All language subtitles for s01e04 - Elementary, My Dear Murdoch.eng

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Mr. Doyle?

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?

I suppose it's a book
you'd like me to sign.

No, no. We have an engagement.

My name's William Murdoch.

You, sir.

Good God, man. I was
expecting someone twice your age.

Well, there's no time
to dally. We're late.

- Late?
- Yes.

You see, I, unfortunately,
have double-booked myself.

Here we are.

It's an awful habit of mine.

I do hope you'll forgive me.

Of course, of course.

I'm honored you agreed
to meet me in the first place.

Your Sherlock is an inspiration.

Was, sir, was.

The man is dead and gone
and good riddance, I say.

Ah, in any case, if
anyone's honored to be met,

it's me by you.

Detective William Murdoch.

Your work on the Cabbagetown
murders, sheer genius.

Thank you, thank you.

Might I inquire
where we are going?

Suffice it to say that you're
not the only Toronto resident

who's come to my attention.

My dear Mr. Doyle.

What an honor, a pleasure,
and a coup to have you with us.

May I present
Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle?

Doctor, adventurer, and
creator of the most brilliant

of all detectives,
Sherlock Holmes.

And now spiritualist.

Thank you very much
indeed, Miss Pensall.

And this must be the
police officer you mentioned.

Yes, this is Detective
William Murdoch

of the Toronto Constabulary,

who, I can assure you,
is not a fictional creation.

Please do sit.
We're about to begin.

Thank you.

Tonight, we are attempting
to once again contact

the unfortunate young
son of dear Conrad Hunt.

The angels came
too soon for James.

Are you ready, Conrad?

More than you can ever know.

I ask that everyone in the room

think of their own
dearly departed ones.

Ask them to join us in
exhorting young James

to travel to our welcoming
den, if only for a moment.

Yes.

He's coming. James?

James?

No.

Not James.

Someone else.

A young woman.

To whom do you wish to speak?

She wants to talk
to you, Detective.

She says she was murdered.

What?

Murdered?

She was buried
in a shallow grave.

What are you talking about?
Is this some sort of joke?

Quiet, man!

This young woman,
where is she buried?

Here we are.

Ah, 20 paces from the
road, towards the water tower.

Where we will no doubt
find the elusive wild goose.

Really, Mr. Doyle,
I'm surprised at you.

A man of science,
being taken in like this.

It is as a man of science

that I'm interested,
Detective Murdoch.

If these things are not true,

they must be
disproven scientifically.

19 and 20.

There.

And... 19 and 20. It was 20.

Satisfied, Mr. Doyle?

Unfortunately, there
is no cable strung

between our world and the next.

Perhaps the message may
have been garbled somehow.

But, yes, I am satisfied.

Excellent, because I
am exceedingly hungry.

Oh, wait.

- Shh.
- What is it?

There, you see.

Psst!

Psst, psst, psst, psst!

The earth has been disturbed.

Bugger.

Your murder bag, sir.

Excellent. Some
light, please, George.

Uh, what's this?

A little something I rigged up.

Turn it on, George.

Good God.

Daylight in a box.
How extraordinary.

Two sets of tracks.
One wider than the other.

I'll have molds taken of these.

Yes. Yes, well done.

This will be the doctor
from the coroner's office.

I hope I didn't take you
away from anything important.

Ah, in fact, you rescued me
from a rather wretched comedy

at the Princess Theatre.

You're Arthur Conan Doyle.

Guilty.

Yes, Mr. Doyle, may I
present Dr. Julia Ogden?

Mr. Doyle is in town...

To give a lecture
on spiritualism.

I have a ticket already, and
I'm quite looking forward to it.

Yes. Yes, yes.

May I see the body?

Uh, yes.

I counted two bullet wounds.

This one seems to
have powder residue.

Yes. The first shot
would have been fired

from a distance
of at least 10 feet.

I would think the second
at much closer range.

The finishing shot, as it were.

- Help me roll her.
- Oh, may I?

Allow me. Here we are.

1, 2, 3.

Well, given rigor,
I'd say she was killed

within the last 24 hours.

There's one exit wound.

Second bullet is
lodged in the body.

Excellent!

That means you
can match the bullet

with the gun that
it was fired from.

