All language subtitles for Murdoch Mysteries s19e17 The Hunting Lodge

(laughing)
- Tommy Brackenreid!

- Hamish Slorach.
What a sight for sore eyes.

Sore eyes.
Not know your trumpet?

- I’m old, Tom.
Nobody expects me to hear them.

(both laughing)
Good ear.

- Oh. Good ear.
- Hm. Long time

since we’ve had
one of these retreats.

- Yes. Not since Garriton died.

- Yeah. You know it’s his, uh,
widow we have to thank

for the use
of his hunting lodge.

For old times’ sake, apparently.

- I’m surprised about that
because she never seemed

too keen on these inspector
get-togethers.

- Ah, yeah, well, maybe
she’s softened with old age.

Yeah, Neil Moser sent through
the invites.

Even arranged for a car
to take us up to Muskoka.

- Not bloody Moser.
- Yeah.

- Who else is coming?
- Oh, there’s George Washburn,

uh, Ed Cleasby,
and Lester Dawes.

(laughing)
- Well, it gives us an excuse

to get out of the house.
- Mm-hmm.

- Be amongst nature
with the lads.

- You’re telling me.
Unlike yourself, Tom,

the rest of us are already
retired and at home

with our wives. You know,
it’s like we need nature.

(laughing)
- I hear that.

- Oh, I will miss
my new dog, though.

- Uh? Mm.
- Gorgeous creature.

- Big, beautiful.

- Lindfield, sirs.

Station House One.
I’m your driver.

- Ah. Not seen you before,
Lindfield.

How long you been on the job?
Six months.

- Ooh, long enough
to see a thing or two?

- Nothing too dramatic yet, sir.
I did help an elderly lady

recover a stolen handbag,

but turns out
she’d just dropped it.

(laughing)
- Well, give it time, lad.

No lack of evil lurking in...

(both): Toronto the Good.

(laughing)

(engine starting)

(birds chirping)

- I hope one day
I can make my mark,

do some good.

Hey, what’s the worst case
you’ve ever worked?

- Oh. Oh, deadly sous-chef
of Ward Six.

(Brackenreid): Oh, he was
a wrong ’un, that’s for sure.

- Ohh! Oh, oh. Then there were
the killings at 206 Holyrood.

- Oh, I remember that.
That was a real house of
horrors.

That was you?
- No, no, no.

Dawes was on that. Yeah.
- Oh.

- Biggest case he ever closed.
And the worst.

- Huh.

- Ratcatcher, that was you,
Station House Four.

- Yes it was. Murdoch and Watts
put that menace away.

- Yeah.
- Did you say Murdoch,

Chief Constable?

- I did indeed.
I imagine you’ve heard of him.

- Detective Murdoch’s
the reason I left my studies

in engineering
to join the constabulary.

- Murdoch is a remarkable man.

But behind every
great detective,

there’s an even greater--

(both): Inspector.

- Thank you.

- As for evil, did you hear
the Simcoe Slasher escaped?

- I thought he was
to be executed.

- He was, but he’s on the run.

- I’m headed back to the city
after this

to help with the manhunt.

- Well, that gives you a chance

to do some good, Constable.

Just make sure you
catch the bugger.

- I’ll do my best, sirs.

- Oh, and make sure
you’re back here

to pick us up on time.
- Please.

- There they are.
Slorach. Chief Constable.

- Moser.
(shouting): Hamish!

- Here we are.

(shouting): I brought you
a sandwich!

- Lester Dawes,
it is wonderful to see you.

- Whoa-ho-ho!

- But, uh, yeah,
you forgot the bread.

- And I remembered the mustard!

(Brackenreid): I see we’re
already into the whisky.

- Oh, yes.
- Dawes, I wish you

wouldn’t drink so.

- Take more’n a couple
of whiskies to bring me down.

- I promised your wife
I’d look out for you.

- Oh!
- You know your heart’s

been acting up.
- Shut it, Cleasby.

Stop pandering to every last
woman in your life.

- Mrs. Dawes made me promise
the same thing.

We’ll watch him together, hm?

- Thomas Brackenreid.
Hamish Slorach.

Your room’s upstairs.

- Uh. Well, hello to you, too,
Washburn.

- Always a bit of a martinet,
even when we were rookies.

- Dawes, could you please
put this somewhere?

- Garriton did a nice job
in here. Look at this trophy.

- Shot and mounted it himself.

- It’s a nice place.
- Meanwhile, his wife

was back in the city
making do with powdered milk.

