All language subtitles for Murdoch Mysteries - S09E11 - A Case of the Yips [1080p]

Hurry it up, Benedict.

Oh. Unfortunate.

Remember,
it's a two-stroke penalty

if you're beyond the boundary.

- Two.
- Right.

Where in blazes has he gone?

Benedict! Hurry on!

If you haven't found it by now,
you've bloody well lost it.

No lifting out of a difficulty,
Benedict!

We may as well help.

We'll fan out, shall we?

Almost ready.

He's had his daily romp
and a bath.

I daresay he's rather hungry.
Aren't you, little Roland?

Just one drop of lime extract.

He has milk, fresh diapers,

and enough solid food
to last him the whole day.

I'll take him for the morning

and bring him to you
at lunchtime.

Murdoch residence.

Detective William Murdoch
speaking.

I see.

Yes, I'll be right there.

It appears little Roland

will be spending his morning
in the morgue.

You go take a look
that way.

- What have we, George?
- Sir.

I'm just arriving myself,

but it seems a group of four
were out on the links.

One of them went into the woods
to retrieve his ball,

and that was the last
anybody's seen of him.

- Was a search conducted?
- By his colleagues, yes.

They claim
he vanished without a trace.

This must be them, sir.

Ahh! Constable Crabtree.
A pleasure to see you again.

I'm only sorry it is under
such worrisome circumstances.

And you are?

Sir, this is Roger Newsome.
Of the Mimico Newsomes.

- He was mixed up...
- With the auto club, yes.

Mr. Newsome, what do you know
of this disappearance?

What can be said?

He abandoned
a round in progress.

What kind of man does that?

I certainly won't be signing
his scorecard.

Where did he enter the woods?

Given all these broken branches,

and the fact that
the ground's been disturbed

in several places,

I'd say someone's
been through here recently.

Trail seems to end here.

Well, in that case, sir,

he may have been snatched.

Somebody in some sort
of dirigible.

George.

Well, it's happened before,
Sir.

I don't think he went up.

That's quicksand.
Be careful.

There's very little in nature
more dangerous than quicksand.

Contrary to popular belief
and many books,

it's virtually impossible
to be sucked under

whilst in quicksand, George.

But that's not to say
he wasn't put here.

My God.

We'll get him to the morgue

so he can be cleaned up
and examined.

Did your search
yield anything, George?

We discovered a ball, sir.

Presumably the one
the victim was looking for.

Sir, I have a request.

Yes?

As you may know, Mr. Newsome
and I have some history.

He treated me terribly in
our last encounter, and I...

Well, sir, I hate him.

I feel bad
even thinking it, sir,

but I can't pretend
it's not true.

I hate the way he acts
and the way he speaks

and the way he laughs.

And I hate his little bow tie
and his stupid face...

Thank you, George.

I-I apologize.
I just...

I wonder if I should be
excused from the case,

given my personal bias.

Well, so long
as I remain unbiased,

I don't see the problem,
George.

I'll see you
back at the station house.

Benedict.

Benny, Benny, Benny.

I just keep asking myself
the same question.

How?
How can I go on?

How?

Do you know of anyone who may
have wished the victim harm?

No. No.

Every member of this club

regarded him
with fondness and esteem.

James Benedict
was a gift from above.

I'm very sorry we can't
be of more help, Detective.

As I'm sure you know,

I am a great friend
of the constabulary.

Thank you, gentlemen.

Oh, Detective.

George Lyon, club champion.

William Murdoch,
Toronto Constabulary.

Most shocking news.

Have you any idea
how it happened?

My investigation
is still in the early stages.

To think someone killed him
while I was golfing

only a few holes away.

Shameful.
Outrageous.

Now, if you'll excuse me,
I'm set for another 18.

The victim was struck
with a blunt instrument

and beaten repeatedly
about the head.

So he died from his injuries?

He was alive and breathing
when he went into the quicksand.

Cause of death
was asphyxiation.

Would you be able to tell
what type of weapon was used?

There were some distinct marks

on both the cranium
and the upper torso.

I think it would be fair
to assume it was a golf club.

Well, the victim's club
was found on the scene.

If I brought it in, would you
be able to tell if it's a match?

I'll certainly do my best.