Match the bullet?

Yes, a Frenchman has been
doing some excellent work.

Yes. Lacassagne.

Do we know the
name of this woman?

Ida Winston.

She had a number of
calling cards in her purse.

Winston.

We were told in briefing that a
woman by that name was missing.

Have the next of kin
come round to the morgue

in the morning, George.

Yes, sir.

Have you found the
hidden levers, Detec...

Oh, good heavens.
Are you all right?

Fine, fine.

Tell me, Miss Pensall,
how is it you come to know

the precise whereabouts
of a murder victim?

I was told.

You were told.

Are you familiar
with Ida Winston?

Well, of course.

She's a member of the
Toronto Paranormal Society.

Mrs. Winston is
the murder victim.

- Are you sure?
- Yes, quite.

I would have thought her spirit

might have
mentioned that to you.

The voice, it wasn't Ida's.

Who, then?

Mr. Doyle, if you don't mind...

Tell me about this Toronto
Paranormal Society.

They investigate people

who claim to have
supernatural abilities.

Individuals such as yourself?

Yes, Detective.

They have the gall
to question my ability.

And...

And the term they're
using is "inconclusive."

Where were you yesterday?

I was here.

I was conducting
a series of séances

that went well into the evening.

I never left this room.

And you have
witnesses to this effect?

Dozens of them.

Miss Pensall, I do not believe
in psychic phenomenon,

and I suspect that you
are somehow involved.

I was only passing on...

What the spirits
conveyed to you, yes.

I can assure you,
the killer will be found,

and in the here and now.

Good night.

Miss Pensall.

Do you really
believe the clairvoyant

had something to
do with the murder?

The woman led us
straight to the body.

She may not have
committed the murder,

but she certainly had
knowledge of its undertaking.

Knowledge gained
through her psychic abilities.

Really, Mr. Doyle.

Tell me, Detective,

do you think she'd hold a séance

knowing that a police
officer was in attendance

and then point you straight
to a body she'd just buried?

She'd be marching
herself to the gallows.

It makes no sense.

Perhaps not, but she
is hiding something.

Thank you.

Ah, top of the
morning to you, sir.

Mr. Doyle, what
are you doing here?

Well, truth be known,
watching you work last night

has rekindled my
interest in sleuthing.

If it's not too much
of an imposition,

I would like to tag
along for a few days.

Well, actually, sir, it's
going to be quite hectic.

Murdoch!

What's all this bollocks

about a corpse being
found by an alleged psychic?

Not alleged, sir.

And who the bloody hell are you?

Inspector, this is Mr. Doyle.

Doyle? As in Arthur Conan Doyle?

One and the same, sir.

Mr. Doyle, Thomas Brackenreid.

Inspector Thomas Brackenreid.

- Call me Arthur.
- Arthur.

I'm a big fan of yours.
A bit of a shocker,

what happened in
your last "Sherlock."

I trust you'll find a way to
bring him back, no doubt.

As a ghost, perhaps?

An interesting
idea, but I think not.

What brings you to
our humble station?

- Your Detective Murdoch.
- Murdoch?

Yes, I was hoping that
I could accompany him

on his latest case.

Murdoch, why?

Research.

Ah, yes, a book perhaps?

However, of course, I
understand if you're too busy.

He told you that?

Well, sir, with the
Aitken murder and now...

Nonsense, Detective!

I think you two
make a lovely couple.

Now, do you need
some office space?

Perkins, clear out your desk!

- This way, Arthur.
- Thank you.

- Which one's Perkins?
- Uh, the big one.

- Ah, he is a big lad, isn't he?
- Yes.

It took me almost an
hour to find the bullet.

It was lodged in
her spinal cord.

- Always the last place to look.
- Of course.

That was meant
as a joke, Mr. Doyle.

Of course.

Ahh.

I'm afraid the bullet's far too
damaged to be of any use.

Do you have a time of death?

Midnight the night before
last, give or take three hours.

That would corroborate
Miss Pensall's alibi.

I take it you're not averse

to the sight of congealed
blood, Mr. Doyle.

My dear lady, I have been
performing postmortems

long before it became
the purview of women.

Perhaps you'd
care to demonstrate.

Yes, well, I have not
been a doctor since...

