All language subtitles for s02e09 - Convalescence.eng

Subtitling made
possible by Acorn Media

Item number two.

Pertaining to the recent escape
from Kingston Penitentiary.

There's been reports that
the fugitive, Joel Harris,

has been seen in the
vicinity of Union Station.

Take a good look and
keep your eyes peeled.

If this character is out there,

I want this station
to bring him in.

Understood? Right, then.

- Detective Murdoch.
- Item number three.

There's been
sightings of swindlers

playing a three-card monte con

in the area of Shuter
and Parliament.

Thank you.

That's two blocks
away from our station.

That, gentlemen, is...

It's a bloody
disgrace is what it is.

Now let's get out there
and do some real policing.

None of this standing
on street corners,

chatting up
bloody factory girls.

So, am I a statue, then?

Statue. Yes, thank you.

You walked straight past me
while I was addressing the men.

- There were snickers.
- Oh.

- Terribly sorry, sir.
- Yes.

The sincerity of your apology
touches me deeply, Murdoch.

What have you got there, anyway?

They're for a device
I've conceived.

Convex or concave?

Parabolic, actually.

They're a special design
that allows incoming rays

to focus on a
specific point in space,

vastly amplifying ambient light.

If you say so.

I intend to build a
goggle-like device

that will allow me
to see in the dark.

Night-vision goggles, eh?

Suppose they could
come in handy one day.

Sirs?

There's been a murder.

What have you, George?

Uh, sir.

The body was
found here as it lies.

He was stabbed in the neck,
but there's no blood on the ground.

I'm thinking he was killed
somewhere else and dragged here.

Sound analysis, George.

Perhaps the killer
wasn't quite finished.

You there.

Toronto Constabulary.

Identify y...

Sir!

- Whoa!
- Sir!

Sir!

You have a concussion,
two cracked ribs,

a bruised ankle, torn ligaments
in both your knee and elbow,

and a gash the
size of Yonge Street

running up the
length of your forearm,

and you're whimpering
about a little needle.

I just don't see it
as necessary is all.

It's just a little mercury
to help ward off infection.

Come in.

Hah.

Mrs. Kitchen, Mrs. Burgess.

I'm just checking
on our young man.

Here. I made him
his favorite dessert.

Tapioca. Yum.

Now, you just remember,
if you need anything,

anything at all, you
just tap on my door.

Oh, um, excepting
for the next hour or so,

because Mrs. Burgess and I,

we have a church
meeting to attend.

I do hope you feel better soon.

Thank you.

It's not your favorite?

Mrs. Kitchen is a lovely woman.

But a cook she is not.

Acting detective?

Just until Detective
Murdoch recovers, of course.

Well, you'll have to do
more than just strut around

acting like a detective.

Well, sir, I believe my tutelage
under Detective Murdoch

has more than
prepared me for the role.

I'm involved already.

To bring in an
outside detective now

seems like some
sort of admission

that our station can't
handle its own business.

Hm.

Very well.

But you'd better solve it.

I won't disappoint you, sir.

All right.

I've left you with a loose
dressing on your arm.

And I want you to check
it twice a day for infection.

I will.

Come in.

Enid.

Mrs. Jones.

I'm sorry. I didn't know
that you had company.

Where are my manners?

Mrs. Enid Jones,
Dr. Julia Ogden.

Pleased to meet you.

Likewise.

Well, I should go.

Do keep an eye on that wound.

Yes, I will. Thank you.

Oh, William.

Look at you.

Oh, I'm quite all right.

So, it's the old
bloody tin, then, is it?

Tin, sir?

Tin flute... suit.

Oh. Yes. Well, it
seemed only appropriate.

A detective can't go about
dressed as a constable.

No, I suppose not.

So, what's your plan,
then, Detective Crabtree?

I'm off to the morgue to get
the results of the postmortem.

Right. Off you go, then.

Sir, I'm wondering, in
the interest of efficiency,

if I shouldn't have
my own protégé.

Someone to assist
in the investigation.

Protégé?

Young Higgins has
shown some initiative.

Young Higgins it is, then.

Thank you, sir.

