09x07 - Summer of '75

[bunniefuu]

(theme music)

(horse hooves clopping)

(suspenseful music)

(thundering music)

(gasp)

(g*nsh*t)

(g*n cocking)

(out of breath): Operator, get me the police.

I need a constable at 590 Jarvis Street.

Hurry!

(door opening)

No! No! (grunt)

(door swinging)

(distant phone ringing)

(footsteps) William?

Julia!

I didn't realize it was so late.

Well, whatever you're doing is very absorbing.

Don't you think?

Oh, it's nothing. Just something I'm putting together.

Would you like to finish it or shall we go home?

(phone ringing)

Home.

Detective Murdoch.

Yes, George.

Yes, I'll be right there.

Well, almost home.

(sigh)

Sir, the victim called for help at 10:25 p.m., but he was sh*t dead before he identified himself.

Thank you, George.

Fatal g*nsh*t wound to the chest.

Gunpowder residue suggests he was sh*t at close range.

And quite recently. His body's still warm.

Excuse me, ma'am. You can't come in here.

Oh, is that so?

Detective William Murdoch. Can I help you?

Billy Murdoch.

And you are?

Freddie.

Freddie Pink, you remember.

A Governor General Young Scholar, like yourself.

Winifred Pink?

I was Freddie then, I'm still Freddie now.

My God.

He got to Hamish.

You know this man?

Yes. And so do you, Detective.

This is Hamish McTavish.

Another Young Scholar, I presume?

(sighing): Oh, Hamish. Yes, of course I remember.

But you don't seem surprised to find him dead.

He was not the first to be sh*t at.

A week ago, this b*llet missed my head by inches.

Someone is trying to k*ll all of us.

We all met at summer camp in Algonquian, some 30 years ago.

We were the Governor General Young Scholars of 1875.

One from each province.

And now you think someone is trying to k*ll all of you?

Oh, Ms. Pink, this is my wife.

Dr. Julia Ogden, the city coroner.

I'm sorry to meet under such circumstances.

Likewise.

What do you think is going on?

At first I thought being sh*t at was related to a case that I was on.

A case?

I work for a private detective in Montreal.

And you often get sh*t at?

Trouble has occasion to find me.

Then, two days later, Hamish contacted me.

The two of you have stayed in contact?

Just the odd letter.

He was convinced he was being followed.

That's when I began to suspect the two events were related.

Hamish and I had only one thing in common: that prize the seven of us won.

But that was so long ago.

It was.

But I believe that what happened back then is the reason that Hamish was k*lled.

man: Edwin Clarke, from New Brunswick.

Here.

Jacques Devereaux, from Quebec?

Here.

William Murdoch, from Nova Scotia.

Yes, sir.

Hamish McTavish, from Ontario?

That's me, Mr. Collins.

Where's Master Prince Edward Island?

I'm here.

You? You're, uh... Freddie Pink?

Winifred, actually. I knew I wouldn't stand a chance if I used my proper name.

You're here now!

Start hauling, lads.

Your brains might be fine, but your muscles could use some work.

A girl?

Think you can keep up?

(scoffing): She won't.

I can take that for you.

I can manage, but thank you.

William Murdoch, from Nova Scotia.

Pleased to meet you, William Murdoch.

Don't your friends call you Billy?

Not really.

Why not?

Hurry up! You're getting left behind.

Thank you, Ms. James.

Mr. McTavish was k*lled when this .32 calibre b*llet pierced a main artery. He d*ed instantly.

I pried this out of a post on St. Catherine Street.

It's also a .32 calibre.

The striations could be a match.

So the same g*n, then.

As I suspected.

Thank you, Doctor.

You're welcome, Detective.

I know this is connected to what happened that summer.

Ms. Pink, I am not in the habit of jumping to conclusions.

So you think this is a coincidence?

A man you barely knew was k*lled and now you presume all of us to be at risk.

But what if it is connected to what we found?

I'd prefer not to be called Billy.

Alright, Billy. Look!

Stay back. Stay back!

What are you doing?!

Helping you get him out.

(grunting) You're not scared?

There's nothing to fear from the dead, sir.

Do you know him, sir?

It's Glen Singer, from town.

Seems he fell overboard and drowned.

Wonder how long...

I think he d*ed yesterday at 4:10 p.m.

How can you know that?

Why would he keep a broken watch?

I don't think that man d*ed by accident.

So you keep saying.

