All language subtitles for Murdoch Mysteries - 8x06 - The Murdoch Appreciation Society.HDTV.KILLERS.en

- synced and corrected by chamallow -
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Time to move along, old fella.

Oi! I said wake up.

Or is it a visit to the cells you're after?

Right then. Up with you.

Oh, holy jumpin'...

Dr. Grace. You're up and about very early.

I was doing my morning
calisthenics, Detective.

- Good for the heart and mind.
- I see.

- What have you?
- Stab wound to the abdomen.

Judging by the lack of
rigor, the victim's been dead

- for many hours.
- Hmm. No sign of a struggle.

Very little blood. I don't
believe he was killed here.

- Oh? Who found him?
- I did, sir.

Thought he was a tramp sleeping it off.

Uh, you might want to
talk to this young man,

he was here at first light.

Birdwatcher, of all things.

- Nigel Barnes, Detective.
- Good day, Mr. Barnes.

I can't say I can be of much help.

You didn't see anything out
of the ordinary this morning?

I didn't. Not many frequent
the park at this hour.

Actually,

as I arrived, I saw a man leaving.

- He seemed in quite a hurry.
- Really? Can you describe him?

Yes. He had a long coat... Oh, and a beard.

That's all I can remember.
Birds are more my interest.

Thank you, Mr. Barnes.

- Well dressed...
- Nothing to identify him,

just this key and pages torn from a book.

A novel, it seems.

Odd.

He appears to have dried
blood on his index finger.

But very little blood on him or around him.

So why would someone kill him,

then leave his body in a public place?

- Someone wanted him found.
- The question is why?

Ah, sir. Someone to see you. An Owen Hume.

He'll only talk to you.

- Can I help you, Mr. Hume?
- Yes, Detective.

My employer, Mr. Randolph
Sampson, is missing.

Sampson. With... with a "P".

Can you describe Mr. Sampson?

He is 60. Grey hair. Not
tall, nor large in girth,

and he takes great pride in his appearance.

Please come with me, Mr. Hume.

When did you last see Mr. Sampson?

Two days ago. He left the
office as usual at 6 o'clock.

- And what does he do?
- Mr. Sampson is a lawyer.

I've been his clerk the past two years.

Prepare yourself, Mr. Hume.

That's him. Poor Mr. Sampson!

So this clerk identified the corpse?

Yes, sir. A Randolph Sampson.

But there was no apparent
motive for the murder?

No, sir. He seemed an ordinary
man with an ordinary life.

- Any clue what happened?
- Well, sir,

these pages were found
on Mr. Sampson's person.

They're from a recent
novella by Mark Twain.

Maybe he liked reading
three pages at a time.

Pages 39, 81 and 146, sir?

Oh, I see what you mean.

Sir, where is Constable Crabtree?

Medical school.

Is George considering a career change?

That was a joke, sir...

Ah... I don't recall you making many
of those in the last 12 years, Murdoch.

Oh, very good sir.

It was there. Right there.

A corpse simply doesn't
get up and walk away.

Well clearly not, Dr. Dempsey.

It must be found with all dispatch.

The brain cannot deteriorate.
My research grant depends on it.

- Sir?
- I am in the midst of proving

a theory. I believe that high intelligence

is correlated to a high
density of neurons in the brain.

The cadaver was an eminent philosopher.

A brilliant man. I need
to examine his brain.

Right. What was the deceased's name, sir?

Professor Andrew Richardson.

And he, or it I suppose,

- arrived here yesterday?
- Yes.

As soon as I was notified of his death,

I arranged for the delivery.
I've already told you, Constable,

it was right here on this table.

Doctor Dempsey, may I
ask, how do you go about

choosing the right brain to cut up?

I placed an excruciatingly
difficult puzzle in the newspaper.

Those who responded correctly were invited

to donate their brains to my research.

- After they died, I assume?
- Ye...

- Of course.
- Only one agreed.

Professor Richardson.

- This was no ordinary cadaver, Constable.
- No, clearly not.

Uh...