Crabtree.

The victim died as
a result of blood loss,

which you've probably surmised.

It doesn't look like
much, I'll admit,

but it sliced the jugular vein,
and that was pretty much that.

There's also a
scratch on his cheek.

Suggesting a struggle, perhaps?

Let's take a look at the
stomach contents, shall we?

Oh, good.

Hmm.

Shallots.

French cuisine, I believe.

Perhaps he ate in
a French restaurant,

um, before he was killed.

Mm. I'd look for one
that serves finger food.

Oh, like hors
d'oeuvres and such?

No. I mean finger food.

Oh, my.

It appears to have
been preserved.

I wonder.

Yes.

I noticed that his
finger was missing.

Now the question would be...

What was it doing
in his stomach?

Better you than me, mouse.

We have reason to
believe that the victim dined

at a French restaurant
shortly before he was killed.

French? Didn't even
know we had those.

Well, we do now.
Several, apparently.

Higgins has the
addresses over here.

I don't really like
them that much.

French restaurants?

No, the French.

I've got three
addresses here, sir.

Excellent, Henry. Read them out.

La Bonne Nuit at
29 Wilton Street.

Chez Pierre at 99 Albert.

As well as Le Petit at...

Stop, stop, stop, stop.

Is it not obvious?

Here's Chez Pierre, and
here's where you found the body.

And you call yourself
bloody Murdoch.

William! Stop!

Shh! Listen.

Mrs. Kitchen?

Mrs. Kitchen?

I heard a noise.

Are you all right?

Mr. Murdoch.

Mrs. Burgess.

What are you doing?

Where is Mrs. Kitchen?

She left.

Where did she go?

It's her sister.
She's in a bad way.

What's wrong with her?

Typhus.

The doctors say she
won't last the weekend.

Oh. Oh, I'm very
sorry to hear that.

I'm going to take responsibility

for everything here
until she returns.

Is there anything
I can get for you?

No. No.

I-I heard thumping sounds.

That would have been the
porters with her luggage.

I see.

If there's anything
you need, just shout.

Perhaps he was like a... like
an irate customer, you know?

Took things too far.

You know what? It could
have been a gang killing.

I've heard of them
happening in restaurants.

Well, let's not be
speculative, Henry.

We're not even sure
that the murder took place

in the restaurant.

Now, the body was found here.

The restaurant is right there.

You go. You go now.

- There's someone in there.
- Sounds mad, too.

Hello!

You go! You get out of here!

Did he just tell us to scram?

Cheeky bugger.

Hello?

Show yourself.
This is the police.

They may be trying
to sneak out the front.

Higgins, wait.

It's blood.

Henry... I believe we've
found our crime scene.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Polly want a cracker? Polly...

It's no good. Now he won't talk.

Try speaking to him in
French. You know French.

Uh, Polly...

uh, voulez-vous un...

um...

cracker?

Do you even have a cracker?

I've got a biscuit.

You call this vomit quiche?

Bloody cheek.

Bloody hell, a parrot.

Tu es un cochon.

Tu es un cochon.

- Tu es un cochon.
- What did he say?

I believe he just
called you a pig, sir.

He what?

"Cochon" is French for "pig."

You go. You get out of here.

Cochon. Cochon.

I spit at you.

He doesn't seem to think
much of you at all, sir.

Yes. Well, the feeling's mutual.

What's he doing here, anyway?

Well, it seems he was
abandoned at the crime scene.

We had no choice.

Well, you've got
one now, Crabtree.

I want him out of here.

Henry, put him in my office.

Did you find anything
besides a cheeky bloody bird?

Uh, well, sir, it
seems the victim

was the proprietor
of Chez Pierre.

An acquaintance is coming by
the morgue to identify the body.

What evidence
have you uncovered?

We found a bloody
knife at the scene.

Any fingermarks?

- Several.
- Several?

Well, it was a kitchen knife.

Still, Higgins is about to take
statements and fingermarks.

I'm convinced we'll
have the killer by noon.

Noon?

Well, afternoon. Late afternoon.

If you nail him by the time
that we're all ready for a pint,

I'll kiss that bird on
the bleeding beak.

