All language subtitles for MrSWr1007

Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.

I can do any damn
thing I want, Mr. Moylan,

as long as it’s in the best
interests of the company.

You haven’t picked the best time
for a visit to Kilcleer, Mrs. Fletcher.

If we handle it properly,
we’ll come away with some money.

- There’s money in the office.
- Without the mill, the village will die.

- That’s something of an understatement.
- You’re too much of a coward.

I thought he’d run out on me.

You’re assuming the murderer
was a man, Sergeant Boyle?

I’m assumin’ nothing, Mrs. Fletcher.

There were hundreds cavortin’ around,
shameless, they were.

You haven’t been near me in over a year.

- I’ll see you dead.
- Everybody knows it was an accident.

You’re lyin’!

When Mrs. Griffith said
you were comin’ to Kilcleer,

I was surprised,

with Mr. Griffith dead barely two months.

My husband Frank and I
were at her wedding to Robert.

Fiona and I planned this visit a year ago.

She needs a good friend,
that’s what it is.

There is a regular crisis
goin’ on at Kilcleer Woollens.

She got her son Sean to worry about now,

knowin’ there’s goin’ to be a big fight
between him and his cousin.

Ambrose Griffith?
I thought he was in America.

Was. With his uncle gone,

he’s suddenly sniffin’ around
and it’s givin’ Sean fits.

Come in.

Ambrose called from the airport.

He’ll be here within the hour.

How do you want me to handle it, Sean?

If you hold anything back,
it’ll only make him nosier.

Tell him what he wants to know.

We’ll feel our way.

If it comes to relocation...

we’ll fight him, won’t we, Sean?

Yes, Dennis, we’ll fight him.

A friend of my mother’s
is arriving this morning.

A Miss J.B. Fletcher.
Now, she’s an American.

I’ll be givin’ her a tour of the factory--

- I’ll be good to her, Sean.
- Thanks, Dennis.

Actually, she’s quite a grand lady.
You’ll like her.

My goodness, Siobhan.

We might as well be in midtown Manhattan.

Hang on, Mrs. Fletcher.

Mary, mother of... what is he
in such a hurry about?

Look, look, enough with the excuses, okay?

I’ll be there in ten minutes.

Then I’ll wanna see
those reports I asked for

by fax from New York a day ago.

Great.

He’s already stonewalling.

Mr. Moylan will see you now, Mr. Griffith.

Why don’t the two of you wait in the car?

Darling, can’t we just have Eric

take me to the hotel
and come back for you?

Just do what I say, okay?

Patience. We won’t have to
put up with him much longer.

May Day this year was the best ever.

The whole thing was ruined terribly

with Mr. Griffith goin’ the way
he did that same night.

Ah, Mrs. Fletcher,
would you mind terribly if

- I gave a friend a lift into the village?
- Oh, not at all.

- Well, good day to you, Billy.
- Bless you, Siobhan.

Billy Mahaffy, this is
Mrs. Fletcher, from America.

I have to say, you haven’t
picked the best time

for a visit to Kilcleer, Mrs. Fletcher.

Right on the heels of
Robert’s murder and all.

Well, I’m quite aware of that,
Mr. Mahaffy.

Murder?

Ah, don’t be listenin’
to him, Mrs. Fletcher.

You’re daft as they come, Mahaffy.

Everybody knows it was an accident.

A man’s entitled to his own opinion,

wouldn’t you say so, Mrs. Fletcher?

And mine is that Robert Griffith
was done away with.

Yeah, I’d be obliged if you’d let me off

at the Karberry arms there, Miss Kennedy.

Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher.

Likewise, Mr. Mahaffy.

Thank you, Siobhan.

We’ll be seein’ ya, Mr. Mahaffy.

Oh, darling Jessica!

You’re a sight for sore eyes.

Has it only been three years?

A bit more than that.

But you look exactly the same.

Oh, stop it, Fi. It’s not true,
but thanks anyway.

