Murdoch Mysteries (2008–…): Season 3, Episode 12 - In the Altogether - full transcript

A model who poses for 'naughty' postcard photos but moonlights as a prostitute blackmailing her clients is found strangled in the park.

Where are you taking me?
Into the garden of earthly delights.

A change? What kind of change?
I'm not sure exactly.

When HG Wells was visiting,
he made a most peculiar comment.

He said he could tell there was
something missing from my life

and that he hoped I would find it.

That was rather presumptuous of him.

Yes, it was.

But the odd thing is,

he was right.

You're so beautiful.

I dream about you every night.


But I thought you loved your work.
I do.

And it goes without saying I
enjoy working with you.

But I'm a doctor, William.
Not a detective.

You'd make a very good one.

I could put a word in
with the superintendent.

I was the only woman attending
medical school in Montreal.

It was very important to me
that I succeed. And you have.

I'm the only one from my class
who's still cutting up cadavers.

The Hippocratic Oath
was wasted on me.

What is it? What did I do?

There are a hundred good
doctors in this town.

But only one that
can do what you do.

William... Julia, you have a gift.

I thank you for that,

but this is not just about my work.
What, then?


It appears we are needed again.

She hasn't been here long.
Fewer than 12 hours, I'd estimate.

She was strangled.
So it would appear.

What have you, George?
The young lad and his
lady friend found the body, sir.

What were they doing out here?

Just having a stroll, they said.

No blood, no signs of a struggle.

Perhaps the body was moved here.

At least we know who she was.
"Miss Abigail Tunstall."

And an address on Wellesley Street.

Oh, my.

According to Miss Tunstall's
landlady, she was a kitchen hand.

Quite a wardrobe for a kitchen hand.

I'll say. I can't imagine she was
chopping cabbage or curdling
cheese in these fineries.

How did she afford all
this clothing, I wonder?

Perhaps she was one of those women
who can really spot a bargain.

My Aunt Primrose says any
girl can dress like a lady
if she has an eye for value.

A true font of wisdom, your aunt.

Not according to Aunt Iris who has a
rather low opinion of Aunt Primrose.

Called her a gluttonous imbecile
once. Not to her face.

George, how many aunts do you have?
Well, let's see...

There's Aunt Amaryllis, Aunt
Aster, Aunt Azalea, Aunt Begonia,
Aunt Bryony. Thank you, George.

Sir, that's just the As and Bs.

You can fill me in on the Cs
through Z another time.

I'll look forward to it.

We'll have some tea.

Oh, my goodness.

Sir, I think you'll want
to have a look at these.

Oh, my. Rather saucy.

Indeed. Looks like our girl was
involved in some risky business.

Yes. Perhaps that's why
Miss Tunstall has turned up dead.

She died some time
between midnight and 2am.

What can you tell me
about her attacker?

A man,
judging by the size of the hand.

A good few inches taller than her,
by the angle.

Any other injuries?


No sign of that. Small comfort.

Such a beautiful girl.
Such a pity she ended up this way.

But not entirely unexpected.

William, just because she posed
for titillating picture postcards.

It's a fact that women is this line
of work invite unhealthy attention.

They "invite" it? Well...attract it.

Pornography sets men's minds
to...dark urges.

From what you've described,
the postcards in question
are hardly pornographic.

Yes. Well. Perhaps they were
more than enough for her killer.


You'll have my report
by the end of the day.

Very good.

Dr Julia Ogden.

Dr Folwell.
Yes, I did receive your letter.

Tomorrow evening would be perfect.

I look forward to it.

OK, let's have those back.

Give me those.

Very funny.

Have some respect for the dead,
for Pete's sake.

Oi! What's all the racket?
Whatever it is you're up to,
pack it in and get back to work.

Crabtree, I expect you to set a
better example. Me, sir? Murdoch.

You and Happy Dafty, my office.

Happy Dafty!

What did you do?

Well? What's this girl's story?

Miss Tunstall worked in the kitchen
at the King's Goose Tavern.