Come in.

Oh, good morning.

Well, you've been busy.

This is your
night-vision apparatus?

Not quite. Almost.

Parabolic, are they not?

- You know about...
- Of course.

It's what they use in
reflecting telescopes.

I made one with Alwyn last year.

You made one?

I couldn't afford to buy one.

Alwyn was so keen.

So I found a
book at the library.

There really wasn't much to it.

Good morning! Mr. Murdoch.

Good morning, Mrs. Burgess.

I made you some eggs
and beans if that suits you.

That's perfect. Thank you.

Mmm.

What?

I can't believe you
made a telescope.

It turned out a bit
blurry after all that.

I think the focal
length was off.

Oh. Here.

Let me.

Oh, God.

It's him.

It's Pierre.

Pierre LaRue.

The proprietor of the
restaurant, correct?

Mon bon ami.

So you knew him well?

15 years.

We used to own a restaurant
together on Wilton Street.

He was a brilliant chef.

Right. Yes. La Bonne Nu-it.

La Bonne Nuit.

Yes. It's mine now.

Pierre and I had a
falling-out a few years back...

Over a parrot, of all things.

Oh, yes. I think we
have said bird in our care.

In fact, if you'd like
to take possession...

Good Lord, no.

Horrid beast.

Said the most terrible things.

To the customers, no less.

Do you know anybody who may
have wanted to hurt Mr. LaRue?

Well, uh, I heard he had to
fire his sous-chef last week.

For what reason?

Some tiff over a crème brûlée.

Came to blows, apparently.

His kitchen staff will
be able to tell you more.

Hmm.

Yes. Well, thank you, Mr...

Oh, I'm sorry. I
didn't get your name.

Brighouse. Hugo Brighouse.

Thanks again.

Oh, yes.

Mr. Brighouse, you
wouldn't be able to tell me

how he came to lose
his finger, could you?

Pierre lopped that off years
ago while julienning carrots.

Kept it pickled in a jar
as a reminder to his staff.

What a character he was.

Mr. Murdoch!

What are you doing?

I thought I heard
someone in the attic.

Nonsense. No one's up
there. Now you come down!

What do you think you're doing,

gallivanting about
in your condition?

I suppose it could
be people next door.

We do share a
common attic space.

Most likely it's just squirrels.

You get right back into bed,
and I will bring you some lunch.

Oh, no, thank you.
I'm really not hungry.

You're feverish.

You know what your mother said.

"Feed a fever, starve a cold."

Actually, I think it's...

No. Shh, shh.
No. Enough of that.

So, what have you discovered,
then, Detective Crabtree?

- Fisher, file these.
- Thank you, sir.

Well, we've questioned
the restaurant staff.

Higgins is checking
their alibis now.

My money's on the sous-chef.

Motive?

He and the victim didn't get on.

In fact, had a physical
altercation just last week.

It's bad news, sir.

All the restaurant
staff's alibis check out.

Even the sous-chef?

His presence in the
Laughing Beagle was noted

by no fewer than four patrons
as well as the bartender, sir.

That's impossible. His thumbmark
was on the murder weapon.

Not to overstep
my place, Detective,

but chefs use knives, sir.

So, what's your next
step, then, Murdoch?

William, what are you doing?

Hello.

Someone's removing
the lathing and plaster

from the walls in
the house next door.

Maybe they're doing some work.

The owners are away.

What better time
to have work done?

Oh.

Yes. I suppose you're right.

Are these your
night-vision goggles?

- Oh, I wouldn't exactly...
- Can I try them?

Be careful.

Can't see anything.
Everything's too bright.

That's because they're
meant to be used in the dark.

Are you gonna eat your meat pie?

- No.
- Can I have it?

No. I don't want you
to spoil your appetite.

Besides, Mr. Murdoch
needs his energy.

That's all right. I
don't intend to eat it.

Your fever's getting
worse. You need to eat.

- Aaa...
- Aaa...

How is it?

Worse than Mrs. Kitchen's.

Allô.

Allô. Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Not now, parrot.

Any new developments?

