All language subtitles for Murdoch.Mysteries.S08E18.Artful.Detective.720p.WEB-DL.DD5.1.h264-jAh.eng

Anything of use, Henry?

Well, I didn't see much, sir.

The man who ran away was
medium build, long black coat.

But I didn't see his face.

Sir, it looks like his
throat's been slit.

If it had, there'd be
significantly more blood.

I suspect we'll find
he's been garroted.

That's a new one for me, sir.

- Good God.
- What is it, sir?

It appears to be a human thumb.

Definitely garroted.

Knee to the back
and wire pulled tight.

Silent and effective.

I don't believe the traditional
method was used, Inspector.

This wound suggests that
a similar force was applied

all the way around the neck,

except for this one
inch at the back.

The area is bruised,

as though something
was pressed against it.

Some kind of device?

Perhaps a wire loop
attached to a pole of some sort.

And the thumb you found in
his pocket was severed recently.

Pre- or post-mortem?

Yet to be determined.

Murdoch,

I know this scumbag.

William McCann.

Billy McCann is what he went by.

He was a lowlife.
Worked for Bernie King.

- The bookmaker.
- Yeah.

King never does
his own dirty work.

Prefers to swan around his club.

Sirs,

there's been
another murder.

Is he dead?

Move along, young lady.
There's nothing to see.

- Oh, my God.
- Madam, thank you.

Dr. Grace, what have we?

He was found by the
gardeners this morning.

He was beaten. I have
detected six blows.

This one to the head
here was likely lethal.

So a beating, then?

Yes. But this was
no random killing.

What makes you say that?

He's missing a thumb.

We've a man with a thumb
to spare lying in the morgue.

Professor Gideon Galbraith.

What's the professor's thumb
doing in the pocket of a known felon?

No doubt you can
explain this, Murdoch.

It's statistical notation, sir.

He seems to be combining
Bayesian theory of probability

and Galton's regression formula.

So that's what they're
up to these days.

- "They," sir?
- High-forehead types.

Mm.

I believe his motives may have
been more practical than academic, sir.

He's been tabulating
race results.

He was gambling.

I think he was looking for a way

to statistically
determine race winners.

He had a system, did he?

Not something a
bookie would appreciate.

You thinking what I'm thinking?

We should pay
Bernie King a visit.

Good day, gentlemen.

You chaps wouldn't be playing
for money, now, would you?

Inspector Brackenreid.
Always a pleasure.

Murdoch, meet Bernie King,

the biggest
bookmaker in Toronto.

No need for flattery.

And I can assure you this
is a game amongst friends.

We're here about
your boy McCann.

We found him this morning with
a severed thumb in his pocket.

Good Lord.

The thumb belonged
to a murder victim...

Gideon Galbraith, a
mathematics professor.

One of your clients, perhaps?

I know Mr. Galbraith.

We understand he
invented a system

for predicting race winners.

He may have thought
he had a system.

That would explain
why he bet so heavily.

He didn't win?

Let's just say his losses

exceeded his winnings.

He owed you money.

Maybe that's why
you had him killed.

Gentlemen, it would
hardly be in my interest

to kill someone that
owed me money.

It would if they couldn't pay.

People can always pay.

They may not be able
to pay all at once, but...

arrangements can be made,

methods of persuasion
brought to bear.

Such as sending one of your
lowlifes to cut off his thumb?

Except Mr. McCann
got a little overenthusiastic

and killed him.

This seems a matter you
should discuss with Bill McCann.

Unfortunately,
Mr. McCann is also dead.

He's dead?

Oh, don't look so
surprised, Bernard.

I reckon you couldn't have
McCann crying into his beer

over a murder that was tied
to you, so you got rid of him.

Well, you seem to
have it all worked out.

So let me just say this...

If Bill McCann cut
off anyone's thumb,

it wasn't at my behest.

And I had nothing
to do with his death,

and if you two think otherwise,
you had best make your case.

So until then, good
day, gentlemen.

What have you, Doctor?

I compared the thumb we
found in Mr. McCann's pocket

with the remnant on
Professor Galbraith's hand.

It didn't match.

It didn't match?

The detached thumb is
indeed from a right hand,

but the size is different,
as was the angle of the cut.

You mean there's someone
else out there missing a thumb?

