17x07 - Cool Million

[bunniefuu]

(MYSTERIOUS MUSIC)

(TENSE MUSIC)

(HORSE GRUNTS, SNORTS)

(HORSE GRUNTS, NEIGHS)

(NEIGHING)

(STRESSED NEIGHING)

- (ELECTRICITY CRACKLING)
- (THUDS)

(TENSE ORCHESTRAL MUSIC)

(JULIA): You told me you owned a horse.

I had no idea you rode.

Oh, one of my few talents.

Cool Million here is a joy to ride.

- (HART CHUCKLES)
- He's beautiful.

One of the few things I got
to keep in the settlement

from the Carmichaels.

Can't even afford a trainer or a jockey.

- He's a racehorse?
- Indeed and a good one.

I wanted to run him in the
qualifier for the nationals.

Violet Hart?

How nice to see you.

Mr. Carmichael.

Julia Ogden, this is Emmett Carmichael.

- My late husband's cousin.
- Charmed.

Terribly sorry about
all that legal business.

Family matters, you know
how these things are.

Of course.

They really did take

everything from you, didn't they?

(SIGHS) Father's a bastard.

So is Mother.

Are you able to afford
the stable fees here?

I'm making do.

Well, if it becomes a burden,

happy to take your
animal off your hands.

Thank you for your
offer, but he's my horse.

(HORSE GRUNTS)

Surely. Well, must go.

Ladies.

Your former in-law?

I'm just glad to be free
from the lot of them.

(MAN): No!

What was that?

Dear God. What's happened?

It's Mrs. Marshall's horse.

He's-he's dead.

I just came in and found him like this.

Must be colic.

- Colic?
- Horses die from it all the time.

Sometimes, you don't see it coming.

Mrs. Marshall will be heartbroken.

I don't think he passed away naturally.

This horse has a broken neck.

I believe he was m*rder*d.

(SOFT MUSIC)

(NEIGHING)

Well, see if you can
find more fuel somewhere.

Sir!

Do we really both need to
attend to the m*rder of a horse?

This wasn't just any horse, Murdoch.

This was Baccarat.

He was the favourite
to win the national.

Oh, yes. The qualifiers
are this time of year.

This weekend.

Baccarat's owners won
it three years running

with a bay called Thunderbolt.

This year they bought a ringer.

Baccarat won the Missouri stakes.

I had no idea you knew so
much about horse racing.

But, still, sir. Why both of us?

The horse was worth $,.

Tw...

That's more than my house.

As you can see, it's
a matter of interest.

Plus, I myself am a victim.

I had $ on the bugger.

Ah, Baccarat.

- What do we think?
- Well, it's a racehorse with a broken neck.

Not a clue how it could've happened.

(LIGHT SWITCH CLICKING)

They just put in the
electricity. It goes in and out.

And you are?

Chappy Farnsworth.

I'm the farrier who cares
for this animal. Cared for.

So, you found him, then?

I came in to shoe him,

found him like this.

I left him in his stall
at nine o'clock last night.

(MURDOCH): So, he d*ed
during that window of time.

I'm happy to examine him.

I know a thing or two about horses.

As do I. I could perform a postmortem.

Strictly speaking, this is
a case of malicious mischief.

The victim here is not the animal,

but the animal's owner.

I beg to differ, Murdoch.

I believe the victim is the
bloody horse. Look at him.

Yes. Well, the animal
will need to be examined,

but Baccarat is evidence in a crime

and, as such, I will be
collecting his remains.

Well, I'll have him taken to the morgue.

Miss Hart, you are either directly
or indirectly involved in this case.

I don't believe you should
conduct the postmortem.

Well, as you wish.

- Mr. Farnsworth...
- Suppose you want me gone, as well.

You find out what happened, Detective.

What exactly are you planning to do

with a ,-pound piece of evidence?

It definitely won't fit in your office.

Sir, this is not a typical m*rder case,

but we still need to establish
motive, time of death.

Well, he would fit through
the doors of the morgue.

With Miss Hart recused from
the case, I could take a look.

Bloody hell. Let's drag him back, then.

Right.

And we will obtain
fingermarks from this stall.