You know, all things considered,

you look wonderful, too.

Go on out of that.

Here, give me your coat.
I have the tea set out.

Oh, lovely.

Oh, the house is looking glorious.

Thank you.

Draw up to the fire.
You must be exhausted.

I just met an old friend
of yours, a Mr. Mahaffy.

He certainly has a way with words.

Ages ago, that man won a poetry contest,

and was invited to Belfast to study,

only poor Billy, you know,

he had a likin’ for the grape.

Walked out in front of a truck one night,

spent a year in the hospital,

damaged his leg forever.

Thank you.

You know, that portrait
is just as I remember Robert.

Aye, but a little intimidating.

The struggle to keep the mill profitable

made him harsher than he wanted to be.

Though last year,
he began to let go a little.

He’d taken up masonry, as I remember.

Bricks and mortar.

When the steeple of
St. Broderick’s blew down in ’89,

he endowed a new one.

He was always up there,
fussin’, changin’ things.

He was up checkin’
some masonry the night he fell.

Would you believe a workman

had forgotten to put up a barricade?

Oh, I’m so sorry, Fi.

Thank you, Jess.

But, you know, it’s Sean
I worry about now.

He’s not so hard-headed as his father.

And your older son?

Patrick? Don’t you remember,

Patrick dropped out of school and ran off.

You know, it’s been ten years,

and he’s not been back,

and I haven’t heard a word.

Where’s the manager
of this place?

He’s over by the bar.

Ambrose Griffith.

Welcome to Karberry Arms,
Mr. And Mrs. Griffith.

You’ve two rooms, one for yourselves,
and one for your driver.

We’ve ordered the best you’ve got.

It’s the best in
all Kilcleer, Mr. Griffith.

Windows to the west with a view
of the ocean such as you’ve never seen.

Frankie, show them to their room, huh?

Excuse me, friend.

Let me take a wild guess.

- You’re a birdwatcher.
- Right, you are.

Well, I never would’ve guessed,

except for all that paraphernalia.

You know, the Mahaffy spotted Gackle,

very abundant this year.

The marshes are full of ’em.

You got any of them on film?

I have.

And I’m a three-headed donkey.

As you’ve seen, Jessica, we do everything

- in this old plant.
- Yes, I can see.

All the flannels, worsteds, tweeds, rugs.

Kilcleer Woollens has always been

the Hallmark of quality.

Well, my mother always
swore by your blankets,

and I can see that their quality
hasn’t changed one bit.

We try. Cheaper goods--

Sean, for God’s sake, man.
What is in your mind?

Mrs. Fletcher, Dennis Moylan.

- How do you do?
- Mrs. Fletcher.

Ambrose Griffith was here
lookin’ for the expense reports.

We weren’t to hold anything back, Sean,

- or have you forgotten?
- I, uh... I changed my mind.

What kind of craziness?

There’ll be time enough
for expense reports, Dennis.

Robert would’ve said
give the man his head.

My father is dead.

Mother wants you to have a throw rug
to take back to Cabot Cove.

Dennis has volunteered
to help you pick one out.

The car will be waiting.

Thank you so much for the tour, Sean.

- Mrs. Fletcher, please.
- Thank you.

Robert would’ve said the foal jumps
before he’s got legs to walk.

You don’t mind?

Oh, not at all, no.

You mean, Sean doesn’t have his
father’s knack for handling people?

Well, we’ve something
of a crisis here, Mrs. Fletcher.

Ambrose Griffith
wants to move the company,

lock, stock and barrel, to Sligo.

Half the able-bodied of the village
depend upon the mill.

Robert found a location near bandon.

If we have to move,
that’s the place to go.

It’s only 20 minutes away.

It’s a very handsome-looking building.

Well, we’ve some new patterns

comin’ off the line by noon tomorrow.

Little somethin’ to keep you warm

on those cold Cabot Cove nights.

If you have time, we can pop next door

and find something you fancy.

- Oh, I’d love that.
- Well, come on then.

