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You told me you owned a horse.

I had no idea you rode.

Oh, one of my few talents.

Cool Million here is a joy to ride.

He's beautiful.

One of the few things I got to keep in the settlement

from the Carmichaels.

Can't even afford a trainer or a jockey.

- He's a racehorse? - Indeed and a good one.

I wanted to run him in the qualifier for the nationals.

Violet Hart?

How nice to see you.

Mr. Carmichael.

Julia Ogden, this is Emmett Carmichael.

- My late husband's cousin. - Charmed.

Terribly sorry about all that legal business.

Family matters, you know how these things are.

Of course.

They really did take

everything from you, didn't they?

Father's a bastard.

So is Mother.

Are you able to afford the stable fees here?

I'm making do.

Well, if it becomes a burden,

happy to take your animal off your hands.

Thank you for your offer, but he's my horse.

Surely. Well, must go.

Ladies.

Your former in-law?

I'm just glad to be free from the lot of them.

No!

What was that?

Dear God. What's happened?

It's Mrs. Marshall's horse.

He's-he's dead.

I just came in and found him like this.

Must be colic.

- Colic? - Horses die from it all the time.

Sometimes, you don't see it coming.

Mrs. Marshall will be heartbroken.

I don't think he passed away naturally.

This horse has a broken neck.

I believe he was murdered.

Well, see if you can find more fuel somewhere.

Sir!

Do we really both need to attend to the murder of a horse?

This wasn't just any horse, Murdoch.

This was Baccarat.

He was the favourite to win the national.

Oh, yes. The qualifiers are this time of year.

This weekend.

Baccarat's owners won it three years running

with a bay called Thunderbolt.

This year they bought a ringer.

Baccarat won the Missouri stakes.

I had no idea you knew so much about horse racing.

But, still, sir. Why both of us?

The horse was worth $20,000.

Tw...

That's more than my house.

As you can see, it's a matter of interest.

Plus, I myself am a victim.

I had $20 on the bugger.

Ah, Baccarat.

- What do we think? - Well, it's a racehorse with a broken neck.

Not a clue how it could've happened.

They just put in the electricity. It goes in and out.

And you are?

Chappy Farnsworth.

I'm the farrier who cares for this animal. Cared for.

So, you found him, then?

I came in to shoe him,

found him like this.

I left him in his stall at nine o'clock last night.

So, he died during that window of time.

I'm happy to examine him.

I know a thing or two about horses.

As do I. I could perform a postmortem.

Strictly speaking, this is a case of malicious mischief.

The victim here is not the animal,

but the animal's owner.

I beg to differ, Murdoch.

I believe the victim is the bloody horse. Look at him.

Yes. Well, the animal will need to be examined,

but Baccarat is evidence in a crime

and, as such, I will be collecting his remains.

Well, I'll have him taken to the morgue.

Miss Hart, you are either directly or indirectly involved in this case.

I don't believe you should conduct the postmortem.

Well, as you wish.

- Mr. Farnsworth... - Suppose you want me gone, as well.

You find out what happened, Detective.

What exactly are you planning to do

with a 1,000-pound piece of evidence?

It definitely won't fit in your office.

Sir, this is not a typical murder case,

but we still need to establish motive, time of death.

Well, he would fit through the doors of the morgue.

With Miss Hart recused from the case, I could take a look.

Bloody hell. Let's drag him back, then.

Right.

And we will obtain fingermarks from this stall.

Locate and question anyone who may have accessed

these stables in the past 24 hours.

But first, your help may be needed.

Sir, I have Baccarat's owners just this way.

This is Mr. Bruce Marshall and Mrs. Scarlet Marshall, sir,

- the horse's owners. - My wife is the owner.

The stables are Scarlet's bailiwick.

I can't believe it. It's too terrible.

Do you have any idea who could have done this?

- Not the slightest. - I have.

It was one of the other owners.

None of them would kill an innocent horse, Bruce!

It's the national qualifiers, dear, and you win every year.

They're jealous.

I wouldn't put it past a single one of the scoundrels.

Who are these other owners?

Why don't you speak to our trainer, Mr. West.

He knows all the horses, all the owners,

everyone involved.

Mr. West!

Oh, Guy!

How could this have happened?

It's terrible, ma'am.

