All language subtitles for Murdoch Mysteries (2008) - S04E06 - Dead End Street (1080p BluRay x265 Langbard)

William.

Oh, hello, Julia.

Afternoon, Dr. Garland.

Well, no need for formalities,
Detective.

Please, call me Darcy.

Yes.
Of course.

Well, a delightful event.

Country fair in the midst
of a metropolis.

We just saw a horse-pull.

Please, Darcy, you make us sound
like a city of rubes.

On the contrary.

I find Toronto
a splendidly modern city.

What are you looking at
so intensely, William?

Dollhouses?

It's more than that, Julia.

It's a miniature
Toronto streetscape.

It's unlike anything
I've ever seen before.

It's won first prize.

And deservedly.

It's a most intriguing model.

The faces of the people
have no features.

How curious.

The builder seems
more interested in the homes

than the people
who live in them.

Julia,

have a look at this.

The attention to detail
is quite remarkable.

It's more than remarkable.
Look.

Good heavens.

What is it?

The figure in that room
has a rifle.

I believe we're looking
at a crime scene.

The model was submitted by
a Bert Howland of Cherry Lane,

according to the fair's
organizers.

Sir, where shall I put
these little figures?

Uh, I believe they were at the
end of the street here, George.

So there's someone
holding a gun.

What makes you think that
anyone was shot in that room?

Consider
the accuracy of scale,

the attention to detail.

I'll give you that.

The builder put a gunman

in that upstairs room
for a reason.

Maybe this Bert Howland fellow
was having a bit of fun.

An odd joke
if that's the case, sir.

Piece of fiction, Murdoch.

Don't you have a real live case
to work on, hmm?

Morning.

Don't you walk away
from me.

And where do you think
you're going now?

- You know where I'm going.
- You go to the lodge every day.

- I'll see you later.
- Don't worry about me!

The similarity to the model,
sir, it's--it's uncanny.

It is indeed, George.

We're about to meet
a very skilled craftsman.

I believe Mr. Howland
lives in number six here.

- Mr. Howland?
- Yeah.

Detective William Murdoch,
Toronto Constabulary.

Was it you
that confiscated the model?

Yes.

Excellent craftsmanship.

A fine replica
of your street here.

May I ask why you saw fit
to take it to the station?

A detail was added to the
model that I find most curious,

a man holding a rifle.

A rifle?
Are you sure?

Yes, yes.

In the upstairs window
of your neighbor's house.

Mr. Howland, if I may,

what was your intention
in building the model?

I didn't build it.

That was my sister Lydia.

Ah, may I speak with her then?

I expect her any time.

But that's puzzling.

I don't recall her adding
any man with a rifle.

Detective Murdoch,
this is my sister.

Hello.

Don't mind her.
She won't answer you.

Is she deaf?

No.
She's feebleminded.

Feebleminded?

There's other things
that she's called,

but that's what
it comes down to.

Yet she's capable of building
such an intricate model.

Did you help her?

I grabbed the wood and such,
but she works by herself.

When did she begin
to build the model?

About a year ago.

Uh, Detective...

Lydia, I'm a policeman,
and I need your help.

Don't--don't get
too near her, now.

Do you recall building
the model of your street?

I don't want her upset.

Do you remember, Lydia?

It's okay, Lydia.
It's okay.

Shh, it's okay.

It's okay.
Let's go inside.

Come inside.
Come inside.

Come inside.
Let's go inside.

It's okay.
Come inside.

That's it.

I'm sorry if my questions
disturbed her.

Lydia has her own ways.

She doesn't like people much.

Excuse me.
I need to see her.

George, begin canvassing
the neighbors.

Find out if anyone
knows anything

about a shooting
at number seven.

Sir.

A shooting?
In my house?

Oh, now, you're just
pulling my leg, Detective.

Mrs. Galbraith, Lydia Howland
built a model of this street

and put a man holding a gun
in your upstairs room.

Lydia did that, did she?

Yes.

Do you own a gun,
Mrs. Galbraith?

My hubby, Mr. Galbraith, does.

- A rifle?
- Yes.

Though it's not been fired
in years.

I'll need to speak with him.

He's practicing at the lodge.

Practicing?

He plays the trombone
in the Orange Lodge Band.

Ah, well,
I'll need to speak with him.

About a fictitious gunman?

Lydia is not in her right mind,
Detective.

I'm not saying Bert
isn't trying his best, but...

his wife left him.

