All language subtitles for Murdoch.Mysteries.S17E20.WEB (SDH)

(theme music)

(mechanical clanking)

(metallic creaking)

(melodic creaking)

- Bohl!

Stop mucking around.

I need you over
at thresher assembly.

- Yes, sir.

(orchestral music)

(knocking on door)

Who's there?

- It's your mama.

I brought spaetzle.

You're killing yourself
at the factory

and this school you go to.
For why?

- Because it gives
my life meaning.

- Ah! Meaning.
What is this?

- I know you don't understand.

- Come home.

- I love you, Mother,
but after struggling for months,

I have finally made
a breakthrough.

- And this breakthrough,

will it feed your wife
and children some day?

- My latest composition is
the finest piece I have ever--

- I don't want to hear
of your foolish dreams!

Build a home. Get married.

Bring me the grandchildren.

That's all I ask.

- Is that all?
- Are you mocking your mother?

- Never.

See you at church
on Sunday, Mama.

- Mm. You're a good boy, Gustav.

- Auf wiedersehen.

- Auf wiedersehen.

(orchestral music)

(plays chord on harmonium)

(exhales)

(he continues playing)

(epic music)

(knocking on door)

- Go away!
I'm working.

(knocking on door)

I said...

Were you listening at the door?

(dramatic music)

(birds chirping)

(baby cooing)

- She's like this all day?

- Relentlessly active.

- Throwing tantrums.
- Gets into everything.

(crashing)
- Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry, George.

- Obviously, we'll be replacing
that, George.

- Good morning, all!

- Inspector, is that a cello?

- Indeed.

This voluptuous beauty
is a brand new

R.S. Williams cello
and I intend to master it.

- Here, sir?
In the station house?

- Margaret's suffering
with headaches.

- Ah, ah, ah! Susannah!

(baby laughing)

Susannah sure has
a lot of energy.

- She does.

Perhaps learning an instrument
might focus her creativity

in a more productive manner.

- Isn't she a bit young?

- Oh, sir! Nonsense!

Two words: Doctor Crotch.

Little Billy Crotch,
the piano prodigy.

He was performing
at the age of two.

If he can do it,
no reason Susannah can't.

- Well, uh, our nanny
does play piano.

Perhaps we could pay her
to... to teach her.

What do you think?

- Well, music is math-based.

Uh, suppose it's worth a try.

- Well, then it's decided. Oh!

Susannah!

- Murdoch, Crabtree, trouble
over at Lippincott Street.

Here's the address.
- What's happened?

- A ghastly crime.

To be murdered so young
and on the cusp of greatness.

- The cusp of greatness, sir?

- Gustav is one
of my former students.

- What is it that you
teach, Mister...?

- Pifkin. Gerald Pifkin.

I teach music theory.

I came to pay Gustav a visit
this morning

and the door was open

and I saw his body
just lying there.

He was just lying there.

Thank you.
(sniffling)

I didn't know what to do.
(crying)

- Mr. Pifkin, if you would, uh,
we'd like you to come down

to the station house
and answer some more questions.

- Gustav had no enemies
to speak of.

Rivals, however,
he had in abundance.

- What kind of rivals?

- Gustav was writing
a piece of music

for the Robert Ambrose
New Composer's Prize.

- Is there a monetary award
associated to this prize?

- Not monetary,
but something priceless.

A performance of
the winning composition

by the Toronto
Symphony Orchestra.

- Hm.

And was Mr. Bohl in the running
to win the prize?

- In the top five,
in my estimation.

- Who are the other four?

- His closest chums,
oddly enough.

- Ah.

I'll be needing their names.

- Well, the most gifted
of the bunch

would have to be Pascal Girard,

a violin prodigy
turned composer.

(laughing)

He's the frontrunner
in this competition.

And then, there's Miss
Sylvia Fachada.

She's surprisingly
talented for a woman.

And then there's another
fellow, not one of my students.

Winston Glover.

I find him a bit aloof.

An outlier.

I don't believe he belongs

among such an elite
group of musicians.

And then, lastly,
there's Daniel Spratt.

Bit of a wild card, Danny.

He comes from the wrong side
of the tracks, so to speak.

But, then again, music can rise
from the depths of adversity.