- Speaking of Widow Garriton,
I’m surprised she isn’t here

to greet us...
hand over a list of rules.

- Mm. That’s because
she knows Washburn is here

making sure we all use coasters.
(chuckling)

- Someone better chop wood

if we’re to cook these steaks
before midnight.

- I’ll cut down
the whole forest.

- I’ll tell you what,
give me the axe.

I don’t trust Dawes.
- If you’re going to drink

like a fish,
at least use a glass, man.

- Oh, here we go.
Always putting on a show, Dawes.

- It’s going to be
a long weekend.

- Happy now?

(wheezing)

- Dawes!

Are you all right?

- Oh, he’s...

He’s dead.

(tense music)

- Dead?

(theme music)

- Ah, I see you’ve
finally done it.

- What’s that?
- Built the better mousetrap.

- Terence Meyers used
knockout gas

on me and Inspector Brackenreid.

I’m attempting to engineer it
in reverse

to refine its properties.

Now, this experiment
will allow me to refine

the dosage so that
its effects last no more

than five... minutes.

- Ah. Well.

(squeaking)

Can I tempt you with a quarry

who may be more
difficult to recapture?

- I’m listening.

- I got a call from
an old friend

at Station House One
looking for help.

The Simcoe Slasher has escaped
during a prison transfer.

- They need additional manpower?

- Brain power, I think.

Shall we bring it from
the lab to the streets?

(curious music)

(squeaking)

- Dawes always did say
his ticker was ticking down.

- Well, looks like
we’ll have to go home early.

- Oh.
- Who’s going to tell his wife?

- Oh, she’ll blame me.

Even though Dawes
never listened.

- Well, let’s not be hasty.

We could... we could put him
in the cold room overnight.

- Are you being serious?
- Well, what’s the difference

between the cold storage here
or in the city morgue?

- What say you, Washburn?
You always know what’s right.

- Well, if you think about it,
we are the authorities.

- Oh, come on!
- Well, between the five of us,

we have well over a century
of police experience.

- Exactly. Who better
to make the decision?

- I don’t know.
It doesn’t sit right with me.

- Nor me. How would you feel
if it was you, Moser?

- Well, I wouldn’t begrudge
my old pals a good time

just to give my wife
an extra night of grief.

- Well, I’m the only one still
on the job and I say we go back.

- Uh. But Constable Lindfield’s

not picking us up
until tomorrow.

- Well, there’s no guarantee
we can get a ride

sooner than that.

- I say we enjoy the night,
have a little fun.

After all, it’s what
Dawes would have wanted.

- Ah, where is this cold room?
- Hamish!

- Well, there isn’t much
we can do about it tonight,

is there, Tom?

You get the ankles.
I’ll get the wrists.

- All right.
(Washburn): I’ll get a blanket.

- Was Dawes really so ill
that no one’s surprised

that he dropped dead?

- Guess that’s what happens
when you’ve a bad ticker.

- Ah, it’s always sudden
like that.

I’m surprised it
didn’t happen earlier.

- I saw him two weeks ago.
He was strong as a horse.

Said if he ever felt a twinge,
he just took one of his pills

and that sorted him right out.

- I never saw him take
any pills.

- Oh. Uh-oh. Hey, wait.
- Tommy, come on now.

- That’s not right!

Rifling through a dead man’s
belongings.

- Maybe he forgot
the pills at home?

- Surely he would have brought
them with him.

But they’re nowhere to be seen.

(curious music)

- Uh, where are you going?

- I’m going to check
in the one place

that I haven’t looked.

Sorry, Dawes.

(Moser): Ah, wh-what do you
think you’re going to find, hm?

- These.

Don’t you find it strange
that Dawes didn’t reach

for his pills,
even though they’re in

his vest pocket the whole time.

- The man was dead drunk.

And from what I understand,
heart paroxysms

happen suddenly
more often than not.

- So you keep saying.

- Because it’s true.

- Hm.

- We’re too late.
We likely wouldn’t recover

any information
from the scene itself.

- Right. Dozens of men have
already been deployed

at the site of his escape
from the prison wagon, so we...

- We won’t go there!
I have a hunch

that we need
to retrieve information

on the Simcoe Slasher
from all of the station houses.

- All?
- Most.

The Simcoe Slasher
has had run-ins with police

all over the city,
and for years.

- You think we’ll find something
the searchers have missed.

- Well, they’re searching
for him here and now,

which they should be.

But we will be searching
through his past.

- Via his criminal records.
- Yes.

