All language subtitles for Murdoch Mysteries - 05x12 - Murdoch Night in Canada.2HD.English.C.orig.Addic7ed.com

No, it's good. It's good.

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

- Nice out there.
- Yeah.

Are you all right? You
took that hit pretty hard.

Oh, I think I'll survive.

Damn it, Driscoll, stop that!

It's called control.

I'd hazard you could learn some of that.

As could you, Eddie.

You almost injured three
of your teammates today.

The Shamrocks, the Victoria's,
they come at you in waves.

We need to be ready.

Captain.

I said stop that.

He's still smarting after being made

to look the fool on the ice.

- Watch your mouth, Driscoll.
- Easy, boys.

We all play for the same side.

Not all of us.

Driscoll here doesn't play for the team.

He plays for himself.

And you're lucky to have me.

You care nothing for the science

and strategies of this game.

Science my arse.

I skate like the devil

and get the puck past the goalkeeper,

which I haven't seen you doing lately.

Take it easy. Take it easy.

Captain, you all right?

What is wrong with you?

Simpson, man.

Come on, wake up.

Sorry, Simpson. I didn't think.

That's your problem, Eddie.

Looks like we could all use a drink.

The Mongoose and Ferret?

I'll be there presently.

Ow.

Crabapple.

Eddie Driscoll. Good to see you.

Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes.

Sorry I kept you waiting, Georgie boy.

I had a little errand to run.

Quite all right.

It's on the house, sir.

And my friend here?

Of course.

Not bad for a working man, eh, George?

You know, I read in The Gazette

that somebody by your name
had joined the Wellingtons.

Thank you. I was sure it would be you.

Been here a month.

Look at you now, a big city copper.

And a mystery novelist.

I published a novel.

I brought you an autographed copy.

Now, I signed it to you and Lydia.

I wasn't sure if...

Married last year.

Married?

That's fantastic.

I'm very happy for you both.

Well, what can I say?

I guess the best man won.

His name is Archibald Simpson.

He was found at 6:15
by one of his teammates,

Mr. Jerome Bradley.

I've yet to take his internal temperature,

so I can't give you a
precise time of death.

And the cause?

Uncertain,

but he appears to have suffered an injury

to the back of the head.

According to Mr. Bradley,
sir, the victim was involved

in a dustup after the afternoon practice.

Where is this Mr. Bradley?

He's just outside.

Bring him in, Henry.

Jerome Bradley?

You know him?

When I was younger.

Emily.

Hello, Jerome.

Mr. Bradley, I understand that Mr. Simpson

was involved in a scuffle earlier.

Yes, he took a punch
and bashed his head open

on that post there.

There was quite a lot of blood.

He came to, though.

What time was this?

5:00 or thereabouts.

You think that's what killed him?

If he suffered subdural bleeding,

death could have been
delayed an hour or more.

Who delivered the punch?

Eddie Driscoll is his name.

Where might I find this Mr. Driscoll?

At the Mongoose and Ferret.

Eddie Driscoll?

Pleasure to meet you.

Buy you a drink?

I never say no to another.

Really gave it to those boys from Ottawa.

That I did.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I'm talking to my good friend here.

Well, been a happy man since I discovered

the true love of my life.

Or should I say, since it found me?

It'?

Hockey of course.

Detective Murdoch.

Oh, please, make the acquaintance

of my good friend Eddie Driscoll.

It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Driscoll.

I wonder if you could accompany me

to Station House number 4.

The station? Why?

I'm placing you under
arrest for manslaughter.

He came at me first, George.
I simply clocked him back.

He was alive when we left him.

It will all get sorted out.

Do you want me to contact Lydia for you?

No.

I won't have her see me here.

Maybe a solicitor, then?

You think I'll be needing one?

The players all agreed to meet
at a tavern after the practice,

but Simpson never arrived.

Who saw him last?

A Samuel Farrell,

but he claims that Simpson

was very much alive and conversive

when he last saw him.

Murdoch, if this is just
a matter of fisticuffs,

don't you think that a manslaughter charge

is a little harsh?

Sir, a man is dead as a direct consequence

of a violent assault.

