04x06 - Dead End Street

[bunniefuu]

William.

Oh. Hello, Julia.

Afternoon, Dr Garland.

No need for formalities, Detective. Please, call me Darcy.

Yes. Of course.

Well, a delightful event. Country fair in the midst of a metropolis.

We just saw a horse-pull. SHE GIGGLES Please, Darcy. You make us sound like a city of rubes.

On the contrary. I find Toronto a splendidly modern city.

What are you looking at so intensely, William?

Dollhouses?

More than that, Julia. A miniature Toronto streetscape.

It's unlike anything I've ever seen before.

It's won first prize. And deservedly.

It's a most intriguing model.

The faces of the people have no features.

How curious.

The builder seems more interested in the homes than the people.

Julia?

Have a look at this.

The attention to detail is quite remarkable.

It's more than remarkable - look.

SHE GASPS Good heavens!

What is it?

The figure in that room has a r*fle.

I believe we're looking at a crime scene.

The model was submitted by a Bert Howland of Cherry Lane, according to the fair's organisers.

Sir, where shall I put these little figures? At the end of the street here, George.

So, there's someone holding a g*n.

What makes you think anyone was sh*t in that room? Consider the accuracy of scale.

The attention to detail. I'll give you that.

The builder put a gunman in that upstairs room for a reason.

Maybe Bert Howland was having a bit of fun.

An odd joke if that's the case, sir.

Piece of fiction, Murdoch.

Don't you have a real, live case to work on? Hmm?

Morning.

WOMAN: Don't you walk away from me!

And where do you think you're going now?

THE MAN SIGHS You know where I'm going. You go to the lodge every day!

I'll see you later. Don't worry about me!

The similarity to the model, sir, it's...it's uncanny.

It is indeed, George. We're about to meet a very skilled craftsman.

I believe Mr Howland lives in number 6 here.

HE KNOCKS Mr Howland. Yeah?

Detective William Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary.

Was it you that confiscated the model? Yes.

Excellent craftsmanship. A fine replica of your street here.

May I ask why you saw fit to take it to the station?

A detail was added to the model that I find most curious.

A man holding a r*fle.

A r*fle? Are you sure?

Yes. Yes. In the upstairs window of your neighbour's house.

Mr Howland, if I may, what was your intention in building the model?

I didn't build it.

That was my sister, Lydia.

Ah. May I speak with her, then? I expect her any time.

But that's puzzling. I don't recall any man with a r*fle.

Detective Murdoch, this is my sister.

Ah.

Hello.

Don't mind her. She won't answer you.

Is she deaf?

No. She's...feeble-minded.

MURDOCH SCOFFS Feeble-minded?

There's other things she's called, but that's what it comes down to.

Yet she's capable of building such an intricate model. Did you help her?

I grabbed the wood and such, but she works by herself.

When did she begin to build the model?

About a year ago.

Uh, Detective...

Lydia? I'm a policeman and I need your help.

Don't get too near her, now.

Do you recall building the model of your street?

SHE MOANS I don't want her upset.

Do you remember? Lydia? SHE MOANS REPEATEDLY It's OK, Lydia. It's OK. Shhh. It's OK.

It's OK, Lydia. Let's go inside. SHE CONTINUES MOANING Go inside. Go inside. Let's go inside.

It's OK. Go inside. That's it.

I'm sorry if my questions disturbed her. Lydia has her own ways.

She doesn't like people much. Excuse me, I need to see her.

George...begin canvassing the neighbours.

Find out if anyone knows anything about a sh**ting at number 7. Sir.

A sh**ting? In MY house?

Oh, now, you're just pulling my leg, Detective! SHE LAUGHS Mrs Galbraith, Lydia Howland built a model of this street and put a man holding a g*n in your upstairs room.

Lydia did that, did she?

Yes. Do you own a g*n, Mrs Galbraith?

My hubby, Mr Galbraith, does.

A r*fle? Yes.

Though it's not been fired in years.

I'll need to speak with him.

He's practising at the lodge.

Practising? He plays the trombone in the Orange Lodge band.

Ah. Well, I'll need to speak with him.

About a fictitious gunman?

Lydia is not in her right mind, Detective.