For us,
the excitement in this case

will be in the paperwork.

- Ahh...

(soft playful music)

- I admit it’s odd
about the pills, Tom.

Wh-what are you thinking?

- Maybe Dawes has been poisoned.

- But all of us were drinking
the whisky.

- Look. Compare Dawes’
glass to Hamish’s.

- Oh, his has a dark bit
at the bottom.

- Well, that’s hardly proof.
- Well, look,

we all took glasses
off the sideboard.

Maybe some were cleaner
than others?

- Drain your glasses.
- Ah!

Finally, you’re talking sense.

Cheers.
- No, no, no, no, no, no.

So we can compare the dregs,
not get drunk. Cleasby.

Washburn.

Only Dawes’s glass has residue.
Could be poison!

- Trying to playact
the great detective.

You don’t have to pretend
in front of us.

- I’m not playing, Moser.

- Ah. Come on.

We all know why
Station House Four

has the reputation it does,

and why you’ve risen
to be Chief Constable.

It’s all thanks to Murdoch.

- At least I’ve always supported
the detectives under my command.

- What’s that supposed to mean?

- Well, from what
I used to hear,

you were less interested
in the truth

than in marking cases closed.

- How dare you? How dare--?
- Please not snipe

at one another. I can’t bear it!

- You are a sentimental fool,
Cleasby.

- Look! The sun is going down.

Dawes will never
see it rise again.

Hamish...

will you please play something
that Dawes would like

to have heard?
- Oh, yeah.

(mumbling)

He always used to like this one.

(upbeat ragtime piano music)

Oh!
- Watch out!

- The antlers!
- Bloody hell!

- Jesus!
- Uh! I see angels.

Angels and my old dog.

- You’ll live.

(grunts)
- Ah! Oh my God! Ah!

- You’re lucky
you weren’t killed.

- Seems to me that God
was looking out for him.

That was designed to fall on
whoever was playing the piano.

- Oh, come on now.

- Don’t believe me? Watch this.

(piano note repeating)

- Good Lord.

(Cleasby): If that’s true,
then...

- Oh...
- ...maybe Dawes

was poisoned after all.
- Yes, but by who?

- Someone who hates police?

- The Widow Garriton?

She could have booby-trapped
the place.

- I remember at Garriton’s
funeral

she seemed none too fond--
- Yes, yes.

- ...of the constabulary.
- That’s true.

- She said in so many words
she blamed us.

- For what?
- For Garriton’s drinking.

Him not making it past 60.

- You think there
are other traps?

- Anybody going to help me up?

- The windows have
been nailed shut.

- Back door from the kitchen
is barred, too.

- Oh, i-it’s normal to secure
the lodge against squatters.

- Are you not paying attention?

There were traps set here
to kill us.

- To think Dawes
would still be alive

if Washburn hadn’t goaded him
into drinking out of a glass!

- What are you saying?

- We’ve got to get outta here.

- I’m saying,
was it a coincidence?

- Slorach, you’re losing blood.

You’re-you’re not
thinking straight.

- Speaking of coincidence,

it’s pretty lucky
how you managed not

to get killed by those antlers.

- Lucky?! If I was lucky,
it would’ve missed me.

- Washburn,
Slorach wouldn’t hurt a fly.

You worked with him.

- He didn’t strike me
as much of a cop then.

And less now.

I say we go out the way
we came in,

through the front door.

(door rattles)

- Slight problem there.
It’s locked.

- What on earth?

- It must have locked
behind us. Where’s the key?

- It was open when we got here.

- Then I’ll use the side door.

- Well--
- We’ll walk to the nearest town

if needed.
- No! Washburn,

I wouldn’t do that!

(explosion)

(grunts softly)

Bloody hell.

- A landmine.

- Think it could be
the Widow Garriton?

She’s nearly 70 and very frail
last time I saw her.

- Someone else with a grudge
against the police maybe?

- But why us? We’re all retired.

- Except for me.

- Well, that’s something, Tom.
What are you working on?

- Pushing papers.

- What? That’s what
a chief constable does.

- Nothing big at the moment.

I wonder if it could be
Chadwick Vaughan.

- No. No, no. I know for a fact

him and his wife reconciled
and they left for Paris

a couple weeks ago.
- Ah.

- What about the Simcoe Slasher?

The escaped killer!

- Tom had a hand
in bringing him in to justice

and he vowed revenge against
all police at his trial.

- But the Slasher’s thing
was cutting and stabbing people

who got in his way in a robbery.

This isn’t exactly
his modus operandi.