Doctor, do you have a photograph

I could use for identification purposes?

No, I do not. What the man
looked like is irrelevant to me.

Just the contents of his skull.

So Kathleen King has left us?

- It would appear so.
- And the Furious Four?

Is now the Terrible Three.

What have we gained? 100
signatures on a petition.

... Which was ripped up.

And a demonstration which, despite the
fracas, hardly set the world on fire.

So we need a bigger stage

to put women's suffrage before the public.

A provincial election is coming
up. Could we use that in some way?

I don't see how.

We'll gain no purchase

from those stuffy sitting politicians.

What if one of us were to run?

- What do you mean?
- It would never occur

to the legislature that a
woman would run for office.

Perhaps they never bothered
to put it in writing.

We're going to need a legal opinion.

I know just the woman for the job.

Mrs. Dewar, these pages
are from a recent novella

by Mark Twain, A Double
Barrelled Detective Story.

I understand your shop is the
only one in town that has a copy.

Mysteries are my specialty, Detective.

The story features Sherlock Holmes.

I'm sure you'd find it quite illuminating.

It's hot off the press.

- So you do have a copy?
- Oh, I did, but it sold.

- But I could order you another.
- Oh, I'm afraid

I'm not much of one for novels.

Do you know who you sold the book to?

It was a regular of mine, Annie
Cranston. She works in Minnie's Tea Room.

Quite the reader.

- Good day, sir.
- Good day.

I'm looking for a waitress
here, a Miss Cranston.

Oh, that's Annie.

- She's over there.
- Thank you.

Miss Cranston? Detective Murdoch
of the Toronto Constabulary.

- Oh, good day, Detective!
- I understand you recently

purchased a novella
from the Belair Bookshop?

- Yes. By Mark Twain.
- May I see it?

- Oh, I don't have it anymore.
- Why not?

Someone took it. I left
the book on the counter,

and when I came back to read
the next chapter after lunch,

- it was gone.
- When was this?

About 4 days ago.

A cruel thing to do, take a
novel before one knows the ending.

Do you recall if any of
the pages were missing?

No.

- Do you recognize this man?
- I'm sorry, no.

Do you have time for tea?

Oh, it would be a treat
for me to spend time with

a real detective, not a figment
of a writer's imagination.

Thank you, Miss Cranston,
but I must be off.

I couldn't help but overhear.

The day Annie's book
went missing, I saw a man

rummaging about at the counter over here.

If you ask me, he seemed to
know what he was looking for.

- I see.
- Is this about a grisly murder, Detective?

Not that I'm prying,

or, uh... anything.

- Is this the man that you saw?
- No, he was younger.

More handsome.

And you say you would
recognize him, Miss...

Ruby Rosevear. Uh...

Yes, I think that I would. I could

draw a picture of him for
you... if I knew how to draw.

Um...

His beard was a bit thicker, I think.

Thicker beard...

What a clever thing this
is, Detective Murdoch.

It was your idea, wasn't it?

Go on, tell me. You invented it.

Um, yes, yes. It can be quite useful.

Mm. Thicker beard.

That's him.

That's him?

All right, then.

Miss Rosevear, what was he wearing?

Uh, he was wearing a long coat.

All in all, I think he
was quite shifty looking.

"Shifty"...

I know that the mind is
the seat of reason, George,

and that the mind resides in the brain.

Yes, but the brain is also the
dominion of the soul, Henry.

Does that mean that the mind
and the soul are connected?

Well, I suppose it's all in there.

- Up there, if you will.
- So smarter people

with great minds also
have larger souls, then?

It doesn't seem right
they should have both.

- I do hope that was a help.
- Yes, Miss Rosevear. Thank you.

Oh... It's Ruby to you, Detective.

George, I need your help.

- Sir. I can't this afternoon. I'm off to Unionville.
- Unionville?

Yes, sir. I'm on the
case of the missing brain.

An entire cadaver,
actually, sir, but the brain

is the most important part.
There's a Doctor Dempsey

at the university, sir, he's researching

the brains of highly intelligent people.