Well, truth be told, I
was never much of one,

which is why I became a writer.

And what sort of writer
kills off his finest character?

One which does not want to
be shackled to his own creation.

Oh, Lord Jesus.

Have the next of
kin arrived, George?

That would be the husband,
sir, and I'm afraid not.

Said he couldn't
possibly come down now.

To identify his wife?

Too distraught, I believe.
He sent this along, sir.

What is it?

Have you an address, George?

Mr. Winston, I'm
Detective William Murdoch.

My condolences.

This is an acquaintance
of mine, Mr. Doyle.

Our fine police force.

If you'd acted on my
missing person's report,

my wife might still be alive.

Perhaps we could
speak in private.

Can this not wait?

We're in a house of mourning.

I am trying to find the
person or persons responsible

for your wife's murder.

Do you care to help me?

Forgive me, Detective.

As you can well imagine,
it's been a trying day.

Of course.

Is there anything you can tell
me about your wife's activities

the day that she went missing?

I was at my practice and
couldn't say for certain.

I suspect, however,
that she was at the offices

of the Paranormal Society.

What makes you say that?

Because, Detective, she
had fallen more and more

under the influence
of those people.

Might there by anyone to
corroborate your whereabouts

that evening?

I was at the hospital,
tending to a patient.

Now, I ask that
you please leave.

And you, a fellow
doctor, lending your name

to these fools who pretend
to speak to the dead.

Shame on you.

Excuse me, sir.

Detective William Murdoch.

Yes. How do you do, Detective?

Couldn't help but
overhear. Terrible tragedy.

Honor to meet you,
Mr. Doyle. Frederick Waters.

Looking forward to your talk.
Shame about the circumstances.

And the upset.

There's no need
to apologize, man.

Did you know the deceased well?

I did.

In what capacity?

Why, as a member of the
Toronto Paranormal Society,

of which I am the head
and she, um, an adherent.

What exactly is an adherent?

Lots of fakers at the moment.

Madame This, The Amazing That.

Taking advantage
of the vulnerable.

Mrs. Winston, like myself,

dedicated to
exposing these frauds.

Identifying true clairvoyants.

Mr. Winston seemed upset

at his wife's involvement
with the Society.

Well, we're a devoted group.

Long hours. Perhaps
too long for some.

What is your opinion
of Miss Pensall?

Certain members
convinced of her ability.

Well, that's certainly
understandable.

We have witnessed
them ourselves.

Which members, exactly?

Conrad Hunt, for one,
would be lost without her.

I trust this makes
you a believer.

I've seen things, Detective.

Things I can't explain.

What was Mrs. Winston's
stance on all of this?

Less convinced.

Gentlemen, if you'll
excuse me, must be going.

Certainly.

Was Ida Winston about to
reveal Miss Pensall as a fraud?

And if she was, potentially,

she would have been a threat
to her reputation, her livelihood.

If Miss Pensall's
authenticity is in question,

I have a suggestion.

A séance?

Gotcha!

Are you stark raving
mad, Murdoch?

I'm afraid the idea
was mine, Inspector.

Yours, Mr. Doyle?

Yes, Inspector, I realize

that this must seem
absurd to you, sir.

Mr. Doyle, this is
not the literary world.

As police officers, we're
obligated to build our cases

based on concrete evidence.

But, Detective, we both know

there are numerous ways
of uncovering that evidence.

And you believe a séance
might shed some light on things?

- I do.
- Nonsense.

I fear this would be nothing
more than a diversion.

Perhaps.

But the spirit
could give us a clue

as to the killer's identity.

Or it may be that you'll
just be able to prove

that the clairvoyant is
a fake, in which case,

you'll have reason to
suspect her of complicity.

Point taken, Mr. Doyle.

Proceed with the
séance, Murdoch.

Close your eyes.

Concentrate.

Think of your loved ones.

Exhort them to ask
the young woman

that came to me
yesterday to appear again.

Have them tell her that
there's nothing to fear.

Think of them.

Speak to them.

It's a...

a beautiful park.

And there's laughter.

A silver horse.

A woman in red.

She's beautiful, this woman.

Liza.

She has a message for
you, Detective Murdoch.

Stop this.

She... She wants you to hear it.