My wife is in a state.

We'll be at our home if you need anything else.

You're the horse's trainer, sir?

That's right. I've been working with him for months.

When were you last with him?

Yesterday. Put him in his stall and...

Fed him around six.

Did he seem unwell?

No, sir. Had great pace 'round the track,

real healthy appetite.

Poor old boy.

We need the names of the other owners

who also have horses in this race.

Surely, but you'll only need one.

I mean, everyone knows who did this.

Oh? Who's that?

Has to be the man who came in second the past two years.

Emmett Carmichael.

Ma'am.

Do I recognize you from somewhere?

I don't believe we've met.

I'm Violet Hart.

Joey Witherspoon.

- Witherspoon? - Mm-hmm.

- Of course! You're famous. - Ha! Hardly.

Well, you won the Kentucky derby twice.

Oof. That was some time ago.

You were the best jockey in the world at a time.

What on earth are you doing here?

Things have been changing in the south.

Some of us old jockeys aren't welcome anymore;

not the right type.

Oh, that's awful.

Yeah. I got off easy.

Fired, run out of town.

Some other fellas got the stuffing beat out of 'em, or worse:

Fell off their horses mid-race.

They'd be trampled.

I had a friend nearly die.

I'm lucky I just lost all my money.

Oh, I know what that's like.

Well, at least you've landed on your feet.

Will you be riding Diamond Duke?

Oh, afraid not.

Mr. Carmichael,

he hired me on as a trainer, but he don't want

a black jockey riding for him.

But you're Joey Witherspoon.

You should be on a horse.

You should be racing.

This is what I do now.

Eh, anyhow, don't be letting go of that horse.

I seen you riding.

He's got something special in him.

Mr. Carmichael, if you would.

I was at Le Château Carmichael until after 2am.

You can ask anyone who was working there last night.

You own the restaurant?

Well, I do now.

I inherited it from my late cousin, Arthur.

- I think you knew him. - Ah. A bit.

My condolences.

And after 2am?

I went home.

Tried to make myself a deviled cheese sandwich,

dropped a plate.

My valet was woken by the racket.

He can vouch for me.

Your competitors,

the other horse owners,

seem to think that you are the most likely

to resort to foul play in order to win this race.

Well, they are mistaking my desire to win

for a depravity of character.

I want to win more than anything, that is true.

But there is one thing I want more

and that is to win fair and square.

- Inspector. - What is it, Murdoch?

I've collected alibis from all of the rival horse owners,

their jockeys, trainers,

stable hands and anyone else who may have had access

to Baccarat's stall.

And you've compared them to the marks you found?

Correct. And there were too many fingermarks

to single out one culprit.

And the alibis?

Sir, Julia is still examining the animal at the morgue.

She doesn't yet have a time of death.

We'll know more soon.

This case will be the death of me, Murdoch.

Those seven owners are all convinced

that their horse will be the next victim

and they won't let me hear the end of it!

I have to have constables patrolling their stables 24 hours a day.

Ah, ah, ah!

I believe I've found another way.

An idea came to me

when we were installing cameras for surveillance purposes last winter.

What if instead of constantly surveilling,

you took a photograph only at the relevant moment?

You mean hire a photographer?

Why not just get a constable to stand watch?

No, no, no. I-I've devised a way to achieve the same result

without need for a constable,

or a photographer, or anyone at all.

You mean the camera takes a picture on its own

when someone walks past?

Precisely.

How does it know?

Someone's got to tell it.

We...

I've invented a motion perceptor.

This lens on top of the camera

can detect changes in light levels.

A gradual change, uh, the sun setting,

and it won't register.

But a rapid change, such as someone walking past

and casting a shadow, and it will trigger this shutter.

And that's when it takes a photo?

Well, that's the idea.

Shall we try it?

Inspector, if you could walk past the camera?

So the camera is set off by motion.

I know what else you could use this for.

Wait a minute, Murdoch.

Oi, Crawford! Wait there!

I want my $20 back.

Oh, tough luck, Inspector.

No refunds on bad bets.

Baccarat's not running.

In case you haven't heard, he's dead.

Oh. That's no concern of mine.

If your horse doesn't come in, you don't win. That-that's it.

I could arrest you for this.

You placed the bet.

You'd have to arrest yourself, too.