(screeching cello)

Oh, my lord!
What is that abominable noise?

- Our inspector has
taken up the cello.

- Are we done here?

- I can call you...

- Oy, Murdoch!
Come to my office.

See if you can guess
what tune I'm playing. Go on.

(screeching cello continues)

So, what do you think?

- I think you are definitely
holding a bow

and moving it to and fro
across some strings.

- But what about the song?

- I'm not familiar
with popular music.

However, I do believe
that a talent such as yours

deserves to be properly nurtured
by a music teacher.

- That might speed up
the learning process.

- Especially if that teacher
has a music studio

somewhere outside
of the station house

where police work won't
distract you from anything--

- Excuse me, Detective.
Inspector.

- Ah! What have you, Miss Hart?

- Mr. Gustav Bohl's postmortem.

The ice pick penetrated his
brain and killed him instantly.

- Shocker.

- Is there something else,
Miss Hart?

- Just...

I was acquainted
with the victim.

He and his friends frequented
the Starbright Club.

- Oh. I'm sorry for your loss.

- Thank you.

I wanted to let you know
that the Starbright

will be hosting a wake
for Mr. Bohl tonight.

You can pay your respects
to the dead.

- And interrogate the living.

(soft music)

- Perhaps you should wait until
after the musical tribute?

- Of course.
And perhaps you could gather

and label empty glasses
so I can collect fingermarks?

- You have my complete
cooperation.

- In fact, it was I who found
his lifeless body

sprawled out on the floor,

an ice pick
jutting from his ear.

- An ice pick?

- Could it have been a robbery?

- Nah, it couldn't
have been a robbery.

Gus never had two nickels
to rub together.

- Professional rivalry, then?

- A romantic one.

(sniffling)

(crying)

- I wasted our last visit
scolding my son.

- Oh, don't torment yourself.
- Oh!

- Gustav knew you loved him.

(crying)

- Mr. Pifkin said something
that struck me as odd.

Called Mr. Glover an outlier.

Said he didn't belong within
this group of elite musicians.

- Hm.

That man thinks Winston
doesn't belong.

I wonder why that might be?

- You suspect prejudice clouds
Mr. Pifkin's judgment?

- Nail on the head, Detective.

Winston and Gustav
were good friends.

They got along quite fine.

All five of them.

For the most part.

- Have you witnessed conflict
within the group?

- Pascal and Gustav had words
a few nights ago.

- Is that right?

What was the argument about?

- Oh, I don't know.

I told them to pipe down
or to get out.

And that settled them down
quite quickly.

(soft music)

- Oh. Well, that was
quite quick.

- Surprise!
Isn't it splendid?

- It certainly is large.

- Susannah was asleep
when it was delivered.

I can't wait to watch
her eyes light up

when she sees it in the morning.
(plays a note)

(plays notes)
- C, D, E, F...

A, G, B...

And back to... C.

And I'm afraid
that's the extent

of your father's
musical knowledge.

- And then, I can add
that the black keys

are sharps and flats. And that's
the extent of your mother's.

(chuckling)

I think she's really
taking to it.

(plays notes)

- At it bright and early
I see, George.

- Sir, I took fingermarks
from the glasses

at the Starbright Club
and compared them

to all those we found
at Gustav Bohl's apartment.

- Any matches?
- They all match.

- Not surprising.
Mr. Bohl's associates

admitted to visiting his
apartment on several occasions.

- So, sir, what's our next step?

- Miss Hart told me that
Mr. Bohl had an argument

with Pascal Girard a few days
before the murder.

Let's start
by confirming his alibi.

- What is his alibi?

- Not what... Who.

Pascal Girard claims

he was with you on the night
of Gustav Bohl's murder.

- When was that?

- Monday night.

- No, we weren't with Pascal
on Monday night.

- You weren't?
- No.

Wrong night.

- We were with him
the night before.

- Sunday night?
- Hm.

We wish we were
with him Monday night.

- And Tuesday night.

Wednesday night.

- Every night, really.

- Pascal is such an attractive
man, don't you find, Detective?

- I, uh...
- Dapper, too.

- Mm.
- That's not relevant.

- And virile.

- Also not relevant.

(laughing)
- To you, maybe.