I'm not saying Bert isn't trying his best, but...

(His wife left him.)

"It's your sister or it's me," she told him, and frankly, I don't blame her.

That daft girl should be in an institution!

Thank you, Mrs Galbraith.

What have you, George?

Well, sir, I've spoken to several people.

Mr Caruso lives in number 5 with his wife.

Very particular about his peach tree, which I find suspicious.

Peach trees are difficult to care for in our climate... George.

Carry on.

Uh, the Carusos haven't heard any g*nshots, sir.

Hmm. Who lives in number 3? That would be Felix Roach, a bachelor.

He repairs furniture.

The Draper family lives in number 2. No answer in number 4.

Seems like a very close community. Everybody's very trusting. Nobody locks their doors.

Nobody knows anything about a sh**ting.

Hmm.

Mr Galbraith at number 7
DOES own a r*fle.

So do a lot of people, Murdoch.

The police records don't report any sh**ting at 7 Cherry Lane.

I find it very hard to believe such a precise model was built by an imbecile.

Oooh. Sir, uh, I believe people such as Lydia are no longer referred to as "imbecile".

It's felt to be demeaning. The correct term nowadays is "moron".

Oh.

I'm not sure either term fits in this instance.

Isn't it likely she invented this gunman character?

Someone would have heard a g*nsh*t on such a small street.

Just return it to its rightful owner, Murdoch, and get on with some proper police work.

Yes, sir.

I'll pack it up, sir.

Just a moment, George.

What are you looking at, sir?

The figure holding the g*n, George.

He seems disproportionate compared to the other people on the street.

Why would that be?

Let's pay another visit to Cherry Lane.

And we'll need to access the armoury. Yes, sir.

All right. Move further back, George.

Counterclockwise.

Now left.

Your OTHER left, George.

No.

The figure in the model is completely different. Much smaller.

George, please ask Mrs Galbraith to grace us with her presence. Sir.

So, right here, Mrs Galbraith?

Yes. I moved the mirror a month or so ago. What of it?

We appreciate your help, Mrs Galbraith.

Well, just remember, you're carrying it back downstairs before you leave.

Uh...so, sir, how did you know there was a mirror in the room?

It's the only logical explanation for the small man, George.

Lydia saw the sh**t reflected in the mirror.

Why would that make him small?

Well, George, the apparent distance of a reflected object is always greater seen through a mirror.

Lydia was across the street.

Therefore, the reflected object she saw - in this case, the sh**t - appeared smaller.

So, then, sir, if she saw the reflection of the sh**t, that means he was not actually standing here at the far side, but...rather...

..over here, hidden from the street.

Yes, George. Raise the r*fle if you would, please.

Oh, but then the angle is wrong. Mmm. Completely wrong.

Sir, if Lydia depicted the back of the sh**t...

..he would be more like...

Exactly. That's it, George.

Don't move a muscle.

g*nsh*t The putty around this pane is a different colour.

So this pane has been replaced.

Let's see if the owner can shed some light on the situation.

I don't know anything about a broken window, Detective.

How long have you resided here, Mrs Gordon? Eight months.

And who lived here previously? It used to be a boarding house.

And do you know who the previous owners were? Yes.

She lives across the street. Oh. Which house?

Number 5.

She married Mr Caruso.

He's Italian. A fruit-pedlar.

Wooed his wife with his peaches, so the neighbours say.

HE CLEARS HIS THROAT May we come inside, Mrs Gordon?

So, if the b*llet travelled without interference, this would be the trajectory.

But, sir, what if the b*llet entered the victim and struck bone?

Would that not change the path of the b*llet?

Why, yes, George. Uh...like, say...

..this?

Or, sir, quite conceivably, even...uh...

..that?

Yes, conceivably, George.

Assuming that there even WAS a victim, sir. Mmm.

But if it missed its intended target... Uh, sir, if I may?

What if the b*llet entered the victim and lodged there? It would still be inside him. Or her.

Yes, George. But if it missed its target...

Or went through a soft, fleshy part of the poor devil.

..then I might find it...

Could have missed the breastbone, exiting between ribs.

Or if he was next to the window, in through one temple and straight out through the other.