What the hell is
going on, Murdoch?

I-I don't know, sir.

Clearly these two murders
must be related somehow.

I'll have George look into
McCann's last movements.

George, we just received a call

about a domestic
disturbance in St. John's ward.

A neighbor's complaining about
a ruckus in the house next door.

Well, you see to it, Jackson.
I'm in the middle of something.

The address is 114 Agnes Street.

I just thought you should know.

Edna?

Simon?

Edna?

Go away, George.

What did he do?

Show me.

You can't do anything, George.

Edna, let me see. Please.

Oh, for the love of God.

- I've never seen him like this before.
- Where's Simon?

He tried to help me, and...

Archie turned on him,
and he ran away.

You can't be here, George.

If Archie comes
back, he'll kill you.

He'll kill me?

After what he did
to you, he'll kill me?

- And he'll kill me, too.
- No. I'll never let that happen.

Now, is there
somewhere you can stay?

- No.
- Well, you'll stay with me.

No, George.

Please.

He could be
watching us right now.

And if he's not watching us,
then the neighbors are.

All right. Lock the door.

If he returns, I want
you to go out the back

and come straight
to the station house.

Promise me.

Edna, I'm not going to
leave until you promise me.

I promise.

He will never lay another
finger on you or Simon again.

That's my promise to you.

Thank you very much.

- George.
- Doctor.

I hear congratulations
are in order.

What?

Your promotion to detective.

Oh. Yes. Thank you.

I apologize, Doctor. I've
not been myself today.

Yes. I did hear about
Edna's husband coming back.

I'm so sorry, George.

It's become more complicated
than that now, I'm afraid.

Things are really
upside down right now.

Well, if you ever need to talk,

my door is always open.

I appreciate that, Doctor,

but I believe this is something
I'll have to settle on my own.

Perhaps the thumbs are trophies.

You think this could be the
work of a sequential killer?

We do have two confirmed murders
and a thumb suggesting a third.

Mm.

Sir. Pardon the interruption.

Another body has been
found, off Duchess Lane.

That's just around the corner.

Owner of the thumb, perhaps.

Sir, his name is
Ronald Richards.

His wife reported
him missing last night.

Apparently he's an exterminator.
Pests and vermin.

Rigor has subsided. He's
been dead at least 12 hours.

That's longer
than the other two.

George, can you arrange for
transportation to the morgue?

Sir.

Mr. Richards was the first
of our three victims to die,

by an hour or two perhaps.

He was strangled
with some force.

And the thumb, Doctor?

It's a match.

I don't understand.
Why would someone kill him?

No enemies?

No.

He never said an angry
word against anyone.

Even his boss.

Why would he have reason
to be angry with his boss?

He was let go from
his job last month.

He had a bad ankle.

Couldn't climb
the stairs no more.

But he was the best
exterminator around.

How did he earn his living?

He didn't.

I got work cleaning.

Mrs. Richards, did your
husband ever gamble?

No.

He was very careful
with his money.

No connection between
Richards and McCann, then?

None that I can see.

Sirs.

I looked into Mr. Richards'
affairs, as requested.

I did find something unusual.

Just last week, he took out
a sizable life insurance policy

with a double indemnity in case
of accidental death or murder.

Just last week?

What's the payout?

$2,000.

Small fortune.

Do you think the
wife did him in?

I don't think so, sir.

She seemed
genuinely heartbroken.

Perhaps he got
McCann to kill him.

Possibly, though it's one thing
to arrange for your own murder,

yet another to arrange to
be one of three murders.

And why the thumbs?

A timeline seems
to be developing.

Our killer, possibly McCann,
first kills Mr. Richards,

followed by Professor Galbraith.

And then McCann gets garroted.

Sirs.

Don't tell me.

Doctor.

It appears the killer
doesn't discriminate.

Crikey.

She was opened from hip
to sternum by a large blade,

possibly a hunting knife.

It's the same killer, all right.

Fourth body in 24 hours either
deficit or surplus in thumbs.

A copy of the racing sheet.

A cigar cutter.

I assume these belonged to her.

They were here
when she was found.

A cigar-chewing gambler
who liked to shoot arrows.

I'm rather sorry I
never got to meet her.

If she was an archer,
perhaps Julia knew her.