"It's your sister, or it's me,"
she told him,

and frankly,
I don't blame her.

That daft girl should be
in one of those institutions!

Thank you, Mrs. Galbraith.

What have you, George?

Well, sir,
I've spoken to several people.

Uh, Mr. Caruso lives
in number five with his wife.

He's very particular
about his peach tree,

which I find suspicious
in itself.

A peach tree is very difficult
to care for in our climate--

George, carry on.

Uh, the Carusos haven't heard
any gunshots, sir.

Hmm.
Who lives in number three?

That would be Felix Roach,
a bachelor.

He repairs furniture.

The Draper family
lives in number two,

and there was no answer
in number four.

Seems like a very close
community, sir.

Everybody's very trusting.
Nobody locks their doors.

Nobody knows anything
about a shooting.

Hmm.

Mr. Galbraith at number seven
does own a rifle.

So do a lot of people,
Murdoch.

I've checked the police records.

There's no report of any
shooting at 7 Cherry Lane.

I find it very hard to believe

that such a precise model
was built by an imbecile.

Ooh, sir, uh,
I believe people such as Lydia

are no longer referred to
as imbecile.

It's felt to be demeaning.

The correct term nowadays
is "moron."

Oh.

Well, I'm not sure either term

fits in this particular
instance.

Isn't it likely that she
invented this gunman character?

Someone would have
heard a gunshot

on such a small street
as Cherry Lane.

Just return it
to its rightful owner, Murdoch,

and get on with some
proper police work.

Yes, sir.

I'll pack it up, sir.

Just a moment, George.

What are you looking at, sir?

The figure holding the gun,
George.

He seems disproportionate

compared to the other people
on the street.

Why would that be?

Let's pay another visit
to Cherry Lane.

And we'll need
to access the armory.

Yes, sir.

All right,
move further back, George.

Counterclockwise.

Now left.

Your other left, George.

No.

The figure in the model
is completely different,

much smaller.

George, please ask
Mrs. Galbraith

to grace us with her presence.

Sir.

So right here, Mrs. Galbraith?

Yes, I moved the mirror
a month or so ago.

What of it?

We appreciate your help,
Mrs. Galbraith.

Well, just remember,
you're carrying it

back downstairs
before you leave.

Uh, so, sir, how did you know
there was a mirror in the room?

It's the only
logical explanation

for the small man, George.

Lydia saw the shooter
reflected in the mirror.

Why would that make him small?

Well, George, the apparent
distance of a reflected object

is always greater
when seen through a mirror.

Lydia was across the street.

Therefore,
the reflected object she saw,

in this case, the shooter,
appeared smaller.

So, then, sir, if she saw
the reflection of the shooter,

that means he was not
actually standing here

at the far side of the room,
but rather...

over here,
hidden from the street.

Yes, George.

Raise the rifle,
if you would, please.

Oh, but then
the angle is wrong.

Hmm.
Completely wrong.

Sir, if Lydia depicted
the back of the shooter,

he would be more like...

Exactly.
That's it, George.

Don't move a muscle.

The putty around this pane
is a different color.

So this pane has been replaced.

Let's see if the owner can shed
some light on the situation.

I don't know anything about
a broken window, Detective.

How long have you
resided here, Mrs. Gordon?

Eight months.

And who lived here previously?

It used to be
a boardinghouse.

And do you know
who the previous owners were?

Yes.
She lives across the street.

Oh, which house?

Number five.

She married Mr. Caruso.

He's Italian.
A fruit peddler.

Wooed his wife with his peaches,
so the neighbors say.

May we come inside, Mrs. Gordon?

So if the bullet traveled
without interference,

this would be the trajectory.

But, sir, what if
the bullet entered the victim

and struck bone?

Would that not change
the path of the bullet?

Why, yes, George.

Uh, like, say... this?

Or, sir, quite conceivably,
even, uh...

that?

Yes, conceivably, George.

Assuming that there even
was a victim, sir.

But if it missed
its intended target--

Uh, sir, if I may.

What if the bullet entered
the victim and lodged there?

It would still be inside him,
or her.

Yes, George.
But if it missed its target...

Or went through a soft,
fleshy part of the poor devil.

Then I might find it...

Suppose it could have
missed the breastbone,

exiting between ribs.

Or even, sir, if he was sitting
next to the window,

perhaps in through one temple

and straight out
through the other.

