Original subtitles

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More deliveries?

My accounts at the tailor and haberdashery are through the roof.

We need to do something before he bleeds us dry.

- These came for you. - Ah! Splendid.

Arthur, be a chum and help me get into this here jacket.

Ah!

Whoo!

Exemplary work, don't you think?

It is quite beautiful,

but it is the third smoking jacket this month.

- Do you need quite so many? - Oh!

Um, one never knows when one will be buried alive again.

I want to remain smartly dressed just in case.

Arthur, open that box.

Aren't those slippers beautiful?

Put those on my feet, please.

Father, there's no need for this.

You can put on your own slippers.

Oh, wouldn't it be a shame if I walked out of this house?

A dead man walking right into the arms of the authorities.

You'd both be hauled off to jail.

So, when I tell Arthur to put my slippers on my feet,

I want Arthur to put my slippers... on my feet.

Oh, you can do better than that.

Well, I just did what you said.

Kneel.

Kneel down, put my slippers on my feet, boy.

I'm waiting.

Good. Now the other.

That wasn't so hard now, was it?

Anything else?

No.

And thank you, Arthur.

Okay, where was I? Oh!

Our organization, the Canadian Women's Olympic Campaign,

represents women in sport.

What are you trying to accomplish here, ladies?

We want Canada to bring a team of women

to the 1912 Stockholm Olympics.

Did you know that 65 women have competed in the Olympics

since 1900, but none from Canada?

Well, many would say that's because no one

would ever watch women's Olympic sports.

Well, that's complete hogwash.

Women are just as thrilling as men.

British figure skater Madge Syers,

she beat a field of men

and won the silver medal at the world championships!

We are all athletes here, just like the fellas over there.

We should be given our fair due.

- Well, what sport do you play? - I'm a runner.

Ha! But that's not even an Olympic women's sport.

That's precisely our point. It should be.

Maybe embroidery should be an Olympic sport?

- I beg your pardon? - Maybe, uh, gossiping?

All right, ladies. That's enough time.

Come on.

Tomorrow's demonstration meet will allow these athletes

to measure their progress as they work towards

the 1912 Olympic Games.

Next, we have the men competing in the 100-metre dash.

Why don't you lot introduce yourselves?

Walter Knox.

Orillia.

John Armstrong-Howard.

Winnipeg.

Timothy Irons.

- Hamilton. - Scotty Scorch.

The fastest man in Canada.

Born right in this great city!

Uh, Mr. Scorch, neither you nor Mr. Armstrong-Howard

has lost a single race this year.

Now that you're going head-to-head,

are you a little nervous?

The only reason he's never lost a race

is because he's never raced against me.

I could say the same.

Don't let your little local success get to your head, Scorch.

Only thing fast about you is your mouth, Scorch.

Lucky nobody asked you, Timmy.

I'll show all you pitiful losers

exactly how fast I am tomorrow on the track.

By God.

William, you left at the crack of dawn.

- You forgot your hat. - Oh,

thank you. That wasn't necessary.

I just wasn't feeling myself this morning

with the little one screaming through the night.

Ah, yes, she's improved a little this morning, thankfully.

She was finally eating when I left her with Ellie.

Oh, well, that's good.

Yes, I should get back to that, actually.

Oh, wait! Uh, I've made something that should help

with Susannah's recovery.

- What is it? - It is a hydration draft.

You see, colds and influenza

can put the body in a state of dehydration.

Water, of course, is beneficial, but by adding different sugars,

sodium, potassium and fruit,

I've created a drink that helps to replenish electrolytes

that the body loses during illness.

William, it's blue.

It has blueberry. For flavour.

Yeah.

Ah, good morning, Doctor.

What brings you here so bright and early?

- Ah, William forgot his hat. - What?

You left the house without your hat?

- You all right, Murdoch? - Apparently not.

Sleep deprivation. Susannah has us up all night.

Right. Well, there's been a body found at Varsity Stadium.