Her name was Mildred Abernathy.

She was our top archer.

One of the Abernathys?

Indeed.

So no need of money, then.

And nothing in common
with the other victims.

Except for the missing thumb.

Is it always the thumb
of the right hand?

So far.

Ritualistic, perhaps, another
mark of a sequential killer.

Yes, but the choices of victims

and methods of
killing are so different.

And how did one of his trophies get
in the pockets of one of our victims?

Perhaps Mr. McCann
is our sequential killer.

And someone then killed him?

Yes, but McCann's
murder was different.

His thumb wasn't taken.

Perhaps someone
knew what he was up to

and decided to stop the madness.

Dr. Grace, we need to know

if Miss Abernathy was
killed before Mr. McCann.

You'll have a time-of-death
estimate shortly.

Sir?

I think you dropped your wallet.

Back to old habits, are we?

Simon, I know you
tried to help your mother.

For all the good it did.

- Where's your father now?
- I don't know.

Simon, your father can't...

He needs to be apprehended
and punished for what he did.

Yeah. And then what?

You catch him, he goes
to jail, and he gets out.

- You can't fix this.
- Simon.

You're the reason this happened!

Just leave us alone.

I have a time of death
for Mildred Abernathy.

She was killed within
the past five hours.

After McCann was already dead.

So he can't be the killer.

Right.

So we have a common
thug, an exterminator,

a mathematician,
and a wealthy heiress.

What connects them?

Two of them liked
to play the ponies.

Yes, but two of them didn't.

Three of them needed
the money, but one didn't.

There's no common denominator.

Crabtree, where have you been?

Dealing with a
personal matter, sir.

Sod your personal matters.
We need you on this case.

I'm on this case, sir.
That's why I'm here.

We've just received word.
Another body has been found.

Lord.

Sirs.

He was found by a resident
of the boarding house.

- Any witnesses?
- Not as yet.

Horace Blechman.
An inventor, it seems.

542 Wilton Avenue.

That's just down the street.

Crabtree, you and
Higgins ask around.

It's a busy area.
There has to be witnesses.

- Sir.
- Sir.

- Missing thumb.
- Mm.

I have to cancel our
dinner plans this evening.

But I had something
rather special planned.

I'm sorry. I'm
expecting another body.

I... This is very unusual.

Oh, it's just so
exciting. I can't wait.

I just received a letter

from a close friend of
mine in London, England.

A friend of hers,
Mrs. Pankhurst,

is forming a suffragette union,

and she's just put out a call
for international supporters.

Oh. That's wonderful.

Yes. Think of it, Emily.

London will set the tone
for the rest of the world.

They'll have a real influence.

Going there to join them could
be the adventure of a lifetime.

- Going there?
- Together.

Well, you certainly know how
to take a girl's breath away.

Perhaps a change of
scene would be welcome.

You're up to your elbows
in blood and entrails.

Yes. I know.

Well, don't you agree
it's a thrilling prospect?

- Of course. But I--
- Wonderful.

We'll discuss it
when you're done here.

Lillian.

Thank you, sir.

If you hear anything
else, let us know.

- Any luck?
- None.

Can you imagine?
Five murders in the space of one day.

This puts us in league with
London or New York, even.

Oh, that's wonderful, Higgins.
A first-class city at last.

Is everything all right, George?

Everything's fine.
Stop asking.

It's the first time I asked.

You go back to the station
house. I'll finish up here.

Suit yourself.

What is all this, Murdoch?

Sir, I believe Mr. Blechman
aspired to create a train

that levitated by means
of magnetic repulsion.

A train that floats in the air?

Bloody ridiculous.

Man was crackers.

Yes. Well, you aren't the
only one that thought so.

It appears he was trying get funding
for this invention, without much luck.

"We regret to inform you

that we are not presently
interested in your invention,

regarding your letter
requesting capital funds.

We wish to thank you
for your interest, but..."

Rejection letters. He was
a poor man's Pendrick.

So it would seem.

Murdoch, here's another
copy of the racing sheet.

Yes. Sir, do you
think it's possible

that he was gambling
to raise the money?

Now, that's interesting.

He placed a bet on the
seventh race at Woodbine.

What's interesting about that?

Well, there is no
seventh race at Woodbine.

Horace Blechman has placed a
bet on a race that doesn't exist.