You would be an excellent candidate, sir.

... If you were dead, of course.

- Have you searched the university?
- Sir, high and low.

There's no sign of this corpse I am
off to Unionville now to try to find

the widow of the corpse, as it were,

- to see if she has a photograph.
- Does this corpse have a name?

It does... or he does.
Would it be it or he for a...

Uh, either way,

his name is Professor Andrew Richardson.

You'd be fascinated by
this, sir. Dr. Dempsey

has all these cut-up brains in
jars, which of course is very eerie,

but also, can't help remind me

of my Aunt Rose's pickled cauliflower...

- Thank you, George. Henry.
- Sir?

I need you to fetch Nigel Barnes,
the birdwatcher from the park.

- Right away, sir.
- Thank you.

Any luck in the bookshop?

Sir, the one copy of Mark Twain's novella

was purchased by a young
waitress. It was later stolen,

possibly by a man who was seen in the park.

This same man may have
torn out the three pages

and sent them to Mr. Sampson.

Why would he do that?

Well, sir, I've been analyzing
the contents of the pages,

and I believe they may be
conveying a message of some sort.

Have a look at page 39. There's a date:

- June 19th.
- The day Sampson went missing.

Yes, sir. Page 81; "7 in the evening".

Where's this going, Murdoch?

Well, sir, we have a time and a date.

Page 146, there's a
character named Stillman.

I've checked; there's a Stillman
Street down by the docks.

The same page contains
the numbers 50, 60 and 70.

I've checked the map and
Stillman extends to number 56.

We need to pay 50 Stillman Street a visit.

So Murdoch, how's
married life treating you?

All well at the hotel?

I'm happy to report that
it's an excellent arrangement.

No one pays you any particular mind.

What do you mean?

Well, sir, at my boarding
house, the other residents...

I was constantly being pulled into

conversations of limited merit.

I can only imagine the difficulty.

Thank you.

Some place for a meeting!

Well, it doesn't look like
there's anything here, Murdoch.

Sir...

Constable,

fetch my ultraviolet
light from the carriage.

Poor bugger. This must
be where he met his end.

Lured by the coded message.

What is it?

There's more, sir.

"Blue Sky".

What the bloody hell does that mean?

_

Gentlemen.

Mr. Hume, does "Blue
Sky" mean anything to you?

Blue Sky...

I'm sorry, Detective. I never heard of it.

And what kind of law
did Mr. Sampson practice?

Largely patent law.

Dry work for a clerk.

Do you have a key for this drawer?

Mr. Sampson kept that on his person.

Sir, a key was found
in Mr. Sampson's pocket.

Well, well, well. Mr. bloody Blue Sky.

Anything?

It appears to be an index

for plans and technical
drawings of various inventions.

"The honeycomb radiator
for an automobile... "

But the plans themselves are missing.

Did Mr. Sampson represent inventors?

Yes. Several.

Sir, I recall the prototype
for this radiator being German,

but this would suggest an improved version.

Innovations like this would
revolutionize the automobile.

Are you thinking what
I'm thinking, Murdoch?

Mr. Sampson was involved
in industrial espionage.

Perhaps he was selling these innovations
to the mysterious bearded man.

That would explain the
need for the coded message.

But Mr. Sampson seemed
such an ordinary man.

Criminals come in all
shapes and sizes, son.

I don't understand, Constable.

How can my husband's body be missing?

I assure you Mrs. Richardson we'll get
to the bottom of the matter in no time.

If you had a photograph of your husband

- that I could borrow...
- Of course.

Anything I can do to help find poor Andrew.

He was a very clever man, you know,

and keen to help Dr. Dempsey's research.

The two men discussed the matter
at length on several occasions.

A generous man also, I would
say. I mean, to give up his brain.

I thought it was macabre,
to tell the truth,

but it was none of my business.

It was Andrew's to do with as he pleased.

Still, to have it pickled in a jar...

What do you mean, Constable?

Nothing at all, Mrs. Richardson.

If I could get that photograph...

Of course...