The Carillon Bell System
quit on us, Mrs. Fletcher.

Now it’s me and the lay helpers

have to do the ringing
the old-fashioned way.

Robert Griffith, rest in peace.

Robert was very much
into modern technology.

He had two centuries
of parish records computerized,

and he put in the carillon.

So much for modernity.
Ah, if you can’t find

anything among the headstones...

your family, MacGill, is it,
you’re looking for?

Yes.

You’re welcome to use the Church office

- And try the computer.
- Well, thank you very much, Father.

Oh, and I’ll be seeing you tonight.

- Dinner at the Griffiths.
- Yes.

Sh!

The gancanagh.

The gancanagh’s comin’.

I’ve read several
of your books, Mrs. Fletcher.

And I’m distressed

at your apparent disinterest
in poison as a means of murder.

Well, Father, if the truth be told,

I prefer the hands-on methods,

if only for their entertainment value.

I mean, do you have a poison of choice?

Indeed. Something
at once beautiful and deadly.

Uh, amanita phalloides.

Ah, yes, the death cap mushroom.

Extremely effective.

My preference, though,
would be for cyanide

or strychnine.

Both swifter and equally lethal.

For heaven’s sakes, the two of you.

Not after a full meal.

Fiona, you’ve written, how many is it?

Four books on classic irish myths.

Tell me, what is a gancanagh.

A gancanagh’s a member
of the Leprechaun family.

Have you been havin’ traffic
with a gancanagh, Jessica?

Well, I was in St. Broderick’s
graveyard this afternoon,

and there was
this very strange woman there.

She seemed to be
very troubled by something.

You saw Una O’Reilly, Mrs. Fletcher.

A spinster lady from the village,
a sad case.

Una was in St. Broderick’s

the night Robert fell from the belfry.

Oh, dear, how terrible for her.

It did something to the poor woman’s head

to see Robert fall like that.

She seemed almost...

childlike.

Well, truth be told,

Una spends her time
playin’ with the wee folk.

Leprechauns and fairies
that congregate down below

in the graveyard.

I used to play with them
myself when I was a young girl,

and I’m not so old
as to be blind to them, either.

Now, Jessica, there’s your gancanagh.

That’s his dudeen, his pipe

that never leaves his mouth.

Handsome fella, isn’t he?

Supposedly makes love to the
shepherdesses and the milkmaids,

if you please.

I’m not sure I’d like that.

Makin’ love to me fella
with his pipe in his mouth.

Look, to put it simply, Sean,

I’m gonna take over
the direction of the company.

It’s goin’ nowhere but down right now.

I have a plan that’ll
produce profits within a year.

Well, then, let’s
discuss your expertise.

As I understand it, you’ve made
a fortune in cut-rate TV’s and VCR's.

- Yeah.
- My congratulations,

but they’re not the same as Woollens.

The game’s the same.
It’s called selling at a profit.

Ambrose, forgive me,

but how can you possibly
know enough about the company

to have such strong opinions?
You haven’t been here.

You’ve never taken much of an
interest in the company, Fiona.

Why now, unless it’s
to protect Sean’s situation.

Just cool it, Sean.

I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, okay?

Forgive the interruption,
ladies and gents,

but I understand my cousin Ambrose

has plans for our company,

and I’m here to put in
my shilling’s worth.

Patrick, you’re back!

Patrick, I don’t believe my eyes.

Look at you. You’re so handsome.

Stop it, mother.

You’ll be havin’ to bar the door
from every girl in the county.

God, you’re as beautiful as ever.

And you’re still the ugly little bastard

I left behind.

You’re here in the Nick of time, man!

Cousin Ambrose.

You look pretty much the same.

Still breakin’ other kids’ toys because
you can’t have ’em to yourself?

You haven’t changed much yourself.
Still into games, huh?

Oh, it’s no game, Ambrose.

You may as well know
that I have no intention

of letting you or anybody else

take my father’s company over, move it,

or otherwise meddle in
my family’s business.