Locate and question anyone
who may have accessed

these stables in the past hours.

But first, your help may be needed.

Sir, I have Baccarat's
owners just this way.

(EXHALES DEEPLY)

This is Mr. Bruce Marshall
and Mrs. Scarlet Marshall, sir,

- the horse's owners.
- My wife is the owner.

The stables are Scarlet's bailiwick.

I can't believe it. It's too terrible.

Do you have any idea
who could have done this?

- Not the slightest.
- I have.

It was one of the other owners.

None of them would k*ll
an innocent horse, Bruce!

It's the national qualifiers,
dear, and you win every year.

They're jealous.

I wouldn't put it past a
single one of the scoundrels.

Who are these other owners?

Why don't you speak to
our trainer, Mr. West.

He knows all the horses, all the owners,

everyone involved.

Mr. West!

(SCARLET BREATHES HEAVILY)

Oh, Guy!

How could this have happened?

It's terrible, ma'am.

My wife is in a state.

We'll be at our home if
you need anything else.

You're the horse's trainer, sir?

That's right. I've been
working with him for months.

When were you last with him?

Yesterday. Put him in his stall and...

Fed him around six.

Did he seem unwell?

No, sir. Had great
pace 'round the track,

real healthy appetite.

Poor old boy.

We need the names of the other owners

who also have horses in this race.

Surely, but you'll only need one.

I mean, everyone knows who did this.

Oh? Who's that?

Has to be the man who came
in second the past two years.

Emmett Carmichael.

Ma'am.

Do I recognize you from somewhere?

I don't believe we've met.

I'm Violet Hart.

Joey Witherspoon.

- Witherspoon?
- Mm-hmm.

- Of course! You're famous.
- Ha! Hardly.

Well, you won the Kentucky derby twice.

Oof. That was some time ago.

You were the best jockey
in the world at a time.

What on earth are you doing here?

Things have been changing in the south.

Some of us old jockeys
aren't welcome anymore;

not the right type.

Oh, that's awful.

Yeah. I got off easy.

Fired, run out of town.

Some other fellas got the
stuffing b*at out of 'em, or worse:

Fell off their horses mid-race.

They'd be trampled.

I had a friend nearly die.

I'm lucky I just lost all my money.

Oh, I know what that's like.

Well, at least you've
landed on your feet.

Will you be riding Diamond Duke?

Oh, afraid not.

Mr. Carmichael,

he hired me on as a
trainer, but he don't want

a black jockey riding for him.

But you're Joey Witherspoon.

You should be on a horse.

You should be racing.

This is what I do now.

Eh, anyhow, don't be
letting go of that horse.

I seen you riding.

He's got something special in him.

(SOFT MUSIC)

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

Mr. Carmichael, if you would.

I was at Le Château
Carmichael until after am.

You can ask anyone who was
working there last night.

You own the restaurant?

Well, I do now.

I inherited it from
my late cousin, Arthur.

- I think you knew him.
- Ah. A bit.

My condolences.

And after am?

I went home.

Tried to make myself a
deviled cheese sandwich,

dropped a plate.

My valet was woken by the racket.

He can vouch for me.

Your competitors,

the other horse owners,

seem to think that
you are the most likely

to resort to foul play
in order to win this race.

Well, they are mistaking
my desire to win

for a depravity of character.

I want to win more than
anything, that is true.

But there is one thing I want more

and that is to win fair and square.

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

- Inspector.
- What is it, Murdoch?

I've collected alibis from
all of the rival horse owners,

their jockeys, trainers,

stable hands and anyone
else who may have had access

to Baccarat's stall.

And you've compared them
to the marks you found?

Correct. And there were
too many fingermarks

to single out one culprit.

And the alibis?

Sir, Julia is still examining
the animal at the morgue.

She doesn't yet have a time of death.

We'll know more soon.

This case will be the
death of me, Murdoch.

Those seven owners are all convinced

that their horse will be the next victim

and they won't let
me hear the end of it!

I have to have constables patrolling
their stables hours a day.

Ah, ah, ah!

I believe I've found another way.

(GULPS)

(SIGHS)

An idea came to me

when we were installing cameras for
surveillance purposes last winter.

