Original subtitles

Elmer, stop.

I don't want you getting too close.

- What's gonna happen? - I don't know.

It just fills me with dread.

Can you see what it is?

Looks like Henri, from down in the valley.

Item two, boys.

The North West Mounted Police

have asked us to keep an eye out for this man.

He's a confidence artist who goes by Claude Benoit.

Watch yourselves.

He's considered armed and dangerous.

Well, then, sir, goodbye and thank you.

Ah, do consider our proposal.

We can use an ambitious man like you

representing the constabulary.

I'll need to discuss it with the wife, obviously.

Of course. Of course. You take your time.

Appointments won't be made until the spring.

- Detective Murdoch. - Chief Constable.

"Appointments"?

They're looking for an active copper

for the Board of Commissioners.

"They"?

Men with the means to make their will manifest.

Ah. And what will they be wanting you to do for them?

"Congratulations, Inspector. " "Why, thank you, Murdoch. "

"It's well-deserved, sir. " "Oh, you're too kind. "

- Sir? - What?!

Constable Crabtree has just telegraphed.

There's been a suspicious death up in Rouge Valley.

He asked that you bring your boots, sir.

Toodle, pip.

What do we have, George?

Henri Gaston.

Suicide, eh? Why call for me?

Well, actually, sir, upon arriving at the scene,

I realized I should check for the victim's footprints,

to eliminate foul play.

However, there were none.

- No footprints? - No.

Not besides those of myself

and the farmer who discovered the body.

As you can see, his end about 20 yards shy of the tree.

You're certain there are no other footprints

leading to or away from the tree?

None. I've checked several times.

And when was this field plowed, George?

Yesterday morning.

So there's no chance the farmer

would have missed seeing the body then?

Well, I can't imagine.

Hmm. Curious.

So just how did you get into that tree, Mr. Gaston?

Full rigor mortis has not yet set in.

So he died relatively recently.

Within the last eight hours or so.

So this confirms he died after the field was plowed.

I won't know until Dr. Ogden performs the full postmortem.

In the meantime, see what you can find out about Mr. Gaston.

I'll be back on the 4:00 from Toronto.

- Sir. - Oh, and George...

See if you can round up a couple of bicycles for us.

Sir.

Ligature marks.

And some superficial wounds to the arms and hands.

- Were they defensive? - No, they seem random.

Most likely from the branches of the tree.

The longest runs from the back of the arm to the scapula.

Mmh. And time of death?

Between 2:00 and 4:00 A.M. last night.

That's consistent with what I thought.

Does that trouble you?

It means that he climbed into the tree

before the field was plowed.

Waited all day and most of the night before hanging himself.

And in my experience, suicidal individuals,

if given enough time, will likely change their minds.

But this wasn't suicide.

Oh? What makes you say that?

Mr. Gaston's neck was broken

between the second and third vertebrae.

Such a break would require a dead drop of 7 or 8 feet.

Ah, yes. The hangman's calculation.

If the rope is too short, the neck doesn't break...

Too long, the head comes off.

It's quite a precise art, actually.

But in this case, the scarf was too short to cause the break.

So his neck was broken before he was hung in the tree.

A most elaborate attempt

to make it seem like a suicide, I should say.

Why would anyone go to such efforts?

Ah, George.

Have you found out anything more about our victim yet?

Very little so far.

Mr. Gaston liked to keep to himself.

He was a bit of an odd duck by all accounts.

- Any enemies? - None that I could determine.

There's a sister who lives here in the village.

Oh. Have you interviewed her yet?

I thought you'd like to speak to her yourself, sir.

Very good.

I haven't known what to do with myself.

I try to stay busy, but...

I'm very sorry for your loss.

Henri was so clever, but his mind, it, um...

- It troubled him. - How so?

He stopped talking to people.

Even me.

He stayed in his shop, and he wouldn't come out.

His shop?

He was, um, an artisan.

He worked with wood.

But he didn't even do that anymore.

He would have lost the business soon.

But I never thought he would hang himself.

Miss Gaston.

We have reason to believe that someone killed your brother

and placed his body in the tree.

Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?

No.

The last few times I talked to him,

he told me someone was after him.

But I just thought it...

There's no way you could have known.

I should have believed him.

He was telling the truth.

Ah, George.

We'll need to go and visit Mr. Gaston's shop.

Have you procured those bicycles like I asked?

Not quite. But meet Gertrude and Whitey.