Your father disowned you.

You have no shares in this company.

You and your brother will have no choice

in this matter.

I think we better get back to the hotel.

Excuse us.

I had a chat with
your mother at breakfast,

and I think I’ve persuaded her

to get back to her writing.

Sure enough. She had her notebook
out when we left.

Father’s death had its
effect on her, I guess.

Well, I’d expect that. What about you?

Sorry.

I used to think it was him
seein’ his own worst side in me,

but he never dealt even-handedly
between Sean and me.

If there was a punishment,
I took the brunt.

So you ran off.

Must’ve been very difficult,

working and getting a degree.

Well, it could’ve been worse.

But all through school,
I had this anonymous benefactor

sending me money orders
every month like clockwork.

Fiona?

No. Mother never knew where I’d gone to.

But when the old man died,
it was time to come home.

So here I am.

I’m sorry about last night.

After ten years, I should’ve
held my tongue.

For a few hours, anyway.

Oh, God.

I wanna leave him now.

No. Just a little while longer.

If we handle it properly,

you’ll come away with some money,

and we’ll find a place, we’ll never
have to work another day.

How about Ibiza?

What about Monaco?

I could empty some wallets in Monaco.

Oh, come on. Where the hell
did you get these numbers?

Patrick, give me a break.

Your brother’s own people came up
with the cost versus revenue runs.

He’s had ’em hidden
under his bed, for all I know.

- Sean?
- The numbers are accurate, Patrick.

So we have a problem.

But movin’ us all the way
to Sligo isn’t gonna help.

With all due respect, Mr. Griffith,

you can’t move the company that far away.

I can do any damn
thing I want, Mr. Moylan,

just as long as it’s in the best
interests of this company.

One thing neither one of you know.

I was in contact with your father.

Yeah, it took a lot of talking,

but before he died, he saw the light.

He was prepared to move
this company up to Sligo.

You’re lyin’!

Okay, okay.

Here. Letters from the Board of Directors,

nominating me Chairman and CEO,

endorsing my plan.

I figured I’d hold off showing you this

to see if there was anyone
I could leave in place

to run things my way.

Clearly, that’s out of the question.

I’m gonna have to bring in my own people.

Patrick, you’ve been out of this business.

But, Sean, I am willing to keep you
on in a modest capacity

with the understanding
that you have no say in

the day-to-day operation of this business.

Understand something.

You’ll never have the pleasure
of me muckin’ about

any company of yours,

and I’ll see ya dead
before I let Sean stay on

in any bloody modest capacity.

All right. Stay out of it, both of you.

Far as I can see, you do your work,

you keep your nose clean,
you I’ll be keeping,

assuming you can adapt to my ways.

So...

where have you been all day?

Well, actually, I took the car
and went sightseeing.

What? Communing with nature?

I got better ones if you’re interested.

More intimate, if you know what I mean.

Ambrose, what did you expect?

I mean, you haven’t
been near me in over a year.

And you and Eric have been making up
for lost time, haven’t you?

Just don’t forget
to tell him that he’s fired.

Ambrose--

Emily, I’m suing for divorce.

I’ve had you followed
for the last six months.

And lawyers tell me there’s not
gonna be any division of property,

no alimony.

So, sleep wherever you want.

Just make sure it’s not in this hotel.

I need to see you.

No, now.

Emily, have you seen Patrick?
My son, Patrick.

Oh, no, I haven’t.

Where on earth has that boy got to?

- Two gin fizzes, please.
- Right.

Billy.

Mrs. Griffith.

You’re lookin’ real spiffy.

Well, thank you, Sean.

Can’t let reality
get us down, now, can we?

And now, ladies and gentlemen,

once again, let’s give a big hand

for the Balynoe Tripsters!

Isn’t it beautiful, Jessica?

Young people maintaining their traditions.

I just love it, Fi.

With all the excitement,
Mr. Griffith, I forgot to give you this.