I suppose then there would be an off-chance that the b*llet would end up...

Here.

A slug from a r*fle.

George, go to number 7 and collect Mr Galbraith's r*fle.

Yes, sir.

That's not a sound you'd forget in a hurry, sir.

No. Yet everyone on Cherry Lane claims they didn't hear the sound of a g*nsh*t.

We have a match.

So Mr Galbraith's r*fle fired the sh*t? Yes, George.

But we still need evidence of foul play.

If Mrs Gordon is telling the truth, that b*llet has been there for eight months.

We won't find any evidence on it.

Perhaps what is hidden to us... a little science can reveal.

I suppose this is the science, sir?

Yes, George. It's part of it. A chemical.

5-nitrophthalhydrazide.

In this case, it's reduced to an amino group with sodium dithionite.

Now, the chemical lies dormant until it's activated again, in this case...with an oxidant.

Making...chemiphosphoroluminescence.

And I suppose we're looking for traces of blood, sir?

Indeed, George.

Now, this compound was recently synthesised, but I managed to acquire a small sample.

Now, if any chemical traces of blood remain, the solution will react with the iron in the haemoglobin... In the haemo-goblin.

Sir, this b*llet went through somebody.

Yes, George. But the question is...whom?

Mr Galbraith, we found a b*llet fired from your r*fle with blood on it.

Where? Across the street from your house.

HE SCOFFS I don't know anything about that.

My wife had no business giving my g*n to you.

Your r*fle may have been used as a m*rder w*apon, Mr Galbraith.

How do you explain that? I have never fired it. Not once.

I find that difficult to believe, sir.

It was my father's hunting r*fle. Ask anyone on the street.

Partial to rabbit stew, he was.

In this case, the victim may have been human.

Well, tell me, then. Who did I k*ll, when did I do it, and why?

The man has a point.

You don't have a time line, you don't have a motive, and apart from a r*fle slug with a modicum of blood on it, you don't have proof a crime was even committed.

You need a body, Murdoch. Sirs, have a look at this.

There's a darker patch of earth right here.

If that's freshly turned soil, it could be a grave. What's the logic of that?

Well, sir, if Lydia saw the sh**ting take place, perhaps she also saw the body being buried.

Excellent reasoning, George. Thank you, sir. I'll fetch a shovel.

WOMEN MUTTER SHOVEL STRIKES AN OBJECT Oh, my.

Oh, my goodness!

Well, it's a body, all right. Looks like a...

What are you doing with my cat?!

Calm yourself, Mr Roach. We're just continuing our investigation.

He lived to a ripe old age and he deserves his rest.

I wonder.

George!

Sir?

Have a look at this.

It's unbelievable.

Her attention to minutiae is staggering.

Or perhaps, sir, she's just fond of cats.

She's childlike in some regards.

Perhaps she has an affinity toward animals. They can't speak either.

KNOCK AT DOOR Hmm. Doctor.

Constable.

So, you discovered a m*rder took place on your model street after all.

Yes. I've determined a m*rder w*apon and a vague time line, but no body.

That's inconvenient.

Did you find out who built this?

Yes. The model was built by a young woman named Lydia Howland.

Feeble-minded, it's believed.

Yet she's capable of extraordinary skill and focus, as you can see.

I heard of such a case when I was at the children's hospital.

I wonder if your Lydia is an idiot savant.

She's deficient yet possesses one area of brilliance.

Really?

That would explain why her figures have no features.

How do you mean?

I've been haunted by these blank faces. Now I understand.

She can't read emotion.

Human faces cause her great confusion, so she simply ignores them.

You and I communicate with eye contact, but Lydia can't do that.

Uh, thank you very much, Julia. This has been very helpful.

Clearly I went about my first meeting with Lydia all wrong.

And you think that she witnessed a m*rder? Yes.

But I have no body.

Well, I'll start searching for unidentified sh**ting victims in the morgue records.

Thank you. I'll try to narrow my time line.

SHE GIGGLES HE SIGHS The sh**ting occurred before the Gordons bought the house at number 4.

Assuming Mrs Gordon was telling the truth.

I checked with city records. Mrs Caruso did sell it eight months ago.

We need to determine which boarders left without notice prior to that date.