Gertrude here is named after the owner's late mother,

and Whitey... Whitey's all white.

Very good, George.

Well, Gertrude, let's see what you're up for, eh?

Have you never ridden a horse before?

Um, we had a Shetland pony when I was a child, sir.

George, every constable is expected to know how to ride.

How did you get your job?

Uh, I may have exaggerated my equestrian prowess, sir.

Squeeze your legs together.

Hurry up.

I've been doing some thinking

about how Mr. Gaston ended up in the tree.

What conclusions have you arrived at?

Well, most of my conclusions I've had to rule out

due to sheer impossibility.

But the most feasible solution I've come to

is that he was shot out of a cannon.

A cannon?

I once saw the Great Farini fire a man out of a cannon.

100-and-some feet he flew.

Well, the man was a she,

and she wasn't actually fired from the cannon.

I beg to differ, sir.

There was an explosion, fire, smoke coming out of the barrel,

along with one human projectile.

The firing mechanism was a spring,

and the smoke and fire were merely effects.

Are you sure?

Quite certain. I inspected it myself.

I wouldn't have pegged you for a circusgoer, sir.

I was a boy once too, George.

The only boy at the circus

inspecting the equipment, I bet.

The windows have been boarded shut.

Why would Mr. Gaston do that?

He believed someone was after him.

This is where he worked?

Yes, and likely lived from the looks of it.

A telescope.

Not just any telescope. A very powerful one.

And a shotgun.

Looks like he was ready for trouble.

"September 7th... Lights. "

"September 19th... Circle. "

What's this?

Well, this is a map of the area.

He's notated it, for some reason.

And these are charts of the solar system.

An amateur astronomer, then?

Possibly.

But it seems as though Mr. Gaston's interests

were focused on Mars.

Sir. Listen to this.

This must be his journal. He's kept a letter.

"Dear Mr. Gaston,

Many thanks for your thoughts re possibility of life on Mars.

Agreed that such existed.

Whether or not said life is extant remains to be determined,

but your observations require, nay demand, further study.

Your fellow scientist, Percival Lowell. "

He's the leading expert on Mars. Published a book about it.

Right. He's the one who saw the canals on the surface.

Well, claims to have seen.

At any rate, keep Mr. Gaston's journal.

Perhaps he wrote something in it

that'll give us a clue as to who was after him.

Sir, you think his observations

had something to do with his death?

Possibly, but I suspect the reason for his death

is decidedly more terrestrial.

Well, it wasn't just Mr. Gaston's land we were after.

We were buying the whole valley,

from Steeles Avenue to Plug Hat Road.

Yes. For... For what purpose?

Come and see for yourself.

Thank you.

Our plan was to dam the Rouge River here,

where we would then build an electrical generating station.

That would flood all of the lands in the valley.

Which is why we had to buy it all up.

In your letter, you offered Mr. Gaston $600

for 200 acres of land.

By my estimates, that's three times what the land is worth.

It's what we were willing to pay.

And Mr. Gaston was the only holdout.

He wouldn't sell?

No. He would not.

Then it seems this company would have very strong incentive

to get rid of Mr. Gaston.

By any means necessary.

Are you suggesting we had something to do

with Gaston's demise?

Somebody did.

We're businessmen, Detective. We deal in money, not blood.

If a business venture falls through,

we move on to the next one.

- So the project is dead? - Not at all.

We simply dam above Gaston's property.

There.

"Strange Happenings in Perth County.

The luminous craft hovered over the forest

before shooting off to the east at high speed. "

What's my motto, Murdoch?

You have several, sir. All gems.

No. No, no. Those are aphorisms.

I only have one motto, and that's "Follow the money. "

Who would stand to profit from Henri Gaston's death?

Ordinarily I would say the Rouge Valley Lands,

but apparently they plan

to relocate their dam further upriver.

Mmh. So let's look at this the other way.

Who stood to lose?

Well, by not selling, Gaston did render

one tract of land downriver from him worthless.

There's nothing like having a sudden windfall

snatched from your grasp to get the blood pumping, is there?

Find the owners and check it out.

Follow the money. Hmm?

Follow the money.

Looking for something?

Ah. Gentlemen.

I'm Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Police.

- Are you Jake and Kirk Maclsaac? - That'd be us.

I'm here to investigate the death of Henri Gaston.

Oh.

That was some terrible news.

Henri was a good man. How can we help you?