What if instead of
constantly surveilling,

you took a photograph only
at the relevant moment?

You mean hire a photographer?

Why not just get a
constable to stand watch?

No, no, no. I-I've devised a
way to achieve the same result

without need for a constable,

or a photographer, or anyone at all.

You mean the camera
takes a picture on its own

when someone walks past?

Precisely.

How does it know?

Someone's got to tell it.

We...

I've invented a motion perceptor.

This lens on top of the camera

can detect changes in light levels.

A gradual change, uh, the sun setting,

and it won't register.

But a rapid change, such
as someone walking past

and casting a shadow, and
it will trigger this shutter.

- (CAMERA WHIRRING)
- And that's when it takes a photo?

Well, that's the idea.

Shall we try it?

Inspector, if you could
walk past the camera?

(PLAYFUL MUSIC)

(CAMERA SHUTTER CLICKS)

So the camera is set off by motion.

I know what else you could use this for.

Wait a minute, Murdoch.

Oi, Crawford! Wait there!

I want my $ back.

Oh, tough luck, Inspector.

No refunds on bad bets.

Baccarat's not running.

In case you haven't heard, he's dead.

Oh. That's no concern of mine.

If your horse doesn't come in,
you don't win. That-that's it.

I could arrest you for this.

You placed the bet.

You'd have to arrest yourself, too.

Right then. (CHUCKLES)

Care to make another wager?

(SIGHS)

It's quite a sight.

Any idea what happened to him yet?

I believe his heart stopped,

which would be consistent
with a number of ailments

if it weren't for the fact that
he broke his neck in the fall.

Meaning the fall was sudden.

That's right.

In the case of heart att*cks in horses,

they generally stumble to the ground.

A stroke might have been more sudden,

but there's no evidence for that here.

(SIGHS)

Time of death?

Well, the indicators for that are
different in horses than humans,

but I believe the state of rigor

and the opacity of his eyes

suggest he d*ed between pm and am.

Oh!

Well, that exonerates
a number of suspects,

including Mr. Carmichael.

There is one other interesting thing

I can't find any explanation for.

It may be unrelated.

His ear is... singed?

As if someone held a match to it.

(OMINOUS MUSIC)

Could this have been
caused by electricity?

It could have been.

- (CLICKING)
- Mr. Farnsworth said the electricity

was recently installed.

And yet the lights
aren't working. How odd.

Could someone have
disconnected the lights

in order to use the
electricity for something else?

You mean to electrocute Baccarat?

Is that possible?

Actually, yes.

Large animals can be
k*lled by electricity

far more easily than humans.

The charge from an exposed wire

is enough to stop a horse's heart.

Could someone have
disconnected the wires

in order to close a circuit

between Baccarat's ear and its... rear?

They very well could have.

That would explain why
we found singe marks

on the horse's backside,
as well as his ear.

And then he would have d*ed so quickly

that the collapse broke his neck.

Thousand-pound animal.

Someone has tampered with this light.

So, this was intentional.

Let's see if the culprit
has left any fingermarks.

(HART): Mr. Witherspoon.

I have a proposal for you.

- Ma'am?
- Ride Cool Million in the national qualifier.

Well, thank you for the
offer, but that's not possible.

- Why not?
- Well, for one thing,

Cool Million's not
running in the qualifier.

Well, with Baccarat
out, there's a spot open.

- I can get him in the race.
- Look,

I would love to get back in the saddle.

But I need my job.

And Mr. Carmichael would not be pleased.

It makes no bloody sense, Murdoch.

That man was nearly in
tears last time I saw him.

Our farrier Mr. Farnsworth's fingermarks

were the only ones found.

- Why would he want to k*ll a horse?
- I have no idea,

but we're about to find out.

(SINISTER MUSIC)

Oh.

Seems like you were wrong about that.

It appears he was k*lled with
a single strike to the head,

likely a heavy implement
with some sort of indentation

or bifurcation at the end.

And there's a tool missing
from his farrier's tool kit.

I think it's one of the iron tongs

that they use to shoe horses.

Two are missing, actually.

One is in his hand.

If both men were armed,

that could indicate a
fight that went badly.

Well, if the k*ller did use
something he found in here,

we're not looking at
premeditated m*rder.