By definition, that is manslaughter.

If you ask me, they should lock him up.

Why?

Driscoll is nothing more than a thug,

a lowlife ruffian,

and he hardly belongs
in a sport for gentlemen.

This scuffle in the locker room,

who started it?

Well, Simpson, I suppose,

but Eddie Driscoll certainly brought it

to a conclusion, didn't he?

Who's in charge here?

That would be me. And who might you be?

Langston Wallace.

I'm the owner of the Wellingtons.

Manslaughter? That's ridiculous.

Eddie's my best player.

He's your best player,

therefore, he couldn't possibly
have committed manslaughter?

All he did was punch him in the jaw once.

Were you even in the room when it occurred?

I heard enough to know it was an accident,

and Simpson was up,
walking, talking right after

like nothing had happened.

I spoke to him myself.

All points for a jury to deliberate.

You don't understand.

You see, the Toronto Wellies

are about the challenge
the Montreal Shamrocks

for Lord Stanley's coveted trophy.

There's to be an
announcement at a luncheon.

I don't see the relevance.

The relevance is this.

With Eddie, we win the Cup.

Without him, we lose.

I appreciate your position.

I don't think you do.

You see, no team from
Toronto has ever won the Cup,

a situation that your chief constable

has an active interest in rectifying.

A fan, is he?

Our biggest.

So if you appreciate your position, you-

Listen to me.

I don't give a toss which team flag.

Chief Constable Giles likes to fly.

Sir.

And I don't take kindly to threats.

Inspector Brackenreid.

Langston, my apologies.

Your apologies are unnecessary, Percival.

So what exactly is going on here?

I've arrested Eddie Driscoll
on the charge of manslaughter.

On what grounds?

He assaulted Mr. Simpson,

and later Mr. Simpson died of his injuries.

Langston, let me talk with my men here.

I'll keep you appraised.

Thank you.

I'll wait for you.

Sir, under the circumstances,

we're required by law to
charge him with manslaughter.

Bylaw, is it?

Strange how a confessed murderer
can slip freely from your cells,

but a young man who lands an unlucky punch,

well, the letter of the
law simply must be applied.

Are you suggesting it shouldn't?

Do you know for a fact that Simpson

died from that punch?

Dr. Grace has yet to complete
her post-mortem but...

I have to go to an important
luncheon, as does Mr. Wallace.

When I return, you will
present me with proof

that Eddie Driscoll has committed a crime,

or you will release him.

Dr. Grace.

Have you confirmed the cause of death?

I have indeed.

Take a look at this.

This is the injury he received
when his head hit the post.

This is the blow that killed him.

Are you saying he received another blow

after the incident in the locker room?

Based on the bruising,

I'd estimate the fatal blow was delivered

about half an hour later,

which conforms to my best
estimate for a time of death.

And what time would that be?

Approximately 6:00.

Which means this was no accidental death

caused by a locker room scuffle.

Gentlemen, our final order of business

will be to strike a committee

to see if we can find a unity of rules

for each hockey organization.

I pledge that next year

all hockey leagues will follow the example

of our Ontario Hockey Association

and adopt the use of the hockey net.

It's not the rules we should worry about.

It's the damn professionals.

There won't be professionals

as long as John Ross
Robertson is in charge.

But we may lose some of our
best players to the Americans.

Oh, it's our game.

The Yanks will never embrace it.

Besides, if you pay a man to play a game,

who will work the factories?

Hmm.

I have an announcement to
make, gentlemen, if I may.

As you all know,

the other day in a tragic accident,

we lost Archie Simpson,

the revered captain of our great team.

The Iron Dukes of Toronto,
the Toronto Wellingtons,

well, we still have the best
hockey team in all the land.

Yes, yes. And we are going to prove it.

Our newly appointed
captain, Mr. Jerome Bradley,

will lead the Toronto Wellingtons' charge

as we challenge the Montreal
Shamrocks for the Cup.

You mean Lord Stanley's punch bowl.

The closest you will ever
get to the Cup, Wallace,

is when we hoist it over
your head in victory.

We'll see about that, McLaughlin.

