05x10 - Staircase to Heaven

[bunniefuu]

Two turns left before the final.

Place your bets.

10 loses.

4 wins.

That's it for me.

You shouldn't risk everything on one card, Hannah.

This from the man who leaves everything to chance?

Only too true, Hannah.

Place your bets. Come on, Magnus.

Russell. Emily.

I'll let mine ride.

I'll add... four more checks.

2 loses.

Queen wins.

You cheated, Jacob.

What are you talking about?

No one can win a game that's gaffed.

I demand we inspect the cards.

Show him the cards, Jacob.

He won't be satisfied till we do.

We need some more light.

Fanny, would you be so kind?

Yes, Mr. MacDonald.

The filament must be broken. Try the other lamp.

Yes, sir.

I'll fetch an oil lamp.

Hurry up, Hannah.

It's dark as Hades in here.

Jacob?

Oh, Jacob!

Detective Murdoch.

Dr. Grace.

I'm surprised you were able to make it here in the storm.

I almost didn't.

You were telephoned as well?

I was here already.

Oh. I see.

Well, then I take it you knew the victim.

Yes. Jacob Oliver.

We went to medical school together.

And is this his establishment?

No, he's a guest of the owner, Magnus MacDonald.

He lives here with his sister-in-law, Hannah Beaumont.

Sir.

When will my guests be allowed to leave?

Detective William Murdoch.

I'm afraid everyone here will have to be questioned.

A poor end to what was supposed to be a splendid evening.

These people are friends of yours, Doctor?

A group of us get together from time to time to play cards.

What happened?

We were playing when the storm knocked out the lights.

Suddenly Jacob was gasping for air and clutching his neck.

Iran to tend to him. Russell tried to help too.

Russell?

Russell Chisholm.

He is the man at the bar with Magnus.

He's a doctor as well.

Hmm. Quite the game of cards.

Your thoughts, Doctor?

Jacob d*ed of blood loss.

Something is wedged in his neck that likely severed the carotid artery.

I'll know more once I continue my investigation at the morgue.

I'm ready to take the body now.

I'm afraid your examination will have to take place here, Doctor.

What do you mean?

The ferry to the mainland isn't going anywhere until this storm lets up.

We're here for the night.

Are you quite all right, Doctor?

I was sitting at a table with my friends, playing cards, and one of them d*ed in front of me.

No, I'm not all right.

A bloody nuisance.

My whole force is out dealing with emergencies- people stranded, washed-out roads.

Cells at Station 2 are flooded.

He needs to be housed.

We don't want the poor sod catching his death, now, do we?

Certainly not. Ned Watts.

He's laying charges against Randolph Means tomorrow.

Randolph the Razor?

You've got some stones.

Nothing to do with stones.

It's his neck or mine.

I'll keep an eye on him.

Appreciate it, Thomas.

Crabtree, where the bloody hell do you think you're going?

Sir, I was going to catch some of the vaudeville.

They're giving out prizes of coal and ham to anyone who will brave the storm.

Not tonight, you're not. I need you.

He'll be signing a deposition at the Crown attorney's office tomorrow.

I'll make sure that he practices his penmanship.

Does the Razor know that we have him?

Who knows what the Razor knows?

Crabtree, put him in the cells.

Cells?

I'm providin' evidence tomorrow, testimony that'll put Randolph the Razor on the sorry end of the noose.

I'm not sitting in any cell.

I suppose I could watch him just was well here, sir.

Well, don't be mollycoddlin' him.

If Razor gets wind of where I am, we're all gonna die tonight.

Will you be much longer, Detective?

I'm afraid your guests will have to stay put until the weather breaks.

You may as well make yourselves comfortable.

Hmm.

Very little blood spatter.

I confess to being an admirer of Conan Doyle.

I take it you're familiar with him.

I'm somewhat acquainted, yes.

Hmm.

I believe the reason for the lack of blood is that Jacob was clutching at his neck, trying to save his life.

You were playing a game of faro, yes?

We were.

It's an elegant game in all its simplicity, a man's fate decided on the turn of a card.

Hmm.

The table's too wide for anybody to reach across and s*ab the victim.

Mr. MacDonald, I would prefer to conduct my investigation alone, if you don't mind.

Just trying to help, sir.

How much longer is this going to go on?

Apparently, until the good detective is finished with us.