His watch didn't break by itself.

It likely broke when he fell into the water.

People don't just fall out of boats.

He could have slipped.

Or he was att*cked.

You read too many stories.

Look at the facts.

What do you observe?

There isn't very much to observe.

Unless...

Don't do it if you daren't.

Look for anything unusual.

Like this?

A one-and-a-quarter-inch wound.

I wonder what he hit his head on.

Maybe this is why he fell in and drowned.

Maybe. But he still hit his head.

There must be blood somewhere.

No sign of any in this boat.

Perhaps it was something on the riverbed.

You check the river; I'll look around the shore.

Don't get too wet.

Billy! Come look at this.

There.

Blood.

Let me look.

Told you. m*rder.

Yes, you were right back then.

And I'm right now.

The investigation's only just begun.

I may well find another reason for Hamish's m*rder.

We well may.

(laughing): Governor General Young Scholar.

That gathered a few snickers in the schoolyard, I would imagine?

Intelligence is nothing to be ashamed of, Inspector.

Not at all, Ms. Pink... as long as it's not announced with a clarion call.

Point taken.

Sirs. Ma'am.

Crabtree.

Have you found anything to support Ms. Pink's wild theorizing?

Well, I just may have, sir. I contacted the remaining participants of your trip, back in 1875.

And?

Well, Seymour Bailey d*ed from a heart condition two years ago, but Jacques Devereaux is still alive and living in Algonquian Park, your old stomping grounds. Now, it just so happens Edwin Clarke is visiting him there now.

Hmm... so Hamish is the only victim.

Uh, not quite, sir. A Mr. Quinn Proulx was sh*t and k*lled near Gravenhurst just a couple of months ago.

The coroner's report says a .32 calibre w*apon was used.

Well, there you have it.

Two of us k*lled and an attempt made on my life.

What do you say, Detective? Do you still think this has nothing to do with our wilderness trip?

George, book a ticket on the next train to Algonquian.

Sir. Right away.

Make that two.

So. Toronto's top detective and happily married to a fine and intelligent woman.

And you? Private detective.

The police have yet to see the light and include women amongst their ranks.

Unfortunately, I don't think that will happen for some time.

Your loss.

I gather you're quite good at what you do.

I telephoned ahead. Edwin and Jacques are expecting us.

You remember them, I imagine?

(giggling)

(groan)

Yes. Very much so.

Good day, sir. How can I help you?

Good day. I'm looking for Dr. Ogden.

She will be back shortly. Can I take a message?

You are?

Rebecca James.

Ms. James. I see.

Oh, here's the Doctor now.

Dr. Julia Ogden. You must be Mr. Richmond.

You received my application to hire Ms. James as my assistant.

Yes, and I have met Ms. James. Everything is in order.

I will be informing you of my decision very soon.

I have every confidence Ms. James is the right candidate.

I'm sure you do. Good day.

You carry that everywhere?

Oh, it's Constable Crabtree's idea.

He believes it useful for organizing one's thoughts while traveling. A "lapboard," he calls it.

I'll stick with my pad.

Right.

So...

Why would someone be sh**ting at you?

Or Hamish, or Quinn?

We must have seen something.

Let's say you did.

Mr. Singer's watch broke at 4:10 p.m., so he was m*rder*d in the afternoon, the day before we found him.

What were we doing then?

Likely setting up camp.

You and I usually put up the tents.

What are you doing, Billy?

Positioning the third peg using Pythagorean theorem.

Which means...

The tent will be perfectly square?

Does that really matter?

It's the right way to do it.

That's all. Now, why would you pitch your tent facing east?

So the morning sun'll wake me and I'll be first in the water.

What was everyone else doing that afternoon?

I don't remember.

Was that the day that Hamish and Quinn got into all that trouble?

Where are Hamish and Quinn?

I don't know, Mr. Collins.

Good evening, gentlemen.

May I ask what you've been up to?

Just admiring nature, sir.

Turn out your pockets, Hamish.

You too, Quinn.

You have been smoking?!

Are you not aware of the danger, you idiot? The ground is dry as bone.

A forest fire could ignite in seconds!

Sorry, sir!

Yeah, you will be if I catch you again.

They must have seen something.

Or someone.

But why wait 28 years to silence them?

And why sh**t at me? I didn't see anything.

Tell that to the k*ller.

Ah, Dr. Ogden.

We've been discussing the matter of your assistant.

Please, have a seat.