Archie Simpson will be watching over us

as we show the Shamrocks
who plays the best hockey.

Well, what do you think of our chances?

Greatly improved.

This Driscoll fellow
is a crackerjack player.

- Mr. Wallace.
- Yes, he is.

Excuse me.

What's the meaning of this intrusion?

Chief Constable, I regret to inform you

that Mr. Simpson's death was no accident.

It was murder.

Mr. Wallace, I'm afraid your run
for the Cup will have to wait.

It's about time, I'd say.

- Mr. Driscoll.
- Yes?

Would you sign this for me?

You gonna give it to the Shamrocks?

- Do my best.
- Move along now, son.

You see that, George?

Your detective Murdoch arrested a hero.

I'm sorry, Eddie.

Detective Murdoch did what was required.

Be that as it may, I
missed a full practice.

Eddie, a man is dead.

It's all very sad,

but it wasn't me that killed him, was it?

Besides, he was hardly good enough

to be worth all this fuss.

Dinner is the least you owe me.

You did, after all, leave me
standing bereft at the altar.

That's not exactly true, Jerome.

I informed you well before the wedding day.

The invitations were already
printed and addressed.

But not yet mailed out.

Nonetheless, all expected
to be dancing with us

at our wedding.

I never meant to hurt or humiliate you.

But there is nothing to be regained

by attempting to rekindle that
which was never meant to be.

I agree, Emily. Let's
let bygones be bygones.

Please indulge me with your
company over dinner tonight.

Just as old friends.

That's what we are now, right?

All right.

Detective.

Dr. Grace,

why are you entertaining
a potential suspect here?

I didn't invite him, Detective,

and I certainly wasn't entertaining him.

Under no circumstances
is a suspect to be allowed

anywhere near evidence.

It won't happen again.

You have something for me?

I believe it may be able to help identify

the murder weapon.

I found these in Mr. Simpson's hair.

- Wood slivers.
- Exactly.

You are looking for a long, thin implement

made of wood.

I believe I know where I
might be able to find one.

Thank you, Doctor.

A hockey stick.

A hockey stick.

Sir, it pains me that
such a joyful apparatus

could be used in such a terrible way.

Not as much as it pains
me that they cleaned up

this locker room.

Have a look at this, George.

Simpson was found here
with his back to his locker.

It would be hard to strike
him in the back of the head

if he was there, sir.

Exactly.

I believe his body was moved here.

Why not just leave him on the floor?

Clearly, the killer wanted
us to think that Simpson died

of his earlier injury.

Sir, look at this.

- What?
- Oh, these skate marks.

It appears that one of the
best skaters in this city

walks like a duck when he's off the ice.

Have you finished labeling
the sticks, George?

Yes, sir.

They're all marked
according to their owner.

Shall we?

What have you got, Murdoch?

Sir, I believe one of these hockey sticks

to be the murder weapon.

The task before us is
to figure out which one.

How are you going to do that?

Through chemi-phosphoro luminescence, sir.

You see, sir, this compound
will emit a blue glow

when it's oxidized.

In this case, the iron and the hemoglobin

will act as the catalyst.

The effect should only
last about half a minute,

but it will be long enough to tell us

which one of these sticks
has been exposed to blood.

Now, sir, if you could turn out the light.

Bloody hell.

It's a tough sport. I'll give it that.

Any one of these sticks
could be the murder weapon.

What are you doing in the dark?

What have you, George?

Sir, McTavish, Danton, and McKenna

were all at the Mongoose and Ferret

between 5:30 and 7:00.

The barkeep vouches for their presence.

Jerome Bradley was at
the Mongoose and Ferret

but left to go to the rink.

Apparently, he'd left his wallet there.

Mr. Bradley claims to have
found the body at 6:15.

He could have arrived sooner,
so he remains on the list.

Fair enough.

Now, Farrell claims that
he stayed after the practice

to work on his wrist shot

but that he was on his way
to the Mongoose and Ferret

when the murder occurred.

No alibi, then.

Finally, Mr. Wallace was
on his way home at 6:00,

but that's yet to be confirmed.

What about Driscoll?

He was supposed to stop by, sir,

to give an account of
his whereabouts, but...