Varsity Stadium? I was there just yesterday.

You were?

Yes, I was speaking to the press about women's athletics.

Can you believe that Canada still hasn't sent a single woman

- to the Olympic Games? - Do other countries?

I've been to the Olympic Games.

I don't recall seeing girls running around.

Women have been competing since 1900.

Hm, I won a gold medal, did I ever tell you?

Ah, yes, I believe you may have once or twice.

It was a crisp morning in St. Louis.

A light fog rolled majestically across the pristine turf.

I really should get to the stadium, then.

Yes, I should get going myself, actually.

- Are you sure you're all right? - Oh, yes, much better.

Ah, yes.

- Oh, ha! - You don't want to hear the rest?

Ah, well, I'll take these.

Well, I guess your work is done here.

I have to do a full examination just to be sure.

Did you notice the abrasion on his neck?

No.

Not like you to miss something like that.

I've yet to inspect his neck, Detective.

There appear to be splinters present under his fingernails.

Curious.

Tired, Detective?

I didn't get much sleep this past weekend. Susannah was sick.

Sorry to hear that. I take it the little one is all better now?

Oh, yes. Yes, I've been working on a solution

to help replenish her fluids.

You know, I hear athletes use champagne to hydrate.

Maybe next time you can try that.

Henry, have you been giving baby Jordan champagne?

Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I would never.

Ruthie is quite unnerved by bubbles.

We will need to postpone the meet until tomorrow,

given the tragic circumstances.

Mr. Kittering?

- I understand you were Scotty Scorch's coach. - Yes.

He was the star of my track club.

I cannot believe this has happened.

- Was he well-liked? - Well...

I wouldn't say that.

Track and field can be quite competitive.

Any idea how he ended up with a javelin embedded in his chest?

None.

But I will say this:

throwing the javelin is not an easy thing.

There aren't a lot of people who could land that throw.

Oh. Well, then, please direct me to the people who could.

Last night, myself and a few others

were at the Olympic committee dinner.

And what time did you leave this event?

At 2:00 AM.

I didn't know anything about this until I arrived just now.

Did you or any of the other javelin men

hold a practice yesterday evening?

None of the javelin men have anything to do with this nonsense!

Nonsense?

My teammate told me those damned sprinters

got him drunk last night and tricked him into giving him

the equipment room key.

- The key to the room you're standing in? - Exactly.

And then, they came back here and had a throwing competition.

Talk to Walter Knox,

he pulls these kinds of stunts all the time.

Thank you.

When should I expect my javelin to be returned?

- The one stuck in the victim? - Yes.

She's my favourite.

_

We went to the pub around 11 PM

and came back to the track at 1:00 AM.

The throwing competition was just a bit of fun.

A bit of fun?

That killed a man.

- There's no way we killed Scorch. - No?

How can you be sure?

- He wasn't with us. - Didn't all of the 100-metre men go to the pub?

- Everybody but him. - He wasn't invited.

No one liked him, not even Timmy and they're teammates.

Please don't call me Timmy.

So, where was Mr. Scorch last night?

I have no idea.

Hm.

So, it was dark, you all were drunk.

Yes.

So it's possible Mr. Scorch wandered onto the field

while you were having your drunken throwing competition

when a flying javelin struck him in the chest.

Sure. But I imagine if a man was struck by a javelin,

we would have heard him scream.

A javelin through the heart would have likely killed him instantly.

He probably wouldn't have been able to make a sound.

- Could we have possibly... - No way!

We didn't do this and that's that.

According to the algor mortis calculations,

Mr. Scorch died ten hours prior to his body being discovered.

By 10:00 PM.

So, before the 100-metre men went to the pub.

The javelin entered the victim at a 45-degree angle

and penetrated his body seven inches deep.

Seven inches?

Through his breastplate?

- Are you quite sure? - Yes, quite.

What are you thinking, Murdoch?

- Momentum. - What?