I understand you received a rather generous offer

from the Rouge Valley Land Company to sell you property.

That's right.

I also understand that Mr. Gaston's refusal

to sell his property prevented you from selling yours.

- What are you getting at? - You accusing us of something?

Where were the both of you the night before last?

Asleep in our beds.

Mmh. Not much of an alibi, is it?

Look, mister. Henri was our friend.

We wouldn't wish him harm, let alone hang him from that tree.

Gentlemen, do you honestly expect me to believe

that you have never confronted Mr. Gaston

on the sale of his land?

You best go ahead.

We did try to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen.

It was like he didn't even hear us.

Instead, he kept going on

about how there was something happening in the corn field.

Did he say what, exactly?

He thought someone was in the corn.

Watching him.

Going by Mr. Gaston's journal,

he had something of an obsession with this field.

He had several entries about

seeing lights over it in the night.

I'm more interested in whether or not

he mentioned who was after him.

- Oh, he did. - And?

Well, sir, he believed he was being watched by Martians.

Martians, George?

He felt they were among us.

Clearly Gaston was more delusional than I thought.

Sir.

You may want to come take a look at this.

What is it, George?

It appears to be a track of some sort.

Sir, could this...

Could this be a Martian footprint?

George, don't let your imagination

get the better of you.

The tracks appear to be going this way.

Maybe we should call in some other constables.

That's not trepidation I hear, is it?

No, no, sir. Just we don't know exactly what we're getting into.

Well, it's not Martians.

- How can you be sure? - Occam's razor.

- Occam's... Sorry, what? - Occam's razor.

It's a principle of logic that states

the simplest answer is usually the correct one.

Before we believe that Martians

have flown millions of miles through empty space

to kill Henri Gaston,

perhaps we should exhaust all other earthbound alternatives.

Uh...

Tracks split here.

You follow that set.

Uh...

George?

You might want to come have a look at this.

Actually, sir...

...I think you might want to come take a look at this.

Sir, I counted five circles in all.

Arrayed in a pentagonal form.

How did you determine that?

- I climbed a tree. - Oh. Very good.

Sir, Gaston's journal had clippings in it

dealing with something like this.

This?

Yeah, circles. In crop fields.

Apparently it's happened in England, Australia, now here.

He seemed to think it was something happening worldwide.

Yes. It's called Mother Nature, George.

What?

Localized wind shear.

When two air masses move in opposing directions,

it causes the wind to spin, like this.

Like what... A small tornado touched down here?

Exactly.

But, sir, the pattern of the other circles...

It's almost mathematical.

You can climb the tree if you'd like to see.

George, a bee's honeycomb is an array of hexagons.

The turns of a snail's shell follow a Fibonacci sequence.

The what?

Nature is full of regular patterns

that follow an underlying mathematical sequence.

Why should wind be any different, George?

Well, the footprints, then.

Do you think the wind created those?

The footprints are a curiosity. I'll grant you that.

Make a plaster cast of the best one you can find.

- Yes, sir. - And ask around with the locals.

See if anyone's noticed any other unusual goings-on.

Sir.

These things... the circles, the footprints.

You must think they're connected.

Possibly.

But they don't answer the central question...

How did Henri Gaston end up in that tree?

And precisely when did you hear these odd noises?

Really?

And these lights in the sky...

What direction were they coming from?

- Just over there. - Hmm. Toward the Rouge Valley.

Where exactly did you see this cow?

In the field in the back of Johnson's farm.

What's this, then? Another Sunday school project?

It's a model of the crime scene.

Ooh. Some nice work.

Please, sir. It's quite delicate.

"Precious" would be a better word.

Now, what's it supposed to mean?

It demonstrates how the killers got the body into that tree.

So we're tracking two killers?

Yes. The scheme I've devised is a two-man operation.

Um...

A grappling hook with a rope attached

is fired from atop this tree into this tree.

The body is then sent down the rope on a pulley.

The first man then follows behind

and hoists the body

into the upper portion of the tree.

All of this is straightforward.

You're bloody crackers!

Why not just roll the body into a ditch?

I believe it's meant to confound us for some unknown reason.

Think you're wasting your time.

I thought we agreed you were going to follow the money.

I am, sir, but whoever killed him

still had to hoist the body up into the tree.

And this is the only earthly means that I could devise.

Earthly?

Constable Crabtree believes

that Martians might have been involved.