I suppose then
there would be an off chance

that the bullet would end up--

Here.

A slug from a rifle.

George, go to number seven

and collect
Mr. Galbraith's rifle.

Yes, sir.

That's not a sound
you'd forget in a hurry, sir.

No.

Yet everyone on Cherry Lane

claims they didn't hear
the sound of a gunshot.

We have a match.

So Mr. Galbraith's rifle
fired the shot?

Yes, George, but we still need
evidence of foul play.

Sir, if Mrs. Gordon
is telling the truth,

then that bullet has been in the
wall for the last eight months.

I can't imagine we'll find
any evidence on it.

Perhaps what is hidden to us

a little science
can reveal, hmm?

I suppose this is
the science, sir?

Yes, George,
it's part of it, a chemical,

5-nitrophthalhydrazide.

In this case,
it's reduced to an amino group

with sodium dithionite.

Now, the chemical lies dormant
until it's activated again,

in this case, with an oxidant...

Making
chemiphosphoroluminescence.

And I suppose we're looking
for traces of blood, sir?

Indeed, George.

Now, this compound
was recently synthesized,

but I managed to acquire
a small sample.

Now, if any chemical traces
of blood remain,

the solution will react
with the iron in the hemoglobin.

In the hemo-goblin.

Sir, this bullet
went through somebody.

Yes, George.
But the question is whom?

Mr. Galbraith, we found
a bullet fired from your rifle

with blood on it.

Where?

Across the street
from your house.

I don't know anything
about that.

My wife had no business
giving my gun to you.

Your rifle may have been used

as a murder weapon,
Mr. Galbraith.

How do you explain that?

I have never fired the thing,
not once.

I find that
difficult to believe, sir.

It belonged to my father.

It was his hunting rifle.
Ask anyone on the street.

Partial to rabbit stew, he was.

In this case,
the victim may have been human.

Well, tell me, then.

Who did I kill,
when did I do it, and why?

The man has a point.

You don't have a timeline,
you don't have a motive,

and apart from a rifle slug
with a modicum of blood on it,

you don't even have proof
that a crime was even committed.

You need a body, Murdoch.

Sirs, have a look at this.

There's a darker patch of earth
right here.

If that represents
freshly turned soil,

it could be a grave.

What's the logic of that?

Well, sir, if Lydia saw
the shooting take place,

perhaps she also saw
the body being buried.

Excellent reasoning, George.

Thank you, sir.
I'll fetch a shovel.

Oh, my.

Oh, my goodness.

Well, it's a body, all right.

Looks like a--

What are you doing
with my cat?

Calm yourself, Mr. Roach.

We're just continuing
our investigation.

He lived to a ripe old age,
and he deserves his rest.

I wonder...

George!

Sir?

Have a look at this.

It's unbelievable.

Her attention to minutiae
is staggering.

Or perhaps, sir,
she's just fond of cats.

She is childlike
in some regards.

Perhaps she has an affinity
toward animals.

They can't speak either.

Hmm.

Doctor.

Constable.

So you discovered
a murder took place

on your model street after all.

Yes, I've determined
a murder weapon

and a vague timeline
but no body.

That's inconvenient.

Did you find out who built this?

Yes, the model was built
by a young woman

named Lydia Howland.

Feebleminded, it's believed.

Yet she's capable of
extraordinary skill and focus,

as you can see.

I heard of such a case

while I was
at the children's hospital.

I wonder if your Lydia
is an idiot savant.

She's deficient yet possesses
one area of brilliance.

Really?

That would explain why
her figures have no features.

How do you mean?

I've been haunted
by these blank faces.

Now I understand.

She can't read emotion.

Human faces cause her
great confusion,

so she simply ignores them.

You and I communicate
with eye contact,

but Lydia can't do that.

Uh, thank you very much,
Julia.

This has been very helpful.

Clearly I went about my first
meeting with Lydia all wrong.

And you think
that she witnessed a murder?

Yes.

But I have no body.

Well, I'll start searching

for unidentified shooting
victims in the morgue records.

Thank you.
I'll try to narrow my timeline.

Sir, the shooting occurred
before the Gordons bought

the former boardinghouse
at number four.

Assuming Mrs. Gordon
was telling the truth.

Well, I checked
with city records, sir.

Mrs. Caruso did sell the house
eight months ago.

We need to determine which
boarders left without notice

prior to that date.