Mass times speed. Could a javelin be heavy enough to...

- What are you getting at? - Henry,

we're going to need Constable Buster.

Oh, no. Not again, sir.

You heard the man, Higgins.

You heard him, Arthur.

If we try anything, we will go to jail.

I can't take much more of this.

And what if he's plotting something worse?

We have to make our move before he makes his.

You're right about that.

My father always has something nefarious up his sleeve.

Then we act. Now!

I don't know.

We can't afford to miss again.

We won't.

I won't.

- How can you be so sure? - I'm far from perfect, Violet,

but I never make the same mistake twice.

This is too dangerous.

You're not a killer.

- There must be another way. - We've tried everything.

And what about the body?

What'll we do when that's all done?

Well, no one's looking for him.

He's already dead.

All we have to do is bury him.

No one will ever be the wiser.

I'm surprised that it's this difficult.

What did you expect?

We throw for distance, not to hit a target.

Please, please, let this be the last round.

Stand back.

Oh! Very good.

Finally.

The javelin has just fallen to the side, sir.

Yes, once the javelin made contact with the breastplate,

it simply bounced off.

Can I have my javelin back now?

Well, yes, of course.

Fifteenth time's the charm, eh?

So, the javelin could not have penetrated the breastplate

with the amount of force generated by a normal javelin throw.

So, the javelin that killed Scorch wasn't thrown.

No. It was run through his chest with deliberate force.

This was murder.

So, a group of drunken sprinters start throwing javelins around,

our victim arrives and someone runs him through.

Which means either some unknown person was with Mr. Scorch,

picked up an errant javelin and killed him...

- Or? - Or our sprinters are lying.

Sirs.

The lads have finished searching Mr. Scorch's rooms. They found this.

Newspaper clippings.

Mr. Scorch was keeping a keen eye on the competition.

That's clearly Walter Knox.

But it says Peter Smith.

There he is again.

And this one says Fred Taylor.

A man of many names?

- Bring him in, Henry. - Sir.

By the looks of things, Mr. Knox,

you've been going from town to town

- competing under fake names. - Is that a crime, Officer?

You're a bloody shark. Challenging locals to race for money.

I simply enjoy every aspect of competition.

Don't get cute.

The Olympics is only for amateur athletes.

Racing for money would make you a professional.

Even if you are using fake names.

Exposing this would disqualify you from the Olympics.

And Mr. Scorch was on to you.

You killed him to keep your secret.

I didn't kill him.

I didn't even know that he knew about my enterprise.

That snake.

Why would he go to such great lengths to blackmail you

and potentially exclude you from competition?

Because if you want to get to the Olympic Games,

you have to put on a good showing at these demonstration meets.

I've been to the Olympics. It's not all it's cracked up to be.

Well, us athletes don't feel the same.

A lot of the men here would do anything

to compete at the Olympic Games.

Men like Scorch, or that Armstrong-Howard,

he's the most desperate of all.

What makes Mr. Armstrong-Howard so desperate?

Chip on his shoulder.

He's always whining that he has an unfair lot 'cause he's coloured.

- Maybe he has a point? - No, he doesn't.

Canada's never sent a coloured man

to the Olympic Games because none of them are good enough.

Be that as it may, a dead man was collecting evidence

that could have ruined your amateur athlete career.

So, you can see why you make a most compelling suspect.

If I killed him to keep this quiet,

why wouldn't I have destroyed the clippings, too?

Look at this beauty.

The finest cut of beef from the butcher's shop.

- Must have cost a pretty penny. - Oh, indeed it did.

- How about I carve it for you? - Uh-uh-uh.

I'd like Violet to carve the roast for me,

just like old times.

I wish you didn't force us to fire all of the staff.

Would you rather your little secret got out?

You know, botching my murder and all.

What are you waiting for, sweetheart?

Haven't got all day.

Ah. Now carve a big ole piece for your dear old dad.

Oh, my!