Fanny, would you pour us a drink?

We may as well get comfortable.

Margaret, look, it can't be helped.

I'll have a duty detective-

Margaret?

Margaret!

Mar-Oh...

Bollocks.

We lost the telephone connection.

That's likely due to the storm, sir.

I know it's from the bloody storm, Crabtree.

I would like to write out my deposition now, if I could.

It can wait until morning.

Doubt it can.

Maybe there was no flood at Station 2.

Maybe they just wanted me out of there.

Razor intends on finishing me tonight and anyone who stands in his way, I imagine.

Well, he would have to make it through two highly trained officers of the law to do that.

You two?

Roly and Poly?

Know why they call him the Razor?

Not for the means which he dispatches his victims but because he's in possession of an extremely sharp mind.

Doubt you two are a match.

You just watch your mouth, sunshine.

Here he comes!

Sit down!

Crabtree, answer the door.

Constable Crabtree, get the door.

You'd best arm yourself.

I said sit down!

Please, I need refuge!

Uh, we're having a situation.

I know my rights!

You're obliged to help me, or need I quote from the Police Services Act?

The bloody hell?

Fine, there's a stove here.

You can warm yourself there, old man.

Old man?

I'm but 43.

These are hardly ideal circumstances for such a delicate procedure.

We have to conduct the investigation from the mainland.

It's not possible, Doctor.

That's not enough light.

Where's the fuse box?

I don't know.

Perhaps it wasn't the storm that knocked out the lodge's power.

What are you doing?

Miss Beaumont.

This is my studio.

I'm conducting a m*rder investigation.

I realize that, but it didn't happen here, did it?

Does anyone recognize this pin?

It had been jammed in the socket of the lamp.

Any attempt to turn it on would have tripped the circuit.

Who does it belong to?

Um, it looks like one of mine. It must have fallen out.

But I don't know anything about electrical thingamajigs.

Mr. MacDonald asked for more light.

When I went to turn on the first lamp, it didn't work.

And that's when I left the room to fetch the oil lamp.

And did you return to your seat, Miss Glover?

No, I waited by the fireplace.

Where you had a clear line of sight to Mr. Oliver's chair?

I couldn't see a thing.

I stood where I was and waited for Miss Hannah to return with the lamp.

You had already left the room?

Yes.

And did you see Miss Glover upon your return?

As she said, she was standing by the fireplace.

Hmm.

And Mr. MacDonald?

I had left a box of matches on the mantle.

I stood up to get them.

You knocked over the cigar stand.

Made quite a clatter.

I did?

I'm surprised you remember such a detail, given all the whiskey you've consumed, Russell.

I struck the match.

Jacob was making dreadful noises as my sister-in-law returned with a lamp, and we saw the ghastly sight.

Then I went into the foyer and telephoned the police.

Detective Murdoch, I'm ready.

What is it?

I don't know.

But the depth of the wound indicates that it entered his neck with considerable force.

Given the distance across the table, the k*ller must have used some sort of f*ring mechanism.

A sling, perhaps.

Doctor, have a look at this.

His fingertips are exceptionally smooth, almost as if they've been sanded down.

I am not a part of any of this.

Keep your voice down, Fanny.

Miss Glover.

What are you not a part of?

I'm nothing more than the maid.

I was just here to count cards so that everybody else could play.

And to cover for Jacob's cheating.

These cards are marked.

Ah! I knew it!

Bastard!

It was Jacob's idea to involve a servant.

We should have known then he was planning on queering the game.

Stop this.

Fanny had nothing to do with this.

Let the detective do his job, Hannah.

There's no money on the table, yet you all had checks to play with.

What were you playing for? Nothing.

Just a friendly game of cards.

Obviously, there was something significant at stake.

Dr. Grace?

You have something to say?

I'm not speaking to you as a colleague, Doctor.

What's going on here?

You're right, Detective.

The stakes were quite high.

For God sakes, be quiet, Magnus.

We have nothing to hide, Russell.

What were you playing for, Mr. MacDonald?

A chance to die, sir.

We were playing for the chance to die.

Playing for the chance to die, Mr. MacDonald?

That will require an explanation.

We belong to the Society for Metaphysical Exploration.

Quite a lofty name for a group of people playing cards.

Faro is only an adjunct to our purpose, Detective.

Our society's based in serious scientific experimentation.