There are boot marks in the blood,

but too messy to tell us anything.

And what's this?

(BRACKENREID): What have you found?

Haven't a clue.

Is it a tooth?

Appears to be ceramic.

Perhaps it broke off
of the m*rder w*apon.

Strange.

Why would anyone want to k*ll
this Farnsworth bloke, anyway?

Farnsworth k*lled Baccarat.

Someone found out and confronted him,

perhaps the Marshalls?

Or that trainer of theirs.

Farnsworth is dead?

m*rder*d. In the tack room.

Well, that's terrible.

He'd been working for
Mrs. Marshall for years.

He's been established as the culprit

in the k*lling of Baccarat.

Wha... ? Well, that's not possible.

We found this in his room.

We believe he was paid to do it.

Perhaps you found out and went to
have a word with Mr. Farnsworth.

You knew he'd k*lled Baccarat
and the two of you fought.

Don't care much for
what you're suggesting.

Things got out of hand;

- Perhaps it was self-defence.
- No.

No, you got it all wrong.

I wasn't even at the
stables this afternoon.

I left around one o'clock.

Can anyone corroborate this?

(SIGHS) I don't know.

Wait. As I was leaving,
I seen that bookmaker.

- Eddie Crawford?
- Yeah.

That's right. He was there. He...

he would have seen me leave.

Since last week, he's
been hanging around.

Maybe because he's a bookie
he stood to make a fortune

if Baccarat didn't run.

What's all this?

I'm running Cool
Million in the qualifier.

You've listed me as your jockey.

- That's right.
- (SCOFFS)

You don't have the right.

- I didn't agree to this.
- But you want to.

With my horse and you as his
jockey, we could win this.

You don't belong working as a trainer.

You belong on the racecourse,

riding in the biggest
races in the world.

Look, picture it.

With Baccarat out,

all we have to do is b*at Carmichael.

And we can do it.

Even if I agreed,

who's to say they'll allow me to run?

They've already allowed it.

Your name's on the racing sheet.

And the trainers,

the owners, the jockeys?

I've been run out of town before.

You have just as much of
a right to race as they do.

And Carmichael?

I have a contract with
him, and I need the money.

Let me handle Carmichael.

As for money,

when we split the purse,
we'll both be flush.

What do you say?

You cheated me out of $.

But I-I didn't cheat
you! You made a bad bet.

I didn't know you were going to
k*ll the horse to fix that race.

You paid that farrier to do it

so you could collect the bets
on Baccarat, isn't that right?

I did no such thing.

What happened?

Farnsworth was going to
give you up, is that it?

- So you k*lled him?
- What? I didn't k*ll anyone.

Then why were you at the stables today?

And if you lie to me,

I will lock you up for bookmaking

and then I will lock
myself up alongside ya.

Do you understand?

(MURDOCH): Sir, please.

Tell us what you do know, Mr. Crawford.

I did want Baccarat out
of the race, all right?

But I didn't pay this Farnsworth
and I certainly didn't k*ll him!

But you did do something to
prevent Baccarat from running.

Yes. I asked someone to
make sure he didn't run.

- Not Farnsworth?
- No.

I don't know him.

I have a client who
owes me a lot of money.

He's more than $, in debt.

You let someone bet $,?

I thought he was rich.

Turns out he's flat broke,

squandered his whole fortune.

So, I told him,

"if you can make it so
Baccarat doesn't run,

you don't have to pay your debt."

He told me it was taken care of.

- Right. Who is this man?
- Bruce Marshall.

Baccarat's owner.

(HORSE EXHALES)

Here to say no?

I'm here to see what he's got.

(HORSE GRUNTS)

Well, well.

That's a fine horse after all.

Probably a good thing
you didn't give it to me.

Well, I know what things
are worth, Mr. Carmichael.

You're a sharp tack, Miss Hart.

I can see what my cousin saw in you.

- He spoke of you often, you know.
- Funny.

He never spoke of you at all.

(EXHALES)

Yes, well,

suppose he never will again thanks to...

What in the holy blazes?

- That's my trainer on your horse!
- That's right.

What are you two playing at?

I have him under contract.