You're absolutely correct. There
are signsof petechial hemorrhage

- in the victim's eyes.
- Are you sure?

You did well to spot them. These tiny
markings can be difficult to identify.

Well, a second set of eyes never hurts.

- I was happy to help.
- We should let

- the detective know right away.
- Actually, I may just wait

till this evening to see William.

Oh.

You know, Julia, married life suits you.

Really? Am I that different?

There's a lightness in
you I haven't seen before.

You seem... happier.

I must say the romance of
the honeymoon continues.

- Romance? The Detective?
- Yes.

- We're quite enjoying ourselves.
- Oh, my!

Cathode...

Dr. Grace?

Doctor, have you something for
me, or is this is a social visit?

No. I mean, yes.

I have a further report on Mr. Sampson.

I now believe he died longer

than 24 hours before his body was found.

- I see.
- And after a more detailed examination,

I can confirm he was indeed stabbed,

but stabbed post-mortem.

- Well, how did he die?
- Suffocation. Likely smothered.

- Are you quite sure?
- I was astonished myself,

but my curiosity was piqued when I saw

possible signs of petechial
hemorrhaging in his eyes.

I asked Dr. Ogden for a second opinion;

she supported my conclusion.

But if he was smothered
before he was stabbed,

how did he write the
message in his own blood?

Dr. Grace, your report throws new
light even as it cast more shadow.

How eloquent, Detective. Quite a romantic

- turn of phrase.
- I'm sorry?

Nothing.

- Sir. You wanted to see me?
- Yes, Henry. Please bring in Mr. Barnes.

Sure.

That one is the Tyrant Flycatcher.

They superficially resemble
the Old World Flycatcher

but are more robust
and have stronger bills.

You're something of an
ornithologist, Mr. Barnes.

The myriad birds in our
city are quite remarkable,

something most citizens fail to notice.

That's the man I saw, Detective.

- Annie Cranston.
- Who?

Thank you, Mr. Barnes.
You've been most helpful.

I'm... most happy to oblige.

- Hello, ladies.
- Clara!

- Thank you for joining us.
- Thank you for bringing this

matter to my attention, Julia.

I must say, you have a talent
for unconventional thinking.

Oh... Some would say it's my forte.

So what do you think, Clara?

Do the election rules
prevent a woman from running?

Were a woman to be
elected, I'm sure the doors

to Queen's Park would
be well and truly barred.

However, I can find
nothing to say that someone

of the female persuasion
cannot stand as a candidate.

- Officially?
- Officially.

Clara, that is fantastic.

Now all we need is a candidate.

- I nominate Julia.
- Why me? It could be anyone.

You are the most accomplished.
You speak so well...

And you are mightily persuasive.

- I don't know about that...
- Plus it was your idea.

- Well, in that case...
- Excellent.

Then it's settled.

This is a rather momentous occasion.

I think we should be
drinking something stronger.

Au contraire, it is quite perfect.

The advancement of women marked
by the clink of china teacups.

- Miss Cranston.
- Hello, Detective Murdoch.

You know more about the man who stole
your book than you are letting on.

- What do you mean?
- Who is he?

His name is Maxwell. That's all I know.

He said he worked for
Mr. Henry Ford, and that

- we would both be rich if I would help him.
- What did he ask you to do?

- I was to buy that book for him.
- Mark Twain's?

Yes. And if anyone were to ask about
it, I was to say it had been stolen.

- How did you two meet?
- He lives in my boarding house.

Sir...

What is it?

The book, complete with the missing pages.

- Maxwell is our man.
- We're too late, Murdoch.

The landlady said he left for
New York City 12 hours ago.

No forwarding address.

- Unfortunate.
- We can send

his photographs to the New York coppers.

Oh, cheer up, Murdoch.

It's not very often we let
a murderer slip our grasp.

No, sir, that isn't it.

This case... something seems odd.

What do you mean?

This Maxwell fellow. He looks familiar.

George?

Sir. I have a photograph
of my missing brain.

Our two corpses appear to be the same man.

- Something's fishy.
- It certainly is.