She finished her shift
and left just after midnight.

Some bloke followed her out?
No-one saw anything. Any boyfriends?

According to her workmates at the
tavern, there was no-one special.
Let me see these.



Inspector, really.

I was referring to the
quality of the work.

The composition is professional,
and the paper stock is top notch.

The paper stock, sir.

First thing I noticed.

Judging by these, I'd suggest a
visit to my old friend Marcus Evans.

That's perfect.

I thought I told you to shut this
place down. George, the girls.

Ladies. A pleasure to
see you again, Sergeant.

It's Inspector. Moving
up in the world, I see.

Unlike you, Evans,
still crawling around in the gutter.
Let me see this camera.

Not my camera. Shift, Evans.
It's evidence. Evidence of what?
My work is purely artistic.


Tell that to the wives of the
husbands who buy your trash.

And this time it's not
just about saucy postcards.

Perhaps you recognise this woman.

Abigail. What of her?
She is one of your models, then.

Was. She quit a while ago.
I haven't seen her since.

She's been found dead, Marcus.

Any theories? Oh, no.

Oh, poor Abby.
Mr Evans, do you know of anyone who
would want to harm Miss Tunstall?

No-one. She was... Everybody liked
Abby. Except whoever did her in.

I've got their names and addresses.
I'll get full statements
once they're dressed.

Grab any negatives, Crabtree. Please!

I can't afford to replace those.

And the camera. Not the camera,
Inspector! It's my livelihood. A
young lady in your employ is dead.

I think it's time
for a career change, sunshine.


Is there something else, Miss...?

Mahoney. Moira Mahoney.

Miss Mahoney.

You knew Abigail, didn't you?

Yes. Me and Abby were pals.

Then I'm terribly sorry
for your loss.

Have you any idea who may
have wanted to harm her?

No, but...

thing is, when she quit here,
she went on to something else.

Something else?
There was an apartment.

Abby took men there.

She asked me if I wanted in on it.
I thought about it.

Miss Mahoney, it's all right.

I'm only interested in who may
have wanted to harm Abigail.

I went along once, but changed
my mind before I ever went inside.

It was...

it wasn't right.

Do you recall the address?

It looks like a doxy's digs, sir.

Certainly does. It would appear
Miss Tunstall was involved in
more than just cheeky pictures.

What did you find, George?

Just a small kitchen
and a water closet.

A darkroom.
Yes. The question is, what's
it doing in a doxy's apartment?

A hobby, perhaps.

go turn on the light in the boudoir.

come and have a look at this.

Oh, my goodness.
A mirror you can see right through!

It's a half-silvered mirror, George.

They're used in scientific
experiments to split beams of light.

I suspect the use in this case
is somewhat less scrupulous.

Sir, imagine we had one of these at
the station, in the interview room.

We could observe suspects
without them knowing we were there.

In this case, I believe
the intention was to photograph
people without their knowledge.

People in the bed.

Yes, George.

What have you there, sir?

A hinge.

This is a camera?

It's no bigger than a cigar box.

Remarkable, isn't it?
It's the latest from the Eastman
Kodak company, the "Pocket Kodak".

But the plates? How do they fit?

Plates are a thing of the past.

George Eastman has introduced a
new flexible film made of cellulose.
It stays INSIDE the camera.

What will they think of next?

What are you doing?
You've been at that half an hour.

I'm trying different combinations.

I thought you'd cracked it.
What's the bloody stethoscope for?

You can hear the bolt pass over
the first tumbler. The other
are trial and error, I'm afraid.

But that's 60 numbers.
Times another 60.

Each number has a leeway of
one digit either side, making a
total of 400 possible combinations,

of which I've tried 76.

Murdoch, just drill the bloody thing.

Don't look so smug. What's inside?



Oh, my.

These make Evans' postcards look
like invitations to a church social.

Look closer, sir.

Good God. Alderman Merrick.

And Clarence Chislett,
the District Court Justice.

