02x09 - Convalescence

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Item number two.

Pertaining to the recent escape from Kingston Penitentiary.

There's been reports that the fugitive, Joel Harris, has been seen in the vicinity of Union Station.

Take a good look and keep your eyes peeled.

If this character is out there, I want this station to bring him in.

Understood? Right, then.

Detective Murdoch.

Item number three.

There's been sightings of swindlers playing a three-card monte con in the area of Shuter and Parliament.

Thank you.

That's two blocks away from our station.

That, gentlemen, is...

It's a bloody disgrace is what it is.

Now let's get out there and do some real policing.

None of this standing on street corners, chatting up bloody factory girls.

So, am I a statue, then?

Statue. Yes, thank you.

You walked straight past me while I was addressing the men.

There were snickers.

Oh.

Terribly sorry, sir.

Yes.

The sincerity of your apology touches me deeply, Murdoch.

What have you got there, anyway?

They're for a device I've conceived.

Convex or concave?

Parabolic, actually.

They're a special design that allows incoming rays to focus on a specific point in space, vastly amplifying ambient light.

If you say so.

I intend to build a goggle-like device that will allow me to see in the dark.

Night-vision goggles, eh?

Suppose they could come in handy one day.

Sirs?

There's been a m*rder.

What have you, George?

Uh, sir.

The body was found here as it lies.

He was stabbed in the neck, but there's no blood on the ground.

I'm thinking he was k*lled somewhere else and dragged here.

Sound analysis, George.

Perhaps the k*ller wasn't quite finished.

You there.

Toronto Constabulary.

Identify y--

Sir!

Whoa!

Sir!

Sir!

You have a concussion, two cracked ribs, a bruised ankle, torn ligaments in both your knee and elbow, and a gash the size of Yonge Street running up the length of your forearm, and you're whimpering about a little needle.

I just don't see it as necessary is all.

It's just a little mercury to help ward off infection.

Come in.

Hah.

Mrs. Kitchen, Mrs. Burgess.

I'm just checking on our young man.

Here. I made him his favorite dessert.

Tapioca. Yum.

Now, you just remember, if you need anything, anything at all, you just tap on my door.

Oh, um, excepting for the next hour or so, because Mrs. Burgess and I, we have a church meeting to attend.

I do hope you feel better soon.

Thank you.

It's not your favorite?

Mrs. Kitchen is a lovely woman.

But a cook she is not.

Acting detective?

Just until Detective Murdoch recovers, of course.

Well, you'll have to do more than just strut around acting like a detective.

Well, sir, I believe my tutelage under Detective Murdoch has more than prepared me for the role.

I'm involved already.

To bring in an outside detective now seems like some sort of admission that our station can't handle its own business.

Hm.

Very well.

But you'd better solve it.

I won't disappoint you, sir.

All right.

I've left you with a loose dressing on your arm.

And I want you to check it twice a day for infection.

I will.

Come in.

Enid.

Mrs. Jones.

I'm sorry. I didn't know that you had company.

Where are my manners?

Mrs. Enid Jones, Dr. Julia Ogden.

Pleased to meet you.

Likewise.

Well, I should go.

Do keep an eye on that wound.

Yes, I will. Thank you.

Oh, William.

Look at you.

Oh, I'm quite all right.

So, it's the old bloody tin, then, is it?

Tin, sir?

Tin flute -- suit.

Oh. Yes. Well, it seemed only appropriate.

A detective can't go about dressed as a constable.

No, I suppose not.

So, what's your plan, then, Detective Crabtree?

I'm off to the morgue to get the results of the postmortem.

Right. Off you go, then.

Sir, I'm wondering, in the interest of efficiency, if I shouldn't have my own protégé.

Someone to assist in the investigation.

Protégé?

Young Higgins has shown some initiative.

Young Higgins it is, then.

Thank you, sir.

Crabtree.

The victim d*ed as a result of blood loss, which you've probably surmised.