Right then.

Care to make another wager?

It's quite a sight.

Any idea what happened to him yet?

I believe his heart stopped,

which would be consistent with a number of ailments

if it weren't for the fact that he broke his neck in the fall.

Meaning the fall was sudden.

That's right.

In the case of heart attacks in horses,

they generally stumble to the ground.

A stroke might have been more sudden,

but there's no evidence for that here.

Time of death?

Well, the indicators for that are different in horses than humans,

but I believe the state of rigor

and the opacity of his eyes

suggest he died between 10pm and 1am.

Oh!

Well, that exonerates a number of suspects,

including Mr. Carmichael.

There is one other interesting thing

I can't find any explanation for.

It may be unrelated.

His ear is... singed?

As if someone held a match to it.

Could this have been caused by electricity?

It could have been.

Mr. Farnsworth said the electricity

was recently installed.

And yet the lights aren't working. How odd.

Could someone have disconnected the lights

in order to use the electricity for something else?

You mean to electrocute Baccarat?

Is that possible?

Actually, yes.

Large animals can be killed by electricity

far more easily than humans.

The charge from an exposed wire

is enough to stop a horse's heart.

Could someone have disconnected the wires

in order to close a circuit

between Baccarat's ear and its... rear?

They very well could have.

That would explain why we found singe marks

on the horse's backside, as well as his ear.

And then he would have died so quickly

that the collapse broke his neck.

Thousand-pound animal.

Someone has tampered with this light.

So, this was intentional.

Let's see if the culprit has left any fingermarks.

Mr. Witherspoon.

I have a proposal for you.

- Ma'am? - Ride Cool Million in the national qualifier.

Well, thank you for the offer, but that's not possible.

- Why not? - Well, for one thing,

Cool Million's not running in the qualifier.

Well, with Baccarat out, there's a spot open.

- I can get him in the race. - Look,

I would love to get back in the saddle.

But I need my job.

And Mr. Carmichael would not be pleased.

It makes no bloody sense, Murdoch.

That man was nearly in tears last time I saw him.

Our farrier Mr. Farnsworth's fingermarks

were the only ones found.

- Why would he want to kill a horse? - I have no idea,

but we're about to find out.

Oh.

Seems like you were wrong about that.

It appears he was killed with a single strike to the head,

likely a heavy implement with some sort of indentation

or bifurcation at the end.

And there's a tool missing from his farrier's tool kit.

I think it's one of the iron tongs

that they use to shoe horses.

Two are missing, actually.

One is in his hand.

If both men were armed,

that could indicate a fight that went badly.

Well, if the killer did use something he found in here,

we're not looking at premeditated murder.

There are boot marks in the blood,

but too messy to tell us anything.

And what's this?

What have you found?

Haven't a clue.

Is it a tooth?

Appears to be ceramic.

Perhaps it broke off of the murder weapon.

Strange.

Why would anyone want to kill this Farnsworth bloke, anyway?

Farnsworth killed Baccarat.

Someone found out and confronted him,

perhaps the Marshalls?

Or that trainer of theirs.

Farnsworth is dead?

Murdered. In the tack room.

Well, that's terrible.

He'd been working for Mrs. Marshall for years.

He's been established as the culprit

in the killing of Baccarat.

Wha... ? Well, that's not possible.

We found this in his room.

We believe he was paid to do it.

Perhaps you found out and went to have a word with Mr. Farnsworth.

You knew he'd killed Baccarat and the two of you fought.

Don't care much for what you're suggesting.

Things got out of hand;

- Perhaps it was self-defence. - No.

No, you got it all wrong.

I wasn't even at the stables this afternoon.

I left around one o'clock.

Can anyone corroborate this?

I don't know.

Wait. As I was leaving, I seen that bookmaker.

- Eddie Crawford? - Yeah.

That's right. He was there. He...

he would have seen me leave.

Since last week, he's been hanging around.

Maybe because he's a bookie he stood to make a fortune

if Baccarat didn't run.

What's all this?

I'm running Cool Million in the qualifier.

You've listed me as your jockey.

That's right.

You don't have the right.

- I didn't agree to this. - But you want to.

With my horse and you as his jockey, we could win this.

You don't belong working as a trainer.

You belong on the racecourse,

riding in the biggest races in the world.

