Murdoch Mysteries (2008–…): Season 9, Episode 11 - A Case of the Yips - full transcript

Hurry it up, Benedict.

Oh, unfortunate.

Remember, it's a two-stroke penalty

- if you're beyond the boundary.
- Two.

(laughing)

Where in blazes has he gone?

Benedict! Hurry on!

If you haven't found it by
now, you've bloody well lost it.

No lifting out of a difficulty, Benedict!

(sighing) We may as well help.

We'll fan out, shall we?



- Almost ready.
- He's had his daily rub

and a bath. I daresay he's rather hungry.

Aren't you, little Roland?

Just one drop of lime extract.

He has milk, fresh diapers,

and enough solid food to
last him the whole day.

I'll take him for the morning
and bring him to you at lunchtime.

- (telephone ringing)
- Oh.

Murdoch residence,

Detective William Murdoch speaking.

I see.

Yes, I'll be right there.

It appears little Roland will be
spending his morning in the morgue.

- What have we, George?
- Sir.



- Thank you.
- I'm just arriving myself,

but it seems a group of
four were out on the links;

one of them went into the
woods to retrieve his ball

and that was the last
anybody's seen of him.

- Was a search conducted?
- By his colleagues, yes.

They claim he vanished without
a trace. This must be them, sir.

Ahh, Constable Crabtree! A
pleasure to see you again.

I'm only sorry it is under
such worrisome circumstances.

And you are?

Sir, this is Roger Newsome.
Of the Mimico Newsomes.

- He was mixed up with...
- The auto club, yes.

Mr. Newsome, what do you
know of this disappearance?

What can be said? He
abandoned a round in progress.

- What kind of man does that?
- I certainly won't be signing his scorecard.

Where did he enter the woods?

Given all these broken branches,

and the fact that the ground's
been disturbed in several places,

I'd say someone's been
through here recently.

The trail seems to end here.

Well, in that case,

he may have been snatched.
Somebody in some sort of dirigible.

- George...
- Well, it's happened before, sir.

I don't think he went up.

That's quicksand. Be careful.

There's very little in nature
more dangerous than quicksand.

Contrary to popular belief, and many books,

it's virtually impossible to be sucked
under whilst in quicksand, George.

But that's not to say he wasn't put here.

My God.

We'll get him to the morgue so
he can be cleaned up and examined.

- Did your search yield anything, George?
- I discovered a ball, sir,

presumably the one the
victim was looking for.

- Sir, I have a request.
- Yes?

As you may know, Mr. Newsome
and I have some history.

He treated me terribly in
our last encounter, and I...

- Well, sir, I hate him.
- Oh?

I feel bad even thinking it, sir,
but I can't pretend it's not true.

I hate the way he acts
and the way he speaks

and the way he laughs. I hate his

little bow tie and his stupid face...

- Thank you, George.
- I apologize. I just...

I wonder if I shouldn't be excused
from the case, given my personal bias.

Well, so long as I remain unbiased,
I don't see the problem, George.

I'll see you back at the Station House.

Oh, Benedict.

Benny, Benny, Benny...

I just keep asking
myself the same question.

How, how can I go on? How?

Do you know of anyone who may
have wished the victim harm?

- No. No.
- Every member of this club regarded him

with fondness and esteem.

James Benedict was a gift from above.

I'm very sorry we can't
be of more help, Detective.

As I'm sure you know, I am a
great friend of the constabulary.

Thank you, gentlemen.

Oh, Detective.

George Lyon, club champion.

- William Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary.
- Most shocking news.

Have you any idea how it happened?

My investigation is
still in the early stages.

To think someone killed him while I
was golfing only a few holes away...

Shameful. Outrageous.

Now, if you'll excuse me.
I'm set for another eighteen.

(babbling)

The victim was struck
with a blunt instrument

and beaten repeatedly about the head.

So, he died from his injuries?

He was alive and breathing when he went
into Cause of death was asphyxiation.

The quicksand.

Would you be able to tell
what type of weapon was used?

There are some distinct marks on
both the cranium and upper torso.

I think it would be fair to
assume it was a golf club.

Well, the victim's club
was found on the scene.

If I brought it in, would you
be able to tell if it's a match?

I will certainly do my best.

I've finished transcribing the
marks from the victim's back.

