Original subtitles

(laughing) - Tommy Brackenreid!

- Hamish Slorach. What a sight for sore eyes.

Sore eyes. Not know your trumpet?

- I’m old, Tom. Nobody expects me to hear them.

(both laughing) Good ear.

- Oh. Good ear. - Hm. Long time

since we’ve had one of these retreats.

- Yes. Not since Garriton died.

- Yeah. You know it’s his, uh, widow we have to thank

for the use of his hunting lodge.

For old times’ sake, apparently.

- I’m surprised about that because she never seemed

too keen on these inspector get-togethers.

- Ah, yeah, well, maybe she’s softened with old age.

Yeah, Neil Moser sent through the invites.

Even arranged for a car to take us up to Muskoka.

- Not bloody Moser. - Yeah.

- Who else is coming? - Oh, there’s George Washburn,

uh, Ed Cleasby, and Lester Dawes.

(laughing) - Well, it gives us an excuse

to get out of the house. - Mm-hmm.

- Be amongst nature with the lads.

- You’re telling me. Unlike yourself, Tom,

the rest of us are already retired and at home

with our wives. You know, it’s like we need nature.

(laughing) - I hear that.

- Oh, I will miss my new dog, though.

- Uh? Mm. - Gorgeous creature.

- Big, beautiful.

- Lindfield, sirs.

Station House One. I’m your driver.

- Ah. Not seen you before, Lindfield.

How long you been on the job? Six months.

- Ooh, long enough to see a thing or two?

- Nothing too dramatic yet, sir. I did help an elderly lady

recover a stolen handbag,

but turns out she’d just dropped it.

(laughing) - Well, give it time, lad.

No lack of evil lurking in...

(both): Toronto the Good.

(laughing)

(engine starting)

(birds chirping)

- I hope one day I can make my mark,

do some good.

Hey, what’s the worst case you’ve ever worked?

- Oh. Oh, deadly sous-chef of Ward Six.

(Brackenreid): Oh, he was a wrong ’un, that’s for sure.

- Ohh! Oh, oh. Then there were the killings at 206 Holyrood.

- Oh, I remember that. That was a real house of horrors.

That was you? - No, no, no.

Dawes was on that. Yeah. - Oh.

- Biggest case he ever closed. And the worst.

- Huh.

- Ratcatcher, that was you, Station House Four.

- Yes it was. Murdoch and Watts put that menace away.

- Yeah. - Did you say Murdoch,

Chief Constable?

- I did indeed. I imagine you’ve heard of him.

- Detective Murdoch’s the reason I left my studies

in engineering to join the constabulary.

- Murdoch is a remarkable man.

But behind every great detective,

there’s an even greater--

(both): Inspector.

- Thank you.

- As for evil, did you hear the Simcoe Slasher escaped?

- I thought he was to be executed.

- He was, but he’s on the run.

- I’m headed back to the city after this

to help with the manhunt.

- Well, that gives you a chance

to do some good, Constable.

Just make sure you catch the bugger.

- I’ll do my best, sirs.

- Oh, and make sure you’re back here

to pick us up on time. - Please.

- There they are. Slorach. Chief Constable.

- Moser. (shouting): Hamish!

- Here we are.

(shouting): I brought you a sandwich!

- Lester Dawes, it is wonderful to see you.

- Whoa-ho-ho!

- But, uh, yeah, you forgot the bread.

- And I remembered the mustard!

(Brackenreid): I see we’re already into the whisky.

- Oh, yes. - Dawes, I wish you

wouldn’t drink so.

- Take more’n a couple of whiskies to bring me down.

- I promised your wife I’d look out for you.

- Oh! - You know your heart’s

been acting up. - Shut it, Cleasby.

Stop pandering to every last woman in your life.

- Mrs. Dawes made me promise the same thing.

We’ll watch him together, hm?

- Thomas Brackenreid. Hamish Slorach.

Your room’s upstairs.

- Uh. Well, hello to you, too, Washburn.

- Always a bit of a martinet, even when we were rookies.

- Dawes, could you please put this somewhere?

- Garriton did a nice job in here. Look at this trophy.

- Shot and mounted it himself.

- It’s a nice place. - Meanwhile, his wife

was back in the city making do with powdered milk.

- Speaking of Widow Garriton, I’m surprised she isn’t here

to greet us... hand over a list of rules.