Martians! You're both bloody crackers!

If it does turn out to be a Martian,

I want him handcuffed, booked, and sitting in that cell.

Them.

Oh, right. I forgot.

It's a two-Martian operation.

Julia?

William.

Good Lord. Were we just on the same train?

W- Where did you get on?

- Union Station. - Don Station.

Oh, how funny.

I came to see you at your office, but...

What are you doing here?

I had an urgent telegram from Constable Crabtree

asking me to perform a postmortem.

There's been another homicide?

Bovicide, actually.

Now, you might think this is just a typical dead cow.

But upon a closer look

you'll see that she appears to have been hollowed out.

Good Lord.

You're right.

It looks like someone drilled a hole into her abdomen

and emptied the contents.

I should note, sir,

that Mr. Gaston's journal had a series of clippings

dealing with incidents like this...

a rash of them in both New Zealand and the Falklands.

George, how does this connect to our case?

Sir, I think this is further evidence of Martian activity.

George, I know I asked you

to be on the lookout for anything unusual.

But to drag Dr. Ogden 20 miles out of town

to look at a dead cow...

Actually, William...

...I agree with Constable Crabtree.

Something has happened to this cow that merits investigation.

Yes, and I suspect you'll find that it is a natural phenomenon.

Cows get bloat from eating wet crops.

Gas pressure builds within the animal

and, unless released, it can prove fatal.

I'm familiar with bloat, William.

In severe cases, the gases build up to the point

where the animal literally explodes, expelling the viscera.

Exactly.

Here someone has tried to prevent that

by lancing the cow's stomach.

Thus the hole in the abdomen.

It's a small hole for the kind of evacuation you're describing.

Sir, the dead cow's not the half of it.

People have been seeing lights in the night sky.

People have been hearing noises.

There... There's still the issue of the Martian feet.

What in heaven's name is that?

It's a rendering of a so-called Martian footprint.

Note the numerous bumps on the surface of the bulbous toes.

Now, it's my hypothesis, Doctor,

that these bumps are sensory organs

designed to discern the chemical content of the soil

much as our noses discern the chemical content of the air.

Uh, well...

It's an interesting theory, Constable.

Thank you.

Wait.

Scales.

Yes, it's my belief that the Martians are covered in scales.

So while they might be smarter than us,

I have a feeling they're a great deal uglier.

Sir, where are you going?

To arrest your Martians.

Detective Murdoch.

What can we do for you?

This will only take a moment.

Golfers, eh?

A gift. From our aunt in Scotland.

Is that right?

Constable, arrest these men.

Let's go, gentlemen.

- Chief Constable. - Thomas.

I'd like you to meet Terrence Meyers.

Mr. Meyers is the owner of the Rouge Valley Lands Company.

Inspector.

Can I get you gentlemen a spot of tea?

No.

Thank you.

Well, we'll get to the point.

I understand that your Detective Murdoch

is focusing his investigations

on the land dealings in the Rouge Valley.

That's correct.

Inspector, I stand to lose a great deal

if my name were to be associated with any of this.

- Do you? - Thomas...

Mr. Meyers is a very good friend of the force.

I see.

Well, we'll do our best to make sure

that Mr. Meyers' name stays out of the press.

Well, we'll have to do better than that.

I'm not sure there's more I can do.

I give you my word I'm not involved.

Mr. Meyers, that alone isn't...

Thomas. Mr. Meyers gave you his word.

I think that's enough.

Don't you?

The crop circles would have been a snap.

A central stake and a rope

is all you would have needed for that.

But the footprints... That's more difficult.

But you're skilled men.

A blacksmith's dragon-scaling tool.

For the scales.

Golf balls.

For the toes.

Yours would have been made of metal

and likely fastened to the bottom of a boot.

Every blacksmith has a scaler.

Anybody can get golf balls.

But not every blacksmith had motive.

- You did. - We're not murderers.

You were trying to scare him into selling his land

by bringing his obsession with Martians to life.

But instead of running, he dug his heels in,

so you had to kill him.

- No. - No?

Maybe it was an accident.

Eh?

You wrestled. He fell awkwardly.

- Broke his neck. - That's not what happened.

Then perhaps you were working at the behest of Rouge Valley Lands

as a couple of hired thugs.

Murdoch.

A word.

If it was an accident, you'll likely not get the noose.

Something to think about.

Sir, I was mid-interview.

- Release them. - Release them?