I believe I'll stand.

Mr. Richmond, what could you have to say that you couldn't have said in my morgue?

I'm afraid we are unable to authorize Ms. James as your assistant.

I presume you have a reason?

Ms. James has no medical training, therefore she is unsuited to the position.

She spent one year at the New York Medical College for Women.

And she's resuming her studies here, at the Ontario Medical College for Women.

That cannot be the reason.

In truth, we feel a woman should not be the apprentice.

Oh, come on, man.

There's been nothing but bloody women in the morgue ever since I've been here.

I've given you reason enough.

Are you refusing a capable and qualified candidate because of her dark skin?

Dr. Ogden, my decision is firm and final. Good day.

Ms. James will remain in my morgue.

I will pay her salary myself!

I can't believe it.

Unfortunately I can, Doctor.

He'll bend society's rules for himself, but that's about as far as his tolerance will ever extend.

conductor: Algonquian! This station stop: Algonquian!

We kept looking.

Do you remember?

When?

After we found the m*rder w*apon.

We kept looking for clues.

Right.

That's when we found those symbols.

Freddie! Freddie, look!

What?

Never did find out what those symbols meant.

No, but they did seem to help point Constable Dobson to Glen Singer's k*ller.

Ah, yes, Joe...

Huggins.

Huggins, right. But Joe Huggins isn't sh**ting at anyone.

He's still in jail.

He was released two months ago.

Joe Huggins was?

One and the same.

We don't get a lot of murders up here.

It's mostly accidents or misadventure.

That's how Glen Singer's death would have been reported... if it weren't for you two.

We pulled him out of the water, myself and young William Murdoch here.

It's Glen Singer.

It seems he drowned.

Geeze. He'll not see Virginia again.

Is Virginia his wife?

You should take a look at his head, Constable.

Nasty bash.

Look what we found. There's blood on it.

We didn't touch it.

Well, I'll be damned.

Someone hit him.

Who the heck else was out here?

Do you know what these symbols mean?

Beats me.

Those are Indian tracking symbols.

Are they, now? Well, there is an Indian that lives not too far from here... Joe Huggins.

Sometimes acts as guide for Singer, come to think of it.

When he's sober enough.

Billy found a bottle on the boat.

Cheap whiskey.

Singer wouldn't touch this stuff... but I know who would.

Looks like I'll be paying Joe Huggins a visit after all.

Sharp eyes, you two.

When I first questioned him, Joe claimed he couldn't remember anything because of drink... but a night in my cell sobered him up.

He confessed to k*lling Singer and then was sent to jail.

Yes.

My guess?

He's the one sh**ting at you.

What do you want?

Mr. Huggins, we're investigating two recent murders that we believe are connected to Mr. Singer's death, for which you served a rather lengthy sentence.

The murders were committed since you got out of prison.

Well, I didn't do them. I've served my time.

Leave me in peace.

(quietly): He's not going to tell us anything.

Not today.

What are you still doing here?

Dr. Ogden said I was still...

Dr. Ogden has no authority here. Get out!

(gasp) I can walk out myself, sir.

(French accent): Despite the worrying circumstances, it's a pleasure to see you both again.

Indeed, Jacques. How long have you been living up here?

I bought this lodge 10 years ago.

And you?

I'm just here for the fishing.

It really is a striking property.

Strangely enough, it used to belong to Mr. Singer.

You have quite the reputation, Detective.

I've followed a number of your exploits. I'm surprised you are taking Ms. Pink's theory seriously.

Hamish, Quinn and I live in different cities, have different occupations... apart from the Young Scholars Award, this gunman is the only thing we have in common.

And you share this concern, Detective?

We're hoping you can help us reconstruct the day of Mr. Singer's death.

It was the same day that Mr. Collins lost his temper with Hamish and Quinn.

I remember that. He had a mean side.

That same day, he refused to take me fishing with him for no reason.

And what do you recall, Edwin?

I suppose I was tending the fire.

That was my usual job. You really think this line of inquiry will help find a m*rder*r?

It's the way detectives work.

I wasn't aware clutching at straws was a standard investigative procedure. But I suppose when you only handle tawdry divorce cases...

Do you think we're also in danger?

It's certainly a possibility.

After all, the four remaining Young Scholars are all now in one place.

Ready to be picked off, one by one.

Good morning.

Did you sleep well?

Not really. I fear we're no closer to finding Hamish and Quinn's k*ller.