I'll be years trying to forget these.

A record was kept of their
names and addresses.

All important toffs.

Was it blackmail then? Such men
would pay a lot of money to ensure
these photographs were never seen.

It wouldn't take much for a
beauty like Miss Tunstall to
lure them to the apartment.

I wonder who took these photos.

This could be our answer now.
What have you, George?

According to the landlord,
the apartment was leased two
months ago by a John Smith.

John Smith. John Smith, George.

Clearly, that's not his real name.


So how do we find him?

George, this camera is brand new.
Telegraph the Eastman company.

Find out what stores in
Toronto carry this model.

Sir, right away.

A dangerous game
they were playing.

One of these "clients"
could have done Miss Tunstall in.

They would have had motive.

We'll interview all of them.

Tread carefully, Murdoch. These
"gentlemen" carry a lot of clout.

More of the same? No.

These photos were taken elsewhere.
Different vintage...


Why yes, Mrs Pendrick.

Is this a social call?

How wonderful. Iced water.


Sir, it's Sally Pendrick.

Detective Murdoch.

What fiendish crime of mine
brings you here this time?

Mr Pendrick, I apologise
for my unannounced visit.

What do you think of my
latest concept, Detective?

Toronto of the future.

Millions of people in fully
self-sufficient towers, connected by
a vast grid of underground railways

and elevated paths, fed by
endless acres of rooftop farms.

Whole generations never need set a
foot outside, working and playing

in the sheltered security
of their tower communities.


I'm here to speak with your wife.

I see. I trust you don't intend to
accuse her of some dastardly deed.

Not at all.
I have an art question for her.


One of those urgent...

art questions.

At any rate... Wait here.

I will see if I can find her.

Art question.

A model of the solar system.

You and James,

both fascinated by such things.

Mrs Pendrick.
To what do I owe the pleasure?

Actually, it's imperative I speak
to you in the utmost privacy.


What could possibly
demand such intimacy?


Oh, my God.

It was found in the course of
a murder investigation. Murder?

A young woman named Abigail Tunstall
was found murdered yesterday.

Possibly by the man
who took these photos.

I'm sorry, I must sit.

Of course.

I was young

and without prospects.

He offered me money. Good money.

Who did?
His name was Colin McTavish.

He kept an apartment in Albany.

I was to bring men
to the apartment and...

entice them to disrobe.
That was all.

I never prostituted myself.
You must believe me.

Did you know he was blackmailing
the men in the photographs?

I didn't want to know,

but it doesn't surprise me.

He's been blackmailing me.

Apparently he saw my photo in
the Gazette and remembered me.

He threatened to show
the photos to James.

How much? So far, $1,500.

So far? He keeps coming back to
the well every couple of months. I'm
due for another payment any day now.

Why didn't you come to me?
I was ashamed, of course.

If only one could erase all the
poor decisions of one's past.

Should this Colin
McTavish contact you again...

I'll let you know immediately.

Detective Murdoch?

I beg you not to
mention this to James.

He knows nothing of my past.

It would devastate him.

Sir. I spoke with a retailer
who said he sold a black leather
Pocket Kodak just three weeks ago.

Have we a name?

The buyer was Mr McTavish.
First initial C. Said he
was a nature photographer.

That's one way of putting it,
I suppose.

The initial C stands for Colin.

He hails from New York State. He's
blackmailing Mrs Pendrick, as well.

Quite the gold mine, there, sir.

And, if the past is any indication,
he'll be back for more.
Then we'll have him.

Colin McTavish.
Do you think he's our killer, sir?

He could be. But so could any
of the men in those photographs.
Have we identified them all?

All except for this fellow, sir.

And his name wasn't
on the list you found.

Keep looking, George. Sir.


You seem cheerful. Do I?

I must have forgotten myself.

I came to see if you would like to
have a walk with me this evening.

We never got a chance to finish
our conversation yesterday.

Yes, I would love to, truly,
but I have an engagement.

Ah. A meeting?

A dinner, actually.