Marks?

He had a series of tiny
punctures on his shoulder blade.

About a dozen in total.

I've made a card with
the location of the holes.

The wounds could have been
made by a man's shoe...

- Or rather, cleats.
- Very good, Miss James.

I'll see if this pattern is a match
for any of the players' cleats.

I suppose that means you'll be
leaving little Roland with me.

He seems much happier here.

So this punter hits the ball
into the woods off the tee.

He goes looking for it
and someone clubs him.

And since it would be
impossible to anticipate

Mr. Benedict directing the ball
into the woods on that hole,

we have to assume that it
was a crime of opportunity.

I suppose it could have been a
golfer on a neighbouring hole.

Or...

- What if he meant to do it?
- I'm afraid I don't follow.

Golf is a cruel mistress, Murdoch.

It holds a man under its spell.

I could believe that he hit the
ball into the woods on purpose,

then killed himself just
to get away from the game.

Golf seems little more
than a distraction, sir.

I can hardly believe that it
would drive a man to suicide.

Seems like fun at first.

Just one good round,

even one good shot,

and you're hooked. You
become a slave to it.

For hours and hours, day after day,

you hit the ball towards the hole.

You hit the ball towards
the hole. On and on.

It gets into your head. It consumes you.

All you can think about is hitting
the damn ball into the damn hole!

Golf is a curse, Murdoch.
Don't you forget it.

Oh, Detective.

Mr. Lyon.

To what do we owe the pleasure?

I have something terribly
important to discuss with you.

- Oh. Regarding Mr. Benedict's death?
- No, sir. Regarding your death.

- Is that some sort of threat, Mr. Lyon?
- A threat?

Ha! No, my good man, I'm
talking about insurance.

Detective, I'm here to offer you

the security and well-being
that can only be attained

through the purchase of a
full-coverage insurance policy.

- Oh, I really don't think I...
- Do you have a wife, Detective? Children?

- Yes.
- And what would happen to them

if something unspeakable
were to happen to you?

- Oh, I don't... I really...
- What would become of your

beautiful family should some fiery
blaze engulf your peaceful home?

- I don't know.
- These are imponderable questions, sir.

And their only answer is insurance.

Mr. Lyon, have you sold insurance policies

- to the members of the golf club?
- To nearly every member.

Golf has become my passion,

but insurance remains my business.

Next year it will finance
my trip to St. Louis

- to play in the Olympic Games.
- Oh.

And did you sell such a
policy to Mr. Benedict?

I'll tell you all you care to know
about if you will play a round with me.

No one goes uninsured after
eighteen holes with George Lyon.

Murdoch. I've sent
Crabtree to the golf club

to look for a match on those golf cleats.

Sir, allow me to introduce Mr. George Lyon.

One of our country's finest golfers.

- Oh, are you?
- Oh. Inspector.

It's a pleasure. Would you
care to join us for a round?

Us?

- Well, sir, it could only aid in the investigation.
- A curse, Murdoch.

A curse.

- The mark is too narrow.
- I'll try the other side.

You mark my words, Doctor.

Keep your eye on your husband,
or you're going to lose him.

William Murdoch is a man of discipline.

I'm sure he can handle a round of golf.

This one still isn't as
wide as the ones on the body.

It seems the weapon may
have had a flat edge to it.

Forewarned is forearmed, Mrs. Murdoch.

I can't imagine why anyone
would enjoy the sport at all.

Seems rather silly.

I thought that too until I
started swinging this club about.

It's quite pleasurable.

- Very nice.
- Thank you.

Was the victim's policy significant?

The beneficiary is in line
for fifty thousand dollars.

And who would that be?

I'll check my records as soon
as I get back to the office

and will contact you directly.

And what of Mr. Benedict's foursome?

Loyal friends.

They do circumvent course
policy on one matter, though.

- They play four-ball golf for money.
- Oh?

Any significant sums?

Sometimes up to fifty cents a hole.

Go ahead, Detective.

Strike it with some gusto.

Well, well, well!

Very fine.

You have a lovely swing, Detective.

Now, I do have some pointers for you.

Come now, Constable Crabtree.

This is nothing more than a charade.

I can tell you who the killer is.

I'm not interested in
your theories, Mr. Newsome.

