Original subtitles

A new job?

It's in Buffalo.

Buffalo?

There must be something you're not telling me.

Why are you leaving?

It's been clear to me how much you want a family.

But, my abortion...

It left me sterile.

William, please accept this.

I... I don't know what to say.

No...

Julia?

- Sir? - What is it, Constable?

Sir, a body has been found,

in a manner of speaking.

Get a move on, Murdoch.

This one's nasty.

Alert Dr Francis.

- Oh, but, sir... - Just do it. Please.

Bloody hell.

Constable Higgins, what have you?

Well, the McMurphy sisters are bird watchers, sir.

Apparently, they were on the trail of the rufous-sided towhee.

Apparently the male has a black head and upper parts, while the female...

Oh, Higgins, just the facts, man.

Right. Sorry, sir.

After they discovered the remains,

Gladys McMurphy ran to a neighbour's house up the way, sir.

The neighbour is the one who telephone called us, sir.

I see. And where is he?

He had some appointments to attend to

but he's eager to come to the station later to give a statement.

Very good. Right, then.

We'll need to drag the river from this point, all the way to the lake.

That's a considerable distance, sir.

Is there a problem, Constable?

Just get it set up, Higgins.

Right away, sir.

This had better be the crime scene of the century.

Sir, you said this was a particularly nasty one.

I thought he might at least make an appearance.

So, has Queen Victoria shot her lover? Has your mayor been...

Disembowelled by dragons, or what?

Dr Francis,

nice of you to come by.

You know I see little use at all, Detective Murdoch,

in attending a crime scene. All of the real work is done at my morgue.

Doctor, if you please.

Oh, well.

Ooh! This is a gruesome affair, isn't it?

You know, it's just a wild guess, Detective,

but it is possible that the victim was chopped up and encased in concrete.

And no other insights, aside from the obvious?

When the remains are brought to my morgue, I will make a full report.

You know, I am sure your Dr Ogden

happily traipsed to whatever crime scene you wished.

But I, sir,

am not she.

Have I been wasting my breath these last six months, Murdoch?

Francis does things his way.

Accept it. Things have changed.

Rather busy at the moment.

Yes, I'm sure you are, Doctor.

I came by to apologise for requesting your presence at the crime scene today.

No, you didn't.

And in hopes that you had assessed the remains

found down by the river nearly three hours ago.

So long? Horrors.

I must have been doing something very important.

Now what could that have been? Hmm?

Oh, very well. Come on.

So, we have the left forearm and hand, the left foot.

We have this torso section here which contains a bit of liver.

At first blush, the victim is male.

Thirty five, judging by the skin and hair.

Time of death somewhere between 7:00 and 10:00 p.m. last evening.

Eight hours for the concrete to set.

That places the killer down by the river between 3:00 and 6:00 a.m.

Doctor, I'll need to take finger...

Fortunately, I did absorb some of the sleuthing techniques

from the lads at Scotland Yard.

Incidentally, these clean cuts here

indicate an axe was used for the dismemberment.

After the time of death, I hope.

And what did you learn from the bone and tissue analysis?

I'll tell you when I get to it.

Doctor, this is somewhat of an urgent matter.

This may come as a bit of a shock to you, Murdoch,

but people have this unfortunate habit of dying.

Sometimes in bunches, as is the case this week.

- May I take this... - Yes.

So long as you leave me in peace.

Assuming the rest of the body was similarly disposed of,

the killer would have required several containers

in which to mould the cement.

This pattern would indicate that the containers were made of wood.

I make this out to be pine.

Now then, the river was quite shallow where we found the block.

So the killer must have loaded the rest of Humpty Dumpty

onto a boat and headed for deeper waters.

And, unaccountably, left one behind.

Well, I suppose, sir, if it was the middle of the night and pitch,

he could have simply lost track, left one on shore.

At any rate, please take the victim's finger marks

- and compare them to the ones on file. - Yes, sir.

I hear you and Dr Francis had words again.

Sir, Dr Francis is exaggerating.

Listen here, Murdoch.

Dr Francis was one of the Yard's best

or I wouldn't have fought to get him to Toronto.