I've finished transcribing the
marks from the victim's back.

Marks?

He had a series of tiny
punctures on his shoulder blade.

About a dozen in total.

I've made a card
with the location of the holes.

The wound could have been made
by a man's shoe,

or, rather, cleats.

Very good, Miss James.

I'll see if this pattern
is a match

for any of the players' cleats.

I suppose that means you'll be
leaving little Roland with me.

He seems much happier here.

So this punter hits the ball
into the woods off the tee,

goes looking for it,
and someone clubs him.

And since it would be
impossible to anticipate

Mr. Benedict directing the ball
into the woods on that hole,

we have to assume that it was
a crime of opportunity.

I suppose it could have been
a golfer on a neighboring hole.

Or...

What if he meant to do it?

I'm afraid I don't follow.

Golf is a cruel mistress,
Murdoch.

It holds a man
under its spell.

I could believe that he hit the
ball into the woods on purpose,

then killed himself
just to get away from the game.

Golf seems little more
than a distraction, sir.

I can hardly believe that
it would drive a man to suicide.

Seems like fun at first.

Just one good round,

even one good shot,

and you're hooked.

You become a slave to it.

For hours and hours,
day after day,

you hit the ball
towards the hole.

You hit the ball
towards the hole.

On and on.

It gets into your head.
It consumes you.

All you can think about

is hitting the damn ball
into the damn hole!

Golf is a curse, Murdoch.
Don't you forget it.

Oh, Detective.

Mr. Lyon.
To what do we owe the pleasure?

I have something terribly
important to discuss with you.

Regarding Mr. Benedict's death?

No, sir.
Regarding your death.

Is that some sort of threat,
Mr. Lyon?

A threat?
Ha! No.

My good man,
I'm talking about insurance.

Detective, I'm here to offer you
the security and well-being

that can only be attained

through the purchase of a
full-coverage insurance policy.

Oh, I really
don't think that...

Do you have a wife, Detective?
Children?

Yes.

And what would happen to them

if something unspeakable
were to happen to you?

Oh, I don't...
I-I really...

What would become
of your beautiful family

should some fiery blaze
engulf your peaceful home?

I-I don't know.

These are
imponderable questions, sir.

And their only answer
is insurance.

Mr. Lyon, have you sold
insurance policies

to members of the golf club?

To nearly every member.

Golf has become my passion,

but insurance
remains my business.

Next year it will finance
my trip to St. Louis

to play in the Olympic Games.

And did you sell
such a policy to Mr. Benedict?

I'll tell you
all you care to know about

if you would
play a round with me.

No one goes uninsured after
18 holes with George Lyon.

Murdoch, I've sent Crabtree
to the golf club

to look for a match
on those golf cleats.

Sir, allow me to introduce
Mr. George Lyon,

one of our country's
finest golfers.

Oh, are you?

Oh. Inspector.
It's a pleasure.

Would you care to join us
for a round?

Us?

Uh, well, sir, it could only aid
in the investigation.

Curse, Murdoch.
Curse.

The mark is too narrow.

I'll try the other side.

You mark my words, Doctor.

Keep your eye on your husband,
or you're going to lose him.

William Murdoch
is a man of discipline.

I'm sure he can handle
a round of golf.

This one still isn't as wide
as the ones on the body.

It seems the weapon may have
had a flat edge to it.

Forewarned is forearmed,
Mrs. Murdoch.

I can't imagine why anyone
would enjoy the sport at all.

It seems rather silly.

I thought that too
until I started

swinging this club about.

It's quite pleasurable.

- Very nice.
- Thank you.

Was the victim's policy
significant?

The beneficiary is in line
for $50,000.

And who would that be?

I'll check my records as soon
as I get back to the office

and will contact you directly.

And what of
Mr. Benedict's foursome?

Loyal friends.

They do circumvent course
policy on one matter, though.

They play four-ball golf
for money.

Any significant sums?

Sometimes up to 50 cents
a hole.

Go ahead, Detective.

Strike it with some gusto.

Well, well, well!

Very fine.

You have a lovely swing,
Detective.

Now, I do have
some pointers for you.

Oh, come now,
Constable Crabtree.

This is nothing more
than a charade.

I can tell you
who the Killer is.