Driscoll had a dustup with the victim.

He might be good for it.

Now, sirs, I know that Eddie
can seem full of himself,

but I can vouch for his character.

You keep your distance
from your pal, Crabtree.

As long as Driscoll remains a suspect,

we can't risk giving him any information

that would compromise this investigation.

Sir, I would never.

Just remember your obligations
as an officer of the law.

Understood?

Sir.

What about Farrell?

He was once a team forward,
right wing, if I'm not mistaken.

If you say so.

Well, when Simpson was brought from Ottawa,

Farrell had to give up his spot.

That would have given him a bone
to pick with Simpson, surely.

Enough to kill him, sir?

It's just a game.

You're not much interested
in sports, are you, Murdoch?

If you were, you'd know
that there's no such thing

as "just a game."

I had no idea you were such an enthusiast.

It's not rugby, but it'll do.

I've always enjoyed playing the game,

but to sit and watch the game being played

seems like a waste of time.

It's a product of our age, Murdoch.

More leisure time.

People looking for ways to spend it.

You should try it sometime.

Could read a book.

Mm.

Enjoy it while you can, Driscoll.

You'll soon be back shoveling horse dung.

Doubt that.

I'm the future.

Eddie, we have to leave.

I'd love to buy a round
for the house before we go.

Aw, you're an angel.

Mm-hmm.

One of the many perks

of being the Wellington's ace in the hole.

Eddie, you're drunk as a skunk.

- Let me buy you one.
- No, no, no.

I'm not even supposed to be talking to you.

- Then why are you?
- Because I'm your friend.

So who does your Detective Murdoch

think committed the murder?

Eddie, you were supposed...

You were supposed to come in

and give an account of your whereabouts.

My whereabouts are nobody else's business.

No one's business.

Eddie, this is a murder investigation, man.

Now, when you met me after that practice,

you were late.

Where were you?

You suspect me?

I don't...

Eddie, we have to go.

What's this? What about Lydia?

We're only young once, Georgie boy.

Time's fleeing!

Have fun while we can.

Excuse me, gentlemen.

A moment of your time?

We're busy.

Oh, it's you.

This lanky chap's a police officer.

Really?

Well, I'm tremendously reassured
as to the safety of our streets.

You're Samuel Farrell.

I am indeed.

Do either you suspect
that anybody on the team

might have a grudge against Simpson?

His name was Mr. Archibald
Simpson, Constable,

and he was as fine a man as you'd meet.

A gentleman if ever I've encountered one.

He'd intended enlisting after season's end

to fight for our mother
country against the Boers.

He was a highly principled fellow.

Yes, unlike your lout friend.

Do you want to know who hated Archie?

It was Eddie Driscoll.

Archie made it clear

that Driscoll didn't belong
in a gentleman's game.

And Eddie killed him for it.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I have an assignation with a young lady.

Between you and me?

I wanted Eddie on the team.

He made us contenders.

If you want someone with a grudge,

look no further than our new captain.

Good night, barkeep. Same time tomorrow.

Good night, Mr. Bradley.

Bradley?

We should have called
the wedding off sooner,

but I was trying to make everyone happy...

everyone except myself.

Well, I plan to win you back.

Jerome, you promised you
weren't going to bring that up.

And you promised you'd marry me.

So I suppose we're both liars.

You're coming back to me.

It's just a matter of time.

You don't have a choice in the matter.

I'll win the Cup, and then
I'm gonna win you back.

Now, shall we order desert?

I really should be going, Jerome.

I rise early.

Thank you for a lovely dinner.

Good-bye.

Goodbye? I don't think so, Emily.

I'll be seeing you sooner than you think.

Good-bye, Jerome.

Jerome Bradley?

Sir, when the Wellingtons'
first captain retired last year,

Bradley was set to become captain.

Then they brought Simpson in from Ottawa.

Simpson insisted that he become captain,

and Wallace capitulated.

Ah, that must have made Mr. Bradley upset.

So upset that he quit, sir.

He only rejoined last month

when he found out the team was
gonna challenge for the Cup.

But still, that's hardly
a reason to kill Simpson.