Looking for boarders. Now, THERE'S a bloody needle in a haystack!

George, check with Mrs Caruso.

See if she has a good memory of past boarders. Sir, will do.

Oh, and, sir?

I'm bringing Lydia down to the station. What for? She can't tell you anything.

Perhaps she can communicate in other ways.

BERT: Our small street is the only world she knows.

Without any features on the figures, how does she know who belongs where?

She has an order in her head.

Maybe it's the way she dresses each one. I don't know.

Do your neighbours know how talented your sister is?

Pfft! No, they ignore her at best.

Some complain of her walking up and down the street.

But she doesn't disturb anyone. She hasn't talked in 25 years.

She spoke as a child?

Yeah, she seemed normal for the first year or so, apparently, and then she gradually withdrew.

And she hasn't uttered a word since.

No doctor could provide an explanation and my parents went to their graves not knowing what was wrong.

When did she add the detail of the gunman to the model?

I don't know.

I never noticed the figure until you showed me.

It shocks me to think that image was in her head.

LOUD CLATTER SHE GASPS, MOANS Oh. Uh...

It's all right, my dear. It's all right.

SHE CONTINUES MOANING It's all right, my dear.

It's all right. Let's pick up those chess pieces. It's all right.

Let's pick these up. SHE CALMS DOWN That's it. Let's pick up these chess pieces.

You see? There you go, Lydia. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine.

That's it.

She likes simple tasks. They calm her.

That's it.

That's extraordinary.

She's putting back every piece as it was.

Yeah. She has excellent recall.

She memorised the game?

(That's it. That's it. That's it. Shhh.)

It's clear that Lydia is very sensitive to sudden, loud noises.

Like the g*nsh*t. Yes.

I believe the g*nsh*t so traumatised her that when she made the model, she re-created the sh**ting exactly how she saw the street at that moment.

Even though she didn't understand the meaning of the sound. Correct.

So now she'll build a model of the station the moment the two clumsy constables bumped into one another?

Oh, I don't think so, sir.

Bert was there to calm her and distract her with the chess pieces.

When the sh**ting occurred, she was alone.

Making the event an even greater trauma.

I believe so. Mmm.

I still can't fathom Lydia building this by herself.

Well, sir, it's not without precedent.

Have a look at this.

That's bloody impressive.

This model was built by James Henry Pullen, a man believed to be an imbecile who couldn't hear or speak.

He built it while living in an English insane asylum.

And you think Lydia has the same ability? So it would seem, sir. Mmm.

Can you tap into what she's thinking?

I don't know if anyone can do that, sir.

Well...if your theory is correct, Murdoch, there may be clues within the model that you haven't yet seen.

What are you all looking at?

GEORGE: Mrs Caruso was very helpful, sir.

I have a list of all the tenants who left the boarding house without notice.

Sir?

Sir!

Yes, George?

I'm afraid there are seven of them, sir.

The inspector's right. Tracking them down will be next to...

Did any of them leave on or around June 22, 1897?

That's a very specific date, sir. May I ask why?

George, when was the last time there was bunting in the streets of Toronto?

I suppose that would be Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee.

Did anyone leave the boarding house around June 22?

Yes, sir. A Grant Abrams.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

All of us gathered at the end of the street to watch the parade.

All except the antiroyalist Abrams.

Miserable to the core. He stayed behind in his room.

And when did you discover he had gone?

He left that night. Broke a window and stole a carpet.

A carpet? Yes. A good one.

Did you see the broken window that night? No.

It was the next morning. There was shattered glass everywhere.

Hmm.

Do you know of anyone who may have wanted to harm him?

Well...Abrams did odd jobs for Mrs Galbraith in number 7 when Mr Galbraith was at work.

Now, I can't say exactly what those jobs were, Detective, but when Mr Galbraith found out, there was a real set-to between them right in the middle of the street.

What-a this?

I was just talking to the detective, Angelo.

Talk, but not-a gossip, huh?

(I don't think the Galbraiths have the best marriage.)

Mr Galbraith.

I now believe the m*rder victim on Cherry Lane is a man named Grant Abrams.

A man you had reason to k*ll.

Don't be ridiculous.