- Mm. That’s because she knows Washburn is here

making sure we all use coasters. (chuckling)

- Someone better chop wood

if we’re to cook these steaks before midnight.

- I’ll cut down the whole forest.

- I’ll tell you what, give me the axe.

I don’t trust Dawes. - If you’re going to drink

like a fish, at least use a glass, man.

- Oh, here we go. Always putting on a show, Dawes.

- It’s going to be a long weekend.

- Happy now?

(wheezing)

- Dawes!

Are you all right?

- Oh, he’s...

He’s dead.

(tense music)

- Dead?

(theme music)

- Ah, I see you’ve finally done it.

- What’s that? - Built the better mousetrap.

- Terence Meyers used knockout gas

on me and Inspector Brackenreid.

I’m attempting to engineer it in reverse

to refine its properties.

Now, this experiment will allow me to refine

the dosage so that its effects last no more

than five... minutes.

- Ah. Well.

(squeaking)

Can I tempt you with a quarry

who may be more difficult to recapture?

- I’m listening.

- I got a call from an old friend

at Station House One looking for help.

The Simcoe Slasher has escaped during a prison transfer.

- They need additional manpower?

- Brain power, I think.

Shall we bring it from the lab to the streets?

(curious music)

(squeaking)

- Dawes always did say his ticker was ticking down.

- Well, looks like we’ll have to go home early.

- Oh. - Who’s going to tell his wife?

- Oh, she’ll blame me.

Even though Dawes never listened.

- Well, let’s not be hasty.

We could... we could put him in the cold room overnight.

- Are you being serious? - Well, what’s the difference

between the cold storage here or in the city morgue?

- What say you, Washburn? You always know what’s right.

- Well, if you think about it, we are the authorities.

- Oh, come on! - Well, between the five of us,

we have well over a century of police experience.

- Exactly. Who better to make the decision?

- I don’t know. It doesn’t sit right with me.

- Nor me. How would you feel if it was you, Moser?

- Well, I wouldn’t begrudge my old pals a good time

just to give my wife an extra night of grief.

- Well, I’m the only one still on the job and I say we go back.

- Uh. But Constable Lindfield’s

not picking us up until tomorrow.

- Well, there’s no guarantee we can get a ride

sooner than that.

- I say we enjoy the night, have a little fun.

After all, it’s what Dawes would have wanted.

- Ah, where is this cold room? - Hamish!

- Well, there isn’t much we can do about it tonight,

is there, Tom?

You get the ankles. I’ll get the wrists.

- All right. (Washburn): I’ll get a blanket.

- Was Dawes really so ill that no one’s surprised

that he dropped dead?

- Guess that’s what happens when you’ve a bad ticker.

- Ah, it’s always sudden like that.

I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier.

- I saw him two weeks ago. He was strong as a horse.

Said if he ever felt a twinge, he just took one of his pills

and that sorted him right out.

- I never saw him take any pills.

- Oh. Uh-oh. Hey, wait. - Tommy, come on now.

- That’s not right!

Rifling through a dead man’s belongings.

- Maybe he forgot the pills at home?

- Surely he would have brought them with him.

But they’re nowhere to be seen.

(curious music)

- Uh, where are you going?

- I’m going to check in the one place

that I haven’t looked.

Sorry, Dawes.

(Moser): Ah, wh-what do you think you’re going to find, hm?

- These.

Don’t you find it strange that Dawes didn’t reach

for his pills, even though they’re in

his vest pocket the whole time.

- The man was dead drunk.

And from what I understand, heart paroxysms

happen suddenly more often than not.

- So you keep saying.

- Because it’s true.

- Hm.

- We’re too late. We likely wouldn’t recover

any information from the scene itself.

- Right. Dozens of men have already been deployed

at the site of his escape from the prison wagon, so we...

- We won’t go there! I have a hunch

that we need to retrieve information

on the Simcoe Slasher from all of the station houses.

- All? - Most.

The Simcoe Slasher has had run-ins with police

all over the city, and for years.

- You think we’ll find something the searchers have missed.

- Well, they’re searching for him here and now,

which they should be.

But we will be searching through his past.

- Via his criminal records. - Yes.

For us, the excitement in this case

will be in the paperwork.

- Ahh...

(soft playful music)

- I admit it’s odd about the pills, Tom.