- What is relevant to me
is that the two of you

were not with Mr. Girard
on Monday night.

Correct?

(both): Correct.

- Mr. Girard?

- Ah!

Detective Murdoch.

How delighted
you must be to see me.

(laughing)

Oh, have some brandy, man.

- It's nine A.M.
- Oh.

Wine, then?

- I'm here to ask you some
questions about Gustav Bohl.

- Oh, must you be so dreary?

I'd nearly drunk my friend's
death from my mind.

You...

You have left me no choice

but to invest
in another bottle.

Barkeep!

- A witness has informed me
that you and Mr. Bohl

had a rather... intense dispute
right before he died.

- A regrettable spat.

But I prefer to not
wallow in regret.

Instead, I will wallow
in a nice snifter

of Chateau Tanun...
Tannun... Tanunda.

Tuninda.

Sir, I paid for that.

- This is serious.

(sighing)
- Agreed.

I may die from dehydration.

Give that here.

(bottle breaking)

Oh, it's gloves off now!

- What are you doing?

Are you challenging me
to a duel?

- Yes!

Would you like one?

(grunting)

Ah! Oh, God!

- That's it.

I'm locking you in our cells
until you dry out.

(screeching cello)

- Ah, sir! You'll question
Mr. Girard tomorrow, then?

- Ah, yes. He should be
sober enough

for questioning come morning.

- Eh, excuse me.

Could you please tell me
where to find

Inspector Thomas Brackenreid?

(screeching cello)

- And you are?

- Eh, Paul Hahn.

(screeching cello)
(gasps)

I teach cello.

- Oh!

Thank God.

He's come to save us!

- Mr. Hahn, uh, the Inspector
is in dire need of your help.

Once you get past
the gruff exterior,

he's really quite teachable.
- Oh.

(man): Hey, Guard!
Hey, Guard!

(guard): Shut yer yap, Callahan!

(glass clanking)

- Hey, Guard! Hey, Guard!

- Shut yer yap, Callahan!

(keys jingling rhythmically)

(rhythmically):
Hey, Guard! Hey, Guard!

(rhythmically):
Shut yer yap, Callahan!

(orchestral music)

(violin music playing)

- Mr. Girard.

(music continues)

Mr. Pascal Girard.

(music stops)

- Ah, Detective.
(clears throat)

Good morning.

I want to apologize
for yesterday.

- You lied about your alibi.

The two young women stated
that you were not with them

on the night that Gustav Bohl
was murdered.

- Oh, yes. That's right.

In truth, I was in a place
very much like this.

- You were locked up
in a drunk tank?

- Yeah, shameful, I know.

Why on earth would you
suspect me of harming Gustav?

- Because he was your rival.

The two of you were overheard
arguing at the Starbright Club.

- Oh, that?!

Gustav was yammering on
about Schoenberg,

claiming that his atonal
monstrosities were the future
of symphonic innovation,

and one cannot simply allow
such ridiculous assertions

to go unchallenged, can one?

- Be that as it may,

you will remain behind bars,
Mr. Girard,

until I can confirm
your latest alibi.

(sighing)

- I hope you find who did this.
I truly do.

- If you would like to help me,

then perhaps you can tell me if
you suspect one of your friends.

- I mean, there was a moment
when I thought

that Winston Glover might, uh...

- Why Mr. Glover?

- I'm loath to betray a friend.

But it's because
of the murder weapon.

(trumpet playing softly)

(orchestral music)

- Mr. Glover.

Winston Glover?

(music stops)

- That's me.

- Detective William Murdoch.

We met at--
- Gustav's wake.

I remember.

Did you find the killer?
- Not yet.

But I was wondering about your
relationship with Gustav Bohl.

- He did his thing
and I did mine.

Completely different styles.

- But you were competing
against each other

for the Ambrose Prize.
(chuckling)

- I have no chance of winning.

I just enter for the publicity.

- You don't believe
you have the talent?

- I have the talent.

But it doesn't matter
if every single other
contestant dropped out.

Those shirts would never
let someone like me win.

- And that injustice must
make you very, very angry.

- It does.

But you grow immune
to the anger after stifling
your entire life.

- Do you?

Or does it explode?

- What are you trying to say?