Well, think about it, sir.

If Jerome Bradley was captain and they won,

he would be the first ever Ontario athlete

to hoist Lord Stanley's mug.

And, sir, he's had a few
run-ins with the Constabulary.

No convictions, of course.

His high-priced lawyers
have to seen to that,

needless to say.

George, you seem to have
it in for this Bradley.

No, sir, I don't.

Well, perhaps I do.

I know he's well-bred and from
a good family and all that,

but he's...

he sort of lords it over you, doesn't he?

Bring him in.

What's this?

It would appear you have a history

of violence, Mr. Bradley.

I have a history of getting into punch-ups

when I've had a few.

I would like to note that my
client has never been convicted.

You have the nerve to suggest

that this predisposes me to murder?

Did you or did you not quit the team

when Mr. Simpson became captain?

I quit because I could not stand by

and watch the team I loved

sullied by the likes of Eddie Driscoll.

Archie felt the same way.

He and Mr. Wallace almost
came to blows over it.

When was this?

Last week in Mr. Wallace's office.

I don't know what they were shouting about,

but I heard Eddie's name loud and clear.

If anyone killed Archie,

it was probably that low-class farm boy.

You call yourself a lawyer?

Then why do I have to do all the talking?

Bloody toff. I wish he was guilty.

I'd like to know what Simpson and Wallace

we're having words about.

Tread lightly, Murdoch,

or Giles will be all over us like a rash.

Sir, Chief Constable Giles
is an honest policeman.

If he holds any malice for us,
it's because we've earned it.

What were you and Mr.
Simpson arguing about?

Strategy...

proper deployment of players.

Specifically.

Simpson was unhappy

with Eddie Driscoll's place on the team,

as were a number of players.

And why was that?

By all accounts, he was
your most talented player.

Oh, yes, he was that,
but he wasn't one of them.

If I could speak frankly,

most of the players on the team
thought Driscoll beneath them.

They only tolerated him
because of his abilities.

And your captain shared that view?

No, Simpson didn't care
about Driscoll's background.

He was somewhat of a
republican in that sense.

He disliked Driscoll because of the manner

in which he played the game.

And he wanted him off the team?

Well, that's what we were arguing about.

I told him it was none of his business

to be issuing me ultimatums.

But Simpson said it
was either him or Eddie.

Did Eddie Driscoll know that
Simpson wanted him dropped?

Well, he certainly didn't keep it a secret.

Now, I'm due for my supper, Detective.

- Can you let yourself out?
- Yes, of course.

Good.

Aha.

George, bring in...

Samuel Farrell.

I wasn't in Mr. Wallace's office that day.

Then how do you explain
this piece of your stick

that we found on the floor
in Mr. Wallace's office?

I have no idea.

Anybody could have grabbed it,
either by mistake or by intent.

Where were you at the time
of the murder, Mr. Farrell?

As I recall, I stayed late after practice.

I went for a walk and then to the tavern.

Do you always take a walk
after a hard practice?

A stroll cools me down.

Did anyone see you?

I have no idea.

So you have no alibi for
the time of the murder?

All you have is a shard
of my stick, Detective.

I don't see that I need an alibi.

So if you'll excuse me.

Not so fast, Mr. Farrell.

You'll have plenty of time to remember

who saw you strolling
when you're cooling off

in one of our cells.

Mr. Farrell, how tall are you?

- What's it to you?
- Answer him.

I'm 5'8".

My low center of gravity
gives me an advantage.

Hodge, escort Mr. Farrell to the cells.

What were you thinking?

Sir, Mr. Farrell is the
shortest player on his team.

If I can determine the
height of the killer...

It can prove it was him.

Right here, ma'am.

George Crabtree.

Lydia.

Hello, George. It's lovely to see you.

Well, you as well.

What brings you here?

I was asked to make a statement

as to Eddie's whereabouts
at a particular time,

which I've now done.

Of course. So he was with you?

That's correct.

Immediately after practice,

right when poor Mr. Simpson was killed.

Right, well, thank you for coming in.

Lydia, sit down.

Thank you.

I know you and Eddie
have been chumming around.