Now how does it look for me with you two arguing the toss for months on end?

Now, I won't tell you again.

Or what, sir?

Excuse me, sirs.

The man who telephoned us on behalf of the McMurphy sisters

is here to give a statement.

Malcolm Lamb.

You know him, sirs?

Detective Malcolm Lamb used to have Murdoch's job.

My, my, my, same desks, same god-awful paint.

Of course, there were no telephones or fancy typewriters.

I don't know how you live with this racket.

Perhaps you'd care to give your statement

in your old office, Detective.

Well, thoughtful gesture, Inspector.

But that's Detective Murdoch's office now.

Of course. As you wish.

My office, then.

That's it, really.

Poor Miss McMurphy's eyes as big as an owl's when I opened the door.

How did you hold yourself back from the crime scene?

Oh, I still have a copper's nose for a blood trail, Inspector.

But sleep and a regular constitution are my priorities now.

How about a few tall tales of Station Four's glory days?

Glory days.

Yeah. When I started as a constable 20 years ago,

the coppers couldn't find their noses.

They were appointed by aldermen and rich people they were related to.

We pretty much got paid to break up brawls

and keep the city safe for Protestants.

Detective Murdoch's progressive approach hasn't escaped my notice, however.

I'm optimistic that a whole new world of policing is dawning.

- Thank you, sir. - Detective Lamb.

Hodge! My God, you're still here!

They'll have to carry me out, sir.

Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure.

- Nice to see you. - How are you?

Interesting that he didn't mention

he'd been given the boot eight years ago for insubordination.

I hadn't heard that.

Put his Inspector Cassidy in hospital for a week with a right hook.

Have to admire it, in a way.

Back then, it was clear what men were thinking.

Detective.

Sir, I think this case has all the makings of a ripping detective tale.

A dismembered body encased in concrete...

A foul-smelling river to represent society's rapid decay...

- Bird watchers... - What on earth are you doing, George?

Doing? No, nothing, sir. I just...

I've often thought I should write some of these things down, you know?

Well, you can add traces of cement to your list.

Yes, cement. Cement could represent...

Oh, you mean you found cement?

So, what, then? The rest of the body was dumped nearby?

In deeper water, perhaps?

Yes. Or even in the lake.

And then he rowed back to this spot.

George, impound this boat and dust it for finger mar...

Detective?

Constable, I believe we're being watched.

- Identify yourself. - Sir.

- Identify yourself! - Sir!

He appears to be a squatter, sir.

What's your name?

Detective?

Dismembered human remains

were found encased in concrete not far from your... living quarters.

Can you explain why traces of concrete were also found in your boat?

No. I told you, it was stolen.

I didn't chop anyone up.

- Can we at least have your name? - I'm not obliged...!

Arthur Frumm. F-R-U-double-M.

Thank you, Mr Frumm.

Can you account for your whereabouts last night?

Well, let's see.

After I cooked up a nice squirrel stew for my supper,

I found a fine bottle of gin by my tent.

There.

I cancelled my theatre plans.

You say you found this bottle?

Gin from an angel, I took it as.

I take it you consumed its contents?

You don't want to anger the angels.

I passed out just after dark.

Mr Frumm, I believe you know who those remains belong to.

Squirrel. Couple rabbits. I didn't eat that raccoon.

It was just bothering me.

No, the human remains, Mr Frumm.

If you come forward now,

before tests reveal that it is indeed human blood on that axe,

it may save you from the noose.

And tell me why I should care.

They should just make sure they get the name right on the headstone.

Arthur H. Frumm,

barrister and solicitor.

Loving husband

and father.

A lawyer?

And they say God doesn't have a sense of humour.

Murdoch, there are drunks and lunatics all along the river.

You can't believe a word they say.

And most of them would bash you over the head for no bloody reason.

Frumm plots to kill a fellow squatter over some trivial nonsense,

gets together what he needs and does the deed.

Then he starts drinking, waiting for the cement to dry.

But he's so drunk, he fails to notice and leaves a block on shore.

Sirs?

No matches on file to our victim's finger marks, I'm afraid.

But I did put a call in to Osgoode Hall

and Arthur H. Frumm did practise family law

here in Toronto about 20 years ago.