With a colleague.

A business dinner.

Perhaps another time, then. Yes.

Yes, another time.

Sir. What have you learned, George?

All the men confirmed receiving
copies of the photos in the mail.

With threats to make them public if
monies weren't paid. You're correct.

$50 in most cases,
mailed to a post office box in town.

$50 is substantial,
but hardly worth killing over.

I shouldn't think so.

Alibis? They all gave a complete
account of their actions the day
Miss Tunstall was murdered,

including Judge Chislett,
who in fact admitted to
accosting Mr Evans at one point,

thinking Evans was behind
the blackmail note.
You found them to be truthful?

I think so. Embarrassed, mostly.

At any rate, I have Higgins
confirming the alibis.
Discreetly, I hope.

Though one of these men could be our
killer, the rest are simply victims
of blackmail. Of course, sir.

Excuse me, sir. A Colin McTavish
was released from New York
State penitentiary last June.

They're sending
his Bertillon measurements.

Thank you, Constable Worsley.

Well, that would explain
Mr McTavish's sudden re-emergence.

"Dear Sally,
I very much enjoyed our last meeting

"and thought it was time we meet up
again unless you'd prefer that your
husband learn your true nature."

As frightening as
this is, Mrs Pendrick,
it's precisely what I'd hoped for.

I want him apprehended
as badly as you do.

Will I be required to testify?

We have him on a number
of other blackmail charges

and he's our number one suspect
in the murder of Miss Tunstall.

I see no reason for you to
have to take the stand.

He's expecting you at eight,
I suggest we leave at
quarter to the hour.

So, I meet him,
give him the money and leave.

We'll have other men posted nearby.

The moment you're clear,
they'll move in. And I'll be safe?

McTavish has no reason
to harm you, Sally.

It's clear he intends to
continue demanding money.

I'll put an end to that tonight.

Dr Julia Ogden, I presume.
Why, yes.

I am Dr Martin Folwell.

I'm delighted to meet you in person.

Thank you.

Now, what shall you have?
A glass of champagne, perhaps?


I'm endeavouring to woo you, Doctor
Ogden. You must allow me my methods.

We'll be late. He'll wait.

Of all the outcomes
I ever imagined for myself.

Here I am with my future dependent on
the retrieval of a sordid photograph.

There's a certain dark humour in it.
Yes, I suppose.

I do wish that you hadn't learned
of my indiscretions, Detective.

That's long in the past. Yes.

But your respect means
a great deal to me.

I just hope...
My respect for you is undiminished.

To your lovely city.

I do believe it is almost
as attractive as Buffalo.

Yes, I've heard it said.

I'm most interested to hear more
about your new hospital, of course.
The Children's Hospital of Buffalo.

A nurturing environment
dedicated to our most vulnerable.

We have high hopes.

I imagine it would be quite effective
to have a staff dedicated solely
to the treatment of children.

That's it, precisely.
And, as I mentioned in my letter,

such a progressive hospital would
do well to have a female physician
as our head of paediatric surgery.

Is that something
you would consider?

I used to sing.

Growing up in Montreal, my dream
was to become a famous soloist.

I was quite good, actually.

Unfortunately my parents thought
singing to be a sordid career choice,
so I ran away to New York.

Took some voice lessons,
I did a bit of performing.

You didn't pursue it?
I ran out of money.

Living in New York City, I could
barely feed myself. Do you know
what that's like, Detective?

I can only imagine.

I was hungry, alone and terrified.

Easy prey for someone
like Colin McTavish.


He convinced me I could support
my singing career if I moved to
Albany to work for him.

I believed him.

How I regret that now.

That's close enough, driver! Whoa!

The warehouse is just ahead.

Return immediately upon
completing the transaction.

I have men posted
all around the warehouse.

They won't make a move
until you're safely out.



Sally, can you hear me?


What happened?

There was an explosion.

Are you all right?

I think.

It's just a small cut.

Oh, God. If we'd arrived
just a moment earlier. Indeed.