It was Benedict's brother, Wilbur.

The man is truly a
weasel. More sherry, man.

What is the damnable holdup?

- A weasel through and through.
- A scoundrel, I daresay.

The last time I was stuck
playing with him, he refused

to do the proper ball drop behind his head.

- He just dropped it in front of him?
- Yes!

You three realize you
are the prime suspects

in a murder investigation, don't you?

How can you say such a thing?

Because you were the ones with Mr.
Benedict just prior to his death.

We know that Wilbur Benedict
was seen here in the clubhouse,

so how could he magically appear at
the crime scene just at the right time?

Anyone here in the clubhouse
could have stepped out the back

and nipped into those woods.

Oh my!

That is quite the get-up.

They allow for terrific mobility.

I have news regarding the victim's club.

Ah yes, was it used in the murder?

I don't believe so.

It seems the wounds were made by

a club with a narrow
base and a flattened head.

That would be a putter, no doubt.

So the murder weapon is still missing.

You two seem to be making a fine day of it.

You should join us for a round sometime.

You must be Mrs. Murdoch. George Lyon.

Dr. Julia Ogden.

I appreciate the offer, but I'm
afraid I must be getting back to work.

Another time, then.

- Oh, fine putt.
- Thank you.

I'll be along to take care of Roland

as soon as I finish with golf.

Let's go, Detective.

The pattern of cleat marks
wasn't much help, sir.

It matches a popular shoe worn
by at least a dozen men here.

Including all the members
of the victim's foursome.

Gentlemen.

- A few more questions.
- Oh, come now, Detective Murdoch.

We were just about to enjoy a round.

- It seems Mr. Newsome has lost his putter.
- Indeed.

How do you explain that, Mr. Newsome?

I threw it into the water
hazard some time ago.

- Why would you do that?
- It had become disagreeable.

Putting with my driver has brought
my handicap down to a half-one.

- Did either of you witness the discarding of this putter?
- (both): No.

Well, that's convenient. Not
to mention hard to believe.

How could a golfer become
so upset that he would throw

a perfectly good golf clubs into a lake?

Clearly the errors in your putting were the
fault of your stroke and not of your club.

- It was too the putter's fault!
- Be that as it may.

If that club was used
in a murder, Mr. Newsome,

that club will lead you to the noose.

I think that's the lot of them, sir.

I find it astounding that
so many golfers resort to throwing

perfectly good equipment into a lake.

A man in the grip of obsession
knows no reason, Murdoch.

Sir, this one matches
Mr. Newsome's description.

It has his initials monogrammed in it.

It appears to have been underwater
for some time, undisturbed.

- I think we have to rule this out as the murder weapon.
- So Newsome's not our killer.

Well, that's yet to be determined, George.

But this club didn't kill Mr. Benedict.

The victim was killed
in this wooded area here.

Quicksand would be roughly here.

Mr. Newsome said he
entered the woods first.

Driscoll and Sanders went
further down the fairway.

Even if one of the foursome is the killer,

he would have had to dispose of the
murder weapon somewhere in that direction.

Maybe he dropped it into
someone's bag on the 16th.

There's a pond on the 16th.

I nearly hit into it during
my round with Mr. Ly...

Close enough for the killer
to throw something in there?

Oh, sirs...

Can I at least get my trunks first?

Six golf clubs, sir. And a coat of slime.

And that filthy water
from the lake in my ear.

I swear I can feel the germs
making their way into my brain.

- Germs can be quite deadly, can't they?
- Yes.

Really?

Two putters... both fairly rusty.

And this.

That's quite unusual,
sir. Is that a putter also?

Well, it does a flat face.

But it's rather unwieldy, though.

Looks to be in good shape though, sir.

- I wouldn't say it's been in the water long.
- Indeed.

I'll have Dr. Ogden see if it's
a match to the victim's wound.

- It's fun, isn't it?
- This part is fun.

It's wandering around endlessly
after a tiny white ball

that doesn't seem so appealing.

I prefer to look at it as a
pleasant walk in a beautiful setting.

I can do that in High Park. For free.

I believe we've found our culprit.

Well, given its unique design,

someone at the club will
know who it belongs to.

Then I suppose you'll be sending
a constable to ask around?

Oh, I was thinking I would go myself.

Mr. Lyon knows everyone at the club.