Bring them in, George. All of them.

Yes, sir. Who exactly?

- Ruby! No.
- Ugh...

- Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon, Detective.

- Why are we here?
- I want to thank you.

You have all been most
helpful in my investigation

into the murder of Randolph Sampson.

- We're glad we could help.
- However,

I regret to inform you that I have

failed to apprehend the murderer.

- Why not, Detective?
- For one simple reason.

Because the murderer does not exist.

But I saw him. And he was
in the photograph that I...

You could not have seen him, Mr. Barnes,

because the man in the photograph was you.

- But I...
- Please Mr. Barnes, you will

have an opportunity to
speak when I'm finished.

Not only did the murderer not exist,

but neither did

Randolph Sampson.

The corpse belonged to none other
than Professor Andrew Richardson,

whose cadaver was on its
way to scientific research

when it mysteriously
disappeared two days ago.

This has all been an elaborate ruse,

in which you all played a part.

- Very good, Detective.
- Please Mrs. Dewar.

Mr. Hume, you reported the
fictitious Randolph Sampson missing.

Mr. Sampson is my employer, sir.

He is away on business.
I borrowed his office.

And his good name. The torn
pages from the novel led me

to your bookshop, Mrs. Dewar,
And you in turn led me to

Ruby Rosevear and Annie Cranston,

who furthered the myth of the Bearded Man.

I was led to a series of
clues including Blue Sky,

and the photograph which featured

you, Miss Cranston, and
the mysterious Mr. Maxwell,

which was in fact, you, Mr.
Barnes, with a false beard.

It wasn't false.

- I grew it especially for the part.
- Didn't I tell you?

I knew he would figure it out. This...

... has all been a game,

and a colossal waste of the
Constabulary's valuable time.

What were you hoping to achieve?

We wanted to watch you as
you work, Detective Murdoch.

Watch me work... why?

To appreciate you.

We are such admirers of
your detective skills.

- And the rest.
- Ruby!

We read about your
successes in the newspaper,

and then we meet once a month
to discuss your clever ways.

All your marvelous gadgets
and your analytical mind.

I'm most surprised by you, Mrs. Dewar.

- We meant no harm.
- But your actions were harmful.

The corpse you stole

was more than just a
plaything in your macabre game.

- What do you mean?
- Professor Andrew Richardson

did not die of natural causes.
He was in fact murdered.

- Murdered?
- Yes.

And thanks to your ridiculous
antics, the true killer may

very likely have escaped justice.

How uncanny. We staged a fictional mistery,

and the corpse we borrow
is actually a murder victim.

- How did you obtain Mr. Richardson's body?
- That was my doing.

I was a medical student at one
time and knew the building well.

When we conceived the notion of a murder
investigation, I agreed to procure the corpse.

And the blood at the crime scene?

Pig's blood, sir. My brother
works at a slaughterhouse.

It was pretty convincing though, wasn't it?

We devised roles in the
mystery around our real lives.

You concocted a fanciful
amusement which I must now undo

to investigate a real murder.

- Perhaps we could be of assistance?
- No.

Mrs. Dewar has a brilliant
mind and an excellent memory.

- Perhaps she can help...
- You can help by staying out of my way.

- I'm of a mind to charge the lot of you.
- What with?

Desecration of a human
body. If you continue

to interfere in this investigation,
you will all wind up behind bars.

Is that understood?

I'm very sorry, Dr. Dempsey. As soon as

our investigation is complete,
Professor Richardson's body

will be transported back
to the School of Medicine.

There's no need. The brain
has already deteriorated.

My research remains unproven and
my funding soon will be cut off.

Who's responsible for stealing the cadaver?

- A former medical student by the name of Nigel Barnes.
- That ass?

He was expelled for hijinks at the school.

I cannot believe he would
ruin my important research

for another ridiculous lark.

Their actions are mystifying, Julia.

Why break the law simply to watch me work?

They read about you, they meet to
discuss your work. They're your fans.

The Detective Murdoch
Appreciation Society, as it were.