- Sir. - Ah, Henry.

I'm just preparing Mr. Knox's release forms.

Could you please fetch him from the cells?

Uh, right away, sir. I'm just gonna put Constable Buster away.

Right.

Oh.

Okay.

Sure it'll snap back on, sir.

Uh, all right, Buster.

Whoop.

All right.

All right.

All right, no. Ugh.

That's not right.

Henry! Just... just leave it and fetch Mr. Knox.

- I'll take care of it later. - It's all right, sir. I think...

think I've got him.

Fine work.

Ah, Murdoch.

What have you done with our suspect?

- I've released him, sir. - Oh, that's a shame.

- I don't like him one bit. - I can't say I do either.

But the question does loom large:

Why kill someone to keep a secret

and then not destroy evidence?

Hm, of course.

Well, if it wasn't him, then who was it?

One of the other sprinters trying to eliminate the competition?

I'd like to speak with Mr. Armstrong-Howard.

Right then. Bring him in.

Oh! Mr. Anderson, you came.

Just here to collect my due, Detective.

Who's this then?

Mr. Anderson here owns the variety store on Adelaide.

Ah, The Easy Breezy Variety Store?

Yup, that's the one.

So, last week Reggie McFarland stole from Mr. Anderson's shop.

Uh, that rascal's been running amok for months.

None of our men have been able to catch him.

Well, Mr. Anderson here ran him down.

Witnesses say he's as fast as a lightning bolt.

Faster.

Old sticky fingers didn't stand a chance.

Huh, brilliant.

There's a reward for that one, isn't there?

- That's what I'm here to collect. - Ah.

- Here you are. - Mm-hmm.

If you're that fast, you should test your mettle

in the track and field meet today.

Oh, yes! You could compete in the 100 or 200-metre dash.

I imagine you would do very well.

How fast are those boys running?

Some of the men are running the 100 metres

- in under eleven seconds. - Eleven seconds.

Eleven seconds? Come on.

You think you could run it faster than that?

When those boys break ten seconds, give me a call.

I'll give them the race of their life.

Ten seconds?!

Why should we be at his beck and call? We aren't servants.

He's jerking us around like puppets on a string!

I purchased it this morning.

- Are you sure? - Quite serious.

It'll all be done soon.

And everything will be back to normal again.

Finally realized what's important.

Being a man.

For you.

Walter Knox told us that you are desperate to win

the 100-metre dash so you'll be considered for the Olympics.

Pretty high stakes,

especially for a coloured man hoping to represent Canada.

Unbelievable.

Knox uses any opportunity to throw dirt on my name.

Have you been trying to knock out your competition?

Why would I need to?

None of these men have ever beat me in a foot race.

- Oh? - Look,

I might not be as loud as Scorch, or as seasoned as Knox,

but I have proven myself to be the best in the field

with actual results, no talk.

But is it true that you need to win today's race

to go to the Olympics?

Perhaps you needed Scorch out of the way to guarantee your win?

Guarantee?

Guarantee?

I have no guarantee.

You really think winning this race is gonna make any difference?

Win one race, win two, that's not gonna change anybody's mind.

People like Walter Knox will never think I'm good enough,

- no matter what I do. - Begging your pardon,

but isn't that even more reason

- to get your competitors out of the way? - You're not hearing me.

I'm a coloured man.

I could be the last runner in all of Canada and still stay home.

I'm not stupid enough to kill another competitor

and assume I'll be on easy street to the Olympic games.

They characterize us as a bunch of hysterical women.

Nothing about the organization at all.

I told you. It's like talking to a brick wall.

Those men will never take us seriously!

We need to do something.

Something to get us some publicity.

You should enter that race today.

- But there are no women's races. - Just race the men!

Oh, yes.

I like that!

Dr. Ogden, what on earth are you feeding your baby?

Oh!

It's a hydration draught my husband concocted

to help Susannah recover from her illness.