I believe they killed Henri Gaston.

Based on what?

The only hard evidence you've got

is a blacksmith's tool and a few golf balls.

Inspector, you told me to follow the money.

I believe this is where that trail leads.

And this is where it ends.

We don't have any evidence against them.

Since when do you care about that?

You're pushing your luck, Murdoch.

- Sir? - What?

There's been another murder, sir.

How long has he been dead?

Four to five hours.

The Maclsaacs were in custody at the time.

So it appears that I was right, after all.

- Strange, though. - What's that, sir?

I feel I've seen him someplace before,

but I just can't think of where.

And the cause of death?

Well, there is this.

I won't know until I do my postmortem,

but it would seem his viscera have been evacuated.

Just like the cow.

And, sir, you should take a look at this.

- What's wrong? - Walk down the line.

Four train tickets to Toronto, please.

I've got rather a large piece of luggage.

Sir, what do you suppose this all means?

Perhaps it's a warning.

Perhaps they know we're onto them.

Are they so superior

that they think of us as no different than cows?

That is a scary thought.

Doctor, please don't encourage him.

Right, then. Looks like we're stuck here for the night.

Stuck?

Train lost a wheel further down the track.

They won't clear the line till the morning.

I'm afraid I'll need to perform the postmortem right away.

- We'll take a carriage, then. - That would take much too long.

Oh. Can you perform the postmortem here?

I'll need to purchase some supplies, but otherwise yes.

Oh, good.

Then I suggest we use this opportunity

to find the identity of the victim.

And let's keep the gruesome details to ourselves.

There's no point alarming the locals.

And that means you, bugalugs.

Hello.

Could I have a bottle of pure alcohol, please,

and a bottle of distilled water.

Oh, and a tarpaulin.

And a bucket.

I'm interested in learning the identity of this man.

He's a couple of inches taller than myself.

He wore an expensive suit. Good shoes.

So you can't be sure it's him?

- He did look familiar to you? - Yes, he does.

In what way did he look different?

Hard to say.

Very peculiar. No one knew the victim.

Yet everyone thought they recognized him.

Just like I did.

But not as the man in the picture.

It's almost like he didn't want to be noticed.

Which worked.

Here we are, and we know nothing about him.

As suspected, the victim's internal organs

have been completely removed.

No stomach, no intestines.

- Presumably the cause of death. - It would seem so.

Anything to indicate how it was done?

They seem to have been removed

through this circular incision made in his side

measuring 11/4 inches.

So they made a hole and then pulled his guts out through it.

The hole is too small to accommodate a hand.

Yes, well, they probably have some sort of special tool.

I didn't find anything to suggest a tool,

not even surgical.

Perhaps a tube was inserted into the incision

and the contents drawn out that way.

By means of suction?

Something along the same principle

as an electrical fan, let's say.

Only reversed.

Well, there is one thing

that should be of interest to all of you.

Try to imagine him without the mustache.

Oh, yes. I recognize him now.

- He was here a day or so ago. - Oh, so you knew him, then?

I did not know him at all. But he seemed to know Henri.

At least, he knew things about him.

What sort of things?

He knew about Henri's telescope and his charts too.

Mmh. What did he want?

- To know where Henri's shop was. - Did you tell him?

- No. - Why not?

I didn't trust him.

He spoke perfect English.

Almost.

Almost?

He had the faintest of Parisian accents.

It seemed as if he was trying to hide it.

Did he happen to mention where he was staying?

He mentioned something about a shack.

But I don't know if he was staying there.

Sir.

Take a look at this.

- What do you make of that? - A disguise kit.

Look at these.

Four travel documents from different countries.

One Belgian... Pierre Gagnon.

One Algerian... Francois Marchand.

One British... Phillipe Tristan.

One French... Claude Benoit.

He's a confidence artist who goes by Claude Benoit.

That's where I know him from.

He's the con man that's wanted by the North West Mounted.

He's unusually well-equipped for a confidence trickster.

Two men, both killed in a very strange manner,

who both happen to be French.

Zut alors, mon ami.

These are the best accommodations in town.

Well, if we're here for the night,

we might as well make the most of it.

- Uh, sir? - Yes, George.

I've been thinking about what you said...

the principle of Occam's razor and all that.

Yes?

Well, with your grappling hooks and ropes

and suction devices that we don't even know exist,

aren't you avoiding a much simpler explanation?

