06x02 - Winston's Lost Night

[bunniefuu]

Now, Henry.

Sir, I...

It's all right. Don't be afraid.

Ha, ha, ha!

What's that, sir?

Something I've been experimenting with.

It's an Induction Balance Machine.

Okay, sir. And it turns on lights, does it?

'Cause, we have switches for that...

It's capable of far more than that, Henry.

Sir?

It seems there's been a... Sweet mother of...!

You see, it can detect metal. It could be useful in gathering evidence.

Sir, make it stop... please.

What have you, George?

Sir, there's been a m*rder at the Palace Hotel.

(knocking) Toronto Constabulary!

In a minute.

What the devil... ? (knocking)

Stop knocking, for the love of God!

Detective Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary.

Yes. You've made that deafeningly clear.

We've had a call.

What the devil?

Reginald! My God, Reginald.

Please. Please.

Don't touch the body. Do you know who this man is?

His name is Reginald Mayfair.

He was a friend.

And you are?

Churchill. Winston Churchill.

What happened here last night, Mr. Churchill?

I... I don't know.

We went for drinks last night.

And... ?

That's all I remember.

Doctor?

Rigor mortis is just setting in.

Death would have occurred sometime last night. He suffered a superficial wound to the forearm.

But that's not what k*lled him.

It looks like he was k*lled by a Kn*fe.

A very large Kn*fe.

Possibly even a sword.

A sword?

Sir.

I found this in the bedroom.

Mr. Churchill, I'm afraid you are going to have to come down to the station.

Murdoch! You've got Winston Churchill locked up in our cells!

He's awaiting my interview, sir. He's a suspect in the case.

A suspect?

A suspect? He's Winston bloody Churchill.

He's in town to deliver a lecture tonight.

He may not make his lecture, sir.

The m*rder w*apon may be a sword, and a bloody sword was found in Mr. Churchill's room.

What does he say about it?

He doesn't remember a thing. He'd been drinking.

I've been there. Trust me, Murdoch. m*rder isn't in the man.

I've read his stuff.

As have I, sir.

All of the newspapers carried his account of his escape from the Boers.

Oh, everyone goes on and on about his escape from the bloody Boers.

It's his battle stories you should read.

They send shivers down your spine.

Did you know he was in the cavalry charge at Omdurman?

400 Lancers against 3,000 crazed Dervishes.

Limbs flying everywhere. Bracing stuff!

You don't suppose he'd be willing to sign my autograph book, do you?

Reginald Mayfair and I met in the Sudan.

He was with the infantry. I was with the cavalry.

After the campaign, he emigrated to Canada.

Naturally we arranged to meet up once I arrived in Toronto.

Mr. Churchill, what can you tell us about last night?

We met at my hotel.

We had brandy and cigars.

Then we went to Reginald's club and...

That's it? That's all you remember?

Until I was awakened by your knock this morning.

The sword in your room?

I've never seen it before.

Gentlemen...

Reginald was my friend.

I would never hurt him, let alone k*ll him.

We have no reason to doubt you, Mr. Churchill.

Nevertheless, until we learn more about last night's events, you will be required to stay here.

I should cancel tonight's lecture.

Nonsense. We'll have this sorted out in no time.

Sir...

I have tickets, Murdoch.

If you remember anything, anything at all...

Of course.

Detective, I want Reginald's k*ller brought to justice.

I care more about that than proving my own innocence.

Mr. Churchill...

I've collected some notable signatures over the years and it would be a great honour...

You wish me to sign your autograph book?

If that's no trouble.

I would have thought the collection of autographs more the province of pimply boys and silly girls than a police inspector tasked with determining the identity of the man who m*rder*d my friend!

Why, you... (knocking)

Sirs.

I've compared the fingermarks on the sword to those of Mr. Churchill here.

And?

They're a match.

Impossible!

He was my friend.

Be that as it may, facts are facts.

Unless you can explain to us how that sword got into your hand, then you're looking good for the m*rder.

Perhaps I was a little hasty in suggesting that you might make that lecture tonight.

I suggest you sit back down.

He was a young man.

Not a lot of adipose tissue to insulate the corpse.

And given the nature of his wound, I think we can assume that death would have followed within minutes, if not seconds, after the blow.

And?

So assuming a constant room temperature of 70 degrees, I've determined that the fatal incident occurred between 1:30 and 2:00 last night.

And the wounds?

As you know, there were two. The one to the forearm is superficial, but it would have been bloody.

He also has some bruising around his left eye.

Suggesting he was in a fist fight.

Yes.

But given the extent of the contusion, I'd estimate that occurred at least an hour before his death.