She needs you to hear it.

I said stop this at once!

This is a trick.

This is all just a trick.

Are you satisfied,
Detective Murdoch?

I was in an alley
off Richmond Street

doing some service
for Miss Pensall.

And what was the
nature of this service?

Spirits are fickle, Detective.

They don't always come,
to quote Shakespeare,

"when you do call them."

I believe I asked Mr. Gall. I
won't be needing a medium.

Sometimes we
need information, sir.

About the people taking
part round the table.

In other words, you cheat them.

"Cheat" is such a
strong word, Detective.

Miss Pensall, I will not
ask you again to keep quiet.

You've been following
me, haven't you, Mr. Gall?

Looking for scraps
of information?

Yes, sir.

Is that how you found
out about Mrs. Winston?

I was in the alley behind
the Paranormal Society

on account of all the
guests being members.

My plan was to
sneak into the office

and find out a thing or two.

I was startled when
a figure stepped out.

He was struggling with
something very heavy,

which struck me as
odd so late at night.

Naturally, I followed him,

seeing as this could be
of interest to Miss Pensall.

And I ended up in
the middle of nowhere.

He was burying something.

I waited till he was gone,

then pulled in
closer for a look.

Then I discovered
the horrible truth.

- And this figure?
- I never got a clear look.

Can you describe the carriage?

It was a wagon.

It was brown, I believe.

Or black, perhaps. It was dark.

Why did you not
go to the police?

Because I couldn't
risk betraying the fact

that I was gathering
evidence for Miss Pensall.

You didn't think to
leave an anonymous tip?

No. No, of course not.

Because solving this
crime with a supposed vision

would have been quite
a feather in your cap.

I know you believe I'm
a charlatan, Detective.

But I provide a
service to those in pain

who seek closure from
those they cannot reach.

You should be
ashamed of yourself.

Trafficking in
the pain of others.

Well, I may resort to
embellishment, Detective,

but I assure you, I am no fraud.

And you, of all people,
should know this.

Tell me, Detective,

just what do you expect to
find in the Paranormal Society?

A crime scene.

- Is that all?
- You think otherwise?

Yes, well, I can't help thinking
there's something more.

Perhaps it has something
to do with this Liza person.

I trust you were close.

- She was my fiancée.
- I see.

Well, may I ask what happened?

She died of consumption
over a year ago.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Um, Miss Pensall
mentioned a silver horse.

Does this mean something?

It means she has
a vivid imagination.

Listen. You hear?

- Someone's distressed inside.
- I hear nothing.

Ah, very good.

- Mr. Doyle.
- Hmm?

Slight discoloration.

Yes.

This portion seems to
have been cleaned recently.

A blood stain from Mrs. Winston?

Seems likely.

So, if her body
was lying here...

where was the killer?

Mr. Doyle.

Shoot me.

Excuse me?

Shoot me.

Ah, yes.

Bang!

Wait.

The first bullet was fired from
a distance of at least 10 feet,

so the assailant would
have been further back.

Bang!

No.

Bang!

No.

Bang!

So, if the bullet entered her
torso through her stomach,

exited out of her back,

then the bullet would be...

In the bookcase.

Sheer genius.

When we find the bullet,

we can match it to the
gun from which it was fired.

Yes, "we" can,
provided we find that gun.

I must say, I'm
pleased to hear you

putting your faith
back in science

and not spiritualism.

Your world may consist
of cold logic, Detective,

but I'm afraid I need
something more.

I do have something more.

My faith.

Oh, so, you do
believe in an afterlife?

Yet you cut yourself off

from the possibilities
of communicating with it.

Common sense tells me

that if we were indeed able to
communicate with the afterlife,

we wouldn't require the
services of an intermediary.

Yet you make your
confessions to a priest.

A sort of intermediary.

Where is your
common sense in that?

Confession is about earthly
sin, not heavenly imaginings.

But last night, when
Miss Pensall revealed

that this Liza person may
have a message for you,

were you not the
least bit hopeful?

Well? Detective?

This book gets interesting
around page 143.

Elementary, my dear Murdoch.

Ida was murdered
here in my building?

I'm afraid so, Mr. Hunt.

I'll need the names of
everyone who might have access

to the Paranormal
Society offices.