There's no logical impediment

to the existence of life beyond our planet.

George, the Bible says

God created the Earth and life and man.

And there's no mention of Martians.

But the Bible isn't right about everything.

I mean, the Bible says that Cain was banished to the wilderness.

It also says that he ended up with descendants.

So who did he meet up with?

George, I...

I need some time alone to think right now.

All right?

Yes, of course, sir.

Oh.

William.

William?

I'm sorry. My mind was in the stars.

Oh, I... I-I didn't...

I thought that I wasn't gonna see you.

Your hair, it's... it's quite lovely that way.

Oh, well, would you like to walk with me?

I'd be delighted.

- Inspector. - Oh! Crabtree!

What are you doing skulking around?

I couldn't sleep. I saw you here.

I wanted to run some ideas past you.

When I'm at home,

the missus prefers that I don't partake

in this so-called filthy habit.

Which is why, given the odd chance such as tonight,

I like to take a... a quiet walk and enjoy a leisurely smoke.

Do you mind?

No. Not at all, sir.

Cigars don't bother me a bit.

Now, perhaps Constable Crabtree is correct.

After all, Henri believed in Martians... Now he's dead.

The other fellow who was connected to Henri...

Now he too is dead.

Just playing devil's advocate.

I believe the cases are connected somehow.

But to accept that Martians did this

is to accept that, well, Martians exist.

Which you do not.

It's a matter of calculating the odds,

starting with the likelihood of intelligent life.

Sir, do you think the Bible never mentioned Martians

because it simply would have confused us?

As far as I know, God only made man in His image.

- No mention of Martians at all. - Hmm.

That was Detective Murdoch's point as well.

Wonderful.

Now I'm agreeing with Murdoch on the Bible.

Yes, but what if Martians have been technologically advanced

for thousands of years,

and it's only now that we're lighting our cities

that they can see us?

- Perhaps they see us a threat. - A threat?

I suppose God takes on the essential human form...

two arms, two legs, head, face.

Okay, but then, what if Mars has its own intelligent beings

with two arms, two legs, and so on?

I mean, as far as that goes, what if Mars has its own Bible,

its own Martian Jesus?

And Murdoch works with you every single day?

Hmm.

Gets to work with me.

Perhaps I'm just not willing to accept

that the most incredible event in human history

could happen in my time, to me.

It's just too unlikely.

Yes, but everything that happens happens to somebody.

Just think about all the amazing things

that have happened in your lifetime already,

all the things that are going to happen.

Do you hear something, William?

Do you hear that noise?

Sounds like an engine of some sort.

Oh, bloody hell.

We have to follow it, sir. We can't let it get away!

Bloody hell. What do you think you're gonna do if we catch it?

I don't know. I'll figure it out when I do.

- It's gone. - What?

Nonsense. It can't just vanish.

No, it's still out there somewhere.

And I think I know how we can find it.

So, what's your theory, then?

Gaston's observations.

The lights in the sky, the sounds.

I believe I know what he was describing.

The Martian flying machine.

No, not Martians,

but a flying airship of some sort.

A- A dirigible.

A motorized one. That's fantastic.

I believe Gaston was plotting the sightings on this map.

Well, let's see.

Sightings.

June 18th. North 43.85 degrees.

West 079. 14.

- Yes. - Here.

Why would an airship be in the Rouge Valley?

I don't know, but it does provide a rational explanation

for how Gaston got into that tree.

Perhaps he was in the airship and fell out as it passed over.

And the question is, did he jump or was he pushed?

Yes. And the last one... July 3rd.

North 43.9.

West 079.3.

All the sightings seem to radiate from one central point.

Yes. Concession 51.

What about the second victim? Where does he fit in to this?

That's unclear at the moment.

But I do believe it has to do with this land sale.

Be more specific.

The Maclsaacs preyed on Gaston's fears.

So too does this airship.

It's all too much of a coincidence.

But the Maclsaacs were in custody

when the second victim was killed.

There's another party involved.

- The Rouge Valley Land Company. - Most likely.

What would a land company be doing with an airship?

Good question, Crabtree.

Right, then, I'll take a carriage back to Toronto

and check on the Rouge Valley Land Company.

You two find this airship.

Airship and a land company.

I think this is it, George.

We'll carry on by foot from here.

Whoa.

Someone's playing silly buggers with me.

You weren't the only one.

Chief Constable. What are you doing here?

Thomas, we need to have a wee chat.