Well, I've seen him.

George, is he still being true to me?

As far as I can tell,

he's still the same old Eddie Driscoll.

So you haven't seen anything?

Well, all I've seen, Lydia,
is that he has many admirers.

He's always had that.

Mm.

Well, look at you, big city policeman.

An important man.

Important, I don't know...

George, I need you to get me six melons.

Uh, sir, they're out of season.

Right. Six pumpkins, then.

Yes, sir.

Some of my tasks are
more menial than others.

Thank you, George.

Right, then.

The angle of impact is
too high on the skull.

Still too high.

Perfect.

Now, given the difference
between your height

and the height of this pumpkin,

and subtracting that
from Mr. Simpson's height,

"we can conclude that
the killer is 5'10" tall.

Or maybe he was taller than that

but crouching when he attacked.

That's a good point, George.

We can't determine the maximum height;

Only the minimum.

And if the killer was at least 5'10"...

That means Samuel Farrell
can't be our killer.

Bloody hell, I was sure it was him.

No alibi. It was his hockey stick.

Well, at the very least, sir,

this narrows our list of suspects.

So what next?

I still think he was
killed in Wallace's office.

- Do you think Wallace did it?
- Not necessarily.

Mr. Wallace kept his office door unlocked.

It does raise the question, however:

What was Simpson doing in Wallace's office?

What have you, George?

Sir, I was going through
Simpson's effects as you asked.

Amongst the other paraphernalia was this:

A return train ticket to Ottawa

dated the 29th and 30th of November.

That's only a few days ago.

Why would he go up to Ottawa?

Well, I don't know, sir,
but there's something else

written on the back of it there.

John Ross Robertson?

Why, yes, very good, sir.

Perhaps 221 is his
Parliament Hill office number.

Looks like you're going
to Ottawa, me old mucker.

Yes, Simpson did make
an appointment to see me.

He lodged a very troubling complaint.

And that was?

Mr. Simpson maintained
that Langston Wallace

was paying one of his
players for his services.

What would the consequence
be if that proved true?

Immediate and permanent ejection

from the Ontario Hockey Association.

I see.

What was your reaction to
Mr. Simpson's allegation?

I told him that if he wanted
an investigation launched,

he would need to provide
some hard evidence.

- Had he any?
- Nothing but hearsay.

While I knew Simpson to be an honest man,

an investigation at this point

would inevitably have forestalled

the Wellingtons' challenge for the Cup,

for which there's been
so much anticipation.

Yes. So you did nothing further?

I made some discreet inquiries.

Did you find any basis for
Mr. Simpson's suspicions?

I found no cause to
pursue the matter further.

Did he mention the name of the player

he suspected was being paid?

He did.

And?

With all due respect, Detective,

a man's good name

and the reputation of a fine hockey team

is on the line here.

I assure you, I will handle
all aspects of this conversation

with the utmost discretion.

This game is being taken over
by rogues and capitalists,

Detective Murdoch.

I'm doing all in my power to stop it.

I do hope you are on side.

Sir.

The name.

Eddie Driscoll.

Eddie Driscoll is being paid?

That's what Mr. Simpson believed,

but he didn't have the proof.

Perhaps that's why Simpson
was in Wallace's office

the night he was killed.

Well, sir, if he did find
the proof he was looking for,

that would certainly spell the end

of Wallace's grand ambitions for his team.

Well, forget the Cup.

This would get the Wellingtons
kicked out of the league.

Still, sir, it seems
absurd that an individual

would actually pay others to play a game.

It's more and more commonplace, Murdoch.

It's even happening with
the football back home.

Oh, bloody hell.

Chief Constable.

I just had a message from Langston Wallace.

You're investigating a
rumor that the Wellingtons

have been employing a paid professional?

We are, sir.

But you must know what that means.

It would be the end of the team.

Sir, I'm only looking into it

as it pertains to our investigation.

Should Langston Wallace prove
to be innocent of murder,

I see no reason why the allegations

should come to light.

No.

No, if it's true, it
must be brought to light.

'Sir?

There's no greater stain
on the face of hockey

than the specter of professionalism.

Greater than cold-blooded murder?