Apparently he was disbarred for...

"Persistent personal failings. " Shame, if you ask me.

Any upright citizen can come to ruin, Crabtree.

We must all be vigilant.

Yes, to be sure, sir.

George, take a few men and question as many squatters as you can find.

Perhaps Mr Frumm was seen elsewhere in the valley.

Sir, I will do. Also, Dr Francis called.

He has some news for you.

Ah. Thank you, George.

Ah, Murdoch.

Well, it's only preliminary

but unless you're prepared to charge our suspect with "rodenticide"

I think you'd better look elsewhere.

- No human blood on the axe. - None at all.

There is this, however.

There is some scarring to the arm stump.

You see? Here.

Your victim has had surgery to his forearm at some point.

What kind of surgery?

I'm sure I don't know.

Now, I must away to my lovely wife.

Since our return to her native soil, there's rarely an evening goes by

that we don't visit her dear friends and family.

And all of that dreadful Canadian cheese.

Doctor, have you had a chance to examine the liver section in any detail?

No. If I had, I would have told you.

Then, when?

What, two days? Three?

And you're welcome.

Dear Julia,

I trust this finds you well.

I am forwarding photographic evidence in a puzzling case

and would be grateful for your insight.

All my...

Best regards,

William.

Detective?

Pardon my saying, but the nature of this crime, sir,

with the dismemberment and the construction

of boxes, the concrete and whatnot,

it suggests a clear head and a steady hand,

neither of which Frumm possesses.

We have only Mr Frumm's claims of being dead drunk last night

and no other finger marks besides his were found on the boat.

Hmm.

What's that you have there, sir?

It's a... gift for an acquaintance.

I'd be happy to wrap that for you, sir. I have this flair for gift wrapping.

Not that the lads need to know that.

I'm fine. Goodnight.

Dear William, a delight to hear from you

and for such an intriguing reason.

Regarding the evidence in the photographs,

I believe the scar tissue on the wrist may be

the result of a radical new procedure we've only just heard about here.

It's called...

Transplantology?

Yes, sir. It's an experimental vascular surgery

where a damaged artery is removed

and replaced with a healthy one from the patient.

Dr Francis knows his stuff.

Not many would have caught this, Murdoch.

Yes. I've contacted the only surgeon in Canada to perform this procedure,

a Dr Leeson in Vancouver,

and he telegrammed me to say

that he had performed one such procedure here in Toronto.

On whom?

Duncan Burnside.

The Duncan Burnside?

Bloody hell, Murdoch.

Are you telling me that Toronto's Citizen of the Year has been

hacked to pieces?

Yes, sir, I believe I am.

Crikey.

I don't understand.

Duncan was supposed to be in Winnipeg finalising details on an orphanage.

And now you tell me someone did such horrible things.

Mrs Burnside,

are you aware of anyone your husband may have quarrelled with?

Anyone who may have wished ill will towards him?

No.

Never a mean word, towards him or from him.

My husband was a champion for children

and now his own will grow up without a father.

It's too cruel.

- Ah, Brackenreid, you wanted to see me. - Yes. Yes, Doctor.

I wanted to commend you on your excellent work in identifying

that Duncan Burnside was the victim in that concrete.

Well, you're very welcome.

Now what the hell are you talking about?

What? Duncan Burnside.

He'd had that new transplantology surgery.

What on earth is transplantology, man?

Oh.

Oh.

Hmm?

Scotch?

Huh.

He's taken photographs.

He's taken photographs and sent them to another doctor!

- Another doctor, you say? - He's undermined me!

Murdoch does do his fair share of reading.

Oddball medical journals and the like. Perhaps transplantology got a mention!

Oh, don't be ridiculous, man!

No.

If Murdoch expects me to expedite work on his cases from now on,

he is woefully misinformed.

Duncan Burnside's post-mortem is moved.

Back of the queue!

Back of the queue!

It could be a week before I know the cause of death with any certainty.

That's far too long in any murder investigation.

It's your own bloody fault, Murdoch.

Dr Llewellyn Francis is nobody's fool.

I needed information so I took the initiative.