You deny he had designs on your wife?

Designs on her? No, he had his hands on her.

I saw it with my own eyes.

Well. How did you respond?

I b*at him soundly.

Cuffed him good and proper right in the street.

But you continued to harbour resentment toward him?

Any man would, Detective.

Let's talk about Jubilee Day and the parade.

Jubilee Day? Yes.

The jubilee parade went by Cherry Lane, did it not?

Yes.

And everyone gathered at the end of the street to watch the parade - everyone but Abrams.

He made no secret of disliking the monarchy.

You knew he wouldn't be watching the parade.

What are you getting at?

While everyone was distracted, you returned to your house.

Begging your pardon, Detective...

And sh*t Abrams with your hunting r*fle.

HE SIGHS You're right.

I wasn't watching the parade.

Just as I suspected.

I play in the Orange Lodge band, Detective.

I was IN the parade.

I remember the Orange Lodge parade on Jubilee Day. They marched down Queen Street for three hours.

The only thing Galbraith m*rder*d that day was The Maple Leaf Forever.

GEORGE LAUGHS Good one, sir.

Trumpet. That's interesting.

According to his wife, Galbraith played the trombone.

Trumpet. Trombone. Triangle. Either way, he didn't fire the r*fle. Who did?

Likely another one of the Cherry Lane residents who knew Galbraith had the g*n.

And used the vantage point of the Galbraiths' house to sh**t Abrams.

I believe the m*rder was meant to coincide with the parade.

I checked the parade route. It went along Queen Street East, passing Cherry Lane between 4:00 and 4:25pm.

But if everyone was watching the parade, they all provide alibis for each other.

Time to have a chat with the neighbours.

Yes. We were all at the end of the street except for Lydia.

Did she stay at the house?

In her usual spot on the porch. The commotion was overwhelming for her.

Did you know Grant Abrams, Mr Howland?

We all knew Abrams. Why is that?

He was a troubled man who took pleasure in finding fault in everyone.

And we all seemed to annoy him. In what way?

Oh...Mr Galbraith played his trombone too loudly, Mr Roach's cat sat on his windowsill too often, Mr Caruso parked his fruit cart all wrong.

Did you argue with Abrams?

He didn't like Lydia walking past his window.

So you fought? More than once.

So...if it's suspects you're looking for, I'd be on that list.

Did anyone else have reason to dislike Abrams?

Do you know about him and Mrs Galbraith? I do. What about it?

Well, after Mr Galbraith found out, Abrams turned his affections to Mrs Draper, and Mrs Galbraith was none too happy about that.

Yes! Mr Abrams DID take a shine to Mrs Draper.

Such a birdlike creature with a nervous disposition.

I never understood the attraction.

But you felt spurned?

My personal feelings are no business of the Toronto Constabulary.

They are when I'm investigating a m*rder, Mrs Galbraith.

Now, where were you the afternoon of Jubilee Day?

What are you suggesting?

I was watching my husband in the Orange Lodge band like everyone else. Who saw you?

Well...just about everyone.

If you're looking for a k*ller, you should talk to Mr Draper.

Why is that?

He was very upset with Mr Abrams.

He's very protective of his... little wife.

And were the Drapers at the parade? Yes.

Oh.

As I recall.

Abrams was a cruel man.

He relished in upsetting Mrs Draper with...his lewd taunts.

So you disliked Abrams?

Couldn't stand the man.

Enough to k*ll him?

God, no. It wasn't me. I've never used a g*n in my life.

Well, someone sh*t Mr Abrams, Mr Draper.

Look at Mr Caruso at number 5. He had good reason to k*ll Abrams.

Oh? Why do you say that?

Well, it all started when Abrams teased Caruso, stealing peaches from his tree.

Caruso almost stabbed him with his pruning shears.

Then his shed went up in flames.

He almost lost his whole house.

Well...when did this happen?

Well, the feud escalated over time.

The fire was...last June.

Abram's a rude man.

Disrespectful of my property.

So you att*cked him?

Oh, I tell him, "Stop."

He laugh.

He lucky I no s*ab him in his heart.

Did Mr Abrams burn down your shed?

EXCLAIMS IN ITALIAN Who else do? Huh?