Well, Edwin and Jacques weren't much help.

Neither remember anything significant.

Neither do we.

Where are we going?

Back to the scene of the crime.

Expecting a 28-year-old clue?

At this point, I'll take anything.

(bird chirping)

I see his body lying there like it was yesterday.

You didn't seem scared to me that day.

I was. I just didn't show it.

Nowadays, a dead body barely makes me feel anything.

Do you have much occasion to see dead bodies?

Those tawdry divorce cases can get out of hand.

Let's retrace our steps, shall we?

The Indian symbols are still here.

That's strange.

The tree growth should have absorbed them by now.

Someone's gone to some trouble to keep them visible.

Perhaps it marks a hiding place.

Or a triangulation.

There would be a third symbol.

Indeed there would. A third symbol!

Now to find the midway point.

Perhaps the Pythagorean theorem would help.

Not in this case, Freddie.

That would require right angles.

What if it's a square?

Well, that certainly is a possibility.

Uh, in that case...

(muttering): One, two, three...

Hiding spot would be somewhere...

Here!

Look at this.

Someone's deliberately disguising this spot.

(grunting) Something could have been hidden here.

Something still is.

No visible markings.

This is pure gold.

Where one gold coin was buried, there were likely many others.

Buried treasure. It's like a children's story.

This has something to do with Singer's m*rder. I'll lay money.

Which means his m*rder*r is the one who's been maintaining these symbols.

Then it wasn't Joe Huggins.

He's been in jail all these years.

No, it wasn't.

Joe Huggins pled guilty to the m*rder of Glen Singer.

Who pleads guilty if he's not guilty?

What can you tell us about Glen Singer?

Singer... showed up sometime in the 1860s.

Kept to himself, mostly.

There's not much more to tell.

I'll have my constable look into Glen Singer.

How nice. I do all my own legwork.

Really? I would have assumed one of your colleagues would...

Because no one will speak to a woman?

Sometimes that's true.

But often, my gender helps more than it hinders.

Where are you going?

To make a cup of tea.

(phone ringing)

Crabtree.

Ah, sir. I do hope you're enjoying your sojourn in the woods.

I'm not on holiday, George.

Uh, no. I daresay not, sir.

I remember all too well the perils of the wilderness.

I need you to look into something for me: find out everything you can about a Glen Singer.

[He would have come to the Algonquian area]

[sometime in the 1860s]

[and he may have come into possession of some gold coins.]

Gold coins. Right away, sir.

[Thank you.]

Have you found the culprit yet?

Not as yet.

I don't think I'll sleep again until you do.

(small laugh) That's quite the collection.

Ah, oui. They came with the house.

Edwin is researching their histories.

Especially that buoy Kn*fe. They're not much for protection, but they're good for conversation.

We'll find him, Jacques. Don't worry.

Where is Freddie?

You're no k*ller, are you, Joe?

A Native Indian with a penchant for the drink.

No one would have believed you.

You must have felt like you had no choice.

You were already guilty in everyone's eyes anyway.

Say I did it, serve 25 years.

Go to trial, get hanged.

Those were my choices.

So you confessed. You don't bear a grudge?

I used to.

Going to jail got me sober, though.

I don't think that would have happened otherwise.

Do you recognize this symbol?

Tracking symbol. Not mine.

Do you know whose?

I don't know.

Singer's?

Could be.

He used to ask about that sort of thing from time to time.

Bring a bottle over, get to talking.

Sometimes he had a young fellow with him.

Who was the young fellow?

I don't remember a lot from those times.

Fancied himself a guide of these woods.

Thank you, Mr. Huggins.

Do you think he meant Mr. Collins?

Can't think of anyone else.

If Collins knew about the symbols, then he knew about the gold.

Yes, but Collins can't be our k*ller.

He was with us at the campsite.

Was he?

Jacques said Collins went fishing.

By himself.

I'm starving! How long does it take to catch a fish?

(French accent): I know all the fish in these waters.

Why wouldn't Mr. Collins take me too?

Well, the fire's ready, for whenever Mr. Collins returns.

Dinner's here!

Jacques, take this, please?

Walleye!

Where are Hamish and Quinn?

I don't know, Mr. Collins.

Hamish and Quinn were in the woods.

And now they're dead.

They may well have seen Collins.

Returning from the scene of the crime.

Mr. Collins! William Murdoch.

Freddie Pink. We were Young Scholars back in 1875.