Thought it might be important.

Ah, Patrick! You scared me.

We can go now. The contest’s almost over.

No, Siobhan, there’s
something I have to do first.

- Patrick!
- Look, Siobhan.

I’ll meet you at
the lake later, I promise.

I was on my way. Do you need a lift?

Oh, yes, please. The jet lag is
really getting to me.

All right.

Let’s stop playin’ around, huh?

Are you here or what?

Do the bells always ring at 10 o'clock?

Church bells?

There’s no one...

nobody rings
the Church bells after 6 o'clock.

And I locked the place tight.

And there’s money in the office.

Come along, Jessica.

Pending the full coroner’s report

we’ll assume the obvious for now

that Mr. Griffith died of strangulation,

grabbin’ the bell rope
in the last throes of life,

at approximately 10 p.m. last night.

Murder in the parish is bad enough.

Wait till that Curmudgeon Bishop Joyce
hears it was in my Church.

You know, I think that
I could give you a more precise fix

on the time, Sergeant Boyle.

Yes, Mrs. Fletcher.

When I heard the bells start to ring,

I happened to look
at my watch; it was 10:04.

10:04. Thank you.

Father Timothy recalls--

Have you considered that there
may be a connection

between Robert Griffith’s presumed
accidental death and this one?

I’ve heard those stories, Mrs. Fletcher.

He recalls locking the Church

before leaving for the dance contest.

There’s a broken window
in the alcove of the Bell Tower,

- which probably gave the killer...
- Sergeant.

Oh. Curtain cord, I expect.

A fella could buy some of this

at any of a dozen shops
and no one would be the wiser.

You’re assuming the murderer
was a man, then, Sergeant Boyle?

I’m assuming nothing, Mrs. Fletcher.

It could’ve been a woman.

A strong woman, yes.

You better get started on the shops.

Sergeant, there’s just one other thing.

Last night, just before
the dance contest started,

I noticed the bartender
at the Karberry Arms

hand a message to Mr. Griffith.

It was in the victim’s pocket,
Mrs. Fletcher.

It called urgently for a meeting here,

but it didn’t say when or who it was,

as if he...

or she, wished to remain anonymous.

If it was from the killer,
that might suggest

he or she broke in through the window,

opened the door from the inside,

so that Ambrose could come in,

and then, lay in wait for him.

It might suggest that, Mrs. Fletcher.

Good day.

You on to something, Jessica?

Oh, perhaps nothing.

Has anybody swept the floor
in here since last night?

Not to my knowledge, no.

Father, you told the detectives

that you had a number
of parishioners with keys

- to the Church.
- Yes. The Sextons.

Can you tell me who they are?

I can do better than that.

I have a list here... someplace.

Gave a copy to Sergeant Boyle.

There it is here.

Oh, thank you.

Dennis Moylan, Francis O’Hara,

Sean Griffith, Bernard McEldewey,

Edmond O’Donald, Andy Noonan,

Jim Duggan, and Bill Mahaffy.

And there’s one more that’s not on there.

Una O’Reilly. She comes in and sweeps.

Your husband and I had our differences,

but for a short a time as I knew him,

I’ll respect his memory

as a dedicated businessman.

My profoundest regrets, Mrs. Griffith.

Thank you.

I’ve never in my life heard
such smarmy pontification.

Sure, you’re as happy as the rest
of ’em to see Ambrose put away.

Go home to your bottle, Mahaffy.

So the factory stays?

Or might it move mysteriously
to that plot up near Bandon?

You’ve had too much to drink.

I’m not accusin’ you of murder, boyo.

You’re too much of a coward.

As usual, you got your bleedin’ nose

too far into other people’s business.

There’s a little refreshment
this evening, Billy.

You’ll come by, won’t you?

Oh, you can count on me.

I’ve reached ’em all.

The directors of Kilcleer Woollens.
All eight of ’em.

- First, there’ll be no moving to Sligo.
- Good Lord!