Oh, well, bloody medals all over you!

I identified the victim.

Did you have to go to Dr Ogden?

Francis is old school, Murdoch.

When he realises he's been upstaged by a woman, he'll feel humiliated!

- Or was that the plan? - Of course not.

I had to get the truth. And I would do it again.

Do you have any vague impression that you've gone slightly crackers?

This is not like you, Murdoch.

I don't see it that way.

No, no, no, no. Of course you don't.

What did Mrs Burnside have to say?

She said her husband was widely beloved.

Don't they all. Any mention of Arthur Frumm?

She'd never heard the name.

Well. We can't hold him any longer, then. Off he goes.

Have Crabtree chat up Burnside's business associates

and any gentleman doorstops that he ran with.

There might be a nervous nellie in the bunch.

Yes, sir.

Dear William, I trust I was of some help.

It brought back memories of working together.

Please thank Dr Francis for sharing the photographs.

And if you need someone to talk to, do not hesitate.

All my best,

Julia.

So you're at war with a coroner...

Thank you.

And you had to let your squatter suspect go.

Frustrations of the job, eh, Detective?

In truth, I don't miss them.

But surely you didn't invite me here to discuss

something you've handled many times

in your illustrious career.

Well, it's not so much my situation as it is yours.

To what situation do you refer?

Your leaving the constabulary.

Oh.

I suppose it was mostly that, one day,

I found my enthusiasm for the job had left me.

Yet you put your inspector in the hospital.

Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but Cassidy was an ass.

And that was it?

You're an intuitive bugger, aren't you?

I do hope so.

Well... The other shoe, then.

I had been engaged for many years. I kept postponing the wedding.

Too wrapped up in the job, my fiancée said.

Next thing, it was her or the job, and...

When I didn't answer right away, she broke it off for good.

Why these inquiries, Detective?

Curious.

Word of advice, never allow affairs of the heart

to interfere with more important affairs of the world.

With policing these days, and your innovations,

a difference can be made. That's your calling, Murdoch.

At times, it seems as though there are just too many obstacles.

Yes.

Obstacles to justice and to personal contentment

will always plague men like us.

A detective's career is entirely composed

of refusing to accept anything less

than the one, correct outcome.

Obstacles be damned.

- What have you got there, Murdoch? - Sir, this telegram...

Brackenreid?

Over the weekend, all evidence in the Duncan Burnside murder case

has been stolen from my morgue.

Murdoch has shipped it to his Dr Ogden.

I've checked with the CN office.

Have you taken leave of your senses, Murdoch?

They could knock you back to a constable's rank for this.

Sir. Dr Ogden's report.

Deal with him,

in the severest possible manner.

Tell him, Murdoch.

It wasn't only the remains of Duncan Burnside

in that concrete block, Dr Francis.

But the body parts of three separate victims.

Let me see.

Elevated serum urate levels in the liver section.

This victim had gout.

And clear evidence of mucocutaneous lesions. Just at the foot.

This is the syphilitic victim.

And Duncan Burnside's transplantology surgery makes three.

Correct. I can confirm your Dr Ogden's findings.

Also, I've noticed this.

Trace residue of gunshot powder

on the torso section here. But this was obscured by the cement mixture.

So it's likely the victims were shot to death and then hacked to pieces?

Well, this one was, certainly.

Something caught your eye, Detective?

Dr Ogden speculated that the victim's foot

had been bound with rope or some such.

I would concur but for this faint mottling here, do you see?

That's consistent with a more constant pressure.

I'd say this victim had been shackled.

Are you sure, Doctor?

I was prison medical officer at Newgate for three years

before I joined the Yard. I think I'd know.

So it's likely the syphilitic victim

- did hard time in prison? - Yes.

All of this information would have been quite useful much earlier.

I'd say you didn't help yourself in that regard.

A modicum of restraint would have served you better.

Excellent work, Doctor.

Murdoch?

In here now.

I hope you realise how lucky you are, Murdoch.

Lucky, sir?

If it had been one victim and not three,

you'd be facing charges for what you just pulled.

- As I explained, I needed... - Murdoch!

I give you a wide field more often than not.

And I expect that to count for something.