It doesn't look like much, I'll admit, but it sliced the jugular vein, and that was pretty much that.

There's also a scratch on his cheek.

Suggesting a struggle, perhaps?

Let's take a look at the stomach contents, shall we?

Oh, good.

Hmm.

Shallots.

French cuisine, I believe.

Perhaps he ate in a French restaurant, um, before he was k*lled.

Mm. I'd look for one that serves finger food.

Oh, like hors d'oeuvres and such?

No. I mean finger food.

Oh, my.

It appears to have been preserved.

I wonder.

Yes.

I noticed that his finger was missing.

Now the question would be...

What was it doing in his stomach?

Better you than me, mouse.

We have reason to believe that the victim dined at a French restaurant shortly before he was k*lled.

French? Didn't even know we had those.

Well, we do now. Several, apparently.

Higgins has the addresses over here.

I don't really like them that much.

French restaurants?

No, the French.

I've got three addresses here, sir.

Excellent, Henry. Read them out.

La Bonne Nuit at 29 Wilton Street.

Chez Pierre at 99 Albert.

As well as Le Petit at --

Stop, stop, stop, stop.

Is it not obvious?

Here's Chez Pierre, and here's where you found the body.

And you call yourself bloody Murdoch.

William! Stop!

Shh! Listen.

Mrs. Kitchen?

Mrs. Kitchen?

I heard a noise.

Are you all right?

Mr. Murdoch.

Mrs. Burgess.

What are you doing?

Where is Mrs. Kitchen?

She left.

Where did she go?

It's her sister. She's in a bad way.

What's wrong with her?

Typhus.

The doctors say she won't last the weekend.

Oh. Oh, I'm very sorry to hear that.

I'm going to take responsibility for everything here until she returns.

Is there anything I can get for you?

No. No.

I-I heard thumping sounds.

That would have been the porters with her luggage.

I see.

If there's anything you need, just shout.

Perhaps he was like a -- like an irate customer, you know?

Took things too far.

You know what? It could have been a g*ng k*lling.

I've heard of them happening in restaurants.

Well, let's not be speculative, Henry.

We're not even sure that the m*rder took place in the restaurant.

Now, the body was found here.

The restaurant is right there.

You go. You go now.

There's someone in there.

Sounds mad, too.

Hello!

You go! You get out of here!

Did he just tell us to scram?

Cheeky bugger.

Hello?

Show yourself. This is the police.

They may be trying to sneak out the front.

Higgins, wait.

It's blood.

Henry... I believe we've found our crime scene.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Polly want a cr*cker? Polly...

It's no good. Now he won't talk.

Try speaking to him in French. You know French.

Uh, Polly... uh, voulez-vous un... um... cr*cker?

Do you even have a cr*cker?

I've got a biscuit.

You call this vomit quiche?

Bloody cheek.

Bloody hell, a parrot.

Tu es un cochon.

Tu es un cochon.

Tu es un cochon.

What did he say?

I believe he just called you a pig, sir.

He what?

"Cochon" is French for "pig."

You go. You get out of here.

Cochon. Cochon.

I spit at you.

He doesn't seem to think much of you at all, sir.

Yes. Well, the feeling's mutual.

What's he doing here, anyway?

Well, it seems he was abandoned at the crime scene.

We had no choice.

Well, you've got one now, Crabtree.

I want him out of here.

Henry, put him in my office.

Did you find anything besides a cheeky bloody bird?

Uh, well, sir, it seems the victim was the proprietor of Chez Pierre.

An acquaintance is coming by the morgue to identify the body.

What evidence have you uncovered?

We found a bloody Kn*fe at the scene.

Any fingermarks?

Several.

Several?

Well, it was a kitchen Kn*fe.

Still, Higgins is about to take statements and fingermarks.

I'm convinced we'll have the k*ller by noon.

Noon?

Well, afternoon. Late afternoon.

If you nail him by the time that we're all ready for a pint, I'll kiss that bird on the bleeding beak.