If I speak to him, I'll
have my answer directly.

And if he happens to ask you
to play him in a round of golf?

I'll have to check the etiquette on that.

Hit another, Detective.
It's only a friendly round.

Ah-ah! I'll bend the rules
to grant you a mulligan,

but the removal of loose
impediments is strictly prohibited.

Oh.

Thank you, Mr. Lyon.

The sheer volume of golf
etiquette is somewhat daunting.

And as important as the game itself.

- What of this putter? Is it familiar to you?
- I've seen it only once before.

Odd piece of equipment, isn't it?

Even if it works, you
look like a fool using it.

Did you happen to notice
who it belonged to?

Maclver, a Scotsman.

The daft man purchases
every newfangled thing

that promises the slightest
improvement to his game.

I'll telephone him this afternoon
and send him straight over to you.

Oh, and did you find out
who the beneficiary is

of Mr. Benedict's insurance policy?

Next of kin... in this case,
his brother, Wilbur Benedict.

Also a member of this club, I believe.

Thank you, Mr. Lyon.

Ah. Well, you'll get the hang of it.

I don't understand.

I hit the ball perfectly before.

Such is the nature of the game,

Detective, as unpredictable as life itself.

Of course, insurance allows us
to guard against life's calamity.

In golf, there are no such assurances.

A perfect swing every time?

That would be mastering the unmasterable.

What's this then?

Oh, sir.

I've had an idea.

- It's an invention.
- What's it do?

Force a man to confess? (laughing)

No. No. No.

- It will allow me to...
- Give it a rest, and get back to work.

There's a churlish Scotsman
sitting in your office.

Churlish? How so?

Well, he's a Scotsman, isn't he?

Ah, Practical Golf, a tome as sacred

as the King James Bible, eh? (laughing)

- Do you recognize this putter?
- Aye, surely.

Bought it two months ago.

Useless as a fat man at
the high jump. (laughing)

- This is your putter.
- Not any longer, no.

Sold it three weeks back.

To whom did you sell it?

That right drunk duffer, uh... Wilbur.

Wilbur Benedict.

Mr. Benedict.

- Detective William Murdoch.
- Yes, yes.

What?

I'd like to speak with you
regarding your brother's death.

Do you recognize this putter?

- Of course. What of it?
- Does it belong to you?

I have one just like it,
but mine is in my golf bag,

- secured in my locker.
- Are you quite sure about that?

Because this is your golf bag
and there's no putter in it.

And this was used to murder
your brother, Mr. Benedict.

Let's take a walk, shall we, sunshine.

If someone used my putter

to murder poor James, it certainly
had nothing to do with me.

Anyone could have taken it from my locker,

and I haven't used my clubs in weeks.

But you were at the clubhouse every day.

The clubhouse. Not the course.

My physician told me I
have to stay off my hip,

so I while my time at the bar.

The perfect place to lie in wait.

The spot where your brother was murdered

is only a short distance away
the clubhouse's back door.

You think I slipped out between sherries

to murder poor Jimmy boy?

(laughing) It's preposterous.

Why would I do such a thing?

You're the beneficiary for
his life insurance policy.

Oh, I am not.

- You deny it?
- I used to be his beneficiary,

but then Jimmy boy decided to
cancel his insurance last month.

- Hello? Detective?
- Ah, Mr. Lyon!

Thank you for coming.

My oh my...

- Whatever is this?
- I call it my

swingarc perfection device.

As you can see, the device
helps to guide your backswing.

Now, if you make an error,

- (clanking)
- the device lets you know.

Whereas if you keep the
club between the rails,

- you have a perfect swing.
- It's quite clever, Detective.

I'm not sure the likes of
George Lyon can benefit.

My swing is already one
of the purest in the game.

- But is it perfect every time?
- Well...

perhaps not every time.

This device ensures that your
swing will become consistent.

Think of it as... insurance.

(chuckling)

Alright, alright. Let's have a go.

Thank you.

- (clanking)
- Ah! (laughing)

The reason I asked you
here today, Mr. Lyon,

was to discuss James
Benedict's insurance policy.

Yes.

We've come to learn that Mr. Benedict
intended to cancel the policy.

He certainly did. End of last month.

Wanted to cancel the whole lot.