Let me make you an offer.

Let Witherspoon ride
for me in the qualifier.

If he wins, he's free of his employment.

If you win,

I'll pay you back the
full value of the contract.

I'm sorry.

Win?

You think that horse is gonna win?

Are you in, or are you out?

All right. All right, Miss Hart.

You got yourself a bet.

(CARMICHAEL CHUCKLES)

It's true. I plotted
to k*ll that poor horse.

I had to, don't you see?

I'm ruined. I have nothing.

My wife can't find out.

Please don't tell her!

We're more interested in what
happened with Mr. Farnsworth.

Did he thr*aten to call the police?

- Is that why you k*lled him?
- What?

I didn't k*ll Chappy.

You had him k*ll Baccarat.

- No. No, I didn't.
- You just admitted you did.

No, I hired someone else altogether.

You're Witherspoon, eh?
The Joey Witherspoon?

- That's right.
- The horse looks fast.

- He is.
- Hm.

I'm gonna have to be careful
setting the odds on him.

Oh, come on, gents!

Can't you leave a man
in peace for two minutes?

We're not here for you, Mr. Crawford.

(BRACKENREID): We're here for him.

- What do you want with him?
- Mr. Witherspoon,

we'd like to ask you
some questions regarding

the m*rder of Chapp Farnsworth.

- Me? Why?
- Well, for one thing,

you appear to have some
blood on your pants.

(TENSE MUSIC)

Mr. Marshall paid me to k*ll Baccarat.

But I never went through with it.

I couldn't.

And I was about to tell
him I was calling it off,

but then Baccarat ended up dead anyway.

So, I just kept my mouth shut.

We already know Farnsworth
k*lled the horse.

The question is, why
did you k*ll Farnsworth?

I didn't.

Mr. Witherspoon, you
have blood on your pants.

(SIGHS)

I was taking out Duke

and I needed a crop.

So, I went into the
tack room and I saw him.

There was blood all around,

but maybe he was still alive, you know?

- So, I went to check.
- Was he?

No. He was gone.

By then, my hands were covered
in blood. I'd knelt in it, too,

and I knew if I called for help,

I'd be blamed for it.

Just like I'm being blamed for it now.

(SOFT OMINOUS MUSIC)

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

Ah! Miss Hart.

He didn't do it.

And how exactly do you know that?

Because I know him. He's a good man.

Don't you know who he is?

He won the Kentucky derby twice.

And that means he's not a k*ller?

He can't be.

And he would never hurt an animal.

You're wrong about that, Miss Hart.

Mr. Marshall did hire
him to k*ll Baccarat.

He just didn't get around to doing it.

And he had Mr. Farnsworth's
blood on his pants.

So you can see why we
find his story unlikely.

I am struggling, however,
to believe that he'd want

to k*ll Mr. Farnsworth.

Maybe he didn't have
the stomach to go through

with k*lling the horse, so he
hired Farnsworth to do it for him.

Then they fought when Farnsworth
threatened to turn him in.

We can't prove that, but it would answer

both of our remaining questions.

Could I speak with him?

Taking that money from Mr. Marshall

was the lowest moment
of my life, Miss Hart.

And now it's come back to haunt me.

Just when things were looking up.

Joey, at this moment, I
need to know the truth.

If you did any of this,
Detective Murdoch will find out.

I didn't k*ll Farnsworth.
I just found him like that.

And you didn't ask him
to electrocute Baccarat?

Electrocute?

They believe that's
how Baccarat was k*lled.

I had nothing to do with that, but...

I have heard of it.

- When?
- There were rumours about it back in Kentucky.

They said it could never be found out.

It would look just like the horse

dropped dead from colic.

Who was doing it?

- Were they fixing races?
- No, no.

It wasn't that kind of scheme.

It was a way for the owner
to k*ll his own horse.

(BRACKENREID): So, what
good would k*lling it do?

A lot if your horse is insured.

- Not if it was k*lled deliberately.
- Correct.

There can't be any hint of foul play.

The cause of death has to
fall under a named peril.

A cause of death
acceptable to the insurers,

accident, illness.

An electrocution could look like
the horse d*ed of natural causes,

unless someone clever
discovers singe marks.