- But I'm simply doing my job.
- Thank you.

Shall we?

Why follow the activities
of a person you don't know?

I suspect they feel that they do know you.

Perhaps they want to feel part of
something greater than themselves.

But they seem to have perfectly good lives.

Everyone needs a hero, William.

Mmm!

Julia, this soup is cold.

- It's supposed to be.
- Oh!

William... I agreed to
do something rather bold.

Well, that would make a change. What is it?

How would you feel about my
running for Provincial Parliament?

As a candidate?

You wouldn't even be
able to vote for yourself.

Then you would have to vote for me.

It's highly unorthodox. It
certainly would garner a platform.

- Exactly.
- You'd be in the public eye.

- Do you mind?
- You may even wind up

with a few fans of your own.

How do we wade through the
mess that those idiots created

and sort out who murdered
Andrew Richardson?

Well, sir, we go back to the beginning.

Doctor Grace ascertained
that Richardson had been

- smothered to death.
- Right. Smothered, not stabbed.

Right. George's investigation
provided vital background.

Richardson had been sick for several weeks

prior to his death 4 days ago.

So, who had opportunity?
Who visited the man?

Exactly, George. Who saw the victim last?

This is too much, Detective.

I'm reeling from my husband's death,

when I learn his corpse has vanished.

Now you tell me he was murdered.

I'm terribly sorry to
upset you, Mrs. Richardson.

When did you discover
your husband deceased?

Four days ago. I thought he had passed

mercifully in his sleep.

Was anyone with him the previous night?

My sister Hattie

came by every evening. It
was something of a ritual.

She would bring over chamomile tea

and she and my husband would
discuss matters of philosophy.

- You didn't visit with them?
- I preferred to take

a sleeping draught and go to bed.

Did anyone else see the Professor

- the night before he passed?
- Why do you need to know all this?

I already answered the
other detective's questions.

What other detective?

Mr. Hume, you are under arrest
for impersonating a police officer.

I was just trying to help.

Sir. Dr. Grace telephoned.
You're needed at the morgue.

Thank you, George.

Dr. Grace, what have you?

I won't beat about the bush, Detective.

Not only was Mr. Richardson
smothered and stabbed,

he was being poisoned.

- Poisoned?
- I found traces of arsenic in his kidneys.

Smothered, stabbed and poisoned!

It is certainly a doozie one.

Oh! An expression of my father's.

He's something of a colourful character.

I see. Have you a record

of Mr. Richardson's stomach contents?

Pork chop, suet pudding
and traces of chamomile.

- Likely from a tea.
- Chamomile tea...

So this is the sister's house.

Yes, according to Mrs.
Richardson, Hattie Baker

would bring over chamomile
tea every evening.

Hattie Baker?

Toronto Constabulary. Open up.

Remember George, we
are looking for evidence

of poisoning.

Sir, poison like this?

Yes, George.

It would appear Hattie Baker is our killer.

- Very good, George.
- Detective!

Detective! Stop!

What are you doing here?
You were told to stay away.

Hattie Baker is not your murderer.

Oh, and what brought
you to that conclusion?

The victim's wife planted the
arsenic in her sister's house.

- Yes, and we can prove it.
- We have photographs!

But we helped you catch the real murderer!

You were poisoning your husband.

Why?

He never stopped going on
about my lack of brains.

How Hattie was his intellectual equal.

I couldn't shine a light to her or him.

I may not be that clever, Detective,

but I still have feelings.
That counts for something.

When Andrew boasted that doctor

wanted his "superior brain" for science,

I saw my chance.

You began to poison him.

In his suet pudding.

Believing the true cause
of death would go undetected

when his body was brought
to the medical school.

That Dr. Dempsey was so
keen to get at his brain

I knew he wouldn't look at anything else.

But why frame your sister, Hattie?

She thought she was so smart.

Let her use her brilliant mind

to wriggle out of a murder charge.

But the poison wasn't
working quickly enough,

so you smothered your husband?

Smother? I didn't smother him!