Where were you at 4pm on Jubilee Day?

I, uh...I was-a watching the parade.

Who saw you?

Mmm, I...I think, uh... Mr Roach stand with me.

I no sure.

Why are you asking about Mr Caruso? He's a good man.

Was he watching the parade? Oh, yes. He was there.

What can you tell me about Grant Abrams?

He was a man who didn't work enough.

So he would just sit in his window and argue with everyone.

He picked on the weak.

Hmm. Did you have a problem with him?

Me? Oh, no, I had no... personal grievance.

But I was glad when he left.

Why?

I don't like my neighbours upset, Detective, and that's exactly what he did. He upset everyone.

He turned our street upside down.

All the residents of Cherry Lane were watching the Jubilee Day parade.

All of them vouch for each other and most of them had motive to k*ll Abrams.

Close-knit community with no shortage of motives.

Could this be a conspiracy, Murdoch? Every one of them getting together to rid the street of Abrams?

I have given that some thought, sir.

Which would explain why no-one heard the sh*t or saw the body removed.

They're all bloody well in on it! Sirs.

What is it, George?

Eight people claimed they were watching the parade that day.

Mrs Galbraith, Mr and Mrs Caruso, Felix Roach, Bert Howland, Mr Draper, with his wife and son.

We know that. What's your point? Look at the model, sir.

There are only seven figures.

If Lydia is as precise as we think she is, one of the residents of Cherry Lane wasn't watching the parade.

Which means the missing person is the gunman. Or woman.

But who was it?

Julia, I've reached an impasse in this case, yet I'm certain that Lydia holds the key to solving it.

But you can't communicate with her. No, and that's the frustration.

I believe she sees the world differently than the rest of us.

She does.

Some areas of her mind are sharply focused while others don't seem to function at all.

Because idiot savants are oblivious to other people, they're quite single-minded, and therefore capable of extraordinary accomplishments.

That describes Lydia exactly. RECORD SKIPS A mysterious combination of emotional unawareness and acute intellect.

(That's a good description of someone I know.)

How can I communicate across such a void?

What about using the world she created?

Did Lydia put herself in her model?

No. No, I don't believe she did.

It's interesting. She has no concept of self?

DOOR CLOSES Julia, I think you've hit on something.

Darcy!

Hello.

Sorry. I'm interrupting.

No. Not at all. I was just leaving.

MURDOCH CHUCKLES Good night.

I hope our discussion was fruitful.

Good night.

This is Cherry Lane on the day of the jubilee parade.

The street you know very well.

This...is Lydia.

Lydia lives...

..here.

Yes?

There. Lydia is home.

But...who are the other people and where do they live?

I think...

..that...this is Bert.

Bert...lives...here.

With Lydia.

All right. That's not Bert.

Hmm.

This looks like a young lad.

I think this is Tommy Draper.

And Tommy lives...here.

Right. Um...

Maybe THIS is Bert. Hmm?

Mr...

Mr Draper?

Mr Draper.

George, please, if you would.

Well, then maybe THIS is Bert.

Now, Bert is home.

Mrs Draper...

George, Mrs Galbraith.

Mrs Draper...

Mrs Caruso.

Mrs Draper, then.

Mrs Draper.

This...must be Felix Roach.

Mr Caruso.

George?

Felix Roach?

The only person on the street with no motive.

What if this is all some kind of a game, Murdoch?

Sir, I don't think Lydia understands the concept of games.

Even if she's right and Roach is the m*rder*r, you can't arrest him without evidence, Murdoch.

You need hard facts, not some airy-fairy theory based on a woman who can't talk.

And his alibi? He was watching the parade with everyone else, no?

Perhaps he wasn't.

But I've already told you where I was, Detective.

Oh - check with Mr Caruso.

Mmm. Mr Caruso's memory is somewhat foggy.

So, you saw the Orange Lodge band go by the end of Cherry Lane?

Plain as the nose on my face.

Then perhaps you can tell me, what instrument was Mr Galbraith playing?

A trombone.

Are you sure?

Well, of course. He's played it for years.

Not on Jubilee Day, he didn't.

Uh...well, what do you mean?

The trumpeter came down with influenza.