And the directors have agreed
to take the company

whichever way you see fit, Sean.

There’s still someone we should
be worried about, brother.

Who the hell’s that?

Terry Boyle. A homicide
detective down from Bandon.

What, are you daft?

What’s a bloody homicide detective
got to do with the mill,

or you and me?

Don’t underestimate him, Patrick.

If I was the one who did Ambrose in,

I’d be worried about Terry Boyle.

Hey, Sean, for God’s sakes,

don’t look at me like
I was a Ruddy mad-dog killer.

If you did it, tell me now.

I’ll help you with a story,

like it was Ambrose goin’ after you,

and you killed him in self-defense.

Ten years, and I’ve come back

to find my brother’s gone off his trolley.

The man had his neck wrung, Sean.

You call that self-defense?

How did you know that?

Boyle hasn’t told
anybody how Ambrose died.

Well, there you are, Mrs. Fletcher.
Been looking for you.

Ah, Mr. Moylan.

This is a grand spot
for a garden, isn’t it?

Isn’t it? It’s perfectly beautiful.

I just wanted to tell you that the lap rug

is wrapped up properly and I’ll see
to it it’s sent you on Monday.

Oh, thank you, Mr. Moylan.

That’s very kind of you.

Well, I’m off then.

- Mrs. Fletcher, Mrs. Fletcher.
- Siobhan.

The Sergeant’s got his mind
set on the wrong fella.

- Who are you talking about?
- Patrick.

Everybody knows him and Ambrose
came close to hittin’ each other

the other day. Mrs. Fletcher,
you’ve got to believe me.

Patrick couldn’t kill anybody.

Siobhan, tell me the truth
about you and Patrick.

You knew each other before
the other night, didn’t you?

Two months ago,

the day before May Day,

Patrick came here,
plannin’ to meet someone,

but plannin’ to leave right away.

- Who was he going to meet?
- I don’t know.

But that night, we were at the same table

at the Creepy Crawly.

I’m sorry. What?

A pub us younger people go to.

We hit it off, if you know what I mean.

He knew I worked for his mother,

but I never knew he was her son.

We even had a weekend
together at Dingle Bay,

and we wrote to each other after that.

But he never came back here.

I guess I should’ve suspected something.

What do you mean?

Well, he was always on my back about

what was goin’ on with the mill.

And the family, and about Ambrose comin’.

You’re sure that he never
told you whom he was meeting

in Kilcleer?

Never. When I found out who he really was,

Patrick Griffith,
well, my heart was so full.

I was so proud of him
the way he stood up to Ambrose

and took charge of things the way he did.

Look, Siobhan,

Sergeant Boyle will want
to know where Patrick was

at the time of the murder.

He promised to meet me,

but he never came.

I know what you’re
thinkin’, Mrs. Fletcher,

and I’m thinkin’ the same thing.

They’ll say he did in his own father,

and now, he killed Ambrose, too.

He had every reason to do both.

We’ll see about that, Siobhan.

I’m off to the village now, Jessica,

if there’s anything you need.

What I really need is a dust cloth.

Don’t you ever use this thing?

Ah, the infernal gadget
got the better of me, I’m afraid.

It’s your forbearers you’re after, is it?

Well, hopefully, yes.

Well, good luck then.

Thank you, Father.

Actually, it’s not the MacGills
that I am interested in.

Oh, you’re after seein’ ’em, too, are ya?

The sidhe.

The sidhe?

Aye, the fairies, as if you didn’t know.

Now’s the best time to see them.

Dusk and midnight.

May Day was better still.

There were hundreds of ’em
cavortin’ around.

Shameless, they were.

But they didn’t go near the tower.

Why was that?

The gancanagh be there.

That’s why.

You told me about them.

Who is the gancanagh, Una?

Him.

He’s a fella that smiles and does ya in.

Oh.

And was the gancanagh
there on May Day night,

when Robert fell from the tower?

And was the gancanagh there last night,

when the American man died?