And why were the policies not canceled?

I took him for a round and
convinced him to reconsider.

Ingenious!

I can start to feel my
swing improving already.

Afternoon, Miss James.

Is the doctor in?

I'm afraid she's gone
for the day, Constable.

Taking care of the little one.

Is there something I can help you with?

I actually do have a
bit of a medical issue.

What seems to be the trouble?

I've got water stuck in my ear.

And not just any water... Filthy,
filthy stagnant pond water.

Rife with germs and microscopic
diseases, to be sure.

- Is that so?
- Yes, that's so.

I've reading up on it in the library.

You wouldn't believe it. There
are several recorded instances

of dirty water causing fatal infections.

Every patient who looks up
their symptoms at the library

ends up thinking they're dying.

Diagnosis is best left
to the professionals.

That said,

- you might lose your ear.
- What?!

You...

Oh, my goodness.

It's gone.

You've cured me!

Rubbing alcohol and vinegar.

I learned it from my mother.

For next time.

Thank you, Miss James.

It's possible Mr.
Benedict killed his brother

for the insurance.

But it's also equally possible that he knew

about the policy being canceled.

You do realize you're
missing the obvious, Murdoch.

- Sir?
- George Lyon.

Your new pal. He's the one with motive.

He stands to lose his commission

if a policy is canceled before
the company can earn it back.

Sir, you believe Mr. Lyon failed

to convince Mr. Benedict to reconsider?

And killed him to stop him from canceling.

Must need the cash to go off
gallivanting to the Olympic games.

Sir, Mr. Lyon wasn't part of
the foursome on the course.

And his cleats didn't
match the marks on the body.

- It can't be him.
- You're off to play with Lyon now, I presume?

As a matter of fact, I am.

You don't think your personal feelings
about are clouding your judgment, do you?

The man

Absolutely not.

Good.

Good.

Crabtree. Come here. I need your help.

- What's the problem, sir?
- Murdoch has bungled this golf club murder.

- How so?
- He's fallen in love with the game.

The temptress has blinded him.
Thinks George Lyon can do no wrong.

- You think Mr. Lyon is guilty, then?
- I don't know.

When did you check the
pattern on his golf cleats?

Do you think he could have changed them?

Sir, Mr. Lyon's cleats were never checked.

He was out on the course with the Detective

and never came back to the clubhouse.

The bugger swerved it.

Let's go, Crabtree.

Where was Lyon when
Benedict went into the woods?

Hard to say.

He was playing as a single

- and asked to play through at some point.
- Yes, yes, that's right.

I remember noticing his
plus fours. I thought:

"I would look quite fine in those,"

and went straight out to buy
myself a pair that afternoon.

The afternoon your friend was murdered.

I purchased them whilst
carrying the heaviest of hearts.

Oh yes, I'm sure you were just devastated.

What hole did you see him on?

Constable Crabtree,

- do I sense sarcasm?
- Shut up, Newsome.

Where were you on the
course when you saw Lyon?

I don't remember.

It was the hole that Sanders
yelled at Benedict. Sanders,

what hole was that?

Yelling at the victim? What about?

- He was cleaning his ball.
- And?

It was during play.

And as such, strictly prohibited.

Oh, for the love of Ada. Which hole was it?

The 13th.

He claimed Ground Under Repair,

- but the circumstances called for no relief.
- 13th?

- Benedict was killed on the 14th.
- That's right.

- Come on, Crabtree.
- Constable Crabtree,

I must know what I've done.

We've been through so much together.

Why don't you like me?

Why?

- You left me for dead.
- I did what?

Your cohort from the auto club
had his hands around my neck

throttling me. You fled
in abject cowardice.

- I thought you had the situation in hand.
- Ugh!

I was begging for your help!

You just turned around and left.

My God, what kind of man
could just turn around and...

(sighing)

Blast!

Blast, blast, blast!

- Are you all right, Mr. Lyon?
- No! I'm not all right, Detective.

Your damnable contraption
has given me the yips!

- The yips?
- The yips.

I set up perfectly.

I swing perfectly.

And yet, every time, disaster!

I hardly think a machine
can be held responsible...

I may never win another golf game again!

Not here, certainly not in St.
Louis, at the Olympic games,

whilst representing the
fine people of Canada!