- This ice pick, Mr. Glover,

is exactly like the one that was
used to kill Gustav Bohl.

- Yeah, 'cause I gave it to him.

He had a window
that kept icing shut.

- Unfortunately, your connection
to the murder weapon

makes you a suspect,
and I will need you to come down

to the station house
for further questioning.

- So, there are two young
musicians already in the cells?

- Yes, and not enough
conclusive evidence

to charge either of them.
(cello playing)

- Oh, for God's sake,
man, relax!

You're not sawing timber.

(groans)

I give up!
- Please don't go.

- The man is unteachable!

- Mr. Hahn! Please, don't go!

I... I think I've got it.

(cello plays)

- Maybe I'll quit
teaching cello.

Open a piano store.

- Can someone help me?

- Ah, Mrs. Bohl.

Detective Murdoch.

We met at your son's funeral.

- I'm sorry to trouble you.

I don't know where else to turn.

- What can we do for you?

- I have so many regrets.

I never bothered to listen
to my son's music.

I never gave a second thought

to this thing
that he loved so dearly.

But today, I realized
it's not too late.

Gustav is gone,
but his music isn't.

- Well, yes, that's right.
Uh, art outlives its creator.

That's part of the reason
we make it.

- That's very good, George.

Uh, Constable Crabtree
is a novelist.

- Oh, how wonderful.

I want to hear
my son's composition,

the one that he was so proud of.

It must be in his apartment,

but I...

I can't bear to go back there.

Is it possible that...
- Oh, yes, yes, of course.

Uh, George would be happy
to go to your son's apartment

and retrieve his sheet music.
- Will you do this?

- Yes, of course.
It would be my honour.

(soft music)

Hello?

Toronto Constabulary!
(gasps)

- Darn window's stuck.
- Who are you?

Uh, Sylvia Fachada.
I'm a friend of Gustav's.

Why are you here?

- I'm looking
for his composition
for the Ambrose Prize.

His mother wants it.

- Well, I haven't seen it here.

Perhaps he already submitted it.

- Do you make a habit
of breaking into your
friends' homes?

- I just... wanted to be amongst
his things one last time.

Call me sentimental.

- What are you hiding there?

- Oh! Uh, uh...
- Give me that!

Sentimental indeed.

Miss Fachada, why don't you
come down to the station house,

have a chat with the detective?

- "I beg you, dear Gustav,

resist temptation.

Reject this former paramour

who seeks to tear us apart."

Seems you had some competition
for his affections.

- My private life
is none of your business.

- Miss Fachada,
you are a suspect

in a murder investigation.

Convince me that
you are innocent

and your private life
will remain... private.

(sighing)
- We were lovers.

Why would I kill
the man I loved?

A far more likely killer
would be his former sweetheart

who refuses to accept
that Gustav moved on.

- Who is this former sweetheart?

- Come 7! Come 11!
(dice rattling)

- Ooh, baby needs a new
pair of shoes!

- Little Joe from Kokomo!
Point set at four.

(dice rattling)
(laughing)

Little Joe from Kokomo!

Point set at four.

Little Joe from Kokomo!
Point set at four.

Little Joe from Kokomo!
Point set at four.

(rhythmic music)

- Mr. Daniel Spratt.

Apologies for disrupting
the party.

(thunder rumbling)

Daniel Spratt?

- Who wants to know?

- Detective William Murdoch,
Toronto Constabulary.

(chuckling)

- Gimme a break.

Just a starving artist trying
to make a few extra dollars.

- Perhaps winning the Ambrose
Prize would change that fortune?

Is that why you murdered
Gustav Bohl?

(scoffs)

- Why would I kill the guy
in the running for third place?

- Because that third-place
contender also left you...

for a woman.

(thunder rumbling)

(dice rattling)

(chuckling)

- Figures.

Snake eyes.

- Wha... Stop.

Stop!

(dramatic music)

Mr. Spratt!

(grunting)

You realize that running
makes you look very guilty?

Let's go.

Pascal Girard fought
with Gustav Bohl

shortly before he was murdered.

- But the murder weapon
is linked to Winston Glover.

- Meanwhile, Sylvia Fachada

was found snooping around
Gustav's apartment.