So are we saying that Baccarat
wasn't going to qualify?

It would seem to be the only
reason to k*ll him before the race.

Well, what was wrong with him?

(MURDOCH): What am I looking at?

Discolouration running
horizontally across the radius.

Oh.

Are you sure it isn't
a cyst, or a, uh... ?

No. I believe it's a healed fracture.

Well, when did this fracture occur?

It's no more than two months old.

I'd say it's healed,
but likely weakened.

So if this horse had run
full speed in a race... ?

It would have been liable
to cause a full break.

Well, that's not possible.

Baccarat couldn't win,

so you made sure you
didn't lose your investment.

You had him k*lled so you could
collect the insurance money.

I assure you I have no idea
what you're talking about.

If you claim Baccarat was injured,

I certainly knew nothing about it.

I only bought the horse a month ago.

When do you suppose
all of this happened?

- Who did you buy him from?
- A broker.

(SIGHS) Mister...

Mr. Dalton, I believe.

Where can we find him?

I wouldn't know.

My trainer introduced me to him.

- Mr. West?
- Yes.

- When was this?
- Couple months ago.

(SCOFFS) Look, there
must be some mistake here.

Mr. West thoroughly inspected the horse

before I purchased him.

He would never advise me

to buy an injured horse.

Ah, sir?

I believe we've found what
we've been looking for.

Regarding Mr. West?

Yes. It seems he has
somewhat of a reputation.

He likes to gain the confidence
of wealthy horse owners

in order to get hired on as a trainer.

He then convinces them to
invest in a can't-miss horse.

Exactly what he did to
Mrs. Marshall with Baccarat.

So it would seem.

So, what's in it for him if
his boss buys a bad horse?

He's not the one selling the horse.

In New York state, Mr. West was arrested

and charged with fraud.

Similar circumstances,
but he was never convicted.

In that case, Mr. West's own brother

was the seller acting
under a false name.

So the brothers find an old
champion racehorse with a gammy leg.

They then pretend to be strangers

and swindle an old
lady out of thousands.

They then split the proceeds.
So these West brothers

had to k*ll Baccarat before he ran,

or else Mrs. Marshall would
know she'd been conned.

I believe we have our culprit.

Uh, sir. Mr. Witherspoon.
Have you seen Guy West?

Mr. West?

No, I haven't seen him.

Ask around, would you?
We need a word with him.

(NEIGHING) Huh?

- (GRUNTS)
- Dear God! Look out!

(GRUNTING)

- Mr. Witherspoon!
- (GROANING)

- He's breathing.
- Joey! Are you all right?

My sides. I can hardly breathe.

We need to get him to a hospital.

Go and get help, Henry.

- Sir.
- It's all right. Hold still.

(EXHALES DEEPLY)

It was deliberate.

The latch on his stall was open
and someone spurred him hard.

- Whose horse was it?
- Ah, a Mr. Abernathy, sir.

The horse selection was likely random.

Any idea who did it?

It seems they got away, sir,

but your motion perceptor was triggered.

Oh, good. We'll develop the film.

Sir, who would have it
out for Mr. Witherspoon?

He's the one who put us
on to the insurance scheme.

So, if this was retaliation,

our main suspect could be responsible.

Speak of the devil.

So, I heard Mr. Carmichael, uh,

his trainer got hurt. What's going on?

Mr. West, we need a moment of your time.

You sold Mrs. Marshall a horse

with a fractured forelimb
and a false pedigree.

You pretended to train it for a month

knowing full well that
if it ran in the qualifier

the truth would be exposed.

(BRACKENREID): So you
hired Farnsworth to k*ll it.

N-Now, you can't prove that.

With Baccarat dead,

Mrs. Marshall would've
collected the insurance money

and been none the wiser.

- No. No, I...
- But something went wrong, didn't it?

Baccarat d*ed so quickly
during the electrocution

that it broke its neck
during the fall. Messy.

(BRACKENREID): But with us on your case,

Farnsworth was going to roll you over.

So you k*ll him.

And it likely would have worked

if Joey Witherspoon hadn't
put us on to your scheme.

Which is why you let
that horse loose on him.

Payback.