Yes, I admit that Langston Wallace

has a strong motivation

to try to keep this from getting out.

Perhaps at the expense
of a young man's life.

Get to the bottom of it, Murdoch.

Langston may be my friend,
but if he's broken the law...

Yes, sir, I will.

You see, this is the difference

between us, gentlemen.

I don't let my personal
friendships come between me

and my sworn obligations.

I've been looking at
your ledger, Mr. Wallace,

You make a significant amount of money

charging admission to
Wellingtons hockey games.

I do all right.

You would make even more

if you were the owner
of a championship team.

Acquiring Eddie Driscoll made
that a very real possibility.

I'm already a wealthy man, Murdoch.

I certainly am not in
need of the gate recipes

the team produces.

You deny paying Eddie Driscoll, then.

Of course I deny it.

Professionalism would be the end of hockey.

The gate recipes would all
end up going to the players

as teams tried to outbid each other.

Tell me, how does a man like Eddie Driscoll

pay his room and board?

He has no job,

but he seems to have
plenty of money to spend.

It's not my concern.

Then why does your ledger list a $5 debit

for miscellaneous expenses for every game?

Because I have miscellaneous expenses.

Of exactly $5,

every game,

and only since Eddie Driscoll began playing

for the Wellingtons?

According to the rules of the
Ontario Hockey Association,

payment of a player is strictly forbidden.

If it were to come out

that you have been paying Eddie Driscoll,

you would forfeit your
chances at the Stanley trophy.

Cup, Murdoch. It's a cup.

I believe Simpson stumbled upon this ledger

and realized it was the proof he needed,

and you killed him for it.

Look at me, Murdoch.

Do you really think that a man my age

is capable of killing a young sportsman

in the prime of his life?

So if it's not Wallace, that just leaves

Driscoll and Bradley as suspects.

But Eddie Driscoll had an alibi

confirmed by his wife.

Sirs...

What is it?

Oh, I wouldn't pull much truck
in Lydia Driscoll's words.

I'm quite sure Eddie
coerced her to lie for him.

- Damn it, Crabtree.
- George.

Why didn't you mention that earlier?

Because I think he's an
adulterer, not a murderer.

And I think he had his wife lie for him

because he couldn't get an alibi

from the woman he was actually with.

Bloody hell, Crabtree.

He wouldn't have killed anybody, sir.

I'm sure of that.

Bring him in.

No, sir. Bring the wife in first.

I wasn't lying.

My husband was with me after practice.

He came all the way home after practice

and then went the same distance
all the way back to the tavern?

He was being a good husband.

What's wrong with that?

Why don't you believe me?

You were right, George. She was lying.

Arrest Eddie Driscoll.

Sir.

Eddie, I've been sent to arrest you.

Again?

Just come with me.

Eddie Driscoll, who is this,

this floozy you're with?

You dare call me a floozy?

I... I'm not with anybody.

You were with her, weren't you?

You bastard.

You made me lie for you.

And to you, George Crabtree, of all people.

I thought you were my friend.

I ask you directly, and you
as good as lied to my face.

- Lydia...
- You should be ashamed.

Did you bring her here, George?

No, I didn't bring her here, Eddie.

She must have followed me from the station.

She is a good woman, and she lied for you.

And I tried to believe her.

You better have a good
story as to where you were

when Archie Simpson was killed.

I can't, Eddie. You know that.

Unfortunately for you, Mr. Driscoll,

your alibi no longer holds.

Your wife has retracted her statement.

I think that Mr. Wallace
had been paying you,

Mr. Simpson found out about
it, and you murdered him.

You're wrong.

I don't care who knew I was being paid.

If I don't play for this
team, I can play for another.

They pay people in America.

Better money than I make here.

All right.

Where were you the evening of the murder?

I was with a woman.

- Her name?
- A gentleman doesn't...

Her name, sir.

Felicity Wallace.

Langston Wallace's granddaughter.

But she won't admit to being with me.

What time did you leave her?

I don't remember.

Where did you go after your...

assignation?

To the Mongoose and
Ferret, where I met George.

- Constable Crabtree stated
that you met him at 6:15.