- And Daniel Spratt
is Mr. Bohl's spurned lover.

- So who's our main suspect?

- I don't know.
- Well...

I'm off to the cells
to check out these musical
geniuses for myself.

- With your cello, sir?
- No, no.

Thank Heaven for small
mercies, George.

- Right.

- You told the police that
the murder weapon was mine?

- I said it might be yours!

I didn't say
you killed him with it!

- You might as well have!

- You broke into Gustav's
apartment?

- I did not break in.
He gave me a key.

- Bet that's not all
he gave you.

- Oh, you're a nasty cadger
when you want to be, Pascal.

- You're just jealous!
- Of what?

(door opening)
Your insipid little sonatas?

- You're a strumpet, Sylvia!

- Better a strumpet
than a cuckold!

- How dare you!
- If I wasn't daring,

none of you men
would take me seriously!

(screeching cello)
(groaning)

- What did that poor cello
ever do to you?

- I don't want
any musical advice.

Well, maybe a little,
if you've got any tips.

- Give it up, man,
the world will thank you.

- Be nice. We were all dreadful
when we first started.

- Speak for yourself.
- Oy, shut up!

One of you lot killed Mr. Bohl.

Now, am I going to get
a confession,

or do you need me
to keep playing?

- Thank you for
the confirmation, Constable.

You, as well.

- Detective Murdoch.
- Mr. Pifkin.

What can I do for you?

- I demand to know
why you've caged up

all my former students
like they were criminals.

- Well, you didn't seem to care
about their welfare

when you were disclosing
their relationship with
the deceased to me.

- I didn't know
you'd arrest them all!

This will decimate the field of
entrants for the Ambrose Prize!

- I understand.

I don't care.
- This is terrible.

Simply terrible.
- Aren't you a music instructor?

- Yes, but I'm not taking on
any new students.

I'm far too busy.

- Ooh, charming.

Well, I learnt nothing
from the four suspects.

- Three suspects, actually.

I've just confirmed
with Station House Number One

that Pascal Girard
was in their custody
when Mr. Bohl was murdered.

- Sirs, I've just been to
the office of the Ambrose Prize.

- Did you obtain Gustav
Bohl's composition?

- He had registered, but not yet
submitted his composition.

I did find one thing
peculiar, though.

- What's that, George?
- A late submission, sir.

Gerald Pifkin.

- Pifkin has entered
the Ambrose competition?

- The man's delusional.
- A pompous git.

- With terrible, terrible
fashion sense.

- You don't believe
he has talent?

- Are you by chance familiar
with the work

of George Bernard Shaw?

- "Those who can, do;
those who can't, teach."

- Spot on, Detective.

- Pifkin hasn't composed
in decades.

- Maybe he found inspiration
in our misfortune.

- Or he found it
in Gustav Bohl's apartment?

- Detective Murdoch,
William Harwell, attorney.

I represent Pascal Girard

and I demand that you release
my client.

- Very well.

- Well, that was easy.

- Station House One has
confirmed your client's alibi.

- Well, I demand that you
release my associates, as well.

My attorney, Mr. Harwell, will
be taking them on as clients.

- I will?

- Send the bill to Mother.

- Thank you, Pascal.

- I take back everything
I said about you.

- Drinks on me tonight, buddy.

- I don't want to win
the Ambrose

just because my competitors
are in jail, now do I?

- I demand that you release--
- No need to demand.

I was already releasing them.

I'm pursuing a different
line of investigation.

(screeching cello)

- Oy, bugalugs!
That sounds bloody awful.

- Well, yes, doesn't it, sir?

- Mm.

You can keep the cello.

I won't be needing it.
I've got no talent.

- Sir, you'll never know
if you have the talent

if you never take the time
to master the skill.

- Look, this might sound daft...

But I just wanted to create
something beautiful.

Even if no one else hears it.

Even if it just vanishes
into the air and it's gone.

- Then keep trying.

I look forward to your
rendition of I's the B'y.

- On the cello?

(playing notes)

(sighing)

(playing dissonantly)

- All right, darling.
It's almost lunchtime!

It's time to stop playing.

(baby fussing)
Oh, I know, you love it.

I think it's time
to stop for the day.