We know who stabbed Richardson,

we know who poisoned him but who
the bloody hell smothered him?

Maybe it was a mercy killer putting
the poor bugger out of his misery.

Perhaps the housekeeper
that was looking after him.

Or Hattie Baker, for that matter.
You spoke to both of them, George.

Yes, sir, they both swear

up and down that Mr. Richardson
was still alive when they left

the house together.
Sound asleep, but alive.

So they did it together,

or someone else was in
the house that night.

Sirs, when I was in Unionville
questioning the women in... question,

I took the liberty of having a look around.

I found a set of footprints
near the side of the house,

and in the shed there
was a ladder with some

fresh mud on it. I mean,
I wonder if somebody could

have just climbed up
into Mr. Richardson's room

- in the dead of the night.
- Very good, George.

Mrs. Richardson had
taken a sleeping draught.

She wouldn't have heard an intruder.

But who had motive to kill Mr. Richardson?

What about that Dr.
Dempsey from the University?

What if he killed Richardson
to obtain his brain before

-his research money disappeared?
- According to the widow,

Dempsey had spent some time at
the house with Mr. Richardson.

- He'd have known the place.
- So he had motive and opportunity.

Impressive plan.

Smother Richardson in his sleep,

then get the body delivered to your door.

Any evidence would have ended
up in the university incinerator

when the cadaver was disposed of.

That's the hallmark of a perfect murder.

Studying intelligence

by examining the brains of intellectuals.

I imagine finding suitable
subjects wouldn't be that easy.

Sadly true. The superstitious belief

that the body retains some sort
of soul after death still prevails,

even among the high-minded.
Utter nonsense, of course.

But you're not here to
discuss metaphysics, Detective.

I understand Professor Richardson

was a coveted specimen.

And that you were under
pressure to prove your hypothesis

before you lost financial backing.

- I was.
- Well, how convenient, then,

that Professor Richardson's body
wound up on your dissecting table

just before that funding dried up.

Where were you the night that
Professor Richardson died, Doctor?

- What you are suggesting?
- The Professor was murdered.

You knew he'd been ailing
for some time, you simply

- helped the process along.
- That is absolutely ridiculous!

- The circumstances are very compelling, Dr. Dempsey.
- Get out of my lab, Detective.

- I have important work to do.
- Really?

I understood that you lost your
financial backing along with

the Professor's brain.

Not that it is any concern of
yours, but I have another donor,

of equal intelligence
and at an advanced age.

The papers will be signed this afternoon.

- But your funding...
- It will not be long

before my research is again underway.

Good day to you, Detective.

- So you think he's our man?
- Yes, but to prove it...

He's Mr. Clever Clogs, all right.

George and I will go back up to Unionville,

see if there's anything
we might have missed.

- Worth a try. What else?
- Well, we've wrung all we can

- out of the Professor's body.
- Any evidence is long gone anyway,

thanks to the boneheads
still in my jail cell.

- What should we to do with them?
- Sir, I would love to charge them all, but...

We wouldn't have a clue about
this murder without them.

Aye-aye. Speak of the devil.

- Mr. Barnes. How can I help?
- It's Mrs. Dewar.

I think she's put herself in harm's way.

Oh, well... right this way.

- Have a seat.
- Thank you.

What about Mrs. Dewar?

We were having tea at the bookshop,

discussing Mr. Richardson's
murder, when we hit upon a

- bizarre though plausible theory.
- Which was?

Dr. Dempsey, the brain
researcher, might be the killer.

I talked with friends at
the school and it turns out

that Dr. Dempsey was
under terrible pressure

to prove his neuron thesis.
He needed a brain tout de suite

so I thought perhaps he took
matters into his own hands.

Mr. Barnes, what does this
have to do with Mrs. Dewar?

She has come up with a
plan to entrap the Doctor.

- She donated her brain.
- Yes.

The puzzle that Dr. Dempsey
placed in the newspaper...

she had already completed it,
so she took it to the Doctor.

He of course wanted her
brain and she said yes.

You were going to lure Dr. Dempsey
into trying to kill Mrs. Dewar?