- No, but criminals
can escalate.

- Yeah.
- Even the Holyrood killer

was, uh, just a petty thief
back in the day.

- Yes, yes.
He really came into his own

as a complete maniac
before the constabulary

managed to bring him down.

Yes. It must be the Slasher
after us. We need weapons.

- And a way out.
- No! We just stay here

’til Lindfield comes
to pick us up.

- But he’s right!
It’s going to be dark soon.

- Here. Slorach, you’re with me.

- Cleasby, you come with me.
Take these.

- Give me that.
- What are these for?

- To help us catch the traps
before the traps catch us.

- All right. Yeah. I like that.

- Yeah.

- To find the Simcoe Slasher,

given name Elmer Moggridge,

we are going to comb through
his arrest records

to determine where
he could be hiding.

Uh, places that he’s lived,
people he’s worked with.

- Uh, my friend said
they’re already checking

all the known associates
and addresses in their files.

- Oh. But look at this
arrest report

from Station House Number One.

It mentions the Simcoe Slasher
being found with

brand new Bingsley ratchets
in his possession,

which were likely stolen.

But then there’s no
corresponding record

of arrest for robbery.

- The Bingsley Ratchet factory

is in Station House Three’s
territory.

We’ll see if they ever
investigated a theft plan.

Station House Three.

(tapping)

(soft tense music)

- A-are you sure this’ll work
to spring any traps?

- No, I’m not sure it’ll work.
Just keep your eyes open.

- Garriton must have
some weapons about.

This is a hunting lodge,
after all.

- Wait!

Look at that dark patch
in the floor.

- What of it?

- It could be a trap. Or worse.

- Satisfied?

- Well, I’m still walking
around it.

(door rattles)

- Cleasby, this window
hasn’t been nailed shut.

- Hm. Be careful.

Oh.

We might be able
to squeeze through.

- Oh, no, wait. Look.

The earth’s been disturbed.

Maybe something’s been planted
in there. Yeah, here.

Ready?

(explosion)

Oh! Ah.

(Slorach): Tom! Are you okay?
What happened?

- It’s just a minor explosion.
We’re fine.

- Well, look at that.

- I hate guns. Except hunting
rifles, of course.

- Uh-huh. Well, I don’t.

Loaded.
- Well-well,

just give me the bullets.

- Why? You don’t trust me?

- In case we get startled.
Don’t want any accidents.

- There are no accidents.

This is locked, too.
Check the door.

(door rattles)

(tense music)

- Well, that was fruitless.

- How ’bout we just smash
our way through the windows?

- Well, there’s probably
more landmines out there.

- Yeah, good point.

- Bloody hell.
It’s a telegraph machine.

- We could send a message.

- Praise be to Garriton for his
hunting lodge improvements.

- You know, there’s a train line
not far from here.

Wouldn’t be that costly
to put in.

- My Morse code skills
are a bit rusty.

How about yours?

- I can do it. Yeah.

- All right.
We need to alert Murdoch

and ask the Toronto Constabulary
to send help.

"Men murdered in Muskoka..."

"...at Garriton Hunting Lodge."

(Murdoch): And ask Station House
Five, as well.

- Well, I tracked down the file

on the Bingsley Ratchet factory
robbery.

- And?
- There were two thieves

and the description of one
of the suspects

does match the Slasher.

- So, they likely were stolen
tools in his possession.

- Yes. Station House Three never
identified the other thief,

but they did obtain
his partial fingermark.

Not much to go on, but...

- Well, as you know,
I do maintain

the most comprehensive archive
of fingermarks in the city.

- Hm.
- So, if we did find a match,

we could perhaps identify
a previously unknown

associate
of the Simcoe Slasher...

- Who might be sheltering him.

How many fingermarks
would you say we have on file?

Several hundred?

- Oh, more.

Classified by type.

Could take some time.
- Mmm. Mmm.

(Slorach): Stay away from me!

- Come on, Cleasby.

- I can’t believe that you would
do something as stupid--

- Just show it to me!
- I will not--

- What’s with the gun?
- I found this.

- Hm. Yeah and I found this.

An obituary
for the Widow Garriton.

- Ah.
- She’s the one letting us

use the cabin.
- Exactly.

So how does she send us
the invites

if she died two months ago?

- She offered the cabin
by telegram.

- You could have known
the widow was dead

and you invited us up here
for your own sick purposes!

- Hamish! Do you really think
so poorly of me?

- You were the one insisting
that Dawes wasn’t poisoned,

saying we shouldn’t go back
to the city.