And it does, sir.

You've got some bloody cheek.

And if you ever, ever do something like this again, I will rein you in.

Do we have an understanding?

Yes, sir.

Right, then.

So, we've got one Citizen of the Year, one syphilitic ex-convict,

one unknown with gout and no solid suspects.

Bloody hell. We're almost home.

If we can find a way to somehow link all three of the victims together,

perhaps a new suspect will emerge.

How does a swell like Burnside

connect to a jailbird with the French fever anyway?

- That's a very good question. - I get one out now and then.

Now go find the answer.

Sirs, of the prisoners released last week from Don Jail,

only one was syphilitic. A Cyrus Wheeler.

Served five years hard labour for assault.

- How old is Wheeler? - He's 38, sir.

- Close enough. - He attacked a fellow roomer

in a boarding house. He beat him to within an inch of his life.

So this man waits until Wheeler

is released from prison, then goes after him.

But why kill Burnside and the other unknown victim?

How the hell do I know?

Find this roomer and bring him in.

I would, sir, but he died two years ago.

You could have mentioned that right off the bat, Higgins.

Didn't want to interrupt.

Every time we put two pieces of this jigsaw together,

we get a third that won't fit.

Yes, sir, very frustrating.

Sirs, the constabulary in Coboconk

received a missing persons report this morning

from a Wilma Jelton.

Apparently, her brother, Oslo Jelton

was to be staying at the Empire Hotel here in Toronto and he didn't show up.

- Cobo what? - Coboconk.

Coboconk.

Yes, sir, I believe it means the part of the river

where the gull prefers to nest.

I used to visit my Aunt Clematis there. She worked in the brick kiln.

Crabtree, where the hell is it?

It's a few hours north, sir.

Coboconk.

Safe travels, Murdoch.

Whoa.

- Miss Jelton? - Yes.

Detective William Murdoch, Toronto constabulary.

Have you any news of my brother?

That's Oslo.

And he lived here?

Yes, our family moved here

when Oslo graduated from the University of Toronto.

Miss Jelton, if I may, did your brother have any ongoing physical ailments?

No. Nothing serious.

Mild dyspepsia, a touch of gout.

Is it important?

Just a routine question.

Did you happen to know the nature of your brother's trip to Toronto?

I don't know, I'm sure.

But I found this yesterday in Oslo's study.

I believe it's the reason why he left so hurriedly without explanation.

"A situation requiring our immediate attention has arisen.

"My carriage will pick you up Thursday at the Drake Hotel, 7 pm. "

The telegram is signed by a "D.B."

Did your brother ever mention the name Duncan Burnside?

No. Who is he?

We've identified Duncan Burnside as a murder victim.

Detective, Oslo could not have had a single thing to do with any murder.

No, ma'am, that's not what I'm saying.

No? Then...

Midnight oil?

Sir, have a look at this.

Oslo Jelton and Duncan Burnside, members of the same fraternity.

Hmm.

What's low life Cyrus Wheeler doing with a pair of toffs like these?

- Yes, constable. - Sir,

I've been thinking about it

and I believe I recognise the name Oslo Jelton.

- Come in. Come in, Hodge. - Of course, sir.

Do you recognise him?

Yes. That's him.

How did you know him?

Jelton was a suspect in a rape and murder case about 10 years ago.

Dig out the case file, Constable.

Harriet King was a secretarial school instructor, it would seem.

And Oslo Jelton was involved.

That's correct, sir. Apparently, Jelton was brought in for questioning.

An eyewitness, a pub owner, Richard Duff,

claims to have seen Jelton running from the scene of the crime.

Right. But the pub owner recanted.

Sir...

Mr Jelton's alibi that he was studying in the university library

was corroborated by two witnesses.

A groundskeeper and a fellow student.

The fellow student was Duncan Burnside.

Let me guess. The groundskeeper was Cyrus Wheeler.

Excellent. Now we know how the three victims were connected.

Yes, George. But we still have no idea who killed them.

What's that? The Harriet King crime scene?

Yes, sir. Miss King's body was discovered

in the back of the alleyway here.

And Oslo Jelton was allegedly seen here fleeing the scene of the crime.