Come in.

Oh, good morning.

Well, you've been busy.

This is your night-vision apparatus?

Not quite. Almost.

Parabolic, are they not?

You know about --

Of course.

It's what they use in reflecting telescopes.

I made one with Alwyn last year.

You made one?

I couldn't afford to buy one.

Alwyn was so keen.

So I found a book at the library.

There really wasn't much to it.

Good morning! Mr. Murdoch.

Good morning, Mrs. Burgess.

I made you some eggs and beans if that suits you.

That's perfect. Thank you.

Mmm.

What?

I can't believe you made a telescope.

It turned out a bit blurry after all that.

I think the focal length was off.

Oh. Here.

Let me.

Oh, God.

It's him.

It's Pierre.

Pierre LaRue.

The proprietor of the restaurant, correct?

Mon bon ami.

So you knew him well?

15 years.

We used to own a restaurant together on Wilton Street.

He was a brilliant chef.

Right. Yes. La Bonne Nu-it.

La Bonne Nuit.

Yes. It's mine now.

Pierre and I had a falling-out a few years back -- over a parrot, of all things.

Oh, yes. I think we have said bird in our care.

In fact, if you'd like to take possession --

Good Lord, no.

Horrid beast.

Said the most terrible things.

To the customers, no less.

Do you know anybody who may have wanted to hurt Mr. LaRue?

Well, uh, I heard he had to fire his sous-chef last week.

For what reason?

Some tiff over a crème brûlée.

Came to blows, apparently.

His kitchen staff will be able to tell you more.

Hmm.

Yes. Well, thank you, Mr. --

Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't get your name.

Brighouse. Hugo Brighouse.

Thanks again.

Oh, yes.

Mr. Brighouse, you wouldn't be able to tell me how he came to lose his finger, could you?

Pierre lopped that off years ago while julienning carrots.

Kept it pickled in a jar as a reminder to his staff.

What a character he was.

Mr. Murdoch!

What are you doing?

I thought I heard someone in the attic.

Nonsense. No one's up there. Now you come down!

What do you think you're doing, gallivanting about in your condition?

I suppose it could be people next door.

We do share a common attic space.

Most likely it's just squirrels.

You get right back into bed, and I will bring you some lunch.

Oh, no, thank you. I'm really not hungry.

You're feverish.

You know what your mother said.

"Feed a fever, starve a cold."

Actually, I think it's --

No. Shh, shh. No. Enough of that.

So, what have you discovered, then, Detective Crabtree?

Fisher, file these.

Thank you, sir.

Well, we've questioned the restaurant staff.

Higgins is checking their alibis now.

My money's on the sous-chef.

Motive?

He and the victim didn't get on.

In fact, had a physical altercation just last week.

It's bad news, sir.

All the restaurant staff's alibis check out.

Even the sous-chef?

His presence in the Laughing Beagle was noted by no fewer than four patrons as well as the bartender, sir.

That's impossible. His thumbmark was on the m*rder w*apon.

Not to overstep my place, Detective, but chefs use knives, sir.

So, what's your next step, then, Murdoch?

William, what are you doing?

Hello.

Someone's removing the lathing and plaster from the walls in the house next door.

Maybe they're doing some work.

The owners are away.

What better time to have work done?

Oh.

Yes. I suppose you're right.

Are these your night-vision goggles?

Oh, I wouldn't exactly --

Can I try them?

Be careful.

Can't see anything. Everything's too bright.

That's because they're meant to be used in the dark.

Are you gonna eat your meat pie?

No.

Can I have it?

No. I don't want you to spoil your appetite.

Besides, Mr. Murdoch needs his energy.

That's all right. I don't intend to eat it.

Your fever's getting worse. You need to eat.

Aaa...

Aaa...

How is it?

Worse than Mrs. Kitchen's.

Allô.

Allô. Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Not now, parrot.

Any new developments?

No, sir. We've come to a bit of a dead end.

You go now.

You go now.