- Because I wanted
to have a good time.

- By putting our friend on ice?

- We did that together!

- What’s your game, Moser?
Why us?

- What are you talking about?
Wha...

The widow sent through
the invitation list.

- By telegram.
When she was dead.

- Well, somebody telegrammed!

- So you say.
- Well, it’s true.

I wouldn’t have picked you lot
if I had my druthers.

(clicking)
- What’s that sound?

- It’s a telegraph machine.

- That must be the reply
to our SOS.

We might just be saved.

- "If... you..."

- Can’t you go any faster?
- "Try..."

- Give him a chance.
- "That...

again... you’ll...

regret it."

- You.

You must have set this up.
- What?

- You’re the one who found
this machine.

How could our messages
be intercepted?

You... You did something to it.

You learned a few tricks
from your star detective.

You sent the telegram
as the widow in the first place!

- And you can’t be serious!

- Well, the only thing I know
for sure is I’m not doing this.

- Look, I don’t know
what happened,

but maybe the message doesn’t
mean what we think it means.

- Uh, uh, do you think
that the wires could have gotten

crossed somewhere down the line?

- Could be.

I’ll try another SOS.

(electric zapping)
- Tommy!

- Ah.
- What the devil?

- Oh, I’m all right. I think.

(grunting)

- That was not
a normal telegraph.

- You still think
he sabotaged it?

- I-I... I don’t know
what to think anymore.

- Ah. Och, give me a hand.
There we go.

- For once,
I agree with you, Cleasby.

My nerves are wrecked.

(gunshot)
- Oh! Moser!

Oh my!

Oh! Oh. Oh.

He’s been shot!

- Oof!

- Moser, are you all right?

- Well, what do you think,
you idiot?

I’ve just been shot
in the chest.

- You shoot yourself with that
blasted gun you found?

- No. No, but I’ll shoot you.

- Moser, Moser! Don’t you ever--
- Moser, give me the gun.

Cleasby, sit him down,
staunch the bleeding.

(grunts)

I don’t think
this gun’s been fired.

- And that whiskey that smashed
wasn’t one of ours.

The label’s different.

- Lads, look at this hole
in the wall.

I think the bullet
came from here.

When Moser took the bottle
off the shelf,

it flipped up,

somehow activated
the trigger on the hidden gun.

- It’s fiendishly clever.

- This Slasher won’t rest
’til we’re all dead.

- Ah, and he’s halfway there.

- Huh.

- I’ve found a match.

A thief named Milton Blain.

- I recognize that man.

Station House Two
ran surveillance

on the Slasher for a string...

of robberies eight years ago

and someone in one
of the photographs

was never identified.

Huh.

- It looks like the Slasher
and this Mr. Blain

have had a long association.

- Says this was Market Street.
There’s no address.

Can’t quite make out the number.

- Ah! The photograph
is overexposed.

- It’s too bad you can’t
figure out a way

to shed less light
on the matter.

- Actually, I-I...
I think I can.

- Bullet seems to have gone
straight through.

- Oh, stop fussing!
You hoping I’ll bleed to death?

- I’m sorry.
I’m doing the best that I can.

(Moser chucklng)
- You’re probably enjoying this.

Get your hands off me!
- Moser,

you’re not thinking straight.

The man is just
trying to help.

- Help me into my grave,
more like.

Do you know that Cleasby here

was carrying around
with my wife

for the better part of a year?
- That was a long time ago!

I was just trying to be
a listening ear.

It’s not my fault
that she needed a friend.

- A listening ear is one thing,

but you gave her
a lot more than that.

You probably wish
you were still together.

- I-- That is not true!
- Oh, it’s the quiet ones

you’ve gotta watch out for,
sneaking around,

bottling things up.
If anyone wanted me dead,

it’s Cleasby.

You do know that
she was with you

only to teach me a lesson!

She can’t stand pathetic
weaklings like you.

(muttering)

- Please, you have to keep
pressure on that wound.

- Look, we shouldn’t be
getting on at one another.

Deep down, we’re all good cops.

- Moser isn’t a good cop.
He’s bad.

He intimidated witnesses,
he fabricated evidence...

and he forced me
to cover for him.

- How do you mean?

- Fred Pelch case.

Pelch was a Black man,
so Moser thought he did it.

I never thought he was guilty.
- Oh, that was years ago.

And, sure,
maybe I stitched it up,

but Pelch was no downy innocent.

He’d already served time
for armed robbery.