Yeah, I heard you two were up here.

Then you've also heard that two of our group have been m*rder*d.

Don't know why you're talking to me.

Where were you three days ago?

Here.

And last week?

Here.

Can anyone attest to your whereabouts?

I expect not.

What can you tell us about Glen Singer?

Singer? What does he have to do with anything?

He's been dead for years.

Just how well did you know him?

As well as anybody.

Did odd jobs for him and such. Helped build his house.

You and Singer used to drink with Joe Huggins.

What of it?

He taught you Indian tracking methods.

So much so that you were able to identify the symbols on the tree next to where we found Singer's body.

Was I?

Mr. Collins, you left the campsite to catch food for us, right around the time that Mr. Singer was m*rder*d.

You went alone, despite Jacques' pleas.

I don't remember that.

But I do remember catching those fish in the exact opposite direction of where Singer was found.

I don't suppose you could prove that.

I don't suppose you can prove otherwise.

He did it. I feel it in my bones.

But your feelings aren't evidence, of which we have none.

(g*nsh*t)

(whispering): Freddie!

man: Ah!

I hit him!

Freddie, stop!

(muttering): Damnit.

I lost him. Again.

What were you thinking, Freddie?

That I might catch the man who's trying to k*ll me.

You are reckless.

I'm enterprising.

This is a police investigation, Ms. Pink.

.32 calibre.

As we suspected.

What now, "Detective"?

(Ms. James sighs.)

Ms. James!

Goodness, you are a hard woman to find.

Sorry, Doctor. I have to find a job.

But you already have one, with me.

You're very kind, but Mr. Richmond doesn't share your belief in me.

He came to the morgue? While I wasn't there?

That cowardly, self-important...

I appreciate everything you've done, but my future at the morgue isn't meant to be.

I won't accept that.

I've been lucky to know you, Dr. Ogden.

Now, I must be getting on.

Inspector.

Doctor. To what do I owe the pleasure?

Mr. Richmond.

Oh, I knew I hadn't heard the last of this.

Exactly which of society's rules is Mr. Richmond so prone to bending?

Are you certain that Ms. James is worth the trouble?

Tell me what you know.

(sigh)

I have something you may find of interest, sir.

I began my search for lost gold coins in the 1860s, when I happened upon a newspaper account of a Confederate soldier, sir.

Uh... a "Horace Wilcott" of Ashby's Cavalry.

Now, at the end of the American Civil w*r, he was entrusted with transporting a large cache of gold to an undisclosed hiding place.

Go on.

[Well, sir.]

This Wilcott fellow up and disappeared, as did the gold.

George, what has this to do with our case?

Sir, Wilcott was tracked all the way to the Canadian border, where his trail goes cold. Wanted posters were spread far and wide, but neither he nor his "booty" were ever found.

George, there are a great many such stories.

Indeed there are, but this is the only one I found involving a soldier from a small town by the name of Singer's Glen.

Glen Singer.

So Horace Wilcott stole the gold and brought it here, changing his name to Glen Singer.

After his hometown in Virginia.

Virginia...

Seems he drowned. Geeze.

He'll not see Virginia again.

Is Virginia his wife?

It's Constable Dobson.

He knew Singer was from Virginia.

He would have known about the gold from the wanted posters.

That explains why the three of us were his targets. I heard him say Virginia, and Hamish and Quinn must have seen him in the woods.

But we still don't know why now, all these years later.

Only one person can answer that.

I've had occasion to use one before.

Mm...

Hello?

.32 calibre.

su1c1de.

Not how I thought this story would end.

Nor I.

This wound is consistent with the grazing of a b*llet.

And recently at that.

That's my doing.

The b*ll*ts that k*lled Hamish and Quinn likely came from this .32 calibre g*n.

Look at this.

Train tickets. Gravenhurst, on the day Quinn was k*lled, and Toronto, and Montreal.

Well, there you have it.

All of our questions answered.

Dobson k*lled Singer for the gold, pinned it on Joe Huggins and then began k*lling the witnesses who could expose him.

Right, but why would Dobson wait so many years to start k*lling to protect his secret?

We may never know.

Wait.

What?

He has a sizable contusion on the back of his head.

He didn't hit himself on the back of the head.

He most certainly didn't.

This wasn't a su1c1de.

Dobson's been m*rder*d.

For the gold?

Or some other reason?

(sigh)

Did you find anything else?

Here.

No need for all that.