Wh-what are you thinking?

- Maybe Dawes has been poisoned.

- But all of us were drinking the whisky.

- Look. Compare Dawes’ glass to Hamish’s.

- Oh, his has a dark bit at the bottom.

- Well, that’s hardly proof. - Well, look,

we all took glasses off the sideboard.

Maybe some were cleaner than others?

- Drain your glasses. - Ah!

Finally, you’re talking sense.

Cheers. - No, no, no, no, no, no.

So we can compare the dregs, not get drunk. Cleasby.

Washburn.

Only Dawes’s glass has residue. Could be poison!

- Trying to playact the great detective.

You don’t have to pretend in front of us.

- I’m not playing, Moser.

- Ah. Come on.

We all know why Station House Four

has the reputation it does,

and why you’ve risen to be Chief Constable.

It’s all thanks to Murdoch.

- At least I’ve always supported the detectives under my command.

- What’s that supposed to mean?

- Well, from what I used to hear,

you were less interested in the truth

than in marking cases closed.

- How dare you? How dare--? - Please not snipe

at one another. I can’t bear it!

- You are a sentimental fool, Cleasby.

- Look! The sun is going down.

Dawes will never see it rise again.

Hamish...

will you please play something that Dawes would like

to have heard? - Oh, yeah.

(mumbling)

He always used to like this one.

(upbeat ragtime piano music)

Oh! - Watch out!

- The antlers! - Bloody hell!

- Jesus! - Uh! I see angels.

Angels and my old dog.

- You’ll live.

(grunts) - Ah! Oh my God! Ah!

- You’re lucky you weren’t killed.

- Seems to me that God was looking out for him.

That was designed to fall on whoever was playing the piano.

- Oh, come on now.

- Don’t believe me? Watch this.

(piano note repeating)

- Good Lord.

(Cleasby): If that’s true, then...

- Oh... - ...maybe Dawes

was poisoned after all. - Yes, but by who?

- Someone who hates police?

- The Widow Garriton?

She could have booby-trapped the place.

- I remember at Garriton’s funeral

she seemed none too fond-- - Yes, yes.

- ...of the constabulary. - That’s true.

- She said in so many words she blamed us.

- For what? - For Garriton’s drinking.

Him not making it past 60.

- You think there are other traps?

- Anybody going to help me up?

- The windows have been nailed shut.

- Back door from the kitchen is barred, too.

- Oh, i-it’s normal to secure the lodge against squatters.

- Are you not paying attention?

There were traps set here to kill us.

- To think Dawes would still be alive

if Washburn hadn’t goaded him into drinking out of a glass!

- What are you saying?

- We’ve got to get outta here.

- I’m saying, was it a coincidence?

- Slorach, you’re losing blood.

You’re-you’re not thinking straight.

- Speaking of coincidence,

it’s pretty lucky how you managed not

to get killed by those antlers.

- Lucky?! If I was lucky, it would’ve missed me.

- Washburn, Slorach wouldn’t hurt a fly.

You worked with him.

- He didn’t strike me as much of a cop then.

And less now.

I say we go out the way we came in,

through the front door.

(door rattles)

- Slight problem there. It’s locked.

- What on earth?

- It must have locked behind us. Where’s the key?

- It was open when we got here.

- Then I’ll use the side door.

- Well-- - We’ll walk to the nearest town

if needed. - No! Washburn,

I wouldn’t do that!

(explosion)

(grunts softly)

Bloody hell.

- A landmine.

- Think it could be the Widow Garriton?

She’s nearly 70 and very frail last time I saw her.

- Someone else with a grudge against the police maybe?

- But why us? We’re all retired.

- Except for me.

- Well, that’s something, Tom. What are you working on?

- Pushing papers.

- What? That’s what a chief constable does.

- Nothing big at the moment.

I wonder if it could be Chadwick Vaughan.

- No. No, no. I know for a fact

him and his wife reconciled and they left for Paris

a couple weeks ago. - Ah.

- What about the Simcoe Slasher?

The escaped killer!

- Tom had a hand in bringing him in to justice

and he vowed revenge against all police at his trial.

- But the Slasher’s thing was cutting and stabbing people

who got in his way in a robbery.

This isn’t exactly his modus operandi.

- No, but criminals can escalate.