Look, picture it.

With Baccarat out,

all we have to do is beat Carmichael.

And we can do it.

Even if I agreed,

who's to say they'll allow me to run?

They've already allowed it.

Your name's on the racing sheet.

And the trainers,

the owners, the jockeys?

I've been run out of town before.

You have just as much of a right to race as they do.

And Carmichael?

I have a contract with him, and I need the money.

Let me handle Carmichael.

As for money,

when we split the purse, we'll both be flush.

What do you say?

You cheated me out of $20.

But I-I didn't cheat you! You made a bad bet.

I didn't know you were going to kill the horse to fix that race.

You paid that farrier to do it

so you could collect the bets on Baccarat, isn't that right?

I did no such thing.

What happened?

Farnsworth was going to give you up, is that it?

- So you killed him? - What? I didn't kill anyone.

Then why were you at the stables today?

And if you lie to me,

I will lock you up for bookmaking

and then I will lock myself up alongside ya.

Do you understand?

Sir, please.

Tell us what you do know, Mr. Crawford.

I did want Baccarat out of the race, all right?

But I didn't pay this Farnsworth and I certainly didn't kill him!

But you did do something to prevent Baccarat from running.

Yes. I asked someone to make sure he didn't run.

- Not Farnsworth? - No.

I don't know him.

I have a client who owes me a lot of money.

He's more than $1,000 in debt.

You let someone bet $1,000?

I thought he was rich.

Turns out he's flat broke,

squandered his whole fortune.

So, I told him,

"if you can make it so Baccarat doesn't run,

you don't have to pay your debt."

He told me it was taken care of.

- Right. Who is this man? - Bruce Marshall.

Baccarat's owner.

Here to say no?

I'm here to see what he's got.

Well, well.

That's a fine horse after all.

Probably a good thing you didn't give it to me.

Well, I know what things are worth, Mr. Carmichael.

You're a sharp tack, Miss Hart.

I can see what my cousin saw in you.

- He spoke of you often, you know. - Funny.

He never spoke of you at all.

Yes, well,

suppose he never will again thanks to...

What in the holy blazes?

- That's my trainer on your horse! - That's right.

What are you two playing at?

I have him under contract.

Let me make you an offer.

Let Witherspoon ride for me in the qualifier.

If he wins, he's free of his employment.

If you win,

I'll pay you back the full value of the contract.

I'm sorry.

Win?

You think that horse is gonna win?

Are you in, or are you out?

All right. All right, Miss Hart.

You got yourself a bet.

It's true. I plotted to kill that poor horse.

I had to, don't you see?

I'm ruined. I have nothing.

My wife can't find out.

Please don't tell her!

We're more interested in what happened with Mr. Farnsworth.

Did he threaten to call the police?

- Is that why you killed him? - What?

I didn't kill Chappy.

You had him kill Baccarat.

- No. No, I didn't. - You just admitted you did.

No, I hired someone else altogether.

You're Witherspoon, eh? The Joey Witherspoon?

- That's right. - The horse looks fast.

- He is. - Hm.

I'm gonna have to be careful setting the odds on him.

Oh, come on, gents!

Can't you leave a man in peace for two minutes?

We're not here for you, Mr. Crawford.

We're here for him.

- What do you want with him? - Mr. Witherspoon,

we'd like to ask you some questions regarding

the murder of Chapp Farnsworth.

- Me? Why? - Well, for one thing,

you appear to have some blood on your pants.

Mr. Marshall paid me to kill Baccarat.

But I never went through with it.

I couldn't.

And I was about to tell him I was calling it off,

but then Baccarat ended up dead anyway.

So, I just kept my mouth shut.

We already know Farnsworth killed the horse.

The question is, why did you kill Farnsworth?

I didn't.

Mr. Witherspoon, you have blood on your pants.

I was taking out Duke

and I needed a crop.

So, I went into the tack room and I saw him.

There was blood all around,

but maybe he was still alive, you know?

- So, I went to check. - Was he?

No. He was gone.

By then, my hands were covered in blood. I'd knelt in it, too,

and I knew if I called for help,

I'd be blamed for it.

Just like I'm being blamed for it now.

Ah! Miss Hart.

He didn't do it.

And how exactly do you know that?

Because I know him. He's a good man.