No, sir. We've come
to a bit of a dead end.

You go now.

You go now.

You get out of here.

- You keep your beak shut.
- Cochon.

You know what you
have to do now, don't you?

Cochon.

No, sir, I don't.

Get to work.

You didn't think it was
gonna be handed to you

on a silver platter, did you?

No, sir.

Cochon. Cochon.

I spit at you. I spit at you.

If you want spit,
I'll put you on a spit.

That'll keep your
bloody trap shut.

Mange le doigt.

No. No.

Mange your own bloody
doigt, you daft bird.

Liven up, Crabtree.
Start thinking.

Sir?

Sir? What was that all about?

Oh, the inspector
was just giving us

a bit of a dressing-down.

Mm. Yeah.

But why did he tell the parrot
to eat his own bloody finger?

Eat his own fin...

What? Sorry. What?

"Mange le doigt" is "eat
the finger" in French, sir.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Why can't we
always be like this?

Because we want
different things.

You want children.
You want a family.

I only want you.

That's not true,
William. You know it.

All I know is that I will never
love anyone like I do you.

We never love the
same way twice.

But you will love again.

Love is like gravity, William.

You have to let yourself fall.

Alwyn!

You should wake up now.

Why?

Because someone's in your room.

No. No.

Are you telling me that that
bloody parrot is a witness?

Sir, the parrot said,
"Mange le doigt,"

which means "eat
the finger" in French.

And, of course, the victim had
ingested his own severed finger.

Since when do you speak French?

Oh, Higgins told me. His
mother hails from the Gaspé.

Mm. Eat the finger, eh?

Sir, it's my theory
that the parrot

is reliving the
trauma of the murder.

What are you
now... A bird alienist?

Well, it's just speculation
based on observation, really.

But yes, you and I are
thinking along the same lines.

That's a chilling
thought, Crabtree.

Sir! It's Detective Murdoch.

There's been some
attempt on his life.

I'm telling you,
someone was in my room.

He tried to smother
me with a pillow.

Then why are you still alive?

Perhaps he wasn't
trying to kill me.

He was just looking
for something to steal.

Like your night-vision goggles.

You don't have
much here to steal, sir.

It has something to
do with the noises.

I'm sure of it.

- Noises?
- Yes.

From the attic.

And the walls.

Sir, is it possible you're
having a touch of delirium?

I mean, you do have
one devil of a fever.

But I'd already
woken from my dream.

Yes, but do you know how
sometimes you can awake

from one dream
into another dream?

I mean, once I dreamt
that I could pull plums

out of my navel.

And then I woke, and there
was still a plum sticking out.

There. You hear that?

I heard something.

Someone's up there.

Well, let's have
a look, shall we?

There's no one up here, sir.

Ah.

That's your problem.
That's your prowler.

- Oh.
- I'll sort it out.

Oh!

Sir! Are you all right?

No, I'm not.

I'm sunk to my bloody pebbles.

Oh.

What were you thinking?

We were investigating a
noise in the attic, ma'am.

I tripped over a bolt.

Simple clumsiness on my part.

What a bolt was
doing sticking up

through an attic
floor in the first place.

What am I going
to tell Mrs. Kitchen?

Poor thing.

There she is,
watching her sister die,

and then she has
to come home to this.

It's all too much.

Dreadfully sorry, ma'am.

The police department
will pay for the damages.

I accept your apology, but I
must please ask you to desist

from wrecking Mrs.
Kitchen's property any further.

Yes, ma'am.

Right, then. Back to work.

But... But, sir, we have
to investigate this further.

Murdoch, there's
nothing to investigate.

Do try to get some rest, sir.

- Constable.
- Higgins!

Uh, excuse me. Detective.

A Mr. Struthers to see you, sir.

Ah.

Ah.

I understand you
have parrot troubles.

He's here.

I know he's here.

William.

William!

How long has he been like this?

Most of the morning, I'm afraid.

He's got quite the fever.

It's more than that.

I'm going for help.

I need you to apply a cold
compress to his forehead.

Yes. Of course.

He's sleeping right now,

but when he's awake,
he's very talkative.

Ah.