That would have given you 15
minutes to commit the murder

and make it back to the tavern.

I was at a bookmaker's
shop before I met George.

For what reason?

I was betting on myself
to take my team to victory

against the Shamrocks.

My lady friend fronted me
the $50 I was to receive

as a bonus if the Wellingtons won the Cup.

The Shamrocks may be heavy favorites,

but the bookmakers know
nothing about what I can do.

My $50 will soon net me $500.

I care neither about your
game or your wagering.

I'm looking for a murderer.

I didn't kill Simpson,
and that's the truth.

Hello, my darling.

Jerome, you scared the daylights out of me.

Oh, I'm so sorry, my dearest.

Far from my intention.

You're drunk.

What of it?

You can't be here, Jerome.

You must leave immediately,

or I'll have Constable Crabtree...

Oh, Constable Crabtree!

Come and save you.

That's a joke if I've ever heard one.

Now, into my arms, my dearest.

This behavior is unacceptable, Jerome.

Unacceptable?

You have the nerve to say that to me?

I offered to bring a
lowly working-class girl

up to my station.

I have apologized for that.

There's nothing further for me to do.

You can reverse that earlier error.

It wasn't an error.

The mistake would have been
to go through with the wedding.

You ungrateful whore.

Ah!

Take your leave, sir, or
I'll have to arrest you.

This is none of your
business. Now leave us to it.

Get out of here!

Get up!

You're under arrest for
assaulting a police officer

and a lady.

I apologize for the mess, Dr. Grace.

Good morning, sir.

Eddie Driscoll's alibi checks out.

He laid the bet at exactly 6:00.

He wasn't the only one who put some money

on the Wellingtons, sir.

And not just $50.

Mr. Farrell.

You're a gambling man, it would seem.

I've made a few bets.

But you've lost most of them.

In fact, you had to borrow the $2,000

to place on the Cup challenge.

- I'd have made good on it.
- How?

You've squandered all of your money.

You have no profession.

Of course, with ten-to-one odds,

you stood to make a small fortune

if the Wellingtons won.

But that would have required
that Eddie Driscoll play.

And had it been discovered
that Eddie was being paid,

you would have been ruined.

According to your statement,

you stayed after the team practice

to work on your wrist shot.

That's when you saw Simpson
going into Wallace's office,

isn't it?

And you got curious.

Wallace is paying Eddie, Sam.

I got the proof right here.

You panicked.

But then you remembered
Simpson's earlier injury

and realized you could
use it to your advantage.

At first, I didn't think it was you,

because you're not tall enough.

But you would have been, had
you been wearing hockey skates.

That's all speculation.

You have no proof.

And you have no alibi.

Your stick was the murder weapon.

Your motive is clear.

On the face of it, it looks
like murder in the first degree.

But should you confess in your own words

that this was a rash, unplanned act,

you may be spared the noose.

I was way over my head in debt,

and I was counting on the
Wellingtons' win to square it off.

I couldn't afford for us to lose.

I had to.

It would have disgraced my family.

But I've done that now, haven't I?

Game on, lads!

Yeah, George, yeah.

Take us out, Worseley.

Ooh, hoo, hoo, hoo.

Oh, blood hell, Worseley. Watch that, lad.

Right, then, George.

Better mind yourself.

I am going to make you look the fool.

Oh, we'll see about that, sir.

Get it, George!

What was that you were saying, sir?

Nice move, George.

Who taught you that, Eddie Driscoll?

No, sir, I taught him that one.

Although no one could do it
like Constable Deke, eh, boys?

Whoa!

Oh!

Through my legs, Murdoch.

Thank you for letting that one in, sir.

- Oh.
- Don't worry, Inspector.

I'm just letting him build some confidence.

- Wagon!
- Wagon.

So where's Eddie now, George?

Sir, he's in Pittsburgh earning $6 a game.

$6? That's madness.

He thinks he'll earn more, sir.

Maybe up to $10 somewhere else.

- Bloody hell.
- $10.

I doubt that, George.

But still, getting paid to play,

he's a lucky man.

All right, game on!

Oh!

- Yes!
- Oh!

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