It's got potassium and a pinch of salt and sugar.

It works like a charm and it's delicious!

Would you like to try some?

It's blueberry flavoured.

Um, maybe another time.

Excuse me.

Hello? Dr. Julia Ogden.

Oh, Mrs. Hart.

I started with algor mortis for time of death,

which indicated the victim had died ten hours

prior to discovery, but...

Yes?

Um, there were some inconsistencies

when I tested the stomach contents later on.

Is everything all right, Mrs. Hart?

Oh! Quite fine. Just tired.

Oh. Here we are.

Please take a look.

The food is broken down less than it should be

for a ten-hour timeframe.

So your estimated time of death is off?

Yes. The stomach contents suggest

the victim died only eight hours prior to discovery.

Hm, how curious.

I do love a deathly conundrum.

Oh, what is that?

- What? - Look.

Oh! Something has separated.

Mercury?

- Precisely. - Found in the victim's stomach contents.

Could it have been an ingredient in a tincture of some sort?

Well, I've seen it in all kinds of remedies and medicines.

I wouldn't be at all surprised if athletes thought

a small amount might help them run faster.

But this was no small amount.

We believe he was poisoned.

What's this all about?

You, be quiet.

One of you is a killer and we're going to find out who.

Timothy, what's happening?

They haven't told us anything, Father.

This is ridiculous.

You have no right to be going through their things.

Step back, sir. Don't interfere with police procedure.

Just tell us what you're looking for

and we'll point you in the right direction.

Mind your own business.

Nothing here, sirs.

Inspector.

What is it?

I saw Mr. Archibald using this to move equipment earlier.

Look.

Blood.

Do you think the killer used this to move the body?

It certainly would explain why no one heard

a murder being committed out in the middle of the field.

Hey! How long will this take?

Can I get into the cold cure in the meantime?

- We just finished the prelims. - Yeah, the finals are coming up next

- and I need to get ready. - Hold your horses. We'll be done soon enough.

Sirs.

Have a look at this.

Mercury.

You are coming with us, sir.

This is ridiculous!

Mr. Irons, please calm down.

Calm down? You're harassing my son

and right before his race, no less.

I told you, sir, the detective just has

a few questions and if all is well,

- your son will be free to go. - We don't have time for this.

His race is at four o'clock

- and he still has to have his warm-up massage. - Sir, please!

I will not allow you blundering brigadiers

to distract my son and disrupt his competitive temperament!

Yes. I gave him a little quicksilver,

but it was just to slow him down.

There's no way that's what killed him.

But he is dead.

And you've just admitted to being the one who poisoned him.

But it can't be! I didn't mean to kill him.

Scorch and I have always had this tit-for-tat,

but I never hated him.

It was more of a spirited rivalry.

A rivalry that included poisoning?

You'd have to be a sportsman to understand.

I did no less than what he's done to me time after time.

You're saying Mr. Scorch has poisoned you in the past?

Not just me.

He did it all the time. He'd poison the entire field and walk to victory.

Don't you see? I was just getting back at him.

And I swear I only gave him enough to make him queasy and sluggish.

Be that as it may, he is dead.

So you will be kept in our cells

until charges can be brought against you.

But what about the race?

- Mrs. Hart. You called? - Oh, we did.

There's been something of a revelation.

We?

Dr. Ogden and I have been working

on confirming the cause of death.

William!

Mr. Scorch definitely suffered mercury poisoning.

It caused kidney damage and a unique rash on his upper body.

But that isn't the whole story.

There's a second, very distinctive rash on his leg.

In addition, found a significant amount

of bloody discolouration in the synovial fluid in his knees.

He was an athlete. It could have been an injury.

I initially thought the same,

but, along with the other symptoms,

it suggests something else.

Biggest curiosity was the presence of urine

in the interstitial tissue.

Urine? How odd.

It's called cold diuresis.

When the body is trying to preserve warmth,

the blood vessels constrict

and the kidneys purge all unnecessary fluid.