The African gray!

Oh, smart bird. Very smart.

I captured one of those
in the Congo Free State

as a gift for Beatrice.

Princess Beatrice?
The queen's daughter?

Mm.

Cochon. Tu es un cochon.

Pig. You go. You go now.

Foul-tempered brute, what?

You go.

You get out of here.

We best do as he says.

We don't want to aggravate
it more than necessary.

They hold grudges,
these things, you know.

- Is that right?
- Oh, yeah.

So, do they understand
what they're saying, then?

If you mean verb for
verb, suffix for suffix, no.

But they get the gist of it.

A parrot knows when
he's cussing you out.

Oh, yes. Sorry about that.

No, they're fickle creatures.

Like women and bull elephants.

You never know what
they're going to do.

Had one charge me once.

Across a dry lake
bed in Tanganyika.

A woman or an elephant?

Ah, yes. That's very good.

Oh.

Mr. Struthers, is it possible

that the bird is prone
to these outbursts

because he's been
upset by the murder?

I mean, do they have the
mental capacity for such trauma?

Absolutely.

These birds form strong
social attachments.

They mate for life, you know.

Still, he's very mercurial.

I haven't been able to
figure out what it is exactly

that sets him off.

Well, it could be anything.
Could be my pipe.

The clothes I'm wearing.

Perhaps I remind
him of the murderer.

Excuse me. Dr. Ogden.

Oh, hello, Mrs. Jones.

It's William. He's
weak and feverish.

Really? Sounds
like an infection.

It's not just the fever.
It's... It's the way he looks.

Not everyone responds
well to mercury and opium.

Perhaps I should go to him.

Hyah!

So, is it just you and your son?

Alwyn. Yes.

His father died two years
past. Quite suddenly.

I'm sorry.

That must have
been terribly difficult.

It was.

More for Alwyn than for me.

I lost a husband, but
I gained a purpose.

He had no such compensation.

You seem to be
managing very well.

Well, that's relative, isn't it?

Look at you. You're a doctor.

That couldn't have been easy.

No, it wasn't.

I guess the things we care
most about are worth fighting for.

Yes, I suppose they are.

Hyah!

Now, this is
going to hurt a bit.

I thought your condition
would have improved by now.

Have you been keeping
to your bed, William?

More or less.

Like a jack-in-a-box
keeps to his box.

I'm taking you off opium.
That should quell the nausea.

But I don't like
the look of you.

I think I should stay for a bit.

Oh, no, no, no. I'll stay.

I have nothing
pressing until dinnertime.

Well, it's quite all right.
I'm free all afternoon.

What this young
man needs is sleep.

And he can't do that with
you two hens clucking.

Shoo. Shoo.

Promise me you'll keep
to your bed, William.

Yes. No more
chasing strange noises.

Now, Mr. Murdoch.

I want you to eat this special
chicken soup I've made for you.

Sir, it's my contention

that the parrot is not
reacting to you, per se.

But rather, there's
something about you

that reminds him of the killer.

You saying I
look like the killer?

Both you and Mr. Struthers have
reddish hair and muttonchops.

The parrot took an instant
and vocal dislike to both of you.

Do any of your suspects
have red hair and muttonchops?

Well?

No, sir.

So, what are you gonna do, then?

Comb the city looking for men
with red hair and muttonchops?

Crabtree, I believe
you can solve this case,

but my patience is running out.

If I don't see any results
by tomorrow morning,

I'm gonna bring Phillips
in from Station Three.

Pshh. Shoo.

I don't understand
why you're still so sick.

Do you know what
your mother used to say?

"Feed a fever, starve a cold."

It's the food.

I've been drugged.

There's been reports that
the fugitive, Joel Harris...

I want this station
to bring him in.

Mr. Murdoch?

I have a special drink
to settle your stomach.

Emily?

What's going on?

What's happened
to the lights up there?

Emily?

Emily?

I know you're up here, Murdoch.

I can hear you breathing.

You know...

we never wanted to hurt you.

But now...

you are not leaving
me any choice.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Try the pipe again.

We tried the pipe already, sir.

Oh, you're right.