You get out of here.

You keep your beak shut.

Cochon.

You know what you have to do now, don't you?

Cochon.

No, sir, I don't.

Get to work.

You didn't think it was gonna be handed to you on a silver platter, did you?

No, sir.

Cochon. Cochon.

I spit at you. I spit at you.

If you want spit, I'll put you on a spit.

That'll keep your bloody trap shut.

Mange le doigt.

No. No.

Mange your own bloody doigt, you daft bird.

Liven up, Crabtree. Start thinking.

Sir?

Sir? What was that all about?

Oh, the inspector was just giving us a bit of a dressing-down.

Mm. Yeah.

But why did he tell the parrot to eat his own bloody finger?

Eat his own fin--

What? Sorry. What?

"Mange le doigt" is "eat the finger" in French, sir.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Why can't we always be like this?

Because we want different things.

You want children. You want a family.

I only want you.

That's not true, William. You know it.

All I know is that I will never love anyone like I do you.

We never love the same way twice.

But you will love again.

Love is like gravity, William.

You have to let yourself fall.

Alwyn!

You should wake up now.

Why?

Because someone's in your room.

No. No.

Are you telling me that that bloody parrot is a witness?

Sir, the parrot said, "Mange le doigt," which means "eat the finger" in French.

And, of course, the victim had ingested his own severed finger.

Since when do you speak French?

Oh, Higgins told me. His mother hails from the Gaspé.

Mm. Eat the finger, eh?

Sir, it's my theory that the parrot is reliving the trauma of the m*rder.

What are you now -- a bird alienist?

Well, it's just speculation based on observation, really.

But, yes, you and I are thinking along the same lines.

That's a chilling thought, Crabtree.

Sir! It's Detective Murdoch.

There's been some attempt on his life.

I'm telling you, someone was in my room.

He tried to smother me with a pillow.

Then why are you still alive?

Perhaps he wasn't trying to k*ll me.

He was just looking for something to steal.

Like your night-vision goggles.

You don't have much here to steal, sir.

It has something to do with the noises.

I'm sure of it.

Noises?

Yes.

From the attic.

And the walls.

Sir, is it possible you're having a touch of delirium?

I mean, you do have one devil of a fever.

But I'd already woken from my dream.

Yes, but do you know how sometimes you can awake from one dream into another dream?

I mean, once I dreamt that I could pull plums out of my navel.

And then I woke, and there was still a plum sticking out.

There. You hear that?

I heard something.

Someone's up there.

Well, let's have a look, shall we?

There's no one up here, sir.

Ah.

That's your problem. That's your prowler.

Oh.

I'll sort it out.

Oh!

Sir! Are you all right?

No, I'm not.

I'm sunk to my bloody pebbles.

Oh.

What were you thinking?

We were investigating a noise in the attic, ma'am.

I tripped over a bolt.

Simple clumsiness on my part.

What a bolt was doing sticking up through an attic floor in the first place.

What am I going to tell Mrs. Kitchen?

Poor thing.

There she is, watching her sister die, and then she has to come home to this.

It's all too much.

Dreadfully sorry, ma'am.

The police department will pay for the damages.

I accept your apology, but I must please ask you to desist from wrecking Mrs. Kitchen's property any further.

Yes, ma'am.

Right, then. Back to work.

But -- But, sir, we have to investigate this further.

Murdoch, there's nothing to investigate.

Do try to get some rest, sir.

Constable.

Higgins!

Uh, excuse me. Detective.

A Mr. Struthers to see you, sir.

Ah.

Ah.

I understand you have parrot troubles.

He's here.

I know he's here.

William.

William!

How long has he been like this?

Most of the morning, I'm afraid.

He's got quite the fever.

It's more than that.

I'm going for help.

I need you to apply a cold compress to his forehead.

Yes. Of course.

He's sleeping right now, but when he's awake, he's very talkative.

Ah.

The African gray!

Oh, smart bird. Very smart.