- But you had him convicted.
For what?

- Murder... of a vagrant
on Victoria Street.

Friendly beggar,
by all accounts,

but apparently, Pelch
didn’t like the looks of him.

- Pelch was a bank robber.
Why would he go after a beggar?

- Was this the vagrant
on Victoria Street back in ’93?

- Yes!
- The friendly one.

- Well, Pelch didn’t murder him.

- How could you know that?

- Before the Holyrood killer
was executed,

he gave up a list
of his victims. Dawes showed me.

And the vagrant
of Victoria Street

was on that list.

- So Pelch was convicted
of the Holyrood killer’s crime.

- Well.

- I’ve manipulated
the exposure in this area.

By changing the light source
during printing,

it should show us more detail.

I’m hoping that we can now
see the house number.

- It’s a seven.

- Seven Market Street.
We go at dawn.

(Brackenreid): How you
holding up, Moser?

- My chest is set to burst.

- Uh, I think
the bleeding is slowing.

- At first light,
we’ll find another way out.

We’ll get you some help.

- S-so you’re saying
that if Moser and I

hadn’t gone after the wrong man,

we could’ve arrested
the Holyrood killer

before his house of horrors?

- Yes, but these things happen.

Mean, Washburn and I, we
had a blunder of our own

in that regard.

- How do you mean?
- When I was a rookie,

we arrested a woman
who was on her way to testify

in an assault case against
George Cowers,

as the Holyrood killer
was known then.

- Yeah.
- A victim or a witness?

- I don’t know.
She had a charge against her.

Washburn thought her story
was a lie,

so we kept her in the cell.

- She never testified?
- Mmm.

If she had, it means Cowers
would have been behind bars

years earlier.
(groans)

- I imagine Cowers
had his fair share

of run-ins with the law.
- Plenty.

Oh, he boasted about ’em
at his confession.

One time, he was stopped
in a stolen carriage

by a copper, gave some sob story

and the fake name Coot Newton
and was sent on his way.

(curious music)

- Coot Newton?
- Yeah. Oh, Cowers

thought that was a great joke.

- I stopped a Coot Newton

for erratic driving
of a horse and buggy, years ago.

Such an odd fellow
with a bizarre name,

I never forgot him.

- That was Cowers leaving
the site of a violent assault.

- I let him off with a warning.

- And that was
the Holyrood killer

that you let get away.

- I-I what? No, what? What?

(indistinct chatter)

- How did this happen?
Station Four

clearly got it wrong.
Continue the search!

- Inspector Norden, I-I...

thought I asked you
to wait for us.

- What for?
Your tip was worthless.

Nobody here but an old woman.

- Does she look like
the Slasher?

Let the poor dear go,
for goodness’ sake.

- Th-this house doesn’t
look quite right, Watts.

- Is it possible
this is the wrong address?

I’ve got the photograph.

- Mmm. Mm-hmm.

- Now, look at
the number plaque.

The number isn’t centred

a-and there’s a faded line
beside the number seven.

It-it-it’s not seven.

- It’s 17.
We’re at the wrong house.

(breathing heavily)

- He made it through the night.

- Does anyone think
it’s a strange coincidence

that we all crossed paths
with George Cowers

before he was
the Holyrood killer?

- You think that’s why
we’re being targeted?

- We can’t be the only ones
who tangled with him.

Cowers was racking up charges,

oh, for years
throughout the city.

- How would anyone know
about these old run-ins?

We didn’t even know.
- Mm-mm.

- Besides, everyone connected
with the Holyrood case

is, well, they’re dead by now.

Cowers was executed.
He has no family.

- No one came out
of 206 Holyrood alive.

There was the-the groundskeeper,
the two prostitutes,

the homeowners,
and that young mother.

- And the next-door neighbour.

- Yes. But she was already
an old lady by then.

- Dawes.

Dawes knew about all of us.

He’d went through
all the files

and he interviewed Cowers
multiple times.

- But why would Dawes want
to harm us, let alone himself?

- Too long on the case.

Caught Cowers’ madness.

Uh, would you stop fussing?

- I still don’t see it.

I think we need to be worrying
about the Slasher.

- I agree.
Everything that’s happened here

has to be the Slasher.

- I’m getting dizzy. I’m dizzy.

Stop.

- He’s turning blue.

- This was all Dawes’ fault.

If he’d just shared information
about the Cowers case...

constabulary would have been
able to stop Holyrood,

saved all those people!

- Is it possible the bullet
could have nicked a lung?