Which involves cold-blooded m*rder?

The horrible event of this evening has nothing to do with our goal.

Scientists and scholars have long pursued a belief in the spirit world.

Is your group attempting to communicate with the dead?

No, not attempting, Detective.

We are succeeding.

By putting ourselves in near-death states, we are crossing over to the other side.

I find that hard to believe.

At first, so did I.

What happened?

For some years, I've been trying to communicate with my dead wife, Charlotte.

I sought out a well-known medium, but it was a dreadful experience.

The woman was a charlatan.

And then?

Arthur Conan Doyle came to Toronto to talk about spiritualism and the presence of an afterlife.

And you attended.

Yes, Hannah and myself, with my daughter, Lillian.

Conan Doyle was convincing as he talked about crossing over to the other side.

The perfect hotel, he called it.

Lillian was a medical student at the time.

She was fascinated.

A few days later, she introduced us to her fellow students.

Mr. Chisholm and Mr. Oliver.

And Emily Grace.

Dr. Grace?

That surprises you?

I thought her to be a scientist.

Then you have a very narrow view of science.

The four students thought, if it were possible to visit the portals of the other side, then why not prove it once and for all?

So we started our experiments, or travelling, as we call it.

So, Crabtree, tell me about this song-and-dance show you were supposed to attend.

Oh, sir, I am sorry to be missing it.

Um, duty calls and all, but they were going to have a professional regurgitator there.

Sir, it's a man who has the ability to swallow almost any object, and then he can bring it-

I know what a regurgitator is.

Sir, I wonder how the detective is making out in the rain.

I'm sure he's well-prepared.

Yes, he always is, sir.

Bloody Murdoch.

Never a hair out of place on him, is there?

Hmm.

He's a fastidious chap, to be sure.

Quite annoying sometimes.

Well, annoying is harsh term.

Stick in the mud.

You ever seen him laugh?

I've seen him smile.

I've even seen him smirk, so he does project a sense of being somewhat amused from time to time.

Man needs to loosen up. Life's too short.

Fancy a wee swallow, Crabtree?

Keep out the cold?

Oh, sir, don't mind if I do.

Ah. Good lad.

Oh, that's refreshing. Thank you, sir.

One thing I will admit is somewhat annoying about the detective, sir, is that he's always telling me to pay attention to the small details.

"Now, George, pay attention to the small details," he says.

It's almost as if he forgets lam a writer.

Of course.

The traveler is injected with a solution of chloral hydrate to induce a hypnotic state.

Once in a deep sleep, the traveler is placed into a bath surrounded by packed ice to keep the water cold.

Hypothermia protects the internal organs and increases the comatose state.

And who supervised this?

We all did.

We have the medical qualifications.

How long is the traveler left in this suspended state?

Uh, it varies depending on the body's size and weight.

Once the heart rate drops below what we consider viable, the traveler is brought back.

With this caffeine citrate?

Yes.

The resulting shock stimulates the heart and lungs.

What does this have to do with a game of faro?

Faro's a game of chance.

We leave the choice of who travels each year to fate.

And who was winning this evening?

Jacob Oliver.

Well, it would appear Mr. Oliver has been granted a one-way ticket to the great beyond.

How can you willingly subject yourselves to such risk?

Explorers are risk takers, Detective.

They travel to the ends of the earth.

We are trying to do more than that.

We're trying to find heaven.

So have you warmed yourself?

I have indeed.

I'll have to send you out when the rain lets up.

Eh, sure.

Drink?

Oh, never touched the stuff.

Uh, I like to keep my mind sharp.

I don't mind the odd dram.

Not bloody likely.

What is it, Crabtree?

Sir, do you have any idea what the Razor looks like?

Can't say I do. Why?

Because I hear he likes to keep his mind sharp.

Watts, have you ever seen the Razor?

Not me.

No one knows what the Razor looks like.

Jacob was determined to be the next traveler.

That's why he cheated.

Surely, you were all equally anxious to win.

Naturally, Detective.

I was longing to see my beloved wife again.

You hadn't yet travelled?

I was the first to go, but it was uneventful.

I fell into a deep sleep but saw nothing.

A dull headache was my only reward.

We were too conservative with the chloral hydrate dose the first time.

So you increased the dosage.

Who was next?

Jacob.

He came back ecstatic.