Here we go.
(baby crying)

(door opening)

(door closing)

- Hello, ladies.

How's your morning been?

- Well, let's just say
that Susannah's really

taken to the piano.

- That's wonderful!
(chuckling)

Why don't you show Papa
what you've learned?

- No! No!

No.

Not today.

(sighing)

- After speaking with
our group of composers,

I decided to look
into Pifkin's past.

- And?

- I spoke with an administrator

at his previous
place of employment.

He mentioned an incident
where professional jealousy

drove him to attack a student.

He was let go.

- Pifkin could have killed
Gustav Bohl

and stolen his composition.

- He's also the one who reported
finding the body.

- How convenient.

Bring him in, Murdoch.

- Pifkin saw our arrests as his
chance to sweep the Ambrose.

- That hack actually
thinks he can win?

- Well, I for one relish
the chance to punish him.

- Here.

This is his studio.

(piano playing in the distance)

- There it is.

The tone-deaf maestro
murdering the piano.

Wait a minute.

(piano playing softly)

- That's actually...
- Magnificent.

- Certainly didn't expect that.

- Sylvia?

- Oh, dear heart, don't cry.

- What's wrong?

- That's Gustav's composition.

Pifkin must have
killed him for it.

(door opening)

(stops playing)

- Oh, happy day! You've all
been released from jail.

- You are the one
who should be in jail!

You're a phony and a murderer!

You stole Gustav's music!
You murdered him!

- Sylvia, don't!

(crashing)

(grunting)

- Miss Fachada!

That's enough.

- He stole Gustav's music.

- Gerald Pifkin,
you are under arrest

for the murder of Gustav Bohl.

- Murder? Preposterous.

- Save it for your trial,
Mr. Pifkin.

I'll see that the Ambrose jury
receives Mr. Bohl's composition.

Right this way.

(gasps)
- You!

I stole the music,
but I did not kill the boy.

- That boy was a young man on
the verge of artistic greatness.

- And I am an old man who will
never surpass mere adequacy.

Do you know what it's like to
live cursed by petty jealousy,

painfully aware
that your abilities

will never surpass mediocre?

- No.

- This I swear:
I am no murderer!

I am but a... petty thief.

And a petty man.

- Oh, break out the bloody
violins, why don't ya?

- Your self-pity is neither
compelling nor convincing.

You are hereby charged with
the murder of Gustav Bohl.

(orchestral music)

(cheering)
(applause)

- Well, that was thrilling,
Murdoch.

Mr. Bohl certainly deserved
to win the Ambrose.

- Certainly a twist,
the victim turning victor.

(chuckling)

- Oh, and, uh, there are
our former suspects.

- Ah, yes. Sir, I-I'd like to
have a few more words with them.

- Go ahead.

I've embarrassed myself enough

in front of them already.
- Oh!

- I'm off home
to see the missus.

- Gustav would have loved your
performance, Maestro.

- Not my performance;
the performance in service
of the composer's vision.

I admit, this time,
the composer's identity
surprised me.

- Uh, William Murdoch, sir.

Why is that?

- Detective Murdoch
caught Gustav's killer.

- Well, Detective,
Bohl's compositions

consistently demonstrated...
discipline.

- But not excellence?

This one... was a masterpiece
of sublime and nimble eloquence.

- A welcome diversion
from Gustav's dreary
signature atonality.

- Very much
of the Impressionist school.

- Debussy influenced.
- A pinch of Ravel.

- I'm sorry your friend
couldn't be here to see
his work performed.

- Maestro, may I have
your autograph?

- Of course.

Who should I make it out to?
- Nathaniel Dett.

- Sounds familiar.

There.

- Mr. Dett, it's an honour
to meet you, sir.

Winston Glover.

- You know my work?
- Yes, of course.

I do some composing myself.

- Interesting.

I'm thinking about forming
a choral society.

Is that something
that would interest you?

- Yeah, it would.

- Well, uh, I should head home.

- Goodnight, all.

- Drat! I... must have left
my walking stick.

Care to venture back into
the concert hall with me,
Detective?

There's something
I'd like to discuss.

- Lead the way.

What is it you wish to discuss
with me, Mr. Girard?

- Music.

What else is there?

You heard
what the conductor said

about the composer's identity?