Don't you know who he is?

He won the Kentucky derby twice.

And that means he's not a killer?

He can't be.

And he would never hurt an animal.

You're wrong about that, Miss Hart.

Mr. Marshall did hire him to kill Baccarat.

He just didn't get around to doing it.

And he had Mr. Farnsworth's blood on his pants.

So you can see why we find his story unlikely.

I am struggling, however, to believe that he'd want

to kill Mr. Farnsworth.

Maybe he didn't have the stomach to go through

with killing the horse, so he hired Farnsworth to do it for him.

Then they fought when Farnsworth threatened to turn him in.

We can't prove that, but it would answer

both of our remaining questions.

Could I speak with him?

Taking that money from Mr. Marshall

was the lowest moment of my life, Miss Hart.

And now it's come back to haunt me.

Just when things were looking up.

Joey, at this moment, I need to know the truth.

If you did any of this, Detective Murdoch will find out.

I didn't kill Farnsworth. I just found him like that.

And you didn't ask him to electrocute Baccarat?

Electrocute?

They believe that's how Baccarat was killed.

I had nothing to do with that, but...

I have heard of it.

- When? - There were rumours about it back in Kentucky.

They said it could never be found out.

It would look just like the horse

dropped dead from colic.

Who was doing it?

- Were they fixing races? - No, no.

It wasn't that kind of scheme.

It was a way for the owner to kill his own horse.

So, what good would killing it do?

A lot if your horse is insured.

- Not if it was killed deliberately. - Correct.

There can't be any hint of foul play.

The cause of death has to fall under a named peril.

A cause of death acceptable to the insurers,

accident, illness.

An electrocution could look like the horse died of natural causes,

unless someone clever discovers singe marks.

So are we saying that Baccarat wasn't going to qualify?

It would seem to be the only reason to kill him before the race.

Well, what was wrong with him?

What am I looking at?

Discolouration running horizontally across the radius.

Oh.

Are you sure it isn't a cyst, or a, uh... ?

No. I believe it's a healed fracture.

Well, when did this fracture occur?

It's no more than two months old.

I'd say it's healed, but likely weakened.

So if this horse had run full speed in a race... ?

It would have been liable to cause a full break.

Well, that's not possible.

Baccarat couldn't win,

so you made sure you didn't lose your investment.

You had him killed so you could collect the insurance money.

I assure you I have no idea what you're talking about.

If you claim Baccarat was injured,

I certainly knew nothing about it.

I only bought the horse a month ago.

When do you suppose all of this happened?

- Who did you buy him from? - A broker.

Mister...

Mr. Dalton, I believe.

Where can we find him?

I wouldn't know.

My trainer introduced me to him.

- Mr. West? - Yes.

- When was this? - Couple months ago.

Look, there must be some mistake here.

Mr. West thoroughly inspected the horse

before I purchased him.

He would never advise me

to buy an injured horse.

Ah, sir?

I believe we've found what we've been looking for.

Regarding Mr. West?

Yes. It seems he has somewhat of a reputation.

He likes to gain the confidence of wealthy horse owners

in order to get hired on as a trainer.

He then convinces them to invest in a can't-miss horse.

Exactly what he did to Mrs. Marshall with Baccarat.

So it would seem.

So, what's in it for him if his boss buys a bad horse?

He's not the one selling the horse.

In New York state, Mr. West was arrested

and charged with fraud.

Similar circumstances, but he was never convicted.

In that case, Mr. West's own brother

was the seller acting under a false name.

So the brothers find an old champion racehorse with a gammy leg.

They then pretend to be strangers

and swindle an old lady out of thousands.

They then split the proceeds. So these West brothers

had to kill Baccarat before he ran,

or else Mrs. Marshall would know she'd been conned.

I believe we have our culprit.

Uh, sir. Mr. Witherspoon. Have you seen Guy West?

Mr. West?

No, I haven't seen him.

Ask around, would you? We need a word with him.

Huh?

Dear God! Look out!

Mr. Witherspoon!

- He's breathing. - Joey! Are you all right?

My sides. I can hardly breathe.

We need to get him to a hospital.

Go and get help, Henry.

- Sir. - It's all right. Hold still.

It was deliberate.

The latch on his stall was open and someone spurred him hard.