He'd met Thomas Addison.

Addison? The British doctor?

Yes, one of the pioneers of adrenal research.

Addison and Jacob had an exchange on the other side.

Dr. Addison validated Jacob's ideas on adrenal extracts.

So he says.

I had no reason to doubt him.

He was a liar and a cheat.

Russell and Jacob were quite competitive medical researchers, Detective.

Both wanted to ascend the staircase to heaven.

You don't come across many master criminals.

No, that you don't.

A man with the Razor's reputation, you would think that somebody would have caught a glimpse of him by now.

You know, sir, it's a shame Detective Murdoch is not here.

We don't need Murdoch. We're proper coppers.

Oh, yes, but, sir, Detective Murdoch- there may not be a keener mind in any police station anywhere.

Hence the reason why I hired him.

And good on you for that, sir.

Have a seat, Crabtree.

I mean, without him, this station might never solve a case at all.

Now, hold on, Crabtree.

I wouldn't go that far.

I've solved many cases in my time.

You don't rise to the upper echelon of the police department without demonstrating considerable accomplishment.

Well, yes, sir.

I don't doubt your past achievements back when you were in your prime.

But I mean recently.

Prime?

Son, what you don't understand is that I have myriad other duties that hinder my ability to sink my teeth into a case.

The politics of the job is a time-consuming task.

But given the chance...

Well, sir, if you don't mind me saying, as commanding officer, surely you have the authority to take the lead over any case that comes through the door.

That may be, but have you considered the human dynamic?

If I were to do that, wouldn't I be stepping on Detective Murdoch's toes?

That's what I mean when I talk about the politics.

I have to think about the morale of the station as a whole.

Uh, yes, of course, sir.

But that old man, he may be worth further conversation.

Right.

Sit down, Crabtree.

I'll handle it... when it's time.

I take it you also wanted to win the game.

I take it you also wanted to win the game and travel to the other side, Miss Beaumont.

I'm an artist, Detective.

The depiction of inner beauty- the soul, if you will- is what I strive for.

A spiritual journey would be invaluable.

And Jacob Oliver's enlightening experiences no doubt encouraged you all.

Yes.

He was a changed man afterwards, full of confidence and determination to further pursue his research.

And Mr. Chisholm?

Well, Russell was desperate to have the same experience.

The doctors were competitive in all things, Detective.

All things?

Yes.

Including the affections of Lillian.

Lillian. Your niece.

Yes.

There were advances from both men over the years, but Lillian's a new woman.

No intention of tying herself to a marriage.

Her career was always far too important.

And she was also involved in the experimentations that you had all been conducting?

Very much so.

Then why isn't Lillian here this evening?

I cannot capture her.

Will you please tell me what is going on here?

I don't know what you mean, Detective.

You were not forthcoming about your association with this group, Doctor.

I didn't see how it related to Jacob's death.

I am conducting a m*rder investigation, Doctor.

You have participated in the activities of this society and withheld that information from me.

Our experiments are conducted with great care and scrutiny under medical supervision.

We were breaking no laws.

What else is going on here you've chosen not to share with me?

Nothing.

Who are you protecting?

No one.

Lillian MacDonald was a founding member of this society.

Why was she not at tonight's game?

I wish she were.

Dr. Grace, answer me.

Lillian didn't return.

Return from where?

She was a traveler.

It was her idea.

What happened?

Dr. Grace, what happened?

I k*lled her.

I k*lled Lillian.

Dr. Grace, the truth this time.

What happened to Lillian?

Lillian was the architect of our experiments.

After Jacob travelled and saw Dr. Addison, she was determined to go further.

She would have done anything.

She was as competitive as the other two.

More so.

Jacob said he saw a level beyond his reach.

Lillian was resolved to get there.

And how were you involved?

Lillian won the game last year and asked me to preside over her transition.

I was touched by her trust.

You had never presided before?

No. It was always Lillian.

She was in charge of the dosage.

She had researched the chemicals and their effects.

What happened?

She wanted to go deeper.

She asked me to inject her with a higher dose of chloral hydrate.

And that k*lled her?

No. I refused.

That wasn't the cause of her death.

Continue.

Once the choral hydrate took effect, we placed her in the ice bath.

It's time.

Jacob, hand me the caffeine.

I injected the caffeine citrate in plenty of time.