Looking for wayward
boardinghouse tenants,

now there's a bloody needle
in a haystack.

George,
check with Mrs. Caruso.

See if she has a good memory
of past boarders.

- Sir, will do.
- Oh, and, sir?

I'm bringing Lydia
down to the station.

What for?
She can't tell you anything.

Perhaps she can communicate
in other ways.

Our small street
is the only world she knows.

Without any features
on the figures,

how does she know
who belongs where?

She has an order in her head.

Maybe it's the way
she dresses each one.

I don't know.

Do your neighbors know
how talented your sister is?

No, they ignore her at best.

And some complain of her
walking up and down the street.

But God knows
she doesn't disturb anyone.

She hasn't talked in 25 years.

She spoke as a child?

She seemed normal
for the first year or so,

apparently, and then
she gradually withdrew.

And she hasn't
uttered a word since.

No doctor could provide
an explanation,

and my parents
went to their graves

not knowing what was wrong.

When did she add the detail
of the gunman to the model?

I don't know.

I never noticed the figure
until you showed me.

It shocks me to think
that image was in her head.

Oh, Lydia.

It's all right, my dear.
It's all right.

It's all right, my dear.
It's all right.

It's all right.

Let's pick up
these chess pieces.

It's all right.
It's all right.

Let's pick these up.

That's it.

Let's pick up
these chess pieces.

That's it.

You see?
There you go, Lydia.

Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.

That's it.

She likes simple tasks.
They calm her.

That's it.

That's extraordinary.

She's putting back every piece
as it was.

Yeah, she has
excellent recall.

She memorized the game?

That's it.

That's it.
That's it.

Shh.

It's clear that Lydia
is very sensitive

to sudden, loud noises.

Like the gunshot.

Yes.

I believe the gunshot
so traumatized her

that when she made the model,
she re-created the shooting

exactly how she saw the street
at that moment.

Even though
she didn't understand

the meaning of the sound.

- That's correct.
- So now what?

She'll build
a model of the station house

at the exact moment
that the two clumsy constables

bumped into one another?

Oh, I don't think so, sir.

Bert was there to calm her

and distract her
with the chess pieces.

When the shooting occurred,
she was all alone.

Making the event
an even greater trauma.

- I believe so.
- Mm.

I still can't fathom
Lydia building this by herself.

Well, sir,
it's not without precedent.

Have a look at this.

That's bloody impressive.

This model was built
by James Henry Pullen,

a man believed to be an imbecile
who couldn't hear or speak.

He built it while living
in an English insane asylum.

And you think
Lydia has the same ability?

- So it would seem, sir.
- Mm.

Can you tap into
what she's thinking?

I don't know
if anyone can do that, sir.

Well, if your theory
is correct, Murdoch,

there may be clues
within the model

that you haven't yet seen.

What are you all looking at?

Mrs. Caruso
was very helpful, sir.

I have a list of all the tenants

who left the boardinghouse
without notice.

Sir?
Sir?

Yes, George?

I'm afraid there are
seven of them, sir.

The inspector's right.

Tracking them all down
will be next to impossible.

Did any of them leave on
or around June 22, 1897?

That's a very specific date,
sir.

May I ask why?

George, when was the last time

there was bunting
in the streets of Toronto?

I suppose that would be

Queen Victoria's
diamond jubilee.

Did anyone leave the
boardinghouse around June 22nd?

Yes, sir,

a Grant Abrams.

I remember it
like it was yesterday.

All of us gathered
at the end of the street

to watch the parade.

All except
the antiroyalist Abrams.

He was miserable to the core.
He stayed behind in his room.

And when did you discover
he had gone?

He left that night.

Broke a window
and stole a carpet.

- A carpet?
- Yes, a good one.

Did you see the broken window
that night?

No.
It was the next morning.

It was shattered glass
everywhere.

Hmm.

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

Well, Abrams did odd jobs

for Mrs. Galbraith
in number seven

when Mr. Galbraith was at work.

Now, I can't say exactly
what those jobs were, Detective,

but when Mr. Galbraith
found out,

there was a real set-to
between the men

right in the middle
of the street.

What it is?

I was just talking
to the detective, Angelo.

Talk, but not-a gossip, huh?

I don't think the Galbraiths
have the best marriage.

Mr. Galbraith,

I now believe the murder victim
on Cherry Lane

is a man named Grant Abrams,

a man you had reason to kill.

Don't be ridiculous.