I'm not interested in
your theories, Mr. Newsome.

It was Benedict's brother,
Wilbur.

The man is truly a weasel.

More sherry, man.

What's the damnable holdup?

A weasel through and through.

A scoundrel, I daresay.

The last time I was stuck
playing with him,

he refused to do the proper
ball drop... behind his head.

You mean he just dropped it
in front of him?

Yes!

You three realize you are
the prime suspects

in a murder investigation,
don't you?

How can you say
such a thing?

Because you were the ones
who were with Mr. Benedict

just prior to his death.

We know that Wilbur Benedict
was seen here in the clubhouse,

so how could he have magically
appeared at the crime scene

just at the right time?

Anyone here in the clubhouse
could have stepped out the back

and nipped into those woods.

Oh, my!

That is quite the getup.

They allow
for terrific mobility.

I have news
regarding the victim's club.

Ah, yes.
Was it used in the murder?

I don't believe so.

It seems the wounds were made by

a club with a narrow base
and a flattened head.

That would be a putter,
no doubt.

So the murder weapon
is still missing.

You two seem to be making
a fine day of it.

You should join us
for a round sometime.

You must be Mrs. Murdoch.
George Lyon.

Dr. Julia Ogden.

I appreciate the offer,

but I'm afraid
I must be getting back to work.

Another time, then.

- Oh! Fine putt.
- Thank you.

I... I'll be along
to take care of Roland

as soon as I finish
with... with golf.

Let's go, Detective.

The pattern of cleat marks
wasn't much help, sir.

It matches a popular shoe worn
by at least a dozen men here.

Including all the members
of the victim's foursome.

Gentlemen.
A few more questions.

Come now, Detective Murdoch.

We were just about to
enjoy a round.

It seems Mr. Newsome
has lost his putter.

Indeed.

How do you explain that,
Mr. Newsome?

I threw it into the water hazard
some time ago.

- Why would you do that?
- It had become disagreeable.

Putting with my driver

has brought my handicap down
to a half-one.

Did either of you witness
the discarding of this putter?

- No.
- No.

Well, that's convenient.
Not to mention hard to believe.

How could
a golfer become so upset

that he would throw perfectly
good golf clubs into a lake?

Clearly the errors
in your putting

were the fault of your stroke
and not of your club.

It was too
the putter's fault!

Be that as it may,

if that club was used
in a murder, Mr. Newsome,

that club
will lead you to the noose.

I think that's
the lot of them, sir.

I find it astounding
that so many golfers

resort to throwing perfectly
good equipment into a lake.

A man in the grip of obsession
knows no reason, Murdoch.

Sir, this one matches
Mr. Newsome's description.

It has his initials
monogrammed in it.

It appears
to have been underwater

for some time, undisturbed.

I think we have to rule this out
as the murder weapon.

So Newsome's not our killer?

Well, that's yet
to be determined, George,

but this club
didn't kill Mr. Benedict.

The victim was killed
in this wooded area here.

Quicksand would be roughly here.

Mr. Newsome said
he entered the woods first,

that Driscoll and Sanders
went further down the fairway.

Even if one of the foursome
is the killer,

he would have had to dispose
of the murder weapon

somewhere in that direction.

Maybe he dropped it
in someone's bag on the 16th.

There's a pond on the 16th.

I nearly hit into it during
my round with Mr. L...

Close enough for the killer
to throw something in there?

Oh, sirs.

Can I at least
get my trunks first?

Six golf clubs, sir.

And a coat of slime.

And that filthy water
from the lake in my ear.

I swear I can feel the germs
making their way into my brain.

Germs can be quite deadly,
can't they?

- Yes.
- Really?

Two putters.
Both fairly rusty.

And this.

That's quite unusual, sir.
Is that a putter also?

Well, it does have
a flat face.

But it's rather unwieldy,
though.

Looks to be in good shape,
though, sir.

I wouldn't say it's been
in the water long.

Indeed.

I'll have Dr. Ogden see if it's
a match to the victim's wound.

- It's fun, isn't it?
- This part is fun.

It's the wandering around
endlessly

after a tiny white ball
that doesn't seem so appealing.

I prefer to look at it
as a pleasant walk

in a beautiful setting.

I can do that in High Park.
For free.