George, have the men take a look.
There might still be someone inside.



Sally, you're hurt. I'm fine.

What are you up to? Are you trying
to get my wife killed?

The more pertinent
question, Mr Pendrick,
is what are you doing here?

Did you follow Sally?

That's Mrs Pendrick to you, sir.

Her well-being is my concern.

Why exactly did you
bring her here?

That's police business.

Your "police business"
risked my wife's life.

I'll be making that point
to your superiors.

Sir, there's a man inside
the building. Dead or alive?

Very much dead, sir.

It's Colin McTavish. The Bertillon
measurements leave no doubt.

Most of the blast wounds are on his
right side. This embedded debris.

Yes. Flying shards of wood
and metal and glass.

Beyond that...
The state of the body is making
the post-mortem rather difficult.

That's unfortunate.

Any word on the cause
of the explosion?

The Fire Chief seems to think
it was a gas leak.

You don't sound convinced.
It's the timing.

Just at the moment when
Sally Pendrick was supposed
to enter the building.


How is she?
She had quite a close call.

She's shaken, but she'll be fine.

You must be relieved.

Yes, quite.

Julia, are you concerned
about the nature of my
relationship with Mrs Pendrick?

Is that the cause for this...

distance between us?

No. I promise you.

It has nothing to do
with Sally Pendrick.

If the explosion was
the result of a gas leak,
as the Fire Chief suspects,

something ignited a roomful of gas.

McTavish, lighting a cigar.

Or a lamp. Either of those. The
resulting explosion would have sent
debris outward in all directions.

Like this.

However, McTavish's injuries
were concentrated to
the right side of his body,

as if the explosion came from
one side of the room.

What would have caused that?

I don't know.

I'd like to return to the
warehouse and take another look.

If McTavish WAS murdered,
it was likely by the same
person who killed Abigail.

I'll wager it was one of
their blackmail victims.

Except, sir, all those men
have alibis for the night
of Miss Tunstall's murder.

We must have missed something.
Have we interviewed them all?

Everybody except for this
chap we couldn't identify.

Right, George.
Enlarge that photograph.

And make copies. Perhaps someone at
another station can identify him.
Sir, will do.

What's all this?
The remnants of a bomb, sir.

This pile of leavings?
It was found at the blast site.

So no gas leak. There was a ruptured
gas line, but that was a result of
the explosion, not the cause of it.

What do you plan on doing with all
this? If I can determine
how the bomb was made,

it may lead us to the person
who set it. The answer lies
in reconstructing the bomb.

You can do that? I can try.


Dr Ogden is asking for you, sir.

It's quite curious,
but there's no doubt about it.

Colin McTavish was dead before the
explosion occurred. There is no trace
of searing or ash inside the lungs.

How long has he been dead?
Not long. Perhaps a day or two.

Why would anyone go to the trouble
of blowing up a dead body?

Why indeed?

And the actual cause of death?
I'm still trying to determine that.

Thank you, Doctor. I must be off.

Sir. I've enlarged the photograph.
Did you make copies?

Not yet. I thought you should
have a look first. Ah.

I still don't recognise him.
Not him, sir. Her.
Look in the mirror.

That's not Abigail.

No. It's Moira Mahoney.

The one who stayed to speak
with us at Marcus Evans' studio.


So it is. She swore she was never
in the apartment but there she is.

In the flesh, so to speak.

Well done, Crabtree.

Bring her in. Immediately. Will do.


Detective. Mrs Pendrick.

Is your husband here?

Why, no, he's at the office.
Good, good.

Sally, you have to leave here.

You're in danger. What in the
world are you talking about?

That explosion wasn't a gas leak.
It was a bomb and I believe
it was meant for you.


How do you know? McTavish was already
dead when the bomb went off.

Someone else lured you to the
building, knowing you'd arrive
just in time for it to explode.

My goodness. But why leave here?

I can think of only one person
who might want both you
and McTavish dead...

your husband.