(SIGHS)

It's all true.

I did it all.

As they say:

When it goes wrong,

it all goes wrong.

Guess I won't be
riding in the qualifier.

No. But you're going to ride again.

Hm. I have to do something.
I don't have a job anymore.

I feel terrible about this.

Oh, hey now. Chin up.

We're not cooked yet.

What do you mean?

Cool Million can win that race.

You seen him run.

He's faster than Diamond Duke

and can run circles
around the rest of them.

But we don't have a jockey.

I know where we can get one.

He's confessed, Murdoch.

Yes.

And you don't believe a word of it.

Sir, we gave him a story
and he agreed to it.

All of it.

It was all terribly easy.

Sometimes things are just neat and tidy.

I suppose so.

But...

Mr. West told us that
he saw Eddie Crawford

near the stables just before
Mr. Farnsworth's m*rder.

Which means West was there, too.

He also told us he was leaving.

To give himself an alibi.

He could have come back.

He certainly could have.

Let's say you're right

and he really did leave the
stables just before the m*rder.

Why confess to a crime
that he didn't commit?

Perhaps he's protecting someone.

Who?

This is what the motion
perception camera captured

right before Joey
Witherspoon was trampled.

Scarlet Marshall.

Why is West protecting her?

They're in it together.

She's cheating herself?

The Marshalls are broke.

Bruce Marshall told us himself
that he lost all of their money.

Begged us not to tell his wife.

What if she already knows?

She knows that West is a confidence man

and she's broke.

How's she buying expensive
horses in the first place?

Precisely. She's not.

But she is pretending to

and taking out large insurance
policies on the horses.

She never paid anything for Baccarat.

No. But she told the
insurance company she did.

And then when the horse dies,

she doesn't get her money back,

but she's collecting
thousands of dollars

that she never even
spent in the first place.

Well, it's just a theory.

Based on a rather compelling fact.

I've told the constables
to search her home.

You're saying we k*lled my horse

and then k*lled a man to cover it up,

all to make a little money.

A lot of money. Money that you needed.

This is preposterous.

And even if it were
true, you have no proof.

This photograph was taken moments before

Mr. Witherspoon was trampled.

What, earlier today?

I was going there to meet Guy.

I couldn't find him.

He had sent me a note to come.

Confirming you were there.

I... I don't know, uh...

Anyway, what of it?

Making a horse run over some poor jockey

doesn't prove that we k*lled someone.

We found these in the back
of your car, Mrs. Marshall.

Wh-what is it?

Forge tongs.

A farrier's tool covered in blood.

These were missing from
Mr. Farnsworth's tool kit

when we found him dead.

In other words,

we found the m*rder w*apon in your car.

I tried to take the
fall for you, Scarlet.

- Really, I did.
- No. No.

- I tried to save you.
- No, no, no. You have it...

You have it all wrong. It wasn't me.

I-I've never seen
this before in my life.

Please. We just...

We just wanted some money.

Save it for the jury, darling.

You two lovebirds are going
to be tried for m*rder.

(GASPING)

So there was two separate
plots to k*ll the same horse.

Involving at least six people.

Hard to believe a single
animal could draw so much ire.

Poor old Baccarat never stood a chance.

Oh, and here's one of
them now. Oi, Crawford!

You're lucky that your
pal b*at you to the punch.

- You might get off facing any charges.
- Huh.

Always thinking the
worst of me, Inspector.

But, as usual, I've done nothing wrong.

Don't push your luck, sunshine.

Uh,

what's, uh...

What's all this?

Ah! This was my idea.

Murdoch made a camera

that takes photos whenever
someone walks past.

So, I thought why not do it
with horses at the finish line?

I've adjusted the
mechanism so that the device

will take a series of photographs

beginning the moment the first horse

- crosses the sensor.
- (CAMERA SHUTTER CLICKS)

Our finish photo

will then be able to tell us

- which horse crosses the line first.
- (GASPS)

A finish photo.

- That was my idea.
- That's brilliant.

This will settle all of the arguments

from bettors who think their horse won

in spite of what the judges rule.

Oh, speaking of,

gentlemen, do you
care to place any bets?