Fiona?

I thought Sergeant Boyle had left.

Oh, Jessica, he’s taking my son.

They think he murdered Ambrose.

That message for Ambrose was from Patrick.

But Patrick only wanted
to set up a meeting

to stave off a fight.

His fingerprints were
all over the broken glass

from the Church window.

Even on the handle of a broom.

Now what on earth
was that boy up to, Jessica?

Look, Fiona, I am not convinced
that Patrick killed Ambrose.

And with your help, I can prove it.

Well, tell me how.

The truth.

Fiona, Una O’Reilly

was emotionally involved with Robert.

Oh, was it Graham Greene
who said somewhere

that every novelist has
a splinter of ice in her heart?

They were lovers.

Since she was 16.

It started just after Patrick was born.

Oh, Fi.

Oh, I adjusted.

I learned to live with it.

Would else could I do?

Only now, poor Una, well,
she mourns Robert in the old way.

This morning at the Church,

I ran across the Griffith records,

and I got confused by some of the dates.

The births, the weddings.

Well, what’s my family business got to do

with the MacGills?

Look, I’m talking about
you and Bill Mahaffy.

We were very close once.

Now that’s something
of an understatement, fi.

Billy left for Belfast in February of ’63,

you married Robert
two months later, April 10th.

Patrick was born November 13th.

Now I was at your wedding,
and I remember you

being a touch ill that day,
and it never occurred to me

that you might have been
suffering from morning sickness.

Billy and I were crazy about each other.

Before he left, we made love just once.

Like they say, that’s all it takes.

Up there in Belfast,
he had that silly accident

that almost killed him.

I didn’t know, Jess.

All I knew was that he’d stopped writing.

He just vanished.

And Robert?

Robert. He’d been
after me, very insistent.

Very worried, Robert was.

I remember your wedding
came on rather short notice.

Later, I found out that Billy
had been in a coma for ten weeks.

Robert was a bright man,
he didn’t need an adding machine

to know that Billy and I had been close.

He never forgave me.

Neither did Billy.

If anyone paid the price,

it was Billy’s poor child.

Poor Patrick.

You know, if the police
ever find out anything about this,

they’ll be even more convinced
he killed both men.

Look, I’ll be gone for a while.

Try to pull yourself together.

Nothing’s lost yet.

If you’re here to discuss
my paternity, Mrs. Fletcher,

you can go out the same door you came in.

Look, Patrick, if you’re trying
to protect Bill Mahaffy, well, don’t.

Just the truth.

You were here the day before May Day.

What brought you back?

You seem to know everything. You tell me.

All that time in Dublin,
you’d been receiving money orders.

You came back to Kilcleer,
and found that it was Bill Mahaffy.

Sure. And I put two and two together.

The day my father...

the day Robert Griffith died,

Billy admitted he was my father.

Jessica, it was like a door
opening in my head.

And we talked into the wee hours,

and, uh...

I saw...

what my mother saw in him long ago.

You made an appointment to meet Ambrose

the night that he was killed.

I have to know what happened.

We were to meet outside the Church.

Just when I got there,

the bell started ringin’
in a crazy fashion.

The door was open, and Ambrose was dead.

You assumed
that it was Bill Mahaffy

who had killed him on your behalf.

He had a key to the Church.

And with all that clangin’,

I figured there’d be company soon enough.

So you smashed the window

to make it appear
that the killer didn’t have a key.

I had to bring all the pieces
back into the alcove

so it would appear that the window
had been broken from the outside.

Missing one piece,
which you left in the garden.

Thank you for the truth, Patrick.

Perhaps I can help you.

Time.

Of course.

Sergeant Boyle, in the Church
alcove this morning,

did you happen to notice the residue
of a black powder-like substance?

No, my men didn’t mention it.

Is this something critical
to the case, Mrs. Fletcher?

Hmm.

Critical? I should say so.

Oh, how could I have missed it?

What? Missed what?