We have hundreds of members

who are free to come
and go as they please.

Then it will be a long list.

Uh, would any of these members

have any reason whatsoever
to harm Mrs. Winston?

I should think not.

And where were
you two nights ago?

With my sister, having
tea. What's this all about?

And Miss Pensall,
did she have access?

I don't think so,
but it's possible.

What was Mrs. Winston's
relationship to Miss Pensall?

If you're suggesting

Miss Pensall had something
to do with Ida's death,

you couldn't be more wrong.

And why would that be?

Because she had
no reason to fear Ida.

Not even being
exposed as a fraud?

In other cases,
I've had my doubts.

But I can assure you
Sarah's abilities are real.

She's touched many
people's lives, mine included.

Yes, I'm sorry to
hear about your son.

I lost him two years ago.

And now you believe
you have a conduit to him?

Perhaps you need to lose
someone you love to understand.

Thank you, Mr. Hunt.
I'll be in touch.

Well, this has been
quite an adventure.

Perhaps I could treat
you to a nightcap?

No, thank you, sir.

I've had enough
spirits for one night.

Detective.

What on Earth do
you want at this hour?

Normally, I require
some advance notice.

Think of Liza.

Send her thoughts of love.

Ask her to join us

to bring you a message.

Yes.

Good. Someone's here.

You keep your eyes
closed. Think of Liza.

Think of her.

She's here.

William.

Liza?

You're still holding
on to me, William.

Yes, of course, I am.

It's time to let go.

Release me.

Release yourself.

I can't.

We'll find one another
in the next life, William.

Now you must rejoin the living.

No, no, Liza.

Liza!

She's gone, Detective.

She's gone.

What have we got?

Judge Edward Danby.

Died in the arms of
a woman not his wife,

which I imagine accounts
for the smile on his face.

That was meant to raise
your spirits, Detective Murdoch.

Spirits.

Are you quite all right?
You look a tad piqued.

What on Earth
have you got there?

A telephonic probe.

I thought you could use it

next time you were
looking for a bullet.

It's, um...

How unexpected.

Similar to the one used
to search for the bullet

in President Garfield's back,
with some improvements.

I'll be sure to make
use of this, William.

Something tells me this isn't
the only reason you're here.

I attended another
séance last night,

a private one.

Twice now, the clairvoyant has
claimed Liza was in the room.

There were things, details,

that no one could have
possibly known but Liza or myself.

There are ways to say
things in an ambiguous way.

Not these things.

Perhaps your mind found
ways to bend the details?

Perhaps.

I suppose you're right.

Inspector, I normally
only have one lunch.

Ah, there he is, hard at work.

You should have joined
us for lunch, Murdoch,

instead of pouring...

By the way, what
are you pouring over?

Carriage tracks.

These are molds
of two sets of tracks

found at the scene of the crime.

This is a mold of the tracks

belonging to a carriage
owned by Miss Pensall.

They do not match.

Which confirms her story.

Well, surely, we can strike
Miss Pensall as a suspect.

Now, if we can
only find the owner

of this other set
of carriage tracks.

Have you any idea how
many carriages there are

in this city?

I'm only interested in
ones belonging to members

of the Toronto
Paranormal Society.

What you're looking at
is the future of policing.

Dare I say, the future
of entertainment,

books and theater,
so on, so forth.

Forensics?

Too dull and
gory, I should think.

Quite the opposite.

I suspect the public
has an endless appetite

for this sort of tale.

I only wish these new
methods were around

when I was writing
my Holmes stories.

Then you should write more.

In fact, I meant to
mention it at lunch,

but we got sidetracked.

I have an idea for you.

A wonderful story that
I heard as a young man

while visiting my
uncle in Scotland.

I would love to hear it, Thomas.
Unfortunately, I must be going.

A little rest before the
lecture this evening.

I'll see you there, Detective?

Certainly.

As for me, I tried to
get a ticket, but, alas...

Oh, well, why didn't
you mention something?

Wonderful, wonderful.

I was sent to live with my uncle
in the Highlands one summer,

and he told me a
story about a neighbor,

whose vicious dog
attacked and killed a man.

Miss Pensall's
gone shopping, sir.