I mean, if so,
it could be pressure building up

in his chest.
- Uh, Dawes wasn’t dead, I’d...

(sighs)

I’d kill him myself.

(gasps)

(exhales)

(soft mysterious music)

- He’s dead.

- Suppose we should move him
to the cold room.

- No.

Wait.

He-he was...

He was complicated...

He was difficult.

He was my--
(gasping softly)

He was my partner.

(Cleasby sobbing)

We should say a prayer first.

- We need more than prayers,
Cleasby.

We need to figure out
how to fight the Slasher.

(tense music)

(indistinct chatter)

- You’re sure the Slasher’s
in there this time?

- This is the correct address.

(Watts): Curtains are all drawn.

- He’s barricaded himself in.

- Did you see that?
There’s two people inside.

- Yes.

Ready your weapons, constables.

He’s a killer
just escaped death row.

He won’t go down
without a fight.

(guns cocking)

(grunting)

- He wouldn’t want
to be in here.

- Cleasby, I understand
how you feel,

but we can’t just leave him
in an armchair.

- He’s with Dawes.

Poor Dawes. I can’t believe it.
My old dog was so fond of him.

Where is Dawes?

Someone has spirited away
his body.

- You think it could be
a spirit?

A malevolent spirit
possessing Dawes’ body?

- Don’t be ridiculous.

But Dawes could have faked
his death.

I’ve seen it done convincingly
enough to fool a doctor.

- Why would Dawes
do something like that?

- I don’t know.
He must have had a reason.

- I showed the photograph
of the Simcoe Slasher

and Milton Blain
to the next-door neighbour.

She confirmed they’re both
inside.

- You heard the detective.

Remember, the Slasher
is surely armed,

with nothing to lose.

If he tries to flee, open fire.

- Inspector Norden,

with all due respect,
I don’t think this situation

calls for lethal force.

- We cannot let
the Simcoe Slasher slip away.

He’s not only a danger
to the public,

but the very reputation
of my station house is at stake.

- Yes, sir, but they are
currently surrounded.

We still have the opportunity
to apprehend them

without bloodshed.

- You have a soft spot
for killers, Detective?

(sighs)
- The Slasher will be

facing execution,
but his associate

has not been convicted
of any capital offence.

- We won’t let them get away.

- The Slasher’s trying to make
a fool of the constabulary.

- Sir, before you
shoot them out,

could we try one thing?

(grumbling)

- Stand down.

- When you-you said that Dawes
must have had a reason

for faking his own death,

did you mean that he might be
the one behind all this?

- Well, people always said
that the Holyrood killer

must have had some connection
to the police

to have evaded capture
for so long.

- Yeah, but Dawes was notorious

for not sharing information
on a case

until he found his killer.

- Maybe that’s because
he was involved all along,

working alongside George Cowers?

- So we’re thinking
Holyrood again?

- It wasn’t Dawes.

He’s no killer.
You both knew him.

If Dawes didn’t share
information,

it’s because he’s a bastard
who wanted all the credit.

- So we think
it’s the Simcoe Slasher?

- Yes. He hated the police.
And you, Tom.

- Oh, thanks.

Well, then how do we account
for Dawes’ body being missing?

- Well, Washburn was wrong.
He wasn’t dead.

He was just stunned.
He came to in the cold room and

then he’s gotten up.

- So you’re saying
that he’s just been

stumbling around in a daze
ever since?

- Exactly!
And we need to find him.

- Well, there he is.

Dawes!

He’s dead.

And cold.

- Cleasby, get out of there now!

- Just propped up here.

- Cleasby!
- Stop!

(explosion)

(grunting)

Bloody hell.

- Cleasby.

- What the...?

What’s that, what?

(whispers): It’s a microphone.

- Someone’s been listening to us
this whole time?

- The same someone
who moved Dawes’ body.

- But why?

You still think this has
something to do with Holyrood?

’Cause Dawes is dead,

so he has nothing
to do with this.

- It’s like you said,
it must be the Slasher.

We need to get out of here
and back to the city.

Otherwise, we’re sitting ducks.
Come on, Slorach.

(grunting)

(birds chirping)

Least we’ve got a way out.

- This is knockout gas.

If we pump the correct amount
into the house,

it will incapacitate
the suspects.

- Without the need
for any additional violence.

- Very well.
But if it doesn’t work,

we’re doing it my way.

- It’ll work.

(gas hissing)

Now we wait.

(birds chirping)

- It’s Lindfield! Thank God.

- Do not take another step!

- Why? What’s wrong?