- About how I was duped? - How we both were.

So, what do we do about it?

Nothing. Our hands are tied.

What do you mean?

No one ties my bloody hands, sir.

Thomas!

As I said, we need to have a wee chat.

I hear a voice.

I can't make out what they're saying.

I don't think it's English, sir.

Perhaps it's Martian.

- Eastern European, I think. - It's Russian, to be exact.

Professor, it is imperative that we leave as soon as possible.

Our operation here is compromised.

If we attempt to leave

without rectifying the cooling problem,

we'll have to abort our mission again!

Detective Murdoch. What a shame to see you here.

Although I'm not surprised.

You do seem to be the persistent sort.

So you two are in on this?

Only you're not Jake and Kirk Maclsaac, are you?

Colonel Thadeus Wainwright. U.S. Cavalry.

Commander Reginald Sharp. Royal Navy.

Military. What are you doing here?

Gentlemen. If you'll please come this way.

Sir.

Detective Murdoch.

Mr. Meyers. If that really is your name.

- It will do. - What's going on here?

What's going on here, Detective,

is nothing less than the reinvention of warfare.

Like Rozier's hot-air balloons, but with more control.

Ah. A student of war?

I have some knowledge on the subject.

Then you will understand

the importance of controlling the skies.

The secret is the engine, isn't it?

Engine... the power of 80 horses but the size of a pig.

Thanks to Professor Skrzhinsky here

we can go as high as we want and as far as we want.

We can spy on our enemies.

And rain destruction on them from above.

Perhaps.

So now you understand the importance of secrecy.

Is that what happened to Henri Gaston...

He stuck his nose where it didn't belong?

What happened to Mr. Gaston was a tragic case

of mistaken identity.

The British War Office received information

about a French operative in the area,

most likely to steal our design.

Henri followed the airship here and was captured.

Because he spoke with a French accent,

our men assumed he was the operative.

How did he end up dead in the tree?

Henri believed that our men

were acting in league with the Martians,

so he refused to talk to them.

They took him in the airship hoping to loosen his tongue.

By frightening him. Nothing more.

But instead he panicked.

Before anyone could move, he jumped.

And his scarf snagged in the tree.

If only he had simply taken our offer.

Yes, if only.

And what about the other victim? Mr. Benoit?

He was the real French operative.

Yeah.

How did you suck his guts out?

That was my idea, actually. See that machine behind you?

We use it to rapidly deflate the dirigible.

It didn't take much adjustment to use it for... something else.

Anyway, I think we've answered

more than enough of your questions.

How will you keep us from talking?

Are we about to become the next victims of Martian attack?

Yes. Yes, you are.

Elmer! Stop that!

I don't want you getting too close!

What's gonna happen?

I don't know.

But there's just something devilish about them.

Oh.

Oh, my head.

Well. Perhaps if you weren't such a drinker.

Yes, of course, ma'am.

- George. - Sir!

Are you okay?

Fine, fine. You?

Good.

I'm good.

Ma'am. Sir.

No.

It was... It was here! It was huge!

Sir, there were a dozen or more men.

Torches, equipment. It was a massive setup.

We can't waste any time. We have to start gathering evidence.

Murdoch, it's over.

What?

This letter was hand-delivered to me

direct from the prime minister's office,

requesting that we desist with any further investigation.

But, sir, two men have been killed.

If we do persist, we'll be charged with treason.

Treason, sir. That's the noose.

Exactly their point.

- Sir, we can't just give up. - We have no choice, Murdoch.

This is outrageous that our government would do this.

Using a... well, an unidentified flying object

to cover their own nefarious activities.

It's conspiratorial.

Listen, this is the government.

This operation involved national security.

Security, yes. But at what cost?

Yes. Henri Gaston didn't ask to be involved in this.

His death was an unfortunate accident.

We should ignore their behavior

because it's our government?

I'm not saying that it's right or that it's ideal,

but we do have a duty to the Crown.

- Rubbish. - It's not rubbish.

These people... They'll do this again.

We'll just have to keep an eye out for them.

Good luck, Murdoch. But you can't take on the government.

You know, if I was gonna do something like this,

I would set up shop out in the middle of the desert somewhere.

Yes, like California.

Exactly.

The territory of New Mexico... That'd be my pick.

Oh, yes, William. That's a splendid choice.

Ah, you're all crackers... Wales!

Now, no one in their right mind would go there.