You deny he had designs
on your wife?

Designs on her?
No, he had his hands on her.

I saw it with my own eyes.

Well, how did you respond?

I beat him soundly.

Cuffed him good and proper
right in the street.

But you continued to harbor
resentment toward him?

Any man would, Detective.

Let's talk about Jubilee Day
and the parade.

- Jubilee Day?
- Yes.

The jubilee parade
went by Cherry Lane, did it not?

Yes.

And everyone gathered
at the end of the street

to watch the parade,
everyone but Abrams.

Yeah, well,
the lecher made no secret

of disliking the monarchy.

You knew he wouldn't be
watching the parade.

What are you getting at?

While everyone was distracted
by the festivities,

you returned to your house.

Begging your pardon,
Detective--

And shot Abrams
with your hunting rifle.

You're right.

I wasn't watching the parade.

Just as I suspected.

I play in the
Orange Lodge Band, Detective.

I was in the parade.

I remember the Orange Lodge
parade on Jubilee Day.

They marched down Queen Street
for three solid hours.

The only thing that Galbraith
was murdering that day

was The Maple Leaf Forever.

Good one, sir.

Trumpet.
That's interesting.

According to his wife,
Galbraith played the trombone.

Trumpet, trombone, triangle.

Either way,
he didn't fire the rifle.

So who did?

Likely another one
of the Cherry Lane residents

who knew Galbraith had the gun.

And used the vantage point
of the Galbraiths' house

to shoot Abrams.

Sir, I believe
the murder was meant

to coincide with the parade.

I checked into
the parade route, sir.

It went along Queen Street East,

passing the end of Cherry Lane
between 4:00 and 4:25 p.m.

But if everyone was together
watching the parade,

will they all provide alibis
for each other?

Time to have a chat
with the neighbors.

Yes, we were all at the end
of the street except for Lydia.

Did she stay at the house?

She was sitting
in her usual spot on the porch.

The commotion
was overwhelming for her.

Did you know Grant Abrams,
Mr. Howland?

We all knew Abrams.

Why is that?

He was a troubled man
who took pleasure

in finding fault in everyone.

And we all seemed to annoy him.

In what way?

Oh, Mr. Galbraith
played his trombone too loudly.

Mr. Roach's cat
sat on his windowsill too often.

Mr. Caruso parked his fruit cart
all wrong.

Did you argue with Abrams?

He didn't like Lydia
walking past his window.

- So you fought?
- More than once.

So if it's suspects
you're looking for,

I'd be on that list.

Did anyone else have reason
to dislike Abrams?

Do you know about
him and Mrs. Galbraith?

I do.
What about it?

Well, after Mr. Galbraith
found out,

Abrams turned his affections
to Mrs. Draper,

and Mrs. Galbraith was
none too happy about that.

Yes, Mr. Abrams did take
a shine to Mrs. Draper.

Such a birdlike creature
with a nervous disposition.

I never understood
the attraction.

But you felt spurned?

My personal feelings
are no business

of the Toronto Constabulary.

They are when
I'm investigating a murder,

Mrs. Galbraith.

Now, where were you
the afternoon of Jubilee Day?

What are you suggesting?

I was watching my husband
in the Orange Lodge Band

like everyone else.

Who saw you?

Well, just about everyone.

If you're looking for a killer,
you should talk to Mr. Draper.

Why is that?

He was very upset
with Mr. Abrams.

He's very protective
of his little wife.

And were the Drapers
at the parade?

Yes.

Oh, as I recall.

Abrams was a cruel man.

He relished
in upsetting Mrs. Draper

with his lewd taunts.

So you disliked Abrams?

Couldn't stand the man.

Enough to kill him?

God, no.
It wasn't me.

I've never used a gun
in my life.

Well, someone shot Mr. Abrams,
Mr. Draper.

Look at Mr. Caruso
at number five.

He had good reason
to kill Abrams.

Oh, why do you say that?

Well, it all started
when Abrams teased Caruso,

stealing peaches from his tree.

Caruso almost stabbed him
with his pruning shears.

Then his shed went up in flames.

He almost lost his whole house.

Well, when did this happen?

Well, the feud escalated
over time.

The fire was last June.

Abrams a rude man.

Disrespectful of my property.

So you attacked him?

Oh, I tell him, "Stop."

He laugh.

He lucky I no stab him
in his heart.

Did Mr. Abrams
burn down your shed?

Who else do, huh?