- Yeah. - Even the Holyrood killer

was, uh, just a petty thief back in the day.

- Yes, yes. He really came into his own

as a complete maniac before the constabulary

managed to bring him down.

Yes. It must be the Slasher after us. We need weapons.

- And a way out. - No! We just stay here

’til Lindfield comes to pick us up.

- But he’s right! It’s going to be dark soon.

- Here. Slorach, you’re with me.

- Cleasby, you come with me. Take these.

- Give me that. - What are these for?

- To help us catch the traps before the traps catch us.

- All right. Yeah. I like that.

- Yeah.

- To find the Simcoe Slasher,

given name Elmer Moggridge,

we are going to comb through his arrest records

to determine where he could be hiding.

Uh, places that he’s lived, people he’s worked with.

- Uh, my friend said they’re already checking

all the known associates and addresses in their files.

- Oh. But look at this arrest report

from Station House Number One.

It mentions the Simcoe Slasher being found with

brand new Bingsley ratchets in his possession,

which were likely stolen.

But then there’s no corresponding record

of arrest for robbery.

- The Bingsley Ratchet factory

is in Station House Three’s territory.

We’ll see if they ever investigated a theft plan.

Station House Three.

(tapping)

(soft tense music)

- A-are you sure this’ll work to spring any traps?

- No, I’m not sure it’ll work. Just keep your eyes open.

- Garriton must have some weapons about.

This is a hunting lodge, after all.

- Wait!

Look at that dark patch in the floor.

- What of it?

- It could be a trap. Or worse.

- Satisfied?

- Well, I’m still walking around it.

(door rattles)

- Cleasby, this window hasn’t been nailed shut.

- Hm. Be careful.

Oh.

We might be able to squeeze through.

- Oh, no, wait. Look.

The earth’s been disturbed.

Maybe something’s been planted in there. Yeah, here.

Ready?

(explosion)

Oh! Ah.

(Slorach): Tom! Are you okay? What happened?

- It’s just a minor explosion. We’re fine.

- Well, look at that.

- I hate guns. Except hunting rifles, of course.

- Uh-huh. Well, I don’t.

Loaded. - Well-well,

just give me the bullets.

- Why? You don’t trust me?

- In case we get startled. Don’t want any accidents.

- There are no accidents.

This is locked, too. Check the door.

(door rattles)

(tense music)

- Well, that was fruitless.

- How ’bout we just smash our way through the windows?

- Well, there’s probably more landmines out there.

- Yeah, good point.

- Bloody hell. It’s a telegraph machine.

- We could send a message.

- Praise be to Garriton for his hunting lodge improvements.

- You know, there’s a train line not far from here.

Wouldn’t be that costly to put in.

- My Morse code skills are a bit rusty.

How about yours?

- I can do it. Yeah.

- All right. We need to alert Murdoch

and ask the Toronto Constabulary to send help.

"Men murdered in Muskoka..."

"...at Garriton Hunting Lodge."

(Murdoch): And ask Station House Five, as well.

- Well, I tracked down the file

on the Bingsley Ratchet factory robbery.

- And? - There were two thieves

and the description of one of the suspects

does match the Slasher.

- So, they likely were stolen tools in his possession.

- Yes. Station House Three never identified the other thief,

but they did obtain his partial fingermark.

Not much to go on, but...

- Well, as you know, I do maintain

the most comprehensive archive of fingermarks in the city.

- Hm. - So, if we did find a match,

we could perhaps identify a previously unknown

associate of the Simcoe Slasher...

- Who might be sheltering him.

How many fingermarks would you say we have on file?

Several hundred?

- Oh, more.

Classified by type.

Could take some time. - Mmm. Mmm.

(Slorach): Stay away from me!

- Come on, Cleasby.

- I can’t believe that you would do something as stupid--

- Just show it to me! - I will not--

- What’s with the gun? - I found this.

- Hm. Yeah and I found this.

An obituary for the Widow Garriton.

- Ah. - She’s the one letting us

use the cabin. - Exactly.

So how does she send us the invites

if she died two months ago?

- She offered the cabin by telegram.

- You could have known the widow was dead

and you invited us up here for your own sick purposes!

- Hamish! Do you really think so poorly of me?

- You were the one insisting that Dawes wasn’t poisoned,

saying we shouldn’t go back to the city.