I captured one of those in the Congo Free State as a gift for Beatrice.

Princess Beatrice? The queen's daughter?

Mm.

Cochon. Tu es un cochon.

Pig. You go. You go now.

Foul-tempered brute, what?

You go.

You get out of here.

We best do as he says.

We don't want to aggravate it more than necessary.

They hold grudges, these things, you know.

Is that right?

Oh, yeah.

So, do they understand what they're saying, then?

If you mean verb for verb, suffix for suffix, no.

But they get the gist of it.

A parrot knows when he's cussing you out.

Oh, yes. Sorry about that.

No, they're fickle creatures.

Like women and bull elephants.

You never know what they're going to do.

Had one charge me once.

Across a dry lake bed in Tanganyika.

A woman or an elephant?

Ah, yes. That's very good.

Oh.

Mr. Struthers, is it possible that the bird is prone to these outbursts because he's been upset by the m*rder?

I mean, do they have the mental capacity for such trauma?

Absolutely.

These birds form strong social attachments.

They mate for life, you know.

Still, he's very mercurial.

I haven't been able to figure out what it is exactly that sets him off.

Well, it could be anything. Could be my pipe.

The clothes I'm wearing.

Perhaps I remind him of the m*rder*r.

Excuse me. Dr. Ogden.

Oh, hello, Mrs. Jones.

It's William. He's weak and feverish.

Really? Sounds like an infection.

It's not just the fever. It's -- It's the way he looks.

Not everyone responds well to mercury and opium.

Perhaps I should go to him.

Hyah!

So, is it just you and your son?

Alwyn. Yes.

His father d*ed two years past. Quite suddenly.

I'm sorry.

That must have been terribly difficult.

It was.

More for Alwyn than for me.

I lost a husband, but I gained a purpose.

He had no such compensation.

You seem to be managing very well.

Well, that's relative, isn't it?

Look at you. You're a doctor.

That couldn't have been easy.

No, it wasn't.

I guess the things we care most about are worth fighting for.

Yes, I suppose they are.

Hyah!

Now, this is going to hurt a bit.

I thought your condition would have improved by now.

Have you been keeping to your bed, William?

More or less.

Like a jack-in-a-box keeps to his box.

I'm taking you off opium. That should quell the nausea.

But I don't like the look of you.

I think I should stay for a bit.

Oh, no, no, no. I'll stay.

I have nothing pressing until dinnertime.

Well, it's quite all right. I'm free all afternoon.

What this young man needs is sleep.

And he can't do that with you two hens clucking.

Shoo. Shoo.

Promise me you'll keep to your bed, William.

Yes. No more chasing strange noises.

Now, Mr. Murdoch.

I want you to eat this special chicken soup I've made for you.

Sir, it's my contention that the parrot is not reacting to you, per se.

But rather, there's something about you that reminds him of the k*ller.

You saying I look like the k*ller?

Both you and Mr. Struthers have reddish hair and muttonchops.

The parrot took an instant and vocal dislike to both of you.

Do any of your suspects have red hair and muttonchops?

Well?

No, sir.

So, what are you gonna do, then?

Comb the city looking for men with red hair and muttonchops?

Crabtree, I believe you can solve this case, but my patience is running out.

If I don't see any results by tomorrow morning, I'm gonna bring Phillips in from Station Three.

Pshh. Shoo.

I don't understand why you're still so sick.

Do you know what your mother used to say?

"Feed a fever, starve a cold."

It's the food.

I've been drugged.

There's been reports that the fugitive, Joel Harris...

I want this station to bring him in.

Mr. Murdoch?

I have a special drink to settle your stomach.

Emily?

What's going on?

What's happened to the lights up there?

Emily?

Emily?

I know you're up here, Murdoch.

I can hear you breathing.

You know... we never wanted to hurt you.

But now... you are not leaving me any choice.

Bonjour.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Try the pipe again.

We tried the pipe already, sir.

Oh, you're right.

Bonjour.