He's hardly alive to complain.

"I know you k*lled Glen Singer."

"$500 will keep you from the noose."

Blackmail.

These letters began three months ago.

He must have thought the blackmailer was one of us.

This is why he needed to silence us now.

And he appears to have succeeded. The letters stopped after Hamish's death.

I've been corresponding with Hamish over the years.

This isn't his handwriting.

No?

Well, it couldn't have been Quinn.

The letters continued after his death.

So the blackmailer has to be Collins, Jacques, or Edwin.

My money is on Collins.

Goodnight, ladies.

Good evening, Mr. Richmond.

Dr.

Ogden, what...

How dare you follow me?

I'm merely here to offer you a lift.

Your wife will be wondering what urgent business has kept you so late.

You think Mr. Collins was blackmailing Constable Dobson?

I wouldn't be surprised.

But how did he know Dobson k*lled Singer?

He must have seen Dobson returning from the scene of the m*rder when he was out fishing.

Eh, non, he couldn't have.

He was fishing in the opposite direction of the m*rder scene.

He said as much, but it would be impossible to prove it.

You could prove it. He came back with walleye.

Care to elaborate?

Well, walleye are found in deep water with hard, rocky bottoms, or weed beds in shallow lakes.

There was no such spot between our old campsite and where we found Singer.

Then someone else must have seen Dobson in the woods.

But who?

I was pitching the tent.

What are you doing, Billy?

I was poking fun at you, pitching the tent.

Collins was fishing.

Jacques was sulking.

Hamish and Quinn were off smoking.

Edwin was lighting the fire.

Right.

But for that, you would need firewood.

Of course.

Edwin must have gone into the woods.

Edwin saw Dobson.

Edwin?

But how could he have known about Singer and the stolen gold?

Edwin had been researching these weapons.

Most recently, this buoy Kn*fe.

Right?

See the inscription?

"Ashby's Cavalry. H.W."

Horace Wilcott.

Edwin must have found out about Glen Singer and the stolen gold, the same way my constable did.

I'll check the porch.

(distant): Where are you going, Edwin?

Edwin: Leave me alone!

(grunting)

(groaning)

Not so pleasant, is it?

Your m*rder*r, Detective.

Good work, Detective.

You seem to know everything already.

You never imagined Dobson would start k*lling anyone over a few letters.

Of course not. I didn't even know about Hamish and Quinn.

Or you, Freddie.

Until we informed you.

I stopped the letters right away.

But after Dobson took the sh*ts at the two of you today, I knew I had to stop him.

I couldn't bear any more blood on my conscience.

Don't know why I bothered to run.

You two were good detectives 28 years ago.

You're even better now.

Bit like old times.

The two of us investigating together.

It was, wasn't it?

I imagine your employer will be anxious to get you back in Montreal.

I may not be so very welcome there, at the moment.

Are you in trouble?

Nothing a bit of distance can't solve.

Perhaps I can help.

Not this time, but I may bank that offer for the future.

Oh?

It's high time that I hung out my own shingle: Pink's Detective Agency.

Congratulations.

In Toronto.

Oh.

I don't know that that would be such a good idea.

Why not? Toronto seems the ideal place for my venture.

And being acquainted with the top detective and his coroner wife might come in handy.

Montreal is one thing, but I don't know that you'd find the same abundance of work in Toronto the Good.

We shall see.

I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Ogden, I've only come to collect my things.

Ms. James. A letter came for you.

A letter for me? Here?

You should open it. Might be important.

"Dear Ms. James, your application to work at the city morgue has been approved."

Dr. Ogden, I don't understand.

Seems clear enough.

But how?

I imagine Mr. Richmond was shown the rashness of his judgement.

Now put on your apron. Let's get to work!

Do not turn around.

(laughing): William, really.

I only need a moment more.

Alright.

You may look.

(soft piano music)

What is it?

It's... our home, that I'm going to build for you.

(whispering): William.

It's extraordinary!

Wait, there's more.

More?

There's the parlour... the conservatory... piano room... bedrooms, here and here... and a dishwashing cupboard.

Dishwashing cupboard?

Oh, yes. Fully automated.

No need for servants.

I'm still sorting the details.

But this!

A laboratory workshop.

Laboratory for you, workshop for me.

To share?

Yes.

So we may always benefit from each other's counsel.

William Murdoch.

It couldn't be more perfect.

(sighing)

Really?

Yeah.