Actually, it's you I
wanted to talk to.

Me?

Tell me, Gall, what was it
you were really looking for

that night in the alley?

As I told you before, sir,

information on Paranormal
Society members.

But you didn't need
to persuade members.

They were already convinced.

With the exception of one.

Ida Winston.

But she wasn't
going to be convinced

by some séance
hocus-pocus, was she?

You needed something
far more concrete.

What was it?

I have no idea what
you're talking about.

Perhaps there was no
man in the alley that night.

Perhaps it was you who
carried out Mrs. Winston's body,

after you shot her.

We had nothing to
do with her death.

Convince me otherwise.

We were sure she was
about to revise her position.

Why would she do that?

Because I had found
something out about her,

and, if necessary,

that would have been
revealed at the next séance.

You've been holding
something back from me,

haven't you, Mr. Waters?

Not sure what you're
referring to, Detective.

Your affair with Ida Winston.

You didn't think
this was relevant?

Doesn't look good.

Murdered here.

Jealous lover.

Do you own a gun, Mr. Waters?

Owned.

It's gone missing.

Did you report the theft?

Never occurred.

Should have.

Another strike against me.

I'll need the make
and model, please.

Didn't kill her.

No reason.

Loved the woman, Detective.

Then who did?

Frederick Waters is a
cunning, treacherous no-account

who had the temerity to
appear in my house of mourning.

But instead of confronting him,

you snuck into the
Paranormal Society

and shot your wife
in a fit of jealousy.

If there's anyone
I would have shot,

it would be Frederick.

That man was trying
to destroy my life.

Do you own a gun, Mr. Winston?

A rifle, which I
use for hunting.

Forgive me for saying so,

but you don't seem terribly
shaken by your wife's death.

Grief is a private
matter, Detective.

We all have our own
methods of coping.

Ida and I had talked
things through.

She was breaking it off with
Frederick and coming back to me.

That's not what Mr. Waters
led me to believe.

She came to her
senses, Detective.

I should hope you follow suit.

- Mr. Hunt.
- Detective.

I'm looking for
Frederick Waters.

I expected to see
him here myself.

Is he not in attendance?

No, most unlike Frederick.

This is delicate,

but, uh, did you know Mr. Waters
and Mrs. Winston were...

It was impossible not to notice.

But it had ended.

- At her request?
- That's my understanding.

And how had
Mr. Waters taken that?

He tried not to show it, but
I think he was despondent.

Perhaps even angry.

I see.

Do you have any idea
where Mr. Waters might be?

All I know is the
Society is his life.

Thank you.

In the last few years,

a new idea has arisen

to replace the cold,
dead religions of the world.

This new idea we
call spiritualism,

which holds that
alongside this material world

there exists another world.

A world that is just
as real as this one.

Most of us can't
see this other world

and therefore deny
its very presence.

But there are among us

those who have been
endowed with a very special gift.

The gift of clairvoyance.

Now, I myself have seen
these spirit sensitives

make contact with the dead.

So convinced am I that
this other plane exists

that I stand here
before you right now

and I make this solemn promise

that when I shuffle
off this mortal coil,

I will return with a message.

And speak to you of what
lies ahead in the great beyond.

Hellhound...

of the Highlands!

Hurry up, lads! Speck out.

- The holding cells, sir.
- Come on, then!

Sergeant Mulligan,
lock down the station!

What the bloody hell's going on?

Merely testing out
a theory, Inspector.

What's that, then?

To see if a building
full of coppers

will come running at
the sound of a gunshot?

Have you ever heard of a
gentleman named Lacassagne?

Yes, of course I have.

But remind me again.

Monsieur Lacassagne
is a forensics scientist

at Lyons University.

He has perfected a test

which matches a bullet to
the gun from which it was fired.

Whoa!

Uh, yes.

This is the gun that was
found in Frederick Waters' hand,

from which presumably came
the bullet which killed him.

We fired a bullet from that
gun into this barrel of water.

This is the bullet that
killed Frederick Waters.

This is the bullet
that was found

at the Toronto
Paranormal Society

that killed Ida Winston.

And this is the
bullet we just fired.

Note the striations
here, here, and here.

That's amazing. They all match.

So that means...

It means that this is the weapon
that killed both of the victims.