Where were you at 4:00 p.m.
on Jubilee Day?

I, uh, I was-a watching
the parade.

Who saw you?

Mm, I--I think, uh,
Mr. Roach stand with me.

I no sure.

Why are you asking
about Mr. Caruso?

He's a good man.

- Was he watching the parade?
- Oh, yes, he was there.

What can you tell me
about Grant Abrams?

He was a man
who didn't work enough.

So he would just sit
in his window

and argue with everyone.

He picked on the weak.

Hmm.
Did you have a problem with him?

Me?

Oh, no, I had
no personal grievance,

but I was glad when he left.

Why?

I don't like
my neighbors upset, Detective,

and that's exactly
what he did; he upset everyone.

He turned our street
upside down.

All the residents
of Cherry Lane

were watching
the Jubilee Day parade.

All of them vouch
for each other,

and most of them
had motive to kill Abrams.

A close-knit community
with no shortage of motives.

Have you thought that this
could be a conspiracy, Murdoch?

Every one of them
getting together

to rid the street of Abrams?

I have given that
some thought, sir.

Which would explain
why no one heard the shot

or saw the body removed.

They're all bloody well
in on it!

Sirs.

What is it, George?

Eight people claimed they were
watching the parade that day:

Mrs. Galbraith,
Mr. and Mrs. Caruso,

Felix Roach,
Bert Howland,

Mr. Draper,
with his wife and son.

We know that, Crabtree.
What's your point?

Well, look at the model, sir.

There are only seven figures
at the end of the street.

If Lydia is as precise
as we think she is,

that means one of the residents
of Cherry Lane

wasn't watching the parade.

Which means the missing person
is the gunman.

Or woman.

But who was it?

Julia, I've reached an impasse
in this case,

yet I'm certain that Lydia
holds the key to solving it.

But you can't communicate
with her.

No, and that's
the frustration.

I believe she sees the world
differently than the rest of us.

She does.

Some areas of her mind
are sharply focused

while others don't seem
to function at all.

Because idiot savants
are oblivious to other people,

they're quite single-minded

and therefore capable of
extraordinary accomplishments.

That describes Lydia exactly.

A mysterious combination
of emotional unawareness

and acute intellect.

That's a good description
of someone I know.

How can I communicate
across such a void?

What about using
the world she created?

Did Lydia put herself
in her model?

No.
No, I don't believe she did.

It's interesting.
She has no concept of self?

Julia, I think
you've hit on something.

- Darcy.
- Hello.

Sorry.
I'm interrupting.

No.
Not at all.

I was just leaving.

Good night.

I hope our discussion
was fruitful.

Good night.

This is Cherry Lane on the day
of the jubilee parade,

a street you know very well.

This is Lydia.

Lydia lives...

here.

Yes?

There.
Lydia is home.

But who are the other people,
and where do they live?

I think...

that this is Bert.

Bert lives here

with Lydia.

All right.
That's not Bert.

Hmm.

This looks like a young lad.

I think this is Tommy Draper.

And Tommy lives here.

Right.
Um...

Maybe this is Bert.
Hmm?

Mister...

Mr. Draper?

Mr. Draper.

George, please, if you would.

Well, then maybe this is Bert.

Now, Bert is home.

Mrs. Draper.

George, Mrs. Galbraith.

Mrs. Draper...

Mrs. Caruso.

Mrs. Draper then.

Mrs. Draper.

This must be Felix Roach.

Mr. Caruso.

George.

Felix Roach?

The only person on the street
with no motive.

What if this is all
some kind of a game, Murdoch?

Sir, I don't think
Lydia understands

the concept of games.

Even if she's right
and Roach is the murderer,

we can't arrest him
without evidence, Murdoch.

You need hard facts,

not some airy-fairy theory
based on a woman who can't talk.

And what about his alibi?

He was watching the parade
with everyone else, was he not?

Perhaps he wasn't.

But I've already told you
where I was, Detective.

Oh, check with Mr. Caruso.

Mr. Caruso's memory
is somewhat foggy.

So you saw
the Orange Lodge Band

go by the end of Cherry Lane?

Plain as the nose on my face.

Then perhaps you can tell me.

What instrument
was Mr. Galbraith playing?

A trombone.

Are you sure?

Well, of course.
He's played it for years.

Not on Jubilee Day, he didn't.

Uh, well, what do you mean?

The trumpeter
came down with influenza.

