pickled finger
in my shrimp salad.

It was beyond the pale.

So... I confronted him
that night.

After closing.

And you forced the finger
down his throat?

Yes.

And then he picked up a knife.

And the next thing I knew,
there was blood everywhere.

Pierre.

He claims it was an accident, does he?

I believe him, sir.

He seems genuinely grieved.

They used to be good friends, you know.

Until the parrot
came between them.

Now, why doesn't that
surprise me?

So, what's gonna happen
to that bloody bird?

Mr. Struthers has offered
to release him

into the wilds of the Congo
on his next trip to Africa.

You've done a passable job on this case,
Detective Crabtree.

Well, faint praise.

But from you, sir, I'll take that
as the highest compliment.

Well, the infection has receded.

The chloral hydrate
they were feeding you

was weakening your defenses.

- How do you feel?
- Better.

Indeed.

Your fever's gone.

And the pain?

I can bear it.

Yes, I know you can.

I just heard.

Are you all right, William?

I'm fine.

Well... what on earth happened?

It's a long story.

Yes. Well, I should leave you
to tell it.

Thank you, Dr. Ogden.

You're welcome, Detective.

Is it true?

Is Mrs. Burgess really
a confidence trickster?

Yes.

A former tenant stashed
some stolen gold in this house.

His cell mate
found out about it.

And his cell mate was none other
than Mrs. Burgess' boyfriend.

They decided to retrieve it
but didn't know where it was hidden.

So all those noises you heard?

Them searching.

But why imitate
a little old lady?

When they learned
that a police officer was living here,

they needed a credible way inside.

What they hadn't planned on
was my being here all the time.

So the charade grew.

Precisely.

They poisoned my food,

hoping to search
while I was incapacitated.

And after all that,
they still didn't find the gold.

Shame.

It could have paid
for all this damage.

He did some lovely plasterwork.

What was a bolt doing
sticking up

through the attic floor
in the first place?

Oh, I suspect it will be found.

In fact, later we could --

Was that too bold?

No.

When I saw you lying there yesterday,

I thought that I might lose you.

And I'd only just found you.

I plan on being here
a good long time.

Good.