Mr Pendrick must
have found out about your
involvement with McTavish.

He must have overheard us talking.
He was in another part of the house.
Perhaps he has hidden microphones.

I hardly think! How did he know
you'd be at that warehouse?

He followed us. He said as much
on the carriage ride home.

He was concerned about
your attentions towards me.

I believe he lured
you to that warehouse.

The note came from Colin.

Perhaps Mr Pendrick forged it.
Or he killed McTavish after he
wrote it. No. That can't be.

I've always believed someone else
was behind the Rembrandt theft.

Four people died in that incident,
one of them shot by your husband.

James shot Luca Carducci
to save your life.

Or to silence him.

And what about the Eugenics Society?
What about it?

James wasn't responsible
for Linus Malling's death.

Still, his views on the matter
are entirely sinister.

I believe your husband
is a dangerous man.

I simply don't believe you.

James would never hurt me.

Mr Pendrick has the technical
capability of building an explosive
device. So do many people.

What proof do you have? Hm?

Sally, please...

for your own safety.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to
ask you to leave, Detective.

And it's Mrs Pendrick.

But... I'm quite serious. Get out.

My office, George.

Sir, the Inspector is with Moira
Mahoney in the interview room.

She's the one in the photo
with the mystery man.

Really? Hm.

George. These are the remnants
of an exploded bomb.

It's my intention to
put it back together.


You're serious. Yes.

But first I need you to clean the
carbon residue off of every piece.

I don't know who that girl is.

Look in the mirror.
Look closer.

It was just the one time, I swear.

I'm not that kind of girl. Really.
You didn't have any problem
stripping down for Marcus Evans.

That was different.

I never had to go starkers
and no-one ever touched me.

I'm not a doxy! I don't care
if you're the whore of Babylon!

I want to know everything you
know about this operation,
starting with him. Who is he?

I don't remember his name. Rubbish!

Abby knew him. I didn't.

I've never seen him before or since.

How did you choose your marks?
I didn't.

I told you. I wanted no part of it.

How did Abigail Tunstall
know which men to approach?

She had Mr Evans' client list.

She stole it? She didn't have
to steal it. He gave it to her.

Is that so? Abby told him she
wanted to know which men liked
to buy the postcards of her.

So then Abigail contacted those men
and invited them up to the apartment.

How many of these so-called
gentlemen were on the list?

A lot. Abby was very popular.

I wasn't nearly so.

Evans just handed over the list,
did he?

Well, he didn't know what
she wanted it for, did he?

If he had known,
he never would have agreed.

Why? Because of his
abiding moral conscience?


Because it would
have broken his heart.

He was crazy in love with her.

They were lovers? No.

She'd never let him.

If he'd known what she was doing
it would have killed him.

I'm not convinced, sir.
I still think Pendrick
planted the bomb in that warehouse.

You're always on about bloody
Pendrick. Sir, he had motive

and he was in the vicinity of
the warehouse when it exploded.

You're barking up the wrong tree,
Murdoch. Evans is our boy.

He was in love with Abigail Tunstall,
who ditches him for McTavish,

and just as a final kick in the old
plums, she takes his client list.

Evans has motive to kill
the both of them.

All right, let's go.

Hats and coats.

You never learn, do you?

Just wait there. It's time to
come clean, Evans. I don't know
what you're talking about.

Abigail Tunstall and Colin McTavish.

You killed them. I did not.

Your best girl. Your little angel.
Want to see more? No.

There are dozens of them.

All of Abigail Tunstall
and your ex-clients.

It must have driven you insane,
knowing Abigail ditched you
for that sort of business.

You've got it all wrong.

I didn't know why
Abby left the studio.

The love of your life, and you didn't
bother to find out why?

She had them lined up
around the block, Evans.

Making money hand over fist, her and
McTavish, blackmailing your clients.

I don't know what
you're talking about.

That's funny, because Judge Chislett
told us he confronted you.

You knew, didn't you?

What was it like...

knowing what the love of your
life was doing with all these men?