- Because I wanted to have a good time.

- By putting our friend on ice?

- We did that together!

- What’s your game, Moser? Why us?

- What are you talking about? Wha...

The widow sent through the invitation list.

- By telegram. When she was dead.

- Well, somebody telegrammed!

- So you say. - Well, it’s true.

I wouldn’t have picked you lot if I had my druthers.

(clicking) - What’s that sound?

- It’s a telegraph machine.

- That must be the reply to our SOS.

We might just be saved.

- "If... you..."

- Can’t you go any faster? - "Try..."

- Give him a chance. - "That...

again... you’ll...

regret it."

- You.

You must have set this up. - What?

- You’re the one who found this machine.

How could our messages be intercepted?

You... You did something to it.

You learned a few tricks from your star detective.

You sent the telegram as the widow in the first place!

- And you can’t be serious!

- Well, the only thing I know for sure is I’m not doing this.

- Look, I don’t know what happened,

but maybe the message doesn’t mean what we think it means.

- Uh, uh, do you think that the wires could have gotten

crossed somewhere down the line?

- Could be.

I’ll try another SOS.

(electric zapping) - Tommy!

- Ah. - What the devil?

- Oh, I’m all right. I think.

(grunting)

- That was not a normal telegraph.

- You still think he sabotaged it?

- I-I... I don’t know what to think anymore.

- Ah. Och, give me a hand. There we go.

- For once, I agree with you, Cleasby.

My nerves are wrecked.

(gunshot) - Oh! Moser!

Oh my!

Oh! Oh. Oh.

He’s been shot!

- Oof!

- Moser, are you all right?

- Well, what do you think, you idiot?

I’ve just been shot in the chest.

- You shoot yourself with that blasted gun you found?

- No. No, but I’ll shoot you.

- Moser, Moser! Don’t you ever-- - Moser, give me the gun.

Cleasby, sit him down, staunch the bleeding.

(grunts)

I don’t think this gun’s been fired.

- And that whiskey that smashed wasn’t one of ours.

The label’s different.

- Lads, look at this hole in the wall.

I think the bullet came from here.

When Moser took the bottle off the shelf,

it flipped up,

somehow activated the trigger on the hidden gun.

- It’s fiendishly clever.

- This Slasher won’t rest ’til we’re all dead.

- Ah, and he’s halfway there.

- Huh.

- I’ve found a match.

A thief named Milton Blain.

- I recognize that man.

Station House Two ran surveillance

on the Slasher for a string...

of robberies eight years ago

and someone in one of the photographs

was never identified.

Huh.

- It looks like the Slasher and this Mr. Blain

have had a long association.

- Says this was Market Street. There’s no address.

Can’t quite make out the number.

- Ah! The photograph is overexposed.

- It’s too bad you can’t figure out a way

to shed less light on the matter.

- Actually, I-I... I think I can.

- Bullet seems to have gone straight through.

- Oh, stop fussing! You hoping I’ll bleed to death?

- I’m sorry. I’m doing the best that I can.

(Moser chucklng) - You’re probably enjoying this.

Get your hands off me! - Moser,

you’re not thinking straight.

The man is just trying to help.

- Help me into my grave, more like.

Do you know that Cleasby here

was carrying around with my wife

for the better part of a year? - That was a long time ago!

I was just trying to be a listening ear.

It’s not my fault that she needed a friend.

- A listening ear is one thing,

but you gave her a lot more than that.

You probably wish you were still together.

- I-- That is not true! - Oh, it’s the quiet ones

you’ve gotta watch out for, sneaking around,

bottling things up. If anyone wanted me dead,

it’s Cleasby.

You do know that she was with you

only to teach me a lesson!

She can’t stand pathetic weaklings like you.

(muttering)

- Please, you have to keep pressure on that wound.

- Look, we shouldn’t be getting on at one another.

Deep down, we’re all good cops.

- Moser isn’t a good cop. He’s bad.

He intimidated witnesses, he fabricated evidence...

and he forced me to cover for him.

- How do you mean?

- Fred Pelch case.

Pelch was a Black man, so Moser thought he did it.

I never thought he was guilty. - Oh, that was years ago.

And, sure, maybe I stitched it up,

but Pelch was no downy innocent.

He’d already served time for armed robbery.

- But you had him convicted. For what?