- Whose horse was it? - Ah, a Mr. Abernathy, sir.

The horse selection was likely random.

Any idea who did it?

It seems they got away, sir,

but your motion perceptor was triggered.

Oh, good. We'll develop the film.

Sir, who would have it out for Mr. Witherspoon?

He's the one who put us on to the insurance scheme.

So, if this was retaliation,

our main suspect could be responsible.

Speak of the devil.

So, I heard Mr. Carmichael, uh,

his trainer got hurt. What's going on?

Mr. West, we need a moment of your time.

You sold Mrs. Marshall a horse

with a fractured forelimb and a false pedigree.

You pretended to train it for a month

knowing full well that if it ran in the qualifier

the truth would be exposed.

So you hired Farnsworth to kill it.

N-Now, you can't prove that.

With Baccarat dead,

Mrs. Marshall would've collected the insurance money

and been none the wiser.

- No. No, I... - But something went wrong, didn't it?

Baccarat died so quickly during the electrocution

that it broke its neck during the fall. Messy.

But with us on your case,

Farnsworth was going to roll you over.

So you kill him.

And it likely would have worked

if Joey Witherspoon hadn't put us on to your scheme.

Which is why you let that horse loose on him.

Payback.

It's all true.

I did it all.

As they say:

When it goes wrong,

it all goes wrong.

Guess I won't be riding in the qualifier.

No. But you're going to ride again.

Hm. I have to do something. I don't have a job anymore.

I feel terrible about this.

Oh, hey now. Chin up.

We're not cooked yet.

What do you mean?

Cool Million can win that race.

You seen him run.

He's faster than Diamond Duke

and can run circles around the rest of them.

But we don't have a jockey.

I know where we can get one.

He's confessed, Murdoch.

Yes.

And you don't believe a word of it.

Sir, we gave him a story and he agreed to it.

All of it.

It was all terribly easy.

Sometimes things are just neat and tidy.

I suppose so.

But...

Mr. West told us that he saw Eddie Crawford

near the stables just before Mr. Farnsworth's murder.

Which means West was there, too.

He also told us he was leaving.

To give himself an alibi.

He could have come back.

He certainly could have.

Let's say you're right

and he really did leave the stables just before the murder.

Why confess to a crime that he didn't commit?

Perhaps he's protecting someone.

Who?

This is what the motion perception camera captured

right before Joey Witherspoon was trampled.

Scarlet Marshall.

Why is West protecting her?

They're in it together.

She's cheating herself?

The Marshalls are broke.

Bruce Marshall told us himself that he lost all of their money.

Begged us not to tell his wife.

What if she already knows?

She knows that West is a confidence man

and she's broke.

How's she buying expensive horses in the first place?

Precisely. She's not.

But she is pretending to

and taking out large insurance policies on the horses.

She never paid anything for Baccarat.

No. But she told the insurance company she did.

And then when the horse dies,

she doesn't get her money back,

but she's collecting thousands of dollars

that she never even spent in the first place.

Well, it's just a theory.

Based on a rather compelling fact.

I've told the constables to search her home.

You're saying we killed my horse

and then killed a man to cover it up,

all to make a little money.

A lot of money. Money that you needed.

This is preposterous.

And even if it were true, you have no proof.

This photograph was taken moments before

Mr. Witherspoon was trampled.

What, earlier today?

I was going there to meet Guy.

I couldn't find him.

He had sent me a note to come.

Confirming you were there.

I... I don't know, uh...

Anyway, what of it?

Making a horse run over some poor jockey

doesn't prove that we killed someone.

We found these in the back of your car, Mrs. Marshall.

Wh-what is it?

Forge tongs.

A farrier's tool covered in blood.

These were missing from Mr. Farnsworth's tool kit

when we found him dead.

In other words,

we found the murder weapon in your car.

I tried to take the fall for you, Scarlet.

- Really, I did. - No. No.

- I tried to save you. - No, no, no. You have it...

You have it all wrong. It wasn't me.

I-I've never seen this before in my life.

Please. We just...

We just wanted some money.

Save it for the jury, darling.

You two lovebirds are going to be tried for murder.

So there was two separate plots to kill the same horse.

Involving at least six people.

Hard to believe a single animal could draw so much ire.

Poor old Baccarat never stood a chance.