Any man, in fact, but you.
Stop it! Stop it!

What were you doing between
midnight and 2am on October 3rd?
I don't remember.

It was three days ago!
I'll tell you what you were doing.

You had your fat fingers
around her pretty little neck.

You killed her, Evans.
And you killed McTavish!

I didn't kill McTavish!

I never even set eyes on him!

I wish I had done him in, though.

Instead of Abigail?

I didn't mean to.

I just wanted to show her
how much she'd hurt me.

She was so heartless.

I lost my temper.

I remember grabbing her,

shaking her.

The next thing I knew, she was dead.

What about Sally Pendrick?
How does she figure into this?

Sally who?

Evans had a reason to kill Abigail
and McTavish, but not Sally.

While Pendrick may have wanted both
McTavish and Sally dead, but
not Abigail Tunstall.

Thank you. So we're dealing
with two separate crimes.

One of which involves
James Pendrick.

You know you're treading
on dangerous ground.

Pendrick has already spoken to
the Chief Constable about you. If
you're wrong... I'm not wrong.

Not this time.
So what's the plan?

At the moment I have a bomb
to put back together.


So the explosive material was
contained in this metal pipe.

That's right.

And this is the remains of a
timing device which would have
been attached to a blasting cap.

Which would ignite the explosives
once the timer reached eight

That's right. But some of
the pieces appear to be missing.

Unless they have been
blown beyond recognition.

Sir, I think this piece
is for your lot.

It's a cogwheel of some sort.

George, what country of origin would
you say begins with the letters S-W?

There are several I can
think of, sir. Swansea...

that's in England, I believe.

Swaziland, I think is a real place.

Switzerland, George. Switzerland.

What are the Swiss famous for?

Chocolate. Cheese.

Cheese with holes in.
Clocks, George, the Swiss are
famous for fine Swiss clocks.

Fine Swiss clocks
require fine clock wheels.

George, I need you to run
another errand for me.

Detective, please!

James Pendrick, you are under arrest
for the murder of Colin McTavish

and for the attempted murder
of your wife, Sally Pendrick.

Really, Detective,

you've outdone yourself.

This is no laughing matter.

This is a clock wheel from the
timing mechanism of the bomb that
almost killed your wife. Yes.

And? It is identical to the clock
wheels used in this remarkable model

that I was so impressed
with months ago.

So it matches. That means nothing.

These clock wheels are very rare
and not readily available here.

I had my constable check with
the manufacturer in Switzerland.

They confirmed a shipment of several
of the clock wheels was sent to a
Pendrick Steel Company in Toronto.

A record of the transactions
is in the mail as we speak.

You're dead wrong, Detective.

I've heard that before, sir.

You'll regret this, Murdoch.

Darling, don't be concerned.

I'll be home before dinner.

MUSIC: Violin Concerto
by Tchaikovsky

Dr Folwell.

What a pleasure to see you again.

So this is your headquarters.

A rather dreary one, I'm afraid.

Tchaikovsky, is it not?

Yes. From his Opus 35.

Do I have good news to take
back to my colleagues at
the Children's Hospital?

Oh, I... really, so soon?
I've not even had the chance
to discuss this family.

There's no immediate rush.
But I take it you're not saying no?

I must admit I have been
contemplating a change.

Yes. A grim business,
always dealing in death.

It can be, yes.

And the chance to heal children.

I look forward to your
decision then, Doctor.

Good day.

I'm afraid I was rather
high-handed earlier.

I apologise.
In spite of the circumstances,
this must be very difficult for you.

It is difficult.

But, truly, it is I
who should apologise.

I turned a blind eye
to my husband's faults.

He is a very clever man.

Yes, and you were right
about him all along, it seems.

I owe you my life.

I must confess to a concern.

How will you fare on your own?

I've always come out all right.

One way or another.

Mrs Pendrick... Sally.


If you are ever in need of
assistance, I would be honoured
if you were to call on me.

Thank you, Detective.

I might just do that.

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