- Murder... of a vagrant on Victoria Street.

Friendly beggar, by all accounts,

but apparently, Pelch didn’t like the looks of him.

- Pelch was a bank robber. Why would he go after a beggar?

- Was this the vagrant on Victoria Street back in ’93?

- Yes! - The friendly one.

- Well, Pelch didn’t murder him.

- How could you know that?

- Before the Holyrood killer was executed,

he gave up a list of his victims. Dawes showed me.

And the vagrant of Victoria Street

was on that list.

- So Pelch was convicted of the Holyrood killer’s crime.

- Well.

- I’ve manipulated the exposure in this area.

By changing the light source during printing,

it should show us more detail.

I’m hoping that we can now see the house number.

- It’s a seven.

- Seven Market Street. We go at dawn.

(Brackenreid): How you holding up, Moser?

- My chest is set to burst.

- Uh, I think the bleeding is slowing.

- At first light, we’ll find another way out.

We’ll get you some help.

- S-so you’re saying that if Moser and I

hadn’t gone after the wrong man,

we could’ve arrested the Holyrood killer

before his house of horrors?

- Yes, but these things happen.

Mean, Washburn and I, we had a blunder of our own

in that regard.

- How do you mean? - When I was a rookie,

we arrested a woman who was on her way to testify

in an assault case against George Cowers,

as the Holyrood killer was known then.

- Yeah. - A victim or a witness?

- I don’t know. She had a charge against her.

Washburn thought her story was a lie,

so we kept her in the cell.

- She never testified? - Mmm.

If she had, it means Cowers would have been behind bars

years earlier. (groans)

- I imagine Cowers had his fair share

of run-ins with the law. - Plenty.

Oh, he boasted about ’em at his confession.

One time, he was stopped in a stolen carriage

by a copper, gave some sob story

and the fake name Coot Newton and was sent on his way.

(curious music)

- Coot Newton? - Yeah. Oh, Cowers

thought that was a great joke.

- I stopped a Coot Newton

for erratic driving of a horse and buggy, years ago.

Such an odd fellow with a bizarre name,

I never forgot him.

- That was Cowers leaving the site of a violent assault.

- I let him off with a warning.

- And that was the Holyrood killer

that you let get away.

- I-I what? No, what? What?

(indistinct chatter)

- How did this happen? Station Four

clearly got it wrong. Continue the search!

- Inspector Norden, I-I...

thought I asked you to wait for us.

- What for? Your tip was worthless.

Nobody here but an old woman.

- Does she look like the Slasher?

Let the poor dear go, for goodness’ sake.

- Th-this house doesn’t look quite right, Watts.

- Is it possible this is the wrong address?

I’ve got the photograph.

- Mmm. Mm-hmm.

- Now, look at the number plaque.

The number isn’t centred

a-and there’s a faded line beside the number seven.

It-it-it’s not seven.

- It’s 17. We’re at the wrong house.

(breathing heavily)

- He made it through the night.

- Does anyone think it’s a strange coincidence

that we all crossed paths with George Cowers

before he was the Holyrood killer?

- You think that’s why we’re being targeted?

- We can’t be the only ones who tangled with him.

Cowers was racking up charges,

oh, for years throughout the city.

- How would anyone know about these old run-ins?

We didn’t even know. - Mm-mm.

- Besides, everyone connected with the Holyrood case

is, well, they’re dead by now.

Cowers was executed. He has no family.

- No one came out of 206 Holyrood alive.

There was the-the groundskeeper, the two prostitutes,

the homeowners, and that young mother.

- And the next-door neighbour.

- Yes. But she was already an old lady by then.

- Dawes.

Dawes knew about all of us.

He’d went through all the files

and he interviewed Cowers multiple times.

- But why would Dawes want to harm us, let alone himself?

- Too long on the case.

Caught Cowers’ madness.

Uh, would you stop fussing?

- I still don’t see it.

I think we need to be worrying about the Slasher.

- I agree. Everything that’s happened here

has to be the Slasher.

- I’m getting dizzy. I’m dizzy.

Stop.

- He’s turning blue.

- This was all Dawes’ fault.

If he’d just shared information about the Cowers case...

constabulary would have been able to stop Holyrood,

saved all those people!

- Is it possible the bullet could have nicked a lung?

I mean, if so, it could be pressure building up

in his chest. - Uh, Dawes wasn’t dead, I’d...