- The eyewitness? - Richard Duff.

Originally claims to have come out

of the back of his pub into the laneway here.

And that's when he saw Oslo Jelton running south,

out of the laneway here toward Richmond.

And then, a few days later, he says he never saw Jelton there.

Be nice to know why he changed his mind.

Sirs, the day after Miss King was found, the Gazette quotes Inspector Cassidy

as saying he believed more than one man was involved in the attack.

However in this edition, published just a couple of days later,

he has a different theory.

Only one killer.

And Burnside and Wheeler walk in with Jelton's alibi

and everyone goes back to sleep,

including the broadsheets.

It's got a very ripe odour, doesn't it?

We need to find this pub owner first thing.

Your predecessor might shed some light.

Malcolm Lamb?

Good idea, sir.

Twice in a week.

Harriet King.

Was she the one thrown off the Laird building?

No. No, she was raped and murdered in an alleyway behind the...

Oh, yes. Yes. Downtown somewhere. The Dominion Ale House.

That's the one, yes.

Lord, lord, lord. I was only a constable.

What does Harriet King have to do with anything, God rest her soul?

The cement block that we found contained the remains of three victims.

- Three? - Yes.

And Miss King's murder links all three of them together.

But there was just one suspect, wasn't there?

Oslo Jelton, yes.

He's one of the victims.

And the two men that provided his alibi are the other two victims.

Cyrus Wheeler and Duncan Burnside.

Burnside? Citizen of the Year?

Wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now, Murdoch.

Who's this Wheeler?

A groundskeeper that Burnside and Jelton knew from university.

Don't recall the name.

Well, I won't take up any more of your time.

Glad to see the wind back in your sails, Murdoch.

Suits you better.

- Thank you, Mr Lamb. - Good day.

Now, sir, I found Richard Duff in a ward in the House of Providence.

It seems 30 years of pub life has caught up with him.

I spoke with a nurse there, sir. She says he's got a few weeks at most.

Very good, George.

Mr Duff?

I'm Detective William Murdoch.

That constable says this is about Harriet King.

Yes.

I'm curious as to why your statements to the police

in the days after the Harriet King murder were contradictory.

I got it wrong the first time.

Call it sober reflection.

So you're saying that when you stepped out into that alley,

and saw Oslo Jelton running away

from Harriet King's body, you were drunk.

I was always corned back then and it wasn't Jelton.

Some stranger. Jelton was a regular, so I would know.

You knew Oslo Jelton personally?

So there'd be no way to misidentify him?

Right.

But you did misidentify him. So you said.

I saw what I saw.

Harriet King.

Raped by Oslo Jelton, strangled, and left in the alley like garbage.

Look at her, Mr Duff.

Look at her!

You knew what happened.

You had justice for Harriet King in your hands. You still do.

By God, man, before it's too late for you.

The truth.

Yes, I saw Jelton...

Running away. It was him, but he was yelling.

Yelling?

For some mates to wait up.

And I heard two voices shout back to hurry the hell up, I swear.

Did you see these two men?

Earlier. They'd been in the pub

with Jelton, earlier that night, getting slewed.

So you saw them in the pub together?

Well, one was a toff, like Jelton.

The other was...

I figured they were slumming

because he looked a bit of a riff-raff. But this...

Harriet... She was a nice girl. Nice...

Those boys...

They were all around her that night.

She said "Leave me alone!" but they didn't.

So she left.

But they followed her.

I told myself they were just going home.

But after the poor girl...

Mr Duff, why did you change your story?

- The letter. - What letter?

The anonymous letter!

That said if I didn't change my story, the city would close my pub.

I couldn't bear that. I had a family.

Then, so I went along.

I figured the letter came from Jelton's old man and, well...

He had connections back then, you know.

- Indeed. - I did what I was told!

But then to hound me after, like I'd done something wrong!

That wasn't right.

Mr Duff, I'm confused. Who hounded you?

He kept after me for two years

to change my story, to say that it was Oslo Jelton that I saw

but if I did that, I'd lose everything.

Who? Who kept after you?

That bloody constable!

What constable?

Lamb.

Constable Lamb.