Oh, and here's one of them now. Oi, Crawford!

You're lucky that your pal beat you to the punch.

- You might get off facing any charges. - Huh.

Always thinking the worst of me, Inspector.

But, as usual, I've done nothing wrong.

Don't push your luck, sunshine.

Uh,

what's, uh...

What's all this?

Ah! This was my idea.

Murdoch made a camera

that takes photos whenever someone walks past.

So, I thought why not do it with horses at the finish line?

I've adjusted the mechanism so that the device

will take a series of photographs

beginning the moment the first horse

crosses the sensor.

Our finish photo

will then be able to tell us

which horse crosses the line first.

A finish photo.

- That was my idea. - That's brilliant.

This will settle all of the arguments

from bettors who think their horse won

in spite of what the judges rule.

Oh, speaking of,

gentlemen, do you care to place any bets?

Now taking their places at the starting line:

Jericho Jack,

Maggie's Fortune,

Cool Million!

Mrs. Hart must have found a jockey for Cool Million after all.

What odds are your giving?

Uh, I-I don't know. I mean,

he runs fast, but without Witherspoon?

Just tell me the odds!

I'll give you four to one.

- Twenty to win on Cool Million. - Yeah.

To the line please, riders.

They're off!

Come on! Come on!

They'll be back.

Miss Hart's horse could win this thing.

Cool Million and Diamond Duke are neck and neck!

And Diamond Duke is the winner.

Says who? It was a dead heat.

Take it easy, lads.

We'll prove who was the winner in just a minute.

Isn't that right, Murdoch?

Well, it was quite close. Let's hope it worked.

And the winner is...

Cool Million!

It seems we won by a nose.

Miss Hart, that was you riding Cool Million.

Now, wait a minute.

Cool Million can't be the winner.

Women are not allowed to jockey in the qualifiers.

And even if they were,

Miss Hart isn't the registered jockey for this horse.

Look at your racing forms. They say Joey Witherspoon.

Cool Million must be disqualified.

I'm afraid Mr. Carmichael is correct.

Cool Million is considered scratched from this race.

- The winner is Diamond Duke! - Bloody hell.

Mr. Carmichael!

I'll need to have a look at your walking stick.

What's this all about?

Just hand it over.

Fine.

It's a match, sir.

This was found at the scene of Mr. Farnsworth's murder.

It was you.

- You ordered Baccarat's killing. - Preposterous!

He threatened to talk, so you killed him.

That's even more preposterous!

You ran over Joey Witherspoon to keep him out of the race.

You even wrote the note that lured

Mrs. Marshall there, didn't you?

And planted the murder weapon in her car.

Come on, come on!

Ha! Ha!

Mr. Carmichael,

you are under arrest for murder.

I won that race, and you know it.

Maybe.

But I still have all your money.

Maybe so. But at least I have my freedom.

You witch.

Get him out of here!

Looks like Diamond Duke has also been disqualified.

Yes, I suppose race officials frown upon murdering your competition.

- Hm. - Are they reinstating Cool Million as the winner?

Oh, no. That disqualification stands.

Oh. Well, who won?

The horse that came in third, Sunday Best.

Ah! That's the horse I bet on.

You what? How's that?

Well, I-I read the racing form.

I analyzed the different horses' track records

and measured those against Mr. Crawford's odds.

I-I knew Sunday Best was an unlikely winner

but could provide excellent value for my bet.

What are the odds?

Fifty to one.

- Oh! - Ah! I don't believe this.

I may need some time to raise the money.

But be sure that you do.

Ah! Ha...

Ha! Ha...

Sometimes a long shot does pay off.

So, what do you think?

You gonna jockey again?

It didn't exactly work out in our favour.

I think I'm done with horse racing.

You're not going to sell Cool Million, are you?

No, sir. I'm going to put him out to stud.

News of his unofficial victory has spread far and wide.

I should make a pretty penny.

I should think so.

I heard they're writing the stories about the qualifier

- all the way over in Europe. - Is that so?

A friend sent me a telegram inviting me to race.

You're going to give racing another go?

I am.

Thank you, Violet.

Without you,

I would've never gotten back in the saddle.

Goodbye, Joey Witherspoon.

- Synced and corrected by chamallow - - www.MY-SUBS.com -