Bonjour.

You can take that
wig off if you want.

There must be something
else setting him off, but what?

What are you doing, sir?

Detective Murdoch
has these moments

where he'll stare at a problem,

and the answer
just comes to him.

Bonjour.

Cochon. You go.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Get out of here. Mange le doigt.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Cochon.

Oh, it's no use.

The inspector's right.

"And you think you're
bloody Murdoch."

Cochon!

Right, then, parrot. I've
had just about enough of you.

You want spit?

- I'll put you on a spit.
- Cochon.

- That'll shut your trap!
- Cochon.

Cochon. You are a pig.

The parrot is not remembering

- the way the killer looked.
- It's his accent, sir.

I say, old boy!

Cochon. Cochon.

You go. You get out of here.

You go.

You go.

You get out of here.
You get out of here.

Hugo. Hugo.

Brighouse. Hugo Brighouse.

Henry...

I believe our mystery is solved.

Mrs. Kitchen.

Oh.

It was just so dreadful.

And I thought she was my friend.

And a-a church friend, no less.

Mrs. Kitchen, did they
say what they were after?

No.

But I do know it was something
that belonged to Mr. Christie.

H-He used to rent the
room that y-you're in now.

He did it in exchange for
work around the house.

He was shady
character, let me tell you.

He did some of the most
lovely plasterwork, though.

Oh, dear.

W-We'd best hurry.

Mrs. Kitchen, I need your help.

You...

My help?

- Where is he?
- I don't know.

Tell me where he is.

All right.

He's...

right behind you.

Aah!

- Ha!
- Aah!

Mr. Murdoch!

- Oh.
- Oh, Mrs. Kitchen.

I need you to do
me one more favor.

Of course, my dear.
W-What is it you want?

Get help.

Oh.

Help. Yes.

Help.

When he opened
his own restaurant,

I-I took it rather badly.

I played a prank.

He retaliated.

So I retaliated. And so on.

Until things went too far.

He hid his pickled
finger in my shrimp salad.

It was beyond the pale.

So... I confronted
him that night.

After closing.

And you forced the
finger down his throat?

Yes.

And then he picked up a knife.

And the next thing I knew,
there was blood everywhere.

Pierre.

He claims it was an
accident, does he?

I believe him, sir.

He seems genuinely grieved.

They used to be good
friends, you know.

Until the parrot
came between them.

Now, why doesn't
that surprise me?

So, what's gonna
happen to that bloody bird?

Mr. Struthers has
offered to release him

into the wilds of the Congo
on his next trip to Africa.

You've done a passable job
on this case, Detective Crabtree.

Well, faint praise.

But from you, sir, I'll take
that as the highest compliment.

Well, the infection has receded.

The chloral hydrate
they were feeding you

was weakening your defenses.

- How do you feel?
- Better.

Indeed.

Your fever's gone.

And the pain?

I can bear it.

Yes, I know you can.

I just heard.

Are you all right, William?

I'm fine.

Well... what on earth happened?

It's a long story.

Yes. Well, I should
leave you to tell it.

Thank you, Dr. Ogden.

You're welcome, Detective.

Is it true?

Is Mrs. Burgess really
a confidence trickster?

Yes.

A former tenant stashed
some stolen gold in this house.

His cell mate
found out about it.

And his cell mate was none
other than Mrs. Burgess' boyfriend.

They decided to retrieve it but
didn't know where it was hidden.

So all those noises you heard?

Them searching.

But why imitate
a little old lady?

When they learned that a
police officer was living here,

they needed a
credible way inside.

What they hadn't planned on
was my being here all the time.

So the charade grew.

Precisely.

They poisoned my food,

hoping to search while
I was incapacitated.

And after all that, they
still didn't find the gold.

Shame.

It could have paid
for all this damage.

He did some lovely plasterwork.

What was a bolt
doing sticking up

through the attic
floor in the first place?

Oh, I suspect it will be found.

In fact, later we could...

Was that too bold?

No.

When I saw you
lying there yesterday,

I thought that I might lose you.

And I'd only just found you.

I plan on being here
a good long time.

Good.

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