- You may set off a landmine.

- A landmine?

What’s happened to you?
Is that blood?

- I’ll tell you on the way.
But, meanwhile,

we’re going to retrace your
steps back to the automobile.

- Very carefully.

- Yes, sirs. Follow me.

- Oh, all right.

- That is the Simcoe Slasher
and his associate Milton Blain.

- Well done, Detective Murdoch.

Though your knockout gas
seems to have worked

better than you thought.

- The anesthetic should have
worn off by now.

Uh, give them a shake.
Try to wake them.

- Two criminals dead with very
little inconvenience to us.

- I’ve heard such drugs
can be unpredictable.

- Check their breathing.
It could be very shallow.

Huh. Perhaps I’ve miscalculated
the dosage after all.

(engine revving)

- I can’t believe everyone else
is dead.

We’ll have to send a team
back right away.

- I take it they haven’t
captured the Simcoe Slasher yet?

- Not as far as I’ve heard.

But we should get back
to the city as soon as we can.

- So you’re not involved
with the manhunt?

- I was going to.

My inspector said they had
enough men already.

- So, Lindfield,
you’ve been on the job, what,

six months?

Have you had a chance to look
over any old case files?

- A few.

My inspector asked me
to review some old police files,

learn how to write my own.

- I used to say that
to young constables myself.

Why’re you turning here?

This isn’t the road to the city.
You go--

- It’s an old bridle path.

Runs parallel to the railway.
It’s faster. Could be safer.

So, you dropped out of school
to become a constable.

What was it you were studying?

- Electrical engineering.

(ominous music)

- So, I take it you’ve got
a sound understanding

of electrical telegraphy.

- Yes, I do.

Very good understanding indeed.

- Get some stretchers.
- Ah, well.

Looks like you saved the hangman
a day’s work, at least.

- You had the best
of intentions.

(men gasping)

(Norden): Take them away.

Very impressive, Detective.

It’ll be earthly justice
for these two.

For now.

(sighs)

(engine stops)

- I was hoping
you’d figure it out. Get out.

Start walking.

- The young mother at
206 Holyrood who was tortured.

You’re her son, aren’t you?

You’ve blamed everyone
who should’ve put

the Holyrood killer away
but didn’t.

- Did you know that my mother
was the last one left alive

in that house?

She had to hear everyone else
tortured and killed

before George Cowers
finally came for her.

- That’s terrible.

- It was a police detective
who told me.

As if it was something
a boy ought to know.

- Jane Oldfield.

It was your mother’s name.
You changed yours.

- You remember her name.

- Everyone who heard
about that case--

(gun cocks)

...was haunted by it.

Dawes spoke of it often.

(gunshot)
- Ah!

(groaning)

My mother waited for hours...

suffering...

terrified...

not knowing why she was locked
in that house.

- What happened to your mother
was a sin.

- It’s what was supposed
to happen to all of you.

- Get up.

(tense music)

(birds chirping)

- So, you caught the Slasher
by doing paperwork?

That’s a good day
even by your standards, Murdoch.

- Well, there’s a bit more
to it than that.

- The other station houses
were so impressed

they’re looking into expanding
their own collection

of fingermarks.

- Sir, perhaps you should
consider supervising

a central database at City Hall?

- Hm. It’s a big job,
but it’s a good idea.

- Did the two of you actually
think the Simcoe Slasher

was behind the murders
at the cabin?

- For a while.

- I pretty much thought it
the whole time.

- But once we discovered
the microphone,

I knew it couldn’t be
the Slasher.

It had to be someone
with electrical know-how.

- And a connection
to the Holyrood murders.

- And a detailed knowledge
of the killer’s arrest record.

- Constable Lindfield
is set to stand trial,

but he’s already confessed
to everything.

- Yet another murderous admirer
of yours, Murdoch.

Add him to the list.

- Surely you can’t
blame me for this.

- Of course not.

There’s already enough blame
to go around.

And more police funerals
in a month

than we’ve seen in many a year.

(soft music)

- Well, that wasn’t quite
the trip I had in mind, Tom.

- Me neither.
Although I do think

we’re entitled to another
kick at the can.

- Oh, perhaps
in the city next time.

- Dinner with our better halves?

- Oh, I’d love for you
to meet my new dog.

- I meant our wives, Hamish,
our wives.

I’m sure we’ll be safer
with them around.

- Hm.
I’m sure you’re right, Tom.

I’m sure you’re right.
(laughing)

(theme music)

Subtitling: difuze