- Excuse me.
- Sorry. I'm locking up here.

Detective Murdoch,
Toronto Constabulary.

- Your name?
- Arnold Paulson.

- Is there a problem?
- Yes.

Mr. Paulson, do you
print this race sheet?

Yes. Today's issue
is done and dusted.

I'm off to my bed.

How and when do you receive
the details for each race sheet?

It comes by one of the street
boys they use as their runners.

Right.
Mr. Paulson, um,

how do you explain the presence

of a nonexistent
race in your paper?

The seventh race at Woodbine.

Oh, that. Yes.
It's strange, I know.

Two nights ago, a second
envelope was delivered

just before my deadline.

Contained the... the horses to
that seventh race along with $5.

So you printed it?

Who am I to turn down $5?

Right. And did you receive
a similar envelope last night?

I did. I assumed it
was a lark of some kind.

Mr. Paulson, may I have a
copy of today's racing sheet?

Certainly.

The seventh race at
Woodbine is listed once again.

But this time, there
are only four horses.

There were nine yesterday.

So five fewer today.

A coincidence that there
are five bodies in our morgue?

Could you please list off
the five missing horses?

Rat Trapper.

That would be Ronald
Richards, the exterminator.

Jailbird is likely
our friend McCann.

- McCann.
- Artemis.

The goddess of the hunt.

Mildred Abernathy. The archer.

Murdoch, Pythagoras.

Professor Galbraith,
the mathematician.

That leaves only one...
Horace Blechman, the inventor.

Butcher's Gaff, Soldier
Boy, Twisted Oliver,

Big Game Hunter, Dare to Dream.

Dare to Dream.
Suits that man to a T.

All those daft projects
he was working on.

Horace Blechman, inventor.

What have you, George?

Sir, I looked into Miss
Abernathy, as you requested.

It seems her apparent
wealth was just that.

She was in debt up to
her ears from gambling.

One roulette game away
from penury, it seems.

We have our common denominator.

They were all in need of money.

Perhaps this isn't the
work of one or two killers.

Could the victims
be killing each other?

I suppose.

McCann killed Richards.

He had the thumb in his pocket.

Blechman was an inventor.

Perhaps he invented the
garroting device that killed McCann.

That's very good, sir. That
would explain why Blechman had

Jailbird checked off
on his racing sheet.

That's a very
good thought, Julia.

But the question is why?

Could they all be contestants in
some kind of murderous game?

A fight to the death.

Like gladiators.

Well, they are all
in need of money.

Perhaps if the prize
is a significant sum.

To be claimed by the last
man or woman standing.

What about the severed thumbs?

Sir.

Proof of their kill.

Thumbmarks.

Which is why it was taken
only from their right hand.

If we're right about this,
four contestants remain...

Butcher's Gaff, Soldier Boy,
Twisted Oliver, Big Game Hunter.

Right, George. We'll
stake out the print shop.

We'll apprehend whoever
delivers the envelope tonight.

You're late, George.
What kept you?

Oh, does it matter, sir?
I'm almost never late.

And you aren't wearing
your police-issued boots.

I stepped in a horse muck
just outside my boarding house.

I didn't have time to clean them.

If I'd cleaned them, I'd be
more late than I am now.

Is everything all right, George?

Yes, sir. I apologize
for my tardiness.

Here we go.

You there.

Toronto Constabulary.

Give me that.

Who gave you this?

The race manager, sir,

from the Woodbine Racetrack.

Sir?

It's legitimate
race information.

No seventh race.

I suppose we wait.

We wait.

Sir, I apologize for
snapping at you earlier.

I've been wound
fairly tight lately.

That's all right, George.

No, it's not, sir.

We may never work
together again, and I...

You're anticipating your move

to Station House
Number Three, of course.

I just want to thank you, sir,

for your counsel and...

for your friendship.

It's been invaluable to me.

Whatever the future brings,

I'm glad to have served
under you these years.

We may not always
work together, George.

But we'll always be friends.

Right, then.

No seventh race tonight.

You've already begun printing.

Be done in an hour
if you wanna wait.

- Hm.
- What do you think, sir?

Thank you.

Let's go home, George.
We'll try again tomorrow.

Julia,

have you noticed George
acting a bit strange lately?