Now taking their places
at the starting line:

Jericho Jack,

Maggie's Fortune,

Cool Million!

Mrs. Hart must have found a
jockey for Cool Million after all.

What odds are your giving?

Uh, I-I don't know. I mean,

he runs fast, but without Witherspoon?

Just tell me the odds!

I'll give you four to one.

- Twenty to win on Cool Million.
- Yeah.

To the line please, riders.

(SUSPENSEFUL MUSIC)

(HORSES GRUNTING)

They're off!

(CROWD CHEERING)

(MAN): Come on! Come on!

They'll be back.

(COURAGEOUS HORN MUSIC)

Miss Hart's horse could win this thing.

(♪♪)

Cool Million and Diamond
Duke are neck and neck!

(GASPING, MURMURING)

(♪♪)

(INAUDIBLE)

(CAMERA SHUTTER CLICKING)

(CHEERING)

(LAUGHING)

And Diamond Duke is the winner.

Says who? It was a dead heat.

Take it easy, lads.

We'll prove who was the
winner in just a minute.

Isn't that right, Murdoch?

Well, it was quite close.
Let's hope it worked.

And the winner is...

Cool Million!

(CLAPPING)

It seems we won by a nose.

Miss Hart, that was
you riding Cool Million.

Now, wait a minute.

Cool Million can't be the winner.

Women are not allowed to
jockey in the qualifiers.

And even if they were,

Miss Hart isn't the registered
jockey for this horse.

Look at your racing forms.
They say Joey Witherspoon.

Cool Million must be disqualified.

I'm afraid Mr. Carmichael is correct.

Cool Million is considered
scratched from this race.

- The winner is Diamond Duke!
- Bloody hell.

Mr. Carmichael!

I'll need to have a look
at your walking stick.

What's this all about?

Just hand it over.

Fine.

It's a match, sir.

This was found at the scene
of Mr. Farnsworth's m*rder.

It was you.

- You ordered Baccarat's k*lling.
- Preposterous!

He threatened to talk,
so you k*lled him.

That's even more preposterous!

You ran over Joey Witherspoon
to keep him out of the race.

You even wrote the note that lured

Mrs. Marshall there, didn't you?

And planted the m*rder
w*apon in her car.

(CROWD GASPING)

(TENSE MUSIC)

(NEIGHING)

(GRUNTS)

Come on, come on!

Ha! Ha!

(GRUNTING)

Mr. Carmichael,

you are under arrest for m*rder.

(SIGHS)

I won that race, and you know it.

Maybe.

But I still have all your money.

Maybe so. But at least
I have my freedom.

You witch.

Get him out of here!

Looks like Diamond Duke
has also been disqualified.

Yes, I suppose race officials frown
upon murdering your competition.

- Hm.
- Are they reinstating Cool Million as the winner?

Oh, no. That disqualification stands.

Oh. Well, who won?

The horse that came
in third, Sunday Best.

Ah! That's the horse I bet on.

You what? How's that?

Well, I-I read the racing form.

I analyzed the different
horses' track records

and measured those against
Mr. Crawford's odds.

I-I knew Sunday Best
was an unlikely winner

but could provide
excellent value for my bet.

What are the odds?

Fifty to one.

- Oh!
- Ah! I don't believe this.

I may need some time to raise the money.

But be sure that you do.

Ah! Ha...

(MURDOCH LAUGHING)

Ha! Ha...

Sometimes a long sh*t does pay off.

(SIGHS)

So, what do you think?

You gonna jockey again?

It didn't exactly
work out in our favour.

I think I'm done with horse racing.

You're not going to sell
Cool Million, are you?

No, sir. I'm going to
put him out to stud.

News of his unofficial victory
has spread far and wide.

I should make a pretty penny.

I should think so.

I heard they're writing the
stories about the qualifier

- all the way over in Europe.
- Is that so?

A friend sent me a telegram
inviting me to race.

You're going to give racing another go?

(EXHALES DEEPLY)

I am.

Thank you, Violet.

Without you,

I would've never gotten
back in the saddle.

Goodbye, Joey Witherspoon.

(ENGINE STARTS)

(BRIGHT RHYTHMIC MUSIC)

(MYSTERIOUS MUSIC)