Sergeant, would you happen to know a shop

where I could buy some
buttons at this hour?

Well, uh, try Noonan’s Varieties.

- It’s down the street, sharp left.
- Thank you.

Jessica, where have you been?

Fiona, Patrick is not guilty
of Ambrose’s murder.

Oh, thanks be to God.

- But who?
- If it wasn’t Patrick--

Don’t rush the lady, Mr. Moylan.

So you’ve come up
with a conclusion then, Jessica?

I’m not sure, Father.

But there are some things
in the parish computer

that I want to print out
and go over tonight.

Of course. I’ve a sick parishioner

on the North side; I can
drop you off on the way.

Oh, thank you, Father.

Fiona.

Mrs. Griffith, I’ll be in touch with you

about the service for Ambrose.

I thought you’d be long
gone by now, Mrs. Fletcher.

Ah, Mr. Moylan.

I thought it might be you.

I recognized your tobacco.

Ah, well.

I was on the way home, I saw the light,

and I worried about
Father Timothy’s poor box.

You got your printouts then?

Oh, yes, thank you, yes.

Then a thought occurred to me.

Uh, a missing button.

From your sleeve, I believe, Mr. Moylan.

I figured you were on to something

when you told Mrs. Griffith

that Patrick couldn’t be the guilty party.

It’s true, I’ve been
missing this button, but...

There’s a perfectly logical explanation?

Yes, I think there is.

When I saw you at the dance contest,

the three buttons on
your right sleeve were there.

Then today, talking to Sergeant Boyle,

I was reminded that,
when I saw you in the garden

the morning after Ambrose was murdered,

your button was missing.

Is this... is this some
kind of a lark, Mrs. Fletcher?

I do believe you’re accusing me of murder.

What possible reason would
I have for killing Ambrose Griffith?

I made a call late this afternoon

to County Records.

They confirmed that
the site for the new factory

that you and Sean wanted
to build near Bandon

was deeded in your name.

Yes, a substantial investment.

Giving you every reason
to want to prevent the mill

from moving to Sligo.

So first you killed Robert Griffith,

then Ambrose.

Both for the same motive.

The one thing the two
murders had in common

was the gancanagh.

The gancanagh?

You’re dealin’ myth in more ways
than one, Mrs. Fletcher.

Not in the mind of Una O’Reilly.

My guess is,

that she’d arranged
to meet Robert Griffith here,

May Day night, and saw you
push him from the bell tower.

Then last night, I believe

she must’ve seen you kill Ambrose.

In her confused mind,

you became the dreaded gancanagh,

who was never--

Never without his dudeen.

Right, you are.

Unfortunately, Ambrose
gave me a bit of a problem,

and I dropped my pipe here on the floor.

Patrick thought it was Mahaffy’s pipe

that left the unburned tobacco.

He tried to sweep it up,

but it left a black reside on the floor.

Also on the brush.

It came close to making
him the primary suspect.

And that’s the way it’s going to stay,

Mrs. Fletcher.

That’s enough, Moylan.

Good old words will convict you.

I made two phone calls, Mr. Moylan.

The other was to Sergeant Boyle.

I don’t know where your button got to.

It was only your guilt that made you think

it was this one.

Courtesy of Noonan’s Varieties.

There. Stand by the bannister.

Give me a great, big smile.

Lovely. One more, one more.

Perfect.

There’s Sean and Patrick with the car.

Let’s not make it so long next time.

No. Thanks for everything.

- I love you, Jessica.
- And I love you, Fi.

Now... about Bill Mahaffy.

You’re not...

not a word about Bill Mahaffy

till we see if we can get him sober.

I almost forgot.
I had some film developed.

I took some really extraordinary
pictures at St. Broderick’s.

Now, am I imagining things,

or isn’t that a little fairy person
there in among the flowers?

And you see the little
feathered wing there?

No, look, you tell me.

Isn’t that a little man’s face
among the trees?

I think you need to get
your camera fixed, girl.