Exactly. Catch him
red-handed, so to speak.

But I started to have second thoughts.

I tried talking her out of
it but she wouldn't listen.

- That's why I came here.
- George.

Sir?

Telephone the Faculty of Medicine.

I need to speak with Dr.
Dempsey urgently. Sir.

Mr. Barnes, I believe Mrs. Dewar

is due to sign the donor papers today.

I tried to dissuade her.

Really, I did. I told her it was too risky,

- but she wouldn't hear it.
- Why not?

Catching the real killer was to
be her apology to you, Detective.

For interfering the way that we did.

Oh, lord.

Sir.

Dempsey left the School
of Medicine 15 minutes ago.

We must leave at once.

That's Dr. Dempsey's carriage.

Please hurry, Detective.

He might already be smothering Mrs. Dewar.

Doctor, step aside.

How dare you? I am examining my patient!

- Are you all right, Mrs. Dewar?
- Well, I am,

- now that you and the Detective are here.
- What on earth?

Well, well. The murder weapon.

That is not mine.

Nigel Barnes,

you are under arrest for the
murder of Andrew Richardson.

My goodness!

What are you doing?
Dempsey is your murderer!

So you've led me to believe. But
you were the killer, Mr. Barnes.

Why would you think that?

On the way here you were
concerned that Dr. Dempsey

was going to smother Mrs. Dewar.

- So?
- There's only one way

you could have known how
Professor Richardson was killed.

You did the smothering.

You told us how he died, Detective.

You told the whole group.
Isn't that right, Mrs. Dewar?

As I recall, Detective Murdoch

told us that Professor
Richardson was murdered,

but not how he was murdered.

You were upset at the
time. You've forgotten.

I don't think so, dear. You've said so
yourself, I have an excellent memory.

- This is absurd.
- Honestly, Mr. Barnes.

Do you really think you could outwit

the great Detective Murdoch?

Ahem...

Take him way, George.

So, Mrs. Dewar, about your brain...

even with this unpleasant incident,

I trust our agreement still stands.

After your death, of course.

I don't see why not.

Thank you. And Detective,

you'd be an excellent
candidate for my study.

When the time comes, of course.

So, Doctor,

what do you make of the
detective's admirers?

It seems the notion of ardent followers

is something ofof a modern phenomenon.

A by-product of his successes, I suppose.

The whole idea is rather fascinating,

psychologically speaking.

A bunch of happy dafties, if you ask me.

I cannot believe Mr. Barnes did it.

Why would he kill Professor
Richardson? He didn't know him.

The poor Professor was an
innocent victim in all of this.

The intended target was Dr. Dempsey.

- But why?
- Simple revenge.

Dr. Dempsey was the teacher
that expelled Mr. Barnes

from the Faculty of Medicine.

Once he learned about your

murder idea, he set his plan into action.

But why not just kill the
Professor and frame Dr. Dempsey?

Why complicate things the pretend murder?

- Well, that's the clever part.
- Clever how?

In order to frame Dr. Dempsey,

Mr. Barnes had to devise a perfect murder,

one that only Dr. Dempsey could commit.

He knew that I would see
through the masquerade

and find the true identity of the victim.

He also knew that we would
find the true cause of death,

the smothering. So he had you, Mrs. Dewar,

lure Dr. Dempsey to your bookshop.

He sowed the seeds of suspicion,

and made sure that I arrived
at just the right time.

And the chloral hydrate
in the Doctor's bag?

A final piece of evidence he planted.

But our friend Mr. Barnes
was a little too eager.

One slip of the tongue and
our Detective caught him out.

Oh... Congratulations, Detective!

May I have your autograph, Detective?

All right, Miss Cranston.

Oh, well... how about
a photograph, Detective?

... Certainly.

Why not? Henry!

Could you please take a photograph of us?

- Of course, sir.
- Miss Cranston,

Mrs. Dewar, Mr. Hume...

You too, Ruby.

You're a good sport, Detective.

- All in day's work.
- All right, everybody smile.

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