Mr Galbraith filled in and played the trumpet, not the trombone.

I could have sworn that he was...

You never saw the parade, did you, Mr Roach?

Of course I did. I just didn't remember Galbraith was playing a different instrument.

I find that most curious, Mr Roach.

Are you going to arrest me, Detective?

A John Doe sh*t through the neck was found in a railway car in Ottawa on June 26.

A few days after Grant Abrams disappeared. This sounds promising.

The train had come from Toronto and the body was wrapped in a carpet.

That sounds like our victim.

I'm sorry I can't give you any further details, Mr Abrams now being a skeleton in a pauper's grave, but I'll continue to look through the file.

Thank you, Julia.

That's Grant Abrams, and...that's my carpet.

Thank you, Mrs Caruso. This is most helpful.

A body and a positive identification.

Now we're getting somewhere. HE CHUCKLES How did Roach get the body onto a train?

Sir, I believe Roach moved Abrams' body in his cart while everyone was asleep after the day's revelries, and dumped his body in a railway car at the Booth Street railway siding - half a block from Cherry Lane.

You're almost there, Murdoch. You've almost got him.

Not quite, sir. I still don't have a motive. Mmm.

William. Am I interrupting?

Julia. Of course not.

I've been through the John Doe file. I must say, the Ottawa coroner was quite thorough.

Look at these. Oh, my.

These wounds to Abrams' arms are quite curious.

The coroner posited that they were defensive. Could that be possible?

Well, it's possible, but not likely.

Abrams was sh*t from across the street.

Whatever happened, they were inflicted before he d*ed.

Hmm. Defensive wounds to both forearms.

There's also evidence of inflammation, as though Abrams had an allergic reaction to whatever injured him.

Could it be a reaction to some kind of metal? Nickel, perhaps?

I've seen a similar response, of all things, to cat scratches.

Cat?

He lived to a ripe old age. He deserves his rest.

Julia, I think I have another body for you to look at.

Well, the cat's hyoid was fractured.

The cat was throttled? Yes.

Strangled to death? That's horrible.

It would have experienced the frightening sensation of air hunger and no doubt struggled violently.

Fighting for its life, the poor little thing. Clawing at the k*ller's arms.

But Mr Roach claimed his cat d*ed of old age.

Mr Roach's cat sat on his windowsill too often.

That's why Roach k*lled Abrams.

What do you mean?

Roach's cat annoyed Abrams.

Perhaps Mr Abrams strangled the cat, and in retaliation, Mr Roach sh*t Abrams.

Would the death of a cat be sufficient motive for m*rder? Yes.

As a pet-owner, Doctor, I'll vouch for that.

Right, George. Head down to Cherry Lane and impound Mr Roach's cart.

I'll meet you at the station house. Sir.

Once again, thank you, Doctor.

Sir.

Felix Roach's cart.

It looks to have seen an awful lot of use, sir.

I can't imagine evidence from a body could still be found after all this time.

Well, let's see, George.

Assuming the body was put in headfirst...

Uh, lift up the handles, please, George.

Oh, yes. I see what you mean.

Blood from any wound would run down to the end there. Precisely.

What kind of a man kills a cat with his bare hands?

In the carriage, Mr Roach.

I did you all a favour!

You'll not say it out loud, no, but you know it!

I did you a favour!

She made the model by herself? She did that. Huh!

If it wasn't for Lydia, we never would have solved the m*rder.

If you need a hand from time to time, Bert, any help that we can offer.

Thank you, Mrs Galbraith.

So on the afternoon that Roach k*lled Abrams, Lydia was sitting on the porch plain as day.

Roach must have seen her.

Oh, I think he did.

But, like everyone else in this neighbourhood, he assumed she was oblivious.

And yet she remembered everything.

Do you think she was aware she was recording a m*rder when she made that model?

We'll never know.

I suppose she lived in a world of her own.

Such a lonely place.

Why do you say that?

Because she can't communicate her feelings.

Do you believe that makes her unhappy?

Well, it would make ME unhappy.

Hmm.

I don't think Lydia views her life the way we do.

I think there's a solace and certainty and order that sustains her.

And that's enough?

Sometimes it has to be.