William, you have to
give him a little leeway.

George is dealing with
difficult matters of the heart.

Hm.

Hello?

Yes.

All right, Doctor.
I'll be right there.

Another murder?

Another two.

I'm coming with you.

That's not necessary, Julia.

I'm sure Emily
could use my help.

It appears Miss Abernathy
was not only a victim

but also a killer.

His right thumb is missing.

She had a cigar
cutter in her purse.

An efficient tool for the job.

Good gracious.

I always thought
Mildred so genteel.

But

she died before this
man's body was found.

He was killed at
least 24 hours ago.

He was found early this
morning in his cold storage room.

- Cold storage?
- In a butcher shop.

That would make
him Butcher's Gaff.

And what of the other body?

Male, approximately
30 years old.

He was shot several times.

Time of death between
9:00 and 11:00 p.m.

Sir, this tattoo.

That's a regimental crest.

Sir, this could be Soldier Boy.

Indeed, George.

But his thumbs are intact.

Well, perhaps his assailant
shot him and was then

interrupted before he
could retrieve his proof of kill.

- Similar to the McCann murder.
- Exactly.

Well, Julia, it appears we have
the body of Soldier Boy here.

Two more down.
Two to go.

Thank you.

Paper! Get your paper!

I'll pick up a copy of this
morning's racing sheet.

Oh, don't bother, Julia.
I spoke with the printer.

He said that there
is no seventh race.

I'll get one anyway.

William, look at this.

There is seventh race
at Woodbine listed.

There is?

With a new entry...
Artful Detective.

Artful Detective.

William!

Wait!

He's dead.

William, what on
earth just happened?

Julia...

I believe I may be
the Artful Detective.

- George?
- What?

Have you brought in Mr. Paulson
yet from the printing shop?

Sir, he's gone.

His place has been
completely cleared out.

He's nowhere to be found.

Right. Join us please.

Artful Detective?

I'm not quite sure
about the "artful" bit.

They must have thought that it
made for a better horse's name.

"They," sir?

Whoever is responsible
for this game,

which includes the printer.

They must've thought
you were getting too close,

so they've thrown you into the
game without your knowledge.

- Not quite cricket.
- Yes,

and now the printer has disappeared

along with our best lead.

If you are in the game,

I want you to get
to the armory.

Don't want you
taking any chances.

Sir, if we are to find
out who's behind this,

we'll need to capture
our subject alive.

How the hell are
we gonna do that?

I invented this some time ago,

but it proved to be somewhat
cumbersome for daily use.

What is that?

It's a weaponized capacitor.

It delivers an electrical shock

by way of these darts.

- Sort of like an electric gun?
- Exactly.

It overwhelms the
attacker's nervous system.

- Rendering him paralyzed.
- Temporarily.

I hope.

I haven't exactly
tested it yet.

Well, I'm sure we can
find a couple of volunteers.

Jackson! Get yourself in here!

Sir, I really don't think--

We're not taking any
chances, Murdoch.

Sir.

The detective is going to
test his new invention on you.

It might hurt a bit,
so brace yourself.

A-All right.

Sir, I really don't
think that we should--

We need to make sure it works.

- It could kill him.
- W... Um...

Jackson, as you were.

Thank... Thank you, sir.

Sir, no matter how
effective this electric gun is,

you're up against killers.

Not killers, George. A killer.

Soldier Boy and Twisted
Oliver are now out of the picture.

That only leaves
Big Game Hunter.

How are you gonna
find Big Game Hunter?

Well, sir, I believe
he is going to find me.

Sir, I insist on
coming with you.

I mean, the man is
clearly dangerous.

He's bloody dangerous.
Big Game Hunter.

It all in the name, Murdoch.
It's all in the name.

I appreciate your
concern, gentlemen,

but I have a plan.

And it all begins at the hotel.

Oh, don't worry, Julia.
I'll be back shortly.

Please be careful, William.

Of course.

Murdoch, that
was bloody brilliant.

It worked.

Sir, take him to
the station house.

- I'll question him shortly.
- Where are you going?

I owe it to my wife

to let her know that she
didn't become a widow today.

Fair enough.

Lads,

cart this lump of
rubbish off to the cells.

Oh, George.
Thank you.

How did you know
he would attack me?