But it wasn't sufficient to revive her?

On the contrary.

Instead of the normal acceleration, her heart began to race violently.

She was gasping for breath.

And then her heart stopped.

I couldn't revive her.

We were all shocked.

Hannah was devastated, and she has never recovered.

She works constantly to bring Lillian back in sculpture, and she's never satisfied.

She blames you.

Actually, no.

It's my own conscience that won't forgive me.

Even after a failed experiment, you all decided to attempt it again?

I still believe in what we are trying to do.

The scientific advancement, the endless possibilities... it's worth the risk.

Could someone have tampered with the dosage of caffeine citrate?

Even if that were so, it would never have provoked such an extreme reaction.

Doctor, you take responsibility for her death, yet you defend your procedure.

She d*ed of heart failure.

Surely, you have an alternate theory.

What are you suggesting?

Given the meticulous way in which Jacob Oliver was m*rder*d, it's quite possible the two deaths are related.

How come you came to this particular station on this particular night?

I was seeking shelter.

Nothing more?

You better be telling the truth, or I'll put you on a charge of vagrancy.

How do you fancy a week in the cells?

I was simply trying to get out of the rain.

Perhaps your judgment is clouded.

I know mine certainly was before our Lord and Savior convinced me to give up the bottle.

Have you considered the road to His light?

Sir.

What is it, Crabtree?

Just got a wire from Station House 2.

They're coming back to pick up Watts.

Apparently, they've staunched the flooding in their cells.

Mr. MacDonald?

What did you tell him?

He found out about Lillian. I told him the truth.

Why would you bring her into this?

Lillian's death was an accident.

Jacob's was no accident, to be sure.

You mean Mr. Oliver.

Don't forget your station just because your betters keep dying off.

Russell, mind your tongue.

The m*rder w*apon.

And it belongs to you, Mr. MacDonald.

It's a holdout.

Used by gamblers to cheat at cards.

Yes, but it certainly wasn't built to sh**t objects.

It slips a card into the player's hand by pressing against this lever.

It can't propel the card across a room.

All it would need is a stronger, shorter spring, which it now has.

Anybody could have done that.

This room is never locked.

Everyone knows of my collection.

You were a gambler, Mr. MacDonald?

I was a gambler, never a cheater, and certainly not a k*ller.

What about all this?

This blade was a favorite of Doc Holliday's.

Concealed it in his sleeve.

These cards belonged to Canada Bill Jones- roughened on one side so two cards will stick together.

His fingers were like silk, sanded down to be more sensitive to the cards.

Just like Jacob Oliver's fingers.

You realized he was attempting to cheat you out of your chance to see the gates of heaven, so you k*lled him.

I'm not that desperate, Detective.

Lillian, Jacob, and Russell were the determined ones.

The holdout would have enough force to fire across the table and pierce Jacob's neck.

But I don't see how that helps us.

If anything, it places everyone back under suspicion.

Not everyone.

Whoever k*lled Jacob Oliver would have had to have been standing almost directly in front of him.

Based on where you were seated at the time of his m*rder, you can be exonerated.

I must confess, I'm relieved.

As am I, Detective.

Straight on target would mean either Hannah or Russell was the perpetrator.

Hannah was out of the room, so the only other possibility is...

Mr. Chisholm.

The two of you were scientific rivals.

A little healthy competition, yes.

Nothing worth k*lling over.

You were also rivals for Lillian's affections.

I could have had Lillian if I wanted her.

You and Mr. Oliver were both present at Lillian's death?

Yes. An unfortunate result.

So she was just the subject of an experiment, then?

I beg your pardon.

Mr. Chisholm, you don't seem particularly affected by either Lillian's untimely death or Mr. Oliver's m*rder.

So you think I k*lled them?

Do you have any idea what this could possibly be?

No.

Not at all.

Russell!

Is he alive?

Barely.

Hurry, Russell!

Here.

Who k*lled you?

Move!

What are you doing?

Trust me!

No.

I don't understand.

It should have worked.

His heart's stopped.

It won't circulate if the heart isn't b*ating.

b*at, damn you. b*at!

What did you give him, Russell?

b*at!

b*at!

b*at, damn you!

b*at! b*at!

b*at!

Detective!

Detective!

Detective Murdoch.

Inspector Graves asked me to convey his appreciation, sir.

We could have held him the rest of the night.