You can take that wig off if you want.

There must be something else setting him off, but what?

What are you doing, sir?

Detective Murdoch has these moments where he'll stare at a problem, and the answer just comes to him.

Bonjour.

Cochon. You go.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Get out of here. Mange le doigt.

Welcome to Chez Pierre.

Cochon.

Oh, it's no use.

The inspector's right.

"And you think you're bloody Murdoch."

Cochon!

Right, then, parrot. I've had just about enough of you.

You want spit?

I'll put you on a spit.

Cochon.

That'll shut your trap!

Cochon.

Cochon. You are a pig.

The parrot is not remembering... the way the k*ller looked.

It's his accent, sir.

I say, old boy!

Cochon. Cochon.

You go. You get out of here.

You go.

You go.

You get out of here. You get out of here.

Hugo. Hugo.

Brighouse. Hugo Brighouse.

Henry...

I believe our mystery is solved.

Mrs. Kitchen.

Oh.

It was just so dreadful.

And I thought she was my friend.

And a-a church friend, no less.

Mrs. Kitchen, did they say what they were after?

No.

But I do know it was something that belonged to Mr. Christie.

H-He used to rent the room that y-you're in now.

He did it in exchange for work around the house.

He was shady character, let me tell you.

He did some of the most lovely plasterwork, though.

Oh, dear.

W-We'd best hurry.

Mrs. Kitchen, I need your help.

You...

My help?

Where is he?

I don't know.

Tell me where he is.

All right.

He's... right behind you.

Aah!

Ha!

Aah!

Mr. Murdoch!

Oh.

Oh, Mrs. Kitchen.

I need you to do me one more favor.

Of course, my dear. W-What is it you want?

Get help.

Oh.

Help. Yes.

Help.

When he opened his own restaurant, I-I took it rather badly.

I played a prank.

He retaliated.

So I retaliated. And so on.

Until things went too far.

He hid his pickled finger in my shrimp salad.

It was beyond the pale.

So... I confronted him that night.

After closing.

And you forced the finger down his throat?

Yes.

And then he picked up a Kn*fe.

And the next thing I knew, there was blood everywhere.

Pierre.

He claims it was an accident, does he?

I believe him, sir.

He seems genuinely grieved.

They used to be good friends, you know.

Until the parrot came between them.

Now, why doesn't that surprise me?

So, what's gonna happen to that bloody bird?

Mr. Struthers has offered to release him into the wilds of the Congo on his next trip to Africa.

You've done a passable job on this case, Detective Crabtree.

Well, faint praise.

But from you, sir, I'll take that as the highest compliment.

Well, the infection has receded.

The chloral hydrate they were feeding you was weakening your defenses.

How do you feel?

Better.

Indeed.

Your fever's gone.

And the pain?

I can bear it.

Yes, I know you can.

I just heard.

Are you all right, William?

I'm fine.

Well... what on earth happened?

It's a long story.

Yes. Well, I should leave you to tell it.

Thank you, Dr. Ogden.

You're welcome, Detective.

Is it true?

Is Mrs. Burgess really a confidence trickster?

Yes.

A former tenant stashed some stolen gold in this house.

His cell mate found out about it.

And his cell mate was none other than Mrs. Burgess' boyfriend.

They decided to retrieve it but didn't know where it was hidden.

So all those noises you heard?

Them searching.

But why imitate a little old lady?

When they learned that a police officer was living here, they needed a credible way inside.

What they hadn't planned on was my being here all the time.

So the charade grew.

Precisely.

They poisoned my food, hoping to search while I was incapacitated.

And after all that, they still didn't find the gold.

Shame.

It could have paid for all this damage.

He did some lovely plasterwork.

What was a bolt doing sticking up through the attic floor in the first place?

Oh, I suspect it will be found.

In fact, later we could --

Was that too bold?

No.

When I saw you lying there yesterday, I thought that I might lose you.

And I'd only just found you.

I plan on being here a good long time.

Good.