I believe we've found
our culprit.

Well, given its unique design,

someone at the club will know
who it belongs to.

Then I suppose you'll be sending
a constable to ask around?

Oh, I was thinking
I would go myself.

Mr. Lyon knows everyone
at the club.

If I speak to him,
I'll have my answer directly.

And if he happens to ask you
to play a round of golf?

I'll have to check the etiquette
on that.

Hit another, Detective.
It's only a friendly round.

I'll bend the rules
to grant you a mulligan,

but the removal
of loose impediments

is strictly prohibited.

Thank you, Mr. Lyon.

The sheer volume of golf
etiquette is somewhat daunting.

And as important
as the game itself.

What of this putter?
Is it familiar to you?

I've seen it only once before.

Odd piece of equipment,
isn't it?

Even if it works,
you look like a fool using it.

Did you happen to notice
who it belonged to?

Maclver, a Scotsman.

Daft man purchases
every newfangled thing

that promises the slightest
improvement to his game.

I'll telephone him
this afternoon

and send him
straight over to you.

Oh, and did you find out
who the beneficiary is

of Mr. Benedict's
insurance policy?

Next of kin.

In this case, his brother,
Wilbur Benedict.

Also a member of this club,
I believe.

Thank you, Mr. Lyon.

Well, you'll get the hang of it.

I don't understand.

I hit the ball
perfectly before.

Such is the nature of the game,
Detective,

as unpredictable
as life itself.

Of course, insurance allows us

to guard against
life's calamity.

In golf, there are
no such assurances.

A perfect swing every time?

That would be
mastering the unmasterable.

What's this, then?

Oh! Sir.

I've had an idea.

It's an invention.

What's it do?
Force a man to confess?

No. No.

No, it will allow me to...

Look, give it a rest,
and get back to work.

There's a churlish Scotsman
sitting in your office.

Churlish? How so?

Well, he's a Scotsman,
isn't he?

Ahh, "Practical Golf."

A tome as sacred
as the King James Bible, eh?

Do you recognize this putter?

Aye, surely.

Bought it two months ago.

Useless as a fat man
at the high jump.

- This is your putter?
- Not any longer, no.

Sold it three weeks back.

To whom did you sell it?

That right drunk duffer, uh,
Wilbur.

Wilbur Benedict.

Mr. Benedict.

- Detective William Murdoch.
- Yes, yes.

What?

I'd like to speak with you
regarding your brother's death.

Do you recognize this putter?

Of course.
What of it?

Does it belong to you?

I have one just like it,
but mine is in my golf bag,

secured in my locker.

Are you quite sure
about that?

Because this is your golf bag
and there's no putter in it.

And this was used to murder
your brother, Mr. Benedict.

Let's take a walk, shall we,
sunshine.

If someone used my putter
to murder poor James,

it certainly
had nothing to do with me.

Anyone could have taken it
from my locker,

and I haven't used my clubs
in weeks.

But you were at the clubhouse
every day.

The clubhouse.
Not the course.

My physician told me
I have to stay off my hip,

so I while my time at the bar.

The perfect place
to lie in wait.

The spot where your brother
was murdered

is only a short distance away
the clubhouse's back door.

You think I slipped out
between sherries

to murder poor Jimmy boy?

It's preposterous.

Why would I do such a thing?

You're the beneficiary
for his life insurance policy.

I am not.

You deny it?

I used to be his beneficiary,

but then Jimmy boy decided to
cancel his insurance last month.

Hello? Detective?

Ah, Mr. Lyon.
Thank you for coming.

My, oh, my.
Whatever is this?

I call it
my swing-arc perfection device.

As you can see, the device
helps to guide your backswing.

Now, if you make an error...

...the device lets you know.

Whereas if you keep the club
between the rails,

you have a perfect swing.

It's quite clever, Detective.

I'm not sure the likes of
George Lyon can benefit.

My swing is already
one of the purest in the game.

But is it perfect
every time?

Well, perhaps not every time.

This device ensures that your
swing will become consistent.

Think of it as insurance.

All right, all right.
Let's have a go.

Thank you.

The reason I asked you
here today, Mr. Lyon,

was to discuss James Benedict's
insurance policy.

Yes.