Murdoch, you look like a
damn fool in those knickers.

Sir? What are you doing here?

He was just ahead of the foursome
when Benedict went into the woods.

He could have seen him and
he could have killed him.

But, sir, Mr. Lyon's
cleats are not a match.

Mr. Lyon didn't have his cleats checked.

You didn't go back to the
clubhouse after your round, did you?

Why would I? I had an engagement.

Or you saw what the constable was
doing in there and you buggered off.

Mr. Lyon, I need to see your shoe.

Is this because I
insulted your contraption?

Your shoe.

George Lyon.

You're under arrest for the
murder of James Benedict.

There's one thing still bothering me.

We know

that Wilbur Benedict's
putter was the murder weapon.

But no one was seen with
it that day; that means

it had to have been stashed
in the woods ahead of time.

So, the killer had to have known

that Benedict would go into those woods.

But how could George Lyon have known that?

How could anyone have known that?

(babbling)

I have no idea either.

Oh, that's odd.

Now, what do you suppose is
wrong with this, little fellow?

That ball was amongst the ones
that George had found in the lake.

It's possible that it was just a bad ball.

But it's also possible that
it was weighted on purpose.

And if one ball was weighted on purpose,

it's possible that others were also.

Like the one

that James Benedict hit into the woods.

A bunch of golf balls
that don't work right. So?

Sir, I cut one of those open.

They weren't manufactured by accident.

They were finely designed

to veer off course when hit squarely.

All right.

So Lyon gives Benedict this special ball.

He knows that every time he uses
it he'll end up in the woods.

So he goes in there and waits for him.

Except that it wasn't George Lyon.

- Are you sure?
- Yes, I am.

The victim would have
noticed a weighted ball

while putting on the 13th green;

therefore, the exchange
had to have happened

between there and teeing off on the 14th.

And George Lyon wasn't there.

The killer had to have been
part of the victim's foursome.

Ah, Mr. Lyon. I'm terribly sorry...

Ah, ah. I don't want to hear a word of it.

You did what you had to do
in the pursuit of justice.

Thank you for understanding.

While we have you here,

I believe you might be able to
assist us in our investigation.

- Oh?
- This ball

was made to veer off course.

My, my, my. How unusual.

Do you know of anyone who would be
able to manufacture such a thing?

I know just the man.

Virgil Graydon?

Detective William Murdoch,
Toronto Constabulary.

I understand you
manufacture sporting goods?

In all manner, sir:

cleeks, mashies, niblicks,

carry bags, rubber tees...

A teeing pedestal made of
rubber and wood, how ingenious.

Never mind all of that. I'm here

- to discuss golf balls. Specifically...
- I have several new models.

But if you're after
something truly special,

- you'll want The Monarch.
- Oh my.

- These appear to be...
- Extra dimples.

For maximum distance off the tee.

Dimples would cause turbulence, but that
shouldn't result in greater distance...

I'm sure you're happy with your Haskells.

I'll take a box of each.

Now, have you ever been commissioned

to make custom balls for
any of the club members?

It happens on occasion.

Well, on this occasion,
the balls in question

were specifically engineered
to veer off course.

I know the balls exist, Mr. Graydon.

If you do not tell me
who commissioned them,

I'll be forced to charge you with
impeding a murder investigation.

Me?

A murderer?

(laughing) What a preposterous notion!

Where did you get this?

It was found near James Benedict's body.

You gave Benedict that ball.

You knew what would happen when he hit it.

You had planned to
follow him into the woods,

where you had previously
planted the golf club,

and murder your friend in cold blood.

Well? Speak up.

What do you have to say for yourself?

I have

nothing to say, Inspector,

except that you have it right.

This ball was intended for murder.

And I am a murderer.

I hereby honourably admit my guilt.

I never did like that little git.

Glad we don't have to
come across him any longer.

I'm sure George feels much the same way.

Well, Crabtree?

Oh, it's all right.

You're allowed to take some joy

in the misfortune of
others every now and again.

Sir, I would like to. It's just...

(sighing) I don't think Newsome is guilty.

- He's confessed.
- I think he's lying.

Why?

He's embarrassed to admit the truth.

What truth would that be?

That he's a cheater.

That's what the weighted balls are for.

George. You think Mr.
Newsome confessed to a murder

in order to cover up the
fact that he cheats at golf?