(sighs)

I’d kill him myself.

(gasps)

(exhales)

(soft mysterious music)

- He’s dead.

- Suppose we should move him to the cold room.

- No.

Wait.

He-he was...

He was complicated...

He was difficult.

He was my-- (gasping softly)

He was my partner.

(Cleasby sobbing)

We should say a prayer first.

- We need more than prayers, Cleasby.

We need to figure out how to fight the Slasher.

(tense music)

(indistinct chatter)

- You’re sure the Slasher’s in there this time?

- This is the correct address.

(Watts): Curtains are all drawn.

- He’s barricaded himself in.

- Did you see that? There’s two people inside.

- Yes.

Ready your weapons, constables.

He’s a killer just escaped death row.

He won’t go down without a fight.

(guns cocking)

(grunting)

- He wouldn’t want to be in here.

- Cleasby, I understand how you feel,

but we can’t just leave him in an armchair.

- He’s with Dawes.

Poor Dawes. I can’t believe it. My old dog was so fond of him.

Where is Dawes?

Someone has spirited away his body.

- You think it could be a spirit?

A malevolent spirit possessing Dawes’ body?

- Don’t be ridiculous.

But Dawes could have faked his death.

I’ve seen it done convincingly enough to fool a doctor.

- Why would Dawes do something like that?

- I don’t know. He must have had a reason.

- I showed the photograph of the Simcoe Slasher

and Milton Blain to the next-door neighbour.

She confirmed they’re both inside.

- You heard the detective.

Remember, the Slasher is surely armed,

with nothing to lose.

If he tries to flee, open fire.

- Inspector Norden,

with all due respect, I don’t think this situation

calls for lethal force.

- We cannot let the Simcoe Slasher slip away.

He’s not only a danger to the public,

but the very reputation of my station house is at stake.

- Yes, sir, but they are currently surrounded.

We still have the opportunity to apprehend them

without bloodshed.

- You have a soft spot for killers, Detective?

(sighs) - The Slasher will be

facing execution, but his associate

has not been convicted of any capital offence.

- We won’t let them get away.

- The Slasher’s trying to make a fool of the constabulary.

- Sir, before you shoot them out,

could we try one thing?

(grumbling)

- Stand down.

- When you-you said that Dawes must have had a reason

for faking his own death,

did you mean that he might be the one behind all this?

- Well, people always said that the Holyrood killer

must have had some connection to the police

to have evaded capture for so long.

- Yeah, but Dawes was notorious

for not sharing information on a case

until he found his killer.

- Maybe that’s because he was involved all along,

working alongside George Cowers?

- So we’re thinking Holyrood again?

- It wasn’t Dawes.

He’s no killer. You both knew him.

If Dawes didn’t share information,

it’s because he’s a bastard who wanted all the credit.

- So we think it’s the Simcoe Slasher?

- Yes. He hated the police. And you, Tom.

- Oh, thanks.

Well, then how do we account for Dawes’ body being missing?

- Well, Washburn was wrong. He wasn’t dead.

He was just stunned. He came to in the cold room and

then he’s gotten up.

- So you’re saying that he’s just been

stumbling around in a daze ever since?

- Exactly! And we need to find him.

- Well, there he is.

Dawes!

He’s dead.

And cold.

- Cleasby, get out of there now!

- Just propped up here.

- Cleasby! - Stop!

(explosion)

(grunting)

Bloody hell.

- Cleasby.

- What the...?

What’s that, what?

(whispers): It’s a microphone.

- Someone’s been listening to us this whole time?

- The same someone who moved Dawes’ body.

- But why?

You still think this has something to do with Holyrood?

’Cause Dawes is dead,

so he has nothing to do with this.

- It’s like you said, it must be the Slasher.

We need to get out of here and back to the city.

Otherwise, we’re sitting ducks. Come on, Slorach.

(grunting)

(birds chirping)

Least we’ve got a way out.

- This is knockout gas.

If we pump the correct amount into the house,

it will incapacitate the suspects.

- Without the need for any additional violence.

- Very well. But if it doesn’t work,

we’re doing it my way.

- It’ll work.

(gas hissing)

Now we wait.

(birds chirping)

- It’s Lindfield! Thank God.

- Do not take another step!

- Why? What’s wrong?