It results in a large production of urine.

When the bladder becomes full,

the urine has nowhere to go

and so it seeps into the surrounding tissue.

A rash, hemorrhaging, cold diuresis.

What does this all mean?

In combination, they occur in only one specific instance.

This man wasn't poisoned, he died of hypothermia.

Let's go, Timothy. We've wasted enough time here already.

Ah, not so fast, Mr. Irons.

Although I no longer believe your son killed Mr. Scorch,

he has admitted to intentionally poisoning him.

I told you. It was nothing more than he'd done to me.

- A crime, nonetheless. - You have to let him race.

I intend to, as a gesture of good will.

However, I do need your help, Mr. Irons.

Mr. Knox mentioned taking a cold cure.

I need you to tell me what that is?

I can do you one better.

I'll show you.

The cold cure is Coach Kittering's revolutionary after-workout therapy.

You fill a wooden barrel with water and ice.

After a hard practice, you submerge yourself

to your neck for 10 minutes.

Afterwards, your body comes out refreshed.

I suppose reducing swelling and muscle damage

would aid the body's ability to recover.

Ridiculous.

Kittering doesn't know what's what.

Cold's no good for muscles. Hot massages

are a far more effective therapy.

Truly. Whenever I get into the cold cure,

I feel like I might have a heart attack.

Hm, scratches.

What?

We found splinters under Scorch's fingernails.

Perhaps someone held him down in the water with this lid.

Ah, Coach Kittering.

A word, please?

Arthur?

Oh, there you are.

You didn't do it, did you?

Arthur!

Arthur!

And what exactly was he supposed to do?

I mean, if it's any consolation,

I can help do whatever needs doing.

You killed him.

What does it look like?

I got rid of a problem.

You should never have sent a boy to do a man's job.

Of course, I knew you two were plotting to kill me.

Every chance you got huddled together,

whispering so loudly,

the deaf man across the street probably knew what you were up to.

If you knew, why didn't you do something?

And miss out on the chance of watching you two bumble about?

Oh, no. I quite enjoyed the show.

What happened?

I was sitting in the parlour minding my God-given business

when I see this fool in the mirror

creeping up behind me, gun drawn.

I did what I had to do.

It was self-defence, sweetheart.

You could have easily overpowered him.

- You didn't have to kill him! - Why wouldn't I?

Why shouldn't I?

If he was gonna keep trying to get rid of me, then fair game.

Now, what to do...

about you?

Do it.

Hmm.

Ever the failure, Violet.

Now what do you suppose we do about poor old Arthur here?

Mr. Kittering.

Mr. Scorch died of hypothermia

caused by being held down inside one of your cold cure barrels.

The temperature in the barrel today is about 45 degrees.

It would have taken approximately one hour

for Mr. Scorch to lose consciousness

and subsequently die.

Yes, well...

All right.

Perhaps 45 degrees is a tad too cold.

Perhaps... this is your moment to be truthful.

I found Scorch dead in the barrel.

I didn't know what to do.

But I did know that...

that if his death was tied to my cold cure remedy,

that would be the end of my therapy,

my club and my career as a coach.

So I panicked.

You covered it up.

The sprinters were out on the field

playing around with the javelins, and,

so when they left...

I redressed Scorch's body.

I put it in the wagon and I brought it out onto the field.

Once the body was out there,

you ran it through with the javelin.

I wanted to make it look like an accident.

To make it appear as though

one of the sprinters had done it?

Yes,

but I didn't intend any of them to be blamed for it.

I was just trying to protect myself.

You have to believe me. I didn't kill him.

I covered it up, but I didn't kill him. I'm innocent!

Innocent might not be the word I would use, Mr. Kittering.

And the purpose of this, sir?

We need to determine exactly how the victim was held down

inside the cold cure barrel.

- Now kneel down, Henry. - Sir?

Get on with it, Higgins.

You're not in any real distress.