No need.

My inspector wants the glory on this one.

Come along, sir.

I'll escort you to the wagon.

That's not necessary.

Oh, I don't mind.

Sir, arm yourself.

Good God.

It worked.

What did you use to bring him back?

I took an extract of a sheep's adrenal gland.

Jacob was right.

You gave him adrenaline?

You gave it Lillian too, didn't you?

You k*lled Lillian.

I did not.

Jacob administered the adrenaline.

But you knew, and you let me shoulder the burden of her death.

You and Jacob k*lled Lillian.

Dr. Grace.

Assemble the rest of the Society for Metaphysical Exploration.

You're not needed here.

Always willing to help out a fellow officer of the law.

I never did get your name, Constable.

I never gave it.

The next one goes right through you, Mr. Bloody Teetotaler.

Two murders have occurred at this lodge.

Two murders that are connected.

What are you talking about?

Lillian MacDonald d*ed a year ago.

She d*ed of an overdose of adrenaline.

Russell, is this true?

It was Lillian's idea.

But is it true?

They were all involved-

Russell, Jacob, and Lillian.

No! I don't believe it.

Lillian would never have taken such a risk.

She would never have abandoned me.

Well, maybe you didn't know her as well as you think.

I knew her best.

I loved her best.

Miss Beaumont, may we have a word in private?

What you say to Hannah, you say to all of us.

Very well.

Miss Beaumont, you k*lled Jacob Oliver.

You loosened the light bulb of one lamp and rigged the second with Fanny's hairpin to blow the circuit.

You knew the first lamp wouldn't work...

Yes, Mr. MacDonald.

So you waited for Fanny to walk to the second lamp.

You then feigned your exit...

I'll fetch an oil lamp.

Timed perfectly with Fanny pulling the switch.

But you didn't leave the room.

You stepped back into the darkness and stood right behind Mr. Chisholm.

You then kicked over the ash stand to mask the sound of the holdout's release.

You then left the room...

Hurry up, Hannah. It's dark as Hades in here.

Returning moments later with the oil lamp.

Oh, Jacob!

And in the end, the person that k*lled Jacob Oliver was the person with the perfect alibi.

Where is the evidence?

Miss Beaumont, is this your sculpting tool?

I suppose it must be.

How is it came to be broken?

I work with difficult materials.

Oh, I see.

Well, then, perhaps you can tell me, how is the broken piece ended up in Jacob Oliver's throat?

He used my precious girl to further his quest for scientific glory.

Lillian wanted us to take her right to the edge of death.

But you should have looked after her.

You shouldn't have gambled with her life.

The two of you k*lled her.

Detective, arrest this man.

I'm afraid I cannot.

Lillian MacDonald's death must be ruled an accident.

I will not accept that.

Mr. Chisholm and Mr. Oliver's actions were irresponsible... but not illegal.

Your actions, however, were, and I'm afraid I have to place you under arrest for the m*rder of Jacob Oliver.

You caught Randolph Means? The Razor?

Indeed, sir, with the inspector's help.

Oh, good of you to mention it, Crabtree.

When Watts was transferred here, the Razor got wind of it.

He commandeered a police wagon.

He placed an accomplice here in the station.

Then, sir, he disguised himself as an officer of the law.

Well, the Razor's a rather elusive fellow, George.

How did you spot him?

The shoes, sir. Hardly police issue.

The shoes? Very good, George.

You see, by paying attention to the smallest detail-

Oh, here we go.

What's so amusing?

Oh, nothing, sir.

Fancy another drink, Crabtree?

Well earned.

Certainly, sir.

So, Murdoch, I believe our jail cells have a new occupant.

Caught yourself a m*rder*r as well.

I did, sir.

Did you pick up on some small detail someone missed?

No, sir.

Finding the crucial detail was the result of a rather unusual occurrence... outside of my body, if you will.

Go home, Murdoch.

Get some rest.

Yes, sir.

"As the life ebbed out of me, I seemed to drift away from...

"and I could see my body...

"No fear as I moved away from Dr. Grace and Dr. Chisholm.

"I felt a heightened feeling of awareness, an intensity I had never experienced."

Dr. Grace.

What did you see... when you d*ed?

Please.

What did you see?

Heaven.

Truly?

I saw heaven, or at least my imagining of it.

How was it?

It was wonderful.