- You may set off a landmine.

- A landmine?

What’s happened to you? Is that blood?

- I’ll tell you on the way. But, meanwhile,

we’re going to retrace your steps back to the automobile.

- Very carefully.

- Yes, sirs. Follow me.

- Oh, all right.

- That is the Simcoe Slasher and his associate Milton Blain.

- Well done, Detective Murdoch.

Though your knockout gas seems to have worked

better than you thought.

- The anesthetic should have worn off by now.

Uh, give them a shake. Try to wake them.

- Two criminals dead with very little inconvenience to us.

- I’ve heard such drugs can be unpredictable.

- Check their breathing. It could be very shallow.

Huh. Perhaps I’ve miscalculated the dosage after all.

(engine revving)

- I can’t believe everyone else is dead.

We’ll have to send a team back right away.

- I take it they haven’t captured the Simcoe Slasher yet?

- Not as far as I’ve heard.

But we should get back to the city as soon as we can.

- So you’re not involved with the manhunt?

- I was going to.

My inspector said they had enough men already.

- So, Lindfield, you’ve been on the job, what,

six months?

Have you had a chance to look over any old case files?

- A few.

My inspector asked me to review some old police files,

learn how to write my own.

- I used to say that to young constables myself.

Why’re you turning here?

This isn’t the road to the city. You go--

- It’s an old bridle path.

Runs parallel to the railway. It’s faster. Could be safer.

So, you dropped out of school to become a constable.

What was it you were studying?

- Electrical engineering.

(ominous music)

- So, I take it you’ve got a sound understanding

of electrical telegraphy.

- Yes, I do.

Very good understanding indeed.

- Get some stretchers. - Ah, well.

Looks like you saved the hangman a day’s work, at least.

- You had the best of intentions.

(men gasping)

(Norden): Take them away.

Very impressive, Detective.

It’ll be earthly justice for these two.

For now.

(sighs)

(engine stops)

- I was hoping you’d figure it out. Get out.

Start walking.

- The young mother at 206 Holyrood who was tortured.

You’re her son, aren’t you?

You’ve blamed everyone who should’ve put

the Holyrood killer away but didn’t.

- Did you know that my mother was the last one left alive

in that house?

She had to hear everyone else tortured and killed

before George Cowers finally came for her.

- That’s terrible.

- It was a police detective who told me.

As if it was something a boy ought to know.

- Jane Oldfield.

It was your mother’s name. You changed yours.

- You remember her name.

- Everyone who heard about that case--

(gun cocks)

...was haunted by it.

Dawes spoke of it often.

(gunshot) - Ah!

(groaning)

My mother waited for hours...

suffering...

terrified...

not knowing why she was locked in that house.

- What happened to your mother was a sin.

- It’s what was supposed to happen to all of you.

- Get up.

(tense music)

(birds chirping)

- So, you caught the Slasher by doing paperwork?

That’s a good day even by your standards, Murdoch.

- Well, there’s a bit more to it than that.

- The other station houses were so impressed

they’re looking into expanding their own collection

of fingermarks.

- Sir, perhaps you should consider supervising

a central database at City Hall?

- Hm. It’s a big job, but it’s a good idea.

- Did the two of you actually think the Simcoe Slasher

was behind the murders at the cabin?

- For a while.

- I pretty much thought it the whole time.

- But once we discovered the microphone,

I knew it couldn’t be the Slasher.

It had to be someone with electrical know-how.

- And a connection to the Holyrood murders.

- And a detailed knowledge of the killer’s arrest record.

- Constable Lindfield is set to stand trial,

but he’s already confessed to everything.

- Yet another murderous admirer of yours, Murdoch.

Add him to the list.

- Surely you can’t blame me for this.

- Of course not.

There’s already enough blame to go around.

And more police funerals in a month

than we’ve seen in many a year.

(soft music)

- Well, that wasn’t quite the trip I had in mind, Tom.

- Me neither. Although I do think

we’re entitled to another kick at the can.

- Oh, perhaps in the city next time.

- Dinner with our better halves?

- Oh, I’d love for you to meet my new dog.

- I meant our wives, Hamish, our wives.

I’m sure we’ll be safer with them around.

- Hm. I’m sure you’re right, Tom.

I’m sure you’re right. (laughing)

(theme music)

Subtitling: difuze