- I did.

But I can't say I followed
his explanation.

- Gustav was an acolyte
of Schoenberg,

an Austrian composer
who emphasizes atonality.

- Explain atonality.

- Functional melodies
are discarded.

Melodic-rhythmic elements
are emphasized.

(eerie atonal music)

- But Miss Fachada stated that
Mr. Bohl's winning composition

was a departure from
his signature atonality.

- She's correct.

It's of the Impressionist
school.

- Which is characterized by...?

(soft orchestral music)

- Like Impressionist painters
and artists

who explore texture and colours,

impressionism in music
explores timbre,

musical colours
and ambiguous tonality,

almost like the blurred lines
of Monet.

(harmonious music)

A focus on mood and atmosphere.

The embrace
of progressive harmonies.

The rejection of
traditional structures.

- There is a group of notes
that keeps repeating

in Mr. Bohl's composition.

- You noticed.

(introspective music)

It's peculiar...

that Gustav would write
such a tonal piece

with a recurring melody

that is unapologetically...
diatonic.

♪ E, G, B ♪

♪ G, C, D ♪♪

- What if we were to advance
each in the sequence?

- Or move it a note
up the scale.

We call that transposing.

- Which gives us?

♪ F ♪
- F.

♪ A ♪
- A.

♪ C ♪
- C.

♪ A ♪
- A.

♪ D ♪
- D.

♪ E ♪♪
- E.

(epic music)

Facade.

I know who killed Gustav Bohl.

Oh, Miss Fachada.

There you are.
- Detective Murdoch.

Did you enjoy the concert
this evening?

- It was magnificent.

- I can't help but wonder

if it was difficult for you
to be romantically involved

with someone whose talent

is clearly superior to yours.

- I beg your pardon?

- The audience was spellbound.

People wept!

Gustav Bohl was a genius.

I find it difficult to believe

that you could ever
reach that level.

(chuckling)

- You're right.

The composition was brilliant.

If Gustav was here,
I'd tell him so to his face.

- It was brilliant.

Because he didn't write it.

You did.

- What are you on about?

- Fachada... That is
a Portuguese name, is it not?

In English,
it translates to "facade".

And you transposed the letters
in your family name,

F-A-C-A-D-E,

to obtain the notes

that you repeated
throughout your composition.

- No, Gustav wrote it!

I wonder if that argument
will hold up

when I analyze the writing
on the sheet music

and compare it
to your handwriting.

Time to drop the... facade,
Miss Fachada.

You wrote a brilliant
piece of music

and it's time to be recognized

for all that you've done.

- It is a brilliant
piece of music!

And it's mine!

I won the Ambrose Prize,
not Gustav.

Thought he loved me.

He used me.

He told me no one would believe
a woman wrote the piece

and he was planning to enter it
under his own name

and I grabbed
that ice pick and--

- And now, you'll likely
hang for it.

(epic orchestral music)

- I'll be famous.

Sylvia Fachada...

Killer composer.

My music will be celebrated
by critics

and performed by orchestras
the world over.

I suppose I'm living the dream.

- Sylvia Fachada,

you are under arrest for
the murder of Gustav Bohl.

(sighing)

(screeching cello)

(screeching cello)

(playing beautifully
and harmoniously)

(sighing)

- William.

Have you been sitting
here all night?

(sighing)
- Well...

all of this talk of talent
and discipline

has me wondering
if I have what it takes.

And so, I've been practicing.

- Are you serious?

I didn't hear anything.

Oh, no! Well, I didn't want
to wake you or Susannah up,

so I didn't actually
depress any keys.

I've just been rehearsing
the finger movements

while studying this piece
of sheet music.

- A waltz by Chopin?

William, that's a rather
advanced piece of music

for someone who...

(waltz playing on the piano)

Oh, my goodness.

That's incredible!

(gasps)
William!

- Shall we dance?

- Well, you're obviously
talented, but I doubt

that you can play the piano
and dance at the same time.

(waltz continues)

(gasps)

(laughing)

Well, I stand corrected!

- I replaced the internal
mechanism last night.

So, now, Susannah can pound away
on the keys

to her little heart's content.

- Oh! Thank you.

(laughing)

(♪♪)