Yes.

That would be mad.

- Yes.
- He could be right, Murdoch.

That twit values his pride over everything.

I was once ready to hang him
over a bloody maths puzzle.

But Mr. Newsome's account of the events

is consistent with the
facts as we know them.

Except Newsome claims he only used
the weighted ball for the murder,

but we found another in the lake.

That's true.

But how would a weighted
ball help his golf game?

Fine putt, old man.

Toss.

He used it to sabotage the other players.

If Driscoll or Sanders
found out what he was doing?

Then one of them could have used the
tampered ball to commit the murder.

Daft bloody game.

Afternoon, gentlemen.

Inspector.

Detective.

To what do we owe the pleasure?

How is old Roger faring?

- A murderer. Doesn't that beat all?
- He didn't do it.

New information has come to light.

Oh well, I'm...

Make way!

(exclamations)

Still got my swing, me old mucker.

I'll need you to empty your pockets.

I must ask.

Why did you do it, Mr. Sanders?

Because he wouldn't listen.

I told him and told him
and he kept doing it.

- Doing what?
- Cleaning his ball.

During play.

I may be a novice, Mr. Sanders,

but to my eye, the cleaning of one's ball

seems a minor infraction.

Mr. Newsome's transgressions
are far greater.

(scoffing) Newsome is a fool

who never wins a single round.

Benedict liked to win,

he gloried in his victory
every chance he got.

And when I cried foul,

he accused me of being a poor sport.

Me!

You murdered a man over
a breach of etiquette.

Hardly the definition
of a gracious competitor.

Golf is a game of order.

Without order, what do we have?

Without order, we have nothing.

Constable.

Take him away.

(kissing sounds)

Mr. Newsome.

Oh.

Constable Crabtree. Thank you for coming.

As I am fated to die,

there is something you must know.

I did abandon you that day.

I know I can never make it up to you.

But I hope you can find some solace

that the Lord has chosen you to
live, and seen fit for me to die.

You're not going to die, Mr. Newsome.

You mean...

you know the truth?

And against my better judgment, I spoke up.

The club doesn't know
about my cheating, do they?

I'll try not to mention it.

You're a fine man, Constable.

If any good is to come of James' death,

I'm glad for it to be the
salvation of our friendship.

- Don't push it, Newsome.
- Right-o. But really,

I must make it up to you.

You'll have to come out to
the house for supper sometime.

Mother would simply adore you.

Oh! Perhaps you can court my sister.

She's quite the beauty.
We have the same profile.

It's all over, Detective.
I cannot shake these yips.

Perhaps we simply didn't use
the swing machine enough, is all.

It's no use. My dream of
the Olympic Games is dead.

- Good afternoon, gentlemen.
- Julia.

I was able to leave Roland with
Miss James for the afternoon.

And you've decided to join us? Welcome.

I'm afraid we won't be very good company,

- but give it a go, Doctor.
- (giggling excitedly)

Now Julia, you'll want to align

your left shoulder with your forward foot

- and angle at the waist...
- Oh William, don't bother.

I don't expect to be any good,

I just came to play to have a little fun.

Oh!

- (laughing) Well, that is fun!
- How did you do that?

- I don't know. I just did it.
- Yes, but what were you thinking?

Were you focused on the
ball or the club or...

I was thinking of nothing, Mr. Lyon.

Surely you were thinking of something.

No. I just emptied my mind.

Emptying your mind.

Emptying your mind.

- Ooh!
- Yes!

By Jove, dear lady, I do
believe you've saved me.

I'm glad to have been some help!

Ugh!

I am doing it properly. I know I am!

Empty your mind, Detective.

It works, it really works.

Ha! Empty your mind?

That simply doesn't make any sense.

How does one empty their mind?

It's impossible.

May I have another?

(giggling)

- William?
- Just leave me, Julia.

This is something I must do on my own.

Announcer: On an all-new Murdoch...

Start planning the funeral.

Announcer: An unlucky widow.

Five husbands.

The woman is absolutely fascinating.

Announcer: Or a cold blooded killer.

- Leaving you their money.
- My bad luck I suppose.

Something doesn't make sense here.

Announcer: Murdoch Mysteries,

next Monday at 8:00 on CBC.