We've come to learn
that Mr. Benedict

intended to cancel the policy.

Certainly did.
End of last month.

Wanted to cancel
the whole lot.

And why were the policies
not canceled?

Took him for a round
and convinced him to reconsider.

Ingenious!

I can start to feel my swing
improving already.

Afternoon, Miss James.

Is the doctor in?

I'm afraid she's gone
for the day, Constable.

Taking care of the little one.

Is there something
I can help you with?

I actually do have
a bit of a medical issue.

What seems to be the trouble?

I've got water stuck in my ear.

And not just any water...

Filthy, filthy,
stagnant pond water.

Rife with germs and microscopic
diseases, to be sure.

- Is that so?
- Yes, that's so.

I've been reading up on it
in the library.

You wouldn't believe it.

There are
several recorded instances

of dirty water
causing fatal infections.

Every patient who looks up
their symptoms at the library

ends up thinking
they're dying.

Diagnosis is best left
to the professionals.

That said,
you might lose your ear.

What?!

You...

Oh, my goodness.

It's gone.

You've cured me!

Rubbing alcohol and vinegar.

I learned it from my mother.

For next time.

Thank you, Miss James.

It's possible Mr. Benedict
killed his brother

for the insurance.

But it's also equally possible
that he knew

about the policy being canceled.

You do realize you're missing
the obvious, Murdoch.

- Sir?
- George Lyon.

Your new pal.
He's the one with motive.

He stands to lose his commission
if a policy is canceled

before the company
can earn it back.

Sir, you believe
Mr. Lyon failed

to convince Mr. Benedict
to reconsider?

And killed him
to stop him from canceling.

Must need the cash
to go off gallivanting

to the Olympic Games.

Sir, Mr. Lyon wasn't part of
the foursome on course.

And his cleats didn't match
the marks on the body.

It can't be him.

You're off to play
with Lyon now, I presume?

As a matter of fact, I am.

You don't think
your personal feelings

about the man are clouding
your judgment, do you?

Absolutely not.

Good.

Good.

Crabtree. Come here.
I need your help.

What's the problem, sir?

Murdoch has bungled
this golf club murder.

How so?

He's fallen in love
with the game.

The temptress has blinded him.

Thinks George Lyon
can do no wrong.

You think Mr. Lyon
is guilty, then?

I don't know.

When did you check the pattern
on his golf cleats?

Do you think he could have
changed them?

Sir, Mr. Lyon's cleats
were never checked.

He was out on the course
with the detective

and never came back
to the clubhouse.

The bugger swerved it.

Let's go, Crabtree.

Where was Lyon when Benedict
went into the woods?

It's hard to say.

He was playing as a single

and asked to play through
at some point.

Yes, yes, that's right.

I remember noticing
his plus fours.

I thought, "I would look
quite fine in those,"

and went straight out to buy
myself a pair that afternoon.

The afternoon
your friend was murdered.

I purchased them whilst carrying
the heaviest of hearts.

Oh, yes, I'm sure
you were just devastated.

What hole did you see him on?

Constable Crabtree,
do I sense sarcasm?

Shut up, Newsome.

Where were you on the course
when you saw Lyon?

I don't remember.

It was the hole that Sanders
yelled at Benedict.

Sanders, what hole was that?

Yelling at the victim?
What about?

He was cleaning his ball.

And?

It was during play,

and as such,
strictly prohibited.

Oh, for the love of Ada.
Which hole was it?

The 13th.

He claimed ground under repair,

but the circumstances
called for no relief.

13th?

Benedict was killed
on the 14th.

That's right.

Come on, Crabtree.

Constable Crabtree,
I must know what I've done.

We've been through
so much together.

Why don't you like me?

Why?

You left me for dead.

I did what?

Your cohort
from the auto club

had his hands around my neck,
throttling me.

You fled
in abject cowardice.

I thought you had the situation
in hand.

I was begging for your help!

You just turned around
and left.

I thought, "My God,
what kind of man

could just turn around and..."

Blast!

Blast, blast, blast!

Are you all right, Mr. Lyon?

No!
I'm not all right, Detective.

Your damnable contraption
has given me the yips!

- The yips?
- The yips.

I set up perfectly.
I swing perfectly.

And yet, every time, disaster!