But what's the point?

We already know the
killer, Frederick Waters.

He murdered his former lover,
Ida Winston, in a fit of rage.

And then with the
constabulary closing in,

he took his own life.

Only one problem.

Frederick Waters
did not kill himself.

Then who did?

Some spirit, no doubt.

Well?

I had Frederick Waters
write something down for me.

He was left-handed.

The gun was found in his right.

Hmm, tell me, Detective.

Have you ever heard
the term "ambidextrous"?

Yes, I'd already thought of that

and confirmed that he
was, in fact, left-handed.

Thomas, about this
dog story of yours.

I've been thinking
about the setting.

The Highlands.

Yes, I'm not entirely
convinced it's evocative enough.

- The Highlands?
- Yes, the Highlands.

I feel sorry for him.

Yeah, terrible shame.

He wasn't much
older than you or I.

No, not him. Arthur Conan Doyle.

The way he droned
on in his lecture.

"I will return with a message."

How a man like that goes

from devout Catholic to devout
spiritualist, it's beyond me.

Beyond me.

That's funny.

What if it is possible?

What if there is a second plane?

I mean...

You want to talk
to her, don't you?

There were a
number of fingermarks

on the murder weapon,

but none that match
Frederick Waters.

Well, then, the gun must
have been placed into his hand.

Definitely not suicide.

So we can rule
him out as the killer.

We've already eliminated
Sarah Pensall as a suspect.

And Hubert Winston
had reconciled with Ida.

That only leaves the
Toronto Paranormal Society.

And at the top of that
list is Conrad Hunt.

Why would he want
Mrs. Winston dead?

Because she was a
threat to Miss Pensall.

Enough to kill her?

I know how desperate one can be

to contact a loved
one beyond their reach.

Given the right conditions,

one might take drastic measures

to ensure that
connection is never lost.

If Hunt is our man,

the evidence against
him is tenuous.

And he's not likely to up
and confess now, is he?

Actually, he might.

He's here. James?

You have a message
for your father?

Yes, I'll tell him.

What is it, Sarah?
What does he say?

He says something
is troubling you.

What? Troubling me?

That you're living
under a dark cloud.

That you're afraid that he's
going to drift away from you.

There's darkness between you.

Darkness?

Darkness is in
your soul, Father.

- James?
- I'm leaving.

I've come to say goodbye.

No, no! Why?

There's a river of
blood. I can't cross it.

Blood. James, there is no blood.

The lies have to stop, Father.

James, I would never lie to you.

Something's happened to
you, what you've become.

Nothing's happened.
Nothing's changed.

It's because of me.

- No!
- Yes.

She didn't have to die.

You killed her because of me.

No, James, please.

I have to leave,
Father, for your sake.

- For your sake, Father.
- No, James, don't go!

I didn't do it for
you. I did it for us.

James, I did it for us!

He's gone.

James.

James.

Ida Winston was going
to discredit Miss Pensall,

wasn't she?

You would have lost your son.

I couldn't bear
to lose him again.

And Frederick Waters?
Why did you kill him?

I had to kill him.

To throw you off the scent.

Do you understand?

I understand grief all too well.

But the murders of two people...

Mr. Hunt, you are under arrest.

I'd do anything, anything
to speak with him again.

Well done, Detective.

Well done.

So, Hunt killed Waters

hoping it would look
like a lover's quarrel.

He knew we were closing in.

No, no, you were closing in.

Uh, right, then, Arthur,

I'll drop you at the train
station, me old mucker.

By all means. I can't
wait to hear the end

of this "Hellhound
of the Moors" story.

Highlands. "Hellhounds
of the Highlands."

Yes, I'll be with
you in a moment.

Well, I suppose this whole thing

has done nothing to alter
your skepticism, Detective.

I will admit the boundaries

between physical and spiritual
happenings can be blurry.

It's a step.

It has been a great pleasure
to meet you, Detective Murdoch.

Likewise, Mr. Doyle.

I'd like to thank you
for all of your help.

I know at times I was
somewhat difficult, and I...

You're welcome.

Miss Pensall,

I was wondering if you could
help me speak to Liza again.

I'm sorry.

Liza gave you her
message already, Detective.

Good evening.

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