Mr. Galbraith filled in
and played the trumpet,

not the trombone.

I could have sworn
that he was--

You never saw the parade,
did you, Mr. Roach?

Of course I did.

I just didn't remember
that Galbraith

was playing a different
brass instrument.

I find that most curious,
Mr. Roach.

Are you going to arrest me,
Detective?

A John Doe
shot through the neck

was found in a railway car
in Ottawa on June 26th.

A few days after
Grant Abrams disappeared.

This sounds promising.

The train
had come from Toronto,

and the body
was wrapped in a carpet.

That sounds like our victim.

I'm sorry I can't give you
any further details,

Mr. Abrams now being
a skeleton in a pauper's grave,

but I'll continue
to look through the file.

Thank you, Julia.

That's Grant Abrams,
and that's my carpet.

Thank you, Mrs. Caruso.
This is most helpful.

A body
and a positive identification.

Now we're getting somewhere.

How did Roach get the body
onto a train?

Sir, I believe Roach
moved Abrams' body in his cart

while everyone was asleep
after the day's revelries

and dumped his body
in a railway car

at the Booth Street
railway siding,

half a block from Cherry Lane.

You're almost there, Murdoch.
You've almost got him.

Not quite, sir.
I still don't have a motive.

Mmm.

William, am I interrupting?

Julia.
Of course not.

I've been through
the John Doe file.

I must say, the Ottawa coroner
was quite thorough.

Look at these.

Oh, my.

These wounds to Abrams' arms
are quite curious.

The coroner posited
that they were defensive.

Could that be possible?

Well, it's possible
but not likely.

Abrams was shot
from across the street.

Whatever happened, they were
inflicted before he died.

Hmm, defensive wounds
to both forearms.

There's also evidence
of inflammation,

as though Abrams had
an allergic reaction

to whatever injured him.

Could it be a reaction
to some kind of metal?

Nickel, perhaps?

I've seen a similar response,
of all things, to cat scratches.

Cat?

He lived to a ripe old age.
He deserves his rest.

Julia, I think I have
another body for you to look at.

Well, the cat's hyoid
was fractured.

- The cat was throttled?
- Yes.

Strangled to death?
That's horrible.

The cat would have experienced
the frightening sensation

of air hunger and no doubt
struggled violently.

Fighting for its life,
the poor little thing.

Clawing at the killer's arms.

Mr. Roach claimed
his cat died of old age.

Mr. Roach's cat
sat on his windowsill too often.

That's why
Roach killed Abrams.

What do you mean?

Roach's cat annoyed Abrams.

Perhaps Mr. Abrams
strangled the cat,

and in retaliation,
Mr. Roach shot Abrams.

Would the death of a cat
be sufficient motive for murder?

Yes.

As a pet owner, Doctor,
I'll vouch for that.

Right then, George.

Head down to Cherry Lane
and impound Mr. Roach's cart.

I'll meet you
at the station house.

Sir.

Once again, thank you, Doctor.

Sir.

Felix Roach's cart.

It looks to see
an awful lot of use, sir.

I can't imagine
any trace evidence from a body

could still be found
after all this time.

Well, let's see, George.

Assuming the body
was put in headfirst--

uh, lift up the handles,
please, George.

Oh, yes.
I see what you mean.

Blood from any wound
would run down to the end there.

Precisely.

What kind of a man kills a cat
with his bare hands?

In the carriage, Mr. Roach.

I did you all a favor!

You'll not say it out loud, no,
but you know it.

I did you a favor!

She made the model by herself?

- She did that.
- Huh.

If it wasn't for Lydia,

we never would have
solved the murder.

If you need a hand
from time to time, Bert,

any help that we can offer.

Thank you, Mrs. Galbraith.

So on the afternoon
that Roach killed Abrams,

Lydia was sitting on the porch
plain as day.

Roach must have seen her.

Oh, I think he did.

But like everyone else
in this neighborhood,

he assumed she was oblivious.

And yet she remembered
everything.

Do you think she was aware
she was recording a murder

when she made that model?

We'll never know.

I suppose she lives
in a world of her own.

Such a lonely place.

Why do you say that?

Because she can't
communicate her feelings.

You believe
that makes her unhappy?

Well, it would
make me unhappy.

Hmm.

I don't think Lydia
views her life the way we do.

I think there's a solace
and certainty and order

that sustains her.

And that's enough?

Sometimes it has to be.