That's what you think.

All right.

Now, Henry, push up with all of your might.

Hm. All right.

All right!

Ugh. What is that?

- What's wrong, Murdoch? - Someone has gotten oil, or...

something on the handle.

- Hm. Smells like mentholated ointment. - Hm. Pungent.

Julia used something like this

with Susannah when she was ill recently.

Um, sirs?

Yes, Higgins, you can get out.

No, no, no. I came across an ointment like that myself.

Uh, there was a jar of it in Timothy Irons' locker.

It's a special heated ointment my father makes himself.

He uses it when he gives me my race massages.

We found traces of it on the cold cure barrel

in the locker room where Mr. Scorch was killed.

I didn't kill him.

He was alive when I left the track

and I was with the 100-metre men for the rest of the night.

You can ask them.

You could have slipped away unnoticed.

Well, ask my father then.

He stayed behind to pack up my things and lock up.

I didn't get back 'til 1:00 AM.

You finished?

- I have a race to run. - For now.

Mr. Irons is the only person who uses that ointment.

Not quite. There is one other.

Are you sure about this?

We'll see.

What are you doing?

Racing.

You most certainly are not.

Ay, ay. What's all this then?

What on earth?

Miss Roswell,

please step back!

No!

Why are you bothering me?

I'm here to see my son race.

Mr. Irons, what time did you pack up on Friday evening

and what time did you leave?

Packing up didn't take long.

I left shortly after Timothy.

Was there anyone else left at the track?

Not that I saw.

Did you happen to touch

the cold cure barrels at any point?

- No. - Then how do you explain us

finding a smear of your special mentholated ointment

on one of the handles?

Gentlemen, please escort Miss Roswell from the track.

Again, I ask you, did you have cause to touch the cold cure barrels?

Especially when you said yourself the treatment didn't work.

You keep your hands off her!

- Stop! - Murdoch, get him.

Get off of me!

Much obliged, Miss Roswell.

My pleasure.

Mr. Irons, you are under arrest for murder.

Why would you do this?

Just so your son could win?

You would snuff out a young athlete

in the prime of his career just for a race?

I would do anything for my son.

Including murder?

Timothy was the best until Scorch started poisoning him.

That mercury stuff permanently messed him up.

The poison had lasting effects?

After the sabotage, Timothy tried to get back

into the swing of things.

He never regained his full strength.

Over time, mercury can damage motor skills

and cause irreparable lung damage.

The last straw was that shameless cur boasting

at the press conference after all he'd done.

He was no champion, he was a fraud.

And you are now a murderer.

I suppose we can see what she can do.

On your marks.

Get set.

And... go!

Go Iggy!

Wow.

A very fast time for Miss Roswell.

Better than some of the men I coach.

And the women?

I have no idea how fast a woman can run.

Well, hopefully you'll find that out one day

when we are finally invited to the games.

Then I await that day.

Who was that lady?

Oh, that's Miss Iggy Roswell.

- She's so fast. - She certainly is.

- What's your name? - Myrtle Cook.

One day, I'm going to be just like her.

_

You were amazing.

- I came last. - You were still amazing.

I'd have to say I agree with her.

Well, thank you. I am quite thirsty, though.

Oh! Really, you should try this.

Is that the baby's drink?

Yes, but it's rich with electrolytes.

It'll help you replenish the fluids that you've lost.

Wow! What a thirst quencher.

This could really catch on.

Have some more!

So sweet of you to take care of your husband.

I'm sure he's resting in peace.

Fitting that he's buried where he planned to bury me.

And what do you have planned for me?

I guess I'll keep you around.

I could give you all the money.

- I'll start over. - Ah, no need for all that.

All I ask is that you do me one favour.

Don't ever try to kill me again.

Yeah.

Your prints are all over this.

So play nice.

You and me?

Together, we're gonna tear up this town.

Hmm.

- Synced and corrected by chamallow - - www.addic7ed.com -