Sir, just a lucky guess.

George, this man is a soldier.

Could this be Soldier Boy?

Perhaps, sir.

If so, who do we
have in our morgue?

I don't know.

The winner was to
receive a prize of $10,000.

Why you would join such
a murderous undertaking?

You need the money?

I did it for the
sport, of course.

The ultimate sport.

I have faced off against
many a ferocious beast,

but none as deadly
as man himself.

What were the
rules of this game?

We met before the hunt began
and agreed on one thing only.

Killing of any nonparticipant
meant instant disqualification.

Apart from that, there
were no restrictions.

Any time. Any place.

Any weapon.

And you chose a hunting
knife as your weapon.

Always.

It's the only way to measure
yourself against your quarry.

Who organized this?

I don't know his name. But...

you may have an opportunity to
meet him face-to-face, Detective.

How is that?

You're the victor.

The last man standing.

How am I to be collect my prize?

And it was the chimney sweep!

Detective Murdoch, Inspector.

How can I help you?

I'm here to collect my winnings.

I'm the last man standing.

I believe I'm
entitled to $10,000.

Of course, we'll accept a
confession in lieu of that.

Confession?

For what?

I've committed no crime.

None of the contestants
were compelled to enter.

Everyone participated
of their own free will,

each for their own reasons,

whether it be debt,
greed, thrill of the hunt.

You preyed on base
human weakness.

You turned the entire city into
a coliseum for your gladiators.

Were any innocent
citizens harmed?

I don't recall a single example.

Bernard King, you are
under arrest for murder.

I didn't kill anyone, Detective.

Well, then, you will
be surprised to learn

that conspiracy to murder

carries the same penalty.

Why did you risk getting caught

by putting Artful
Detective in the race?

It was a gamble.

He may have survived or
he may have been killed. It's...

It's all part
of the game.

Is that so?

Well, Bernard, me old mucker,

now you're playing
my bloody game.

Walk this way, sunshine.

I thought you might be hungry.

Oh. How thoughtful.

It's tea and scones.

You're trying to convince
me of the charms of England.

Mm. I hope it's my own
charms that will sway you.

Oh, do say yes, Emily.

I am charmed, but I
have to think about my job.

They are mortuaries
in London, I daresay.

It's not that easy.

I can't just walk into a
position at any mortuary.

So don't.

We'll be doing
something more important.

What I do here is
important, Lillian.

I'm a woman.

I'm doing my part for the
movement just by being here.

I am living the fight.
You're just talking about it.

Well, I'm not just
talking about it anymore.

I'm doing something about it.

You can either come
with me or you can stay.

I won't accept such a ridiculous ultimatum.

Well, it appears you've
given me your answer.

I suppose I have.

Emily.

I got your message.
Is something wrong?

I thought there might be
something you wanted to tell me.

- I don't think so.
- Are you sure?

George, I identified the
soldier in the morgue.

It's Archibald Brooks,
Edna's husband.

You saw the body.
You knew who it was.

Why didn't you say something?
Emily, I...

George, the detective
is waiting on my report.

What am I supposed to tell him?

You do what you must.

George, please talk to me.

What are you hiding?
What's going on?

Emily, goodbye.

You're absolutely certain
that it's Archibald Brooks?

There was scarring from
shrapnel on the corpse.

I checked the regiment's medical records.
Sergeant Brooks was injured in a barrage.

- Detective...
- Yes.

I know, Doctor.

George was there when the body
was first brought to the morgue.

He would have known that it was
Mr. Brooks and not Soldier Boy.

- Do you think he could have--
- Doctor,

Brooks was shot.

- What was the caliber?
- .22 pistol.

That's a .22.

What has George done?

Sir.

Sir.

Explain yourself, Crabtree.

Your boots match
the bloody footprints

at the scene of the crime.

The murder weapon
was found in your desk.

George, if you
have an explanation,

now is the time to speak.

Oh, for God's sakes, man.

Have you not got a
tongue in your head?

Did you kill him?

Did you kill Brooks?

George, please,
speak in your defense.

Sirs, I have a right to silence.

Christ, George.
What were you thinking?

George.

All these years that
we've worked together.

Those were good years, sir.

Constable George Crabtree,

you are under arrest,
for the murder

of Sergeant Archibald Brooks.

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