I hardly think a machine
can be held responsible for...

I may never win
another golf game again.

Not here.

Certainly not in St. Louis
at the Olympic Games

whilst representing
the fine people of Canada!

Murdoch,
you look like a damn fool

in those knickers.

Sir?
What are you doing here?

He was just ahead
of the foursome

when Benedict
went into the woods.

He could have seen him,
and he could have killed him.

But, sir, Mr. Lyon's
cleats are not a match.

Mr. Lyon didn't have
his cleats checked.

You didn't go back
to the clubhouse

after your round,
did you, Mr. Lyon?

Why would I?
I had an engagement.

Or you saw what our constable
was doing in there

and you buggered off.

Mr. Lyon,
I need to see your shoe.

Is this because I insulted
your contraption?

Your shoe.

George Lyon,
you're under arrest

for the murder
of James Benedict.

There's one thing
still bothering me.

We know
that Wilbur Benedict's putter

was the murder weapon,

but no one was seen with it
that day.

That means it had to have
been stashed in the woods

ahead of time.

So the killer
had to have known

that Benedict would go
into those woods.

But how could George Lyon
have known that?

How could anyone
have known that?

I have no idea either.

That's odd.

Now, what do you suppose is
wrong with this little fellow?

That ball was amongst the ones

that George had found
in the lake.

It's possible
that it was just a bad ball.

But it's also possible
that it was weighted on purpose.

And if one ball
was weighted on purpose,

it's possible that others
were also...

Like the one

that James Benedict
hit into the woods.

A bunch of golf balls
that don't work right. So?

Sir, I cut one of those open.

They weren't manufactured
by accident.

They were finely designed

to veer off course
when hit squarely.

All right.

So Lyon gives Benedict
this special ball.

He knows that every time he uses
it, it'll end up in the woods.

So he goes there
and waits for him.

Except that
it wasn't George Lyon.

- Are you sure?
- Yes, I am.

The victim would have noticed
a weighted ball

while putting on the 13th green,

therefore the exchange
had to have happened

between there
and teeing off on the 14th.

And George Lyon wasn't there.

The killer had to have been
part of the victim's foursome.

Ah, Mr. Lyon.
I-I'm terribly sorry about this.

Ah, I don't want to hear
a word of it.

You did what you had to do
in the pursuit of justice.

Thank you for understanding.

While we have you here,

I believe you might be able to
assist us in our investigation.

This ball
was made to veer off course.

My, my, my.
How unusual.

Do you know of anyone
who would be able

to manufacture such a thing?

I know just the man.

I think I can
take care of that for you.

You can leave it with a caddie.
We'll have it taken care of.

Virgil Graydon?

Detective William Murdoch,
Toronto Constabulary.

I understand you manufacture
sporting goods?

In all manner, sir.

Cleeks, mashies, niblicks.

Carry bags, rubber tees.

A teeing pedestal
made of rubber and wood.

How ingenious.

Never mind all of that.
I'm here to discuss golf balls.

- Specifically...
- I have several new models.

But if you're after
something truly special,

you'll want the Monarch.

Oh, my.
These appear to be...

Extra dimples.

For maximum distance
off the tee.

Dimples would cause turbulence.

But that shouldn't result
in greater distance.

I'm sure you're happy
with your Haskells.

I'll take a box of each.

Now, have you ever
been commissioned

to make custom balls
for any of the club members?

It happens on occasion.

Well, on this occasion
the balls in question

were specifically engineered
to veer off course.

I know the balls exist,
Mr. Graydon.

And if you do not tell me
who commissioned them,

I'll be forced to charge you

with impeding
a murder investigation.

Me?
A murderer?

What a preposterous notion!

Where did you get this?

It was found
near James Benedict's body.

You gave Benedict that ball.

You knew what would happen
when he hit it.

You had planned to
follow him into the woods,

where you had previously
planted the golf club,

and murder your friend
in cold blood.

Well? Speak up.

What do you have to say
for yourself?

I have nothing to say,
Inspector,

except that
you have it right.

This ball was intended
for murder.

And I am a murderer.

I hereby
honorably admit my guilt.

I never did like
that little git.

Glad we don't have to
come across him any longer.

I'm sure George feels
much the same way.