Constable Hodge,

did you know Detective Lamb

during the days of the Harriet King investigation?

Only slightly, sir.

I see. Thank you.

I believe he was engaged at that time,

to a lovely girl.

A Sarah Connolly.

Is Malcolm in any trouble, Detective?

We're simply asking if anyone recalls any details, however small,

about an old murder case. A young woman named Harriet King.

I take it you recall the name.

It was so sad, what happened.

For Harriet, of course, but also for Malcolm.

Malcolm? How is that?

He was bedevilled by that case.

Such that he forgot about everything else, myself included.

You broke off your engagement over the King case?

His obsession with it.

We had a beautiful life ahead of us.

But I think what hurt most was

losing him for reasons I couldn't comprehend. And never will.

If I may, did Malcolm ever mention the names Burnside, Jelton, or Wheeler?

Oh, I'd never forget those names.

Malcolm was convinced they'd raped and murdered Harriet King.

Who was this Wheeler?

A groundskeeper.

Don't recall the name.

I don't know if I should laugh or cry, because, Murdoch,

you know I couldn't have had anything to do with these murders.

I wish I did, Mr Lamb.

- But the facts are the problem. - What facts?

As a constable, you were obsessed with justice for Harriet King.

Who told you I was obsessed?

Sarah Connolly.

Sarah? For goodness' sake.

She was always complaining that I was too interested in this case.

Interested in a case that you told Murdoch you barely remembered?

I also interviewed the pub owner Richard Duff.

He told me you hounded him long after the investigation

to admit that it was, in fact, Oslo Jelton

he saw running from the alleyway.

All right. Yes. But I did that on my own time.

I was just trying to make detective.

Sirs,

no evidence of any kind in the house, I'm afraid.

There. Can we please stop this nonsense?

Mr Lamb,

did you make these birdhouses recently?

Yes. As a gift for the McMurphy sisters.

Ah, yes, the bird watchers.

Inspector, I make these out to be pine.

I'm not certain I see the criminal enterprise

in building birdhouses, Detective.

Unless it's to hide evidence in plain sight, Mr Lamb.

You waited a long time for Cyrus Wheeler to be released from prison.

Then you set your plan in motion.

You lured all three men to the Drake Hotel with phoney telegrams.

Duncan, you in there?

You subdued the men,

then drove them here.

No, please.

Where you shot them...

And then chopped them to pieces.

And with the remains hardening in cement,

you fetched Arthur Frumm's boat,

knowing full well that he would be passed out

from the gin bottle you left beside his tent earlier that evening.

I have a perfect match.

Malcolm Lamb, you're under arrest for murder.

Your condemnation is misplaced, Detective,

unless you also condemn yourself.

I don't follow, sir.

You and I share a relentless devotion to justice.

It's what drives us and sets us apart.

And this devotion to justice...

Is that why you left one of the blocks of remains by the river?

So that we might find it, and possibly solve Harriet King's murder?

Yes, but I never thought you'd track it back to me.

I thought I could outfox you.

Thought wrong.

But if you had put all of the remains in the river...

It's likely you never would have been found out,

if you didn't want to be caught.

It was a calculated risk, yes. But...

There I was in the river,

set to sink that last block, when it occurred to me.

These men raped and murdered Harriet King.

Yes, they deserved a tomb like that foul river, but...

Who would know?

If I sank the block, they'd be gone forever,

without disgrace on their memory.

And all I'd have done was leave poor Harriet King in her eternal grave

without a name to her killers and

no justice at all for her.

But why this case?

Why did it obsess you so?

I thought if I could just get one right thing done,

maybe the constabulary could change.

Stand up to the rich and powerful pulling the strings.

Cassidy came to me one day to say

if I ever hoped to make detective, I'd have to forget about Harriet King,

once and for all.

That day, I made a deal with the Devil.

It was no better than the pub owner who recanted, or

or the broadsheet editors who dropped the story.

At least, I was no better.

Now, I am right with God and Harriet King.

I hope that sustains you in the few days you have left to you, sir.

Thank you, Detective.

Detective?

How is Sarah?

She's well.

She's concerned for you.

Please tell her I'm fine.

Truly fine.