Well, Crabtree?
Oh, it's all right.

You're allowed to take some joy

in the misfortune of others
every now and again.

Sir, I would like to.
It's just...

I don't think Newsome is guilty.

He's confessed.

- I think he's lying.
- Why?

He's embarrassed
to admit the truth.

- What truth would that be?
- That he's a cheater.

That's what the weighted balls
were for.

George, you think Mr. Newsome
confessed to a murder

in order to cover up the fact
that he cheats at golf?

- Yes.
- That would be mad.

- Yes.
- He could be right, Murdoch.

That twit values his pride
over everything.

I was once ready to hang him
over a bloody maths puzzle.

But Mr. Newsome's
account of the events

is consistent
with the facts as we know them.

Except Newsome claimed

he only used the weighted ball
for the murder,

but we found another one
in the lake.

That's true.

But how would a weighted ball
help his golf game?

Fine putt, old man.

Ta.

He used it to sabotage
the other players.

If Driscoll or Sanders
found out what he was doing?

Then one of them could have used
the tampered ball

to commit the murder.

Daft bloody game.

Afternoon, gentlemen.

Inspector. Detective.

To what
do we owe the pleasure?

How is old Roger faring?

I mean, a murderer?
Doesn't that beat all?

He didn't do it.

New information
has come to light.

Oh, well, I...

Make way!

Oh, my!

Still got my swing,
me old mucker.

I'll need you
to empty your pockets.

I must ask...
Why did you do it, Mr. Sanders?

Because he wouldn't listen.

I told him and told him,
and he kept doing it.

- Doing what?
- Cleaning his ball.

During play.

I may be a novice,
Mr. Sanders,

but to my eye,
the cleaning of one's ball

seems a minor infraction.

Mr. Newsome's transgressions
are far greater.

Newsome is a fool.
Never wins a single round.

Benedict liked to win.

He gloried in his victory
every chance he got.

And when I cried foul,

he accused me
of being a poor sport.

Me!

You murdered a man
over a breach of etiquette.

Hardly the definition
of a gracious competitor.

Golf is a game of order.

Without order,
what do we have?

Without order,
we have nothing.

Constable.

Take him away.

Mr. Newsome.

Constable Crabtree.
Thank you for coming.

As I am fated to die,

there is something
you must know.

I did abandon you that day.

I know I can
never make it up to you.

But I hope you can find
some solace

that the Lord
has chosen you to live

and seen fit for me to die.

You're not going to die,
Mr. Newsome.

You mean
you know the truth?

And against my better judgment,
I spoke up.

The club doesn't know about
my cheating, do they?

I'll try not to mention it.

You're a fine man, Constable.

If any good
is to come of James' death,

I'm glad for it to be
the salvation of our friendship.

- Don't push it, Newsome.
- Righto.

But, really,
I must make it up to you.

You'll have to come out to
the house for supper sometime.

Mother would simply adore you.

Perhaps you can court my sister.

She's quite the beauty.
We have the same profile.

It's all over, Detective.
I cannot shake these yips.

Perhaps we simply didn't use
the swing machine enough is all.

It's no use. My dream of
the Olympic Games is dead.

- Good afternoon, gentlemen.
- Julia.

I was able to leave Roland with
Miss James for the afternoon.

And you decided to join us.
Welcome.

I'm afraid we won't be
very good company.

But give it a go, Doctor.

Now, Julia,
you'll want to align

your left shoulder
with your forward foot

and angle at the waist.

Oh, William, don't bother.

I don't expect to be any good.

I just came to play
to have a little fun.

Well, that is fun!

How did you do that?

I don't know.
I just did it.

Yes,
but what were you thinking?

Were you focused on the ball
or the club or...

I was thinking nothing,
Mr. Lyon.

Surely you were
thinking of something.

No.
I just emptied my mind.

Emptying your mind.

Emptying your mind.

Yes!

By Jove, dear lady,
I do believe you've saved me.

I'm glad to have been
some help.

I am doing it properly.
I know I am!

Empty your mind, Detective.

It works.
It really works.

Ha hal
Empty your mind?

That simply
doesn't make any sense.

How does one empty their mind?

It's impossible.

May I have another?

- William?
- Just leave me, Julia.

This is something I must do
on my own.