And the fatal wound?

Yes. I think you'll find this very interesting.

The incision is two inches in width.

The w*apon entered just below the sternum, and exited between the 7th and 8th costal.

He was run through!

Whoever did this certainly meant to k*ll him.

Then we know for certain the m*rder w*apon was a sword.

Thank you.

Ah, so that's the m*rder w*apon, is it?

Possibly, sir.

But have a look at this.

If this sword was used to run the man through, wouldn't there be blood across the entire width, not just the edge?

Perhaps he wiped it clean?

Then why not wipe the entire sword?

He was drunk.

Sirs, Churchill's valet is here.

He's brought Mr. Churchill some fresh clothes.

He has a bloody valet, does he?

Sir, I can't help but notice... it seems you've turned against your hero.

I'd forgotten what an arrogant toff he actually is.

He travels with bloody servants, for God sakes.

Real men carry their own bags, Murdoch.

Uh...

Thank you, sir.

Ahem.

We met in the Sudan two years ago.

I've worked for him since that time.

During that time, have you ever known him to experience alcohol-induced memory loss?

Mr. Churchill doesn't remember anything of last night's events.

None at all?

None that he'll admit to.

Well, I will say this. If Mr. Churchill tells you he cannot remember, then you can take him at his word. He never lies.

Not even to spare one's feelings.

Um...

What can you tell me about last night's events? Not much, I am afraid. I escorted Mr. Churchill and Mr. Mayfair to the Albany Club.

Mr. Churchill dismissed me after that.

What time was this?

Approximately nine o'clock.

Thank you, Mr. Ahmadi.

The constable will take the rest of your information.

And remember, if there's anything else that you recall, please don't hesitate to contact me.

Of course.

Sir, according to guests staying next to Churchill's suite, there was loud voices and clashing sounds at around 1:45 AM.

We also have a witness who claims that she saw a man leaving Churchill's suite shortly thereafter at 2 AM.

Did she offer a description?

Only that he was n*gro.

That narrows the list.

Excuse me.

I couldn't help but overhear.

I should tell you that Mr. Churchill's boot man is n*gro.

His name is Jim Carver.

Thank you, Mr. Ahmadi.

Crabtree, find Mr. Carver.

I'd like to take a cr*ck at him. Oh, and bring the witness in as well.

Sir.

Is that the man that you saw leaving Mr. Churchill's suite last night?

Yes. That's him.

I didn't k*ll anybody.

I was just there to polish Mr. Churchill's boots.

At two o'clock in the morning?

He always likes his boots waiting for him first thing in the morning. I didn't want to have to get up that early.

Was Mr. Churchill in his room at the time?

Yes, I heard him snoring.

And you didn't notice a dead body lying on the floor?

Mr. Churchill always leaves his boots right by the door.

That's where I polished them, right out in the hallway.

What time was this?

Round about 2:30.

Not two o'clock?

No, sir. I was still out at that time.

It's not him.

I agree. He's only been in Mr. Churchill's employ for two weeks. He didn't even know Reginald Mayfair.

Well, what about the time discrepancy?

Perhaps the witness was in error. You say she identified Jim Carver as the man she saw leaving.

Yet he's adamant he didn't arrive at the hotel until 2:30.

Sirs.

Sirs, it's Mr. Churchill.

He's demanding an audience. Demanding, is he?

I'll give him bloody demanding.

Sir...

Detective. I've found a clue!

I found this in my pocket.

It's a match cover. What about it?

Look inside.

Vinwosni.

It must be a name of some sort.

What kind of name is Vinwosni?

Indian, possibly? I spent some time in India with the 4th Hussars.

We had a Vosniak, didn't we?

Yes, sir. Wosniak.

Wosniak.

Polish chap. Perhaps it's Van Wosni.

Gentlemen, we need to find this Vinwosni fellow.

He may be able to shed some light on what happened last night.

Sirs, I was unable to find anybody by the name of Vinwosni on public records.

It must mean something!

I'm beginning to wonder if it's not the name of a person, but of an exotic foreign dish, you know...

So where do we go from here?

I'll make inquiries at the gentlemen's club.

Take me with you.

Not bloody likely.

Please.

What is the benefit of keeping me behind bars while his k*ller struts about freely?

I'm Winston Churchill.

I'm hardly going to make a run for it.

Tell that to the Boers.

That was different! I was a prisoner of w*r.

Clearly I'm the most valuable witness to last night's events.

Retracing our steps might jar loose fragments of memory.

He has a point, sir.

Thank you, gentlemen.

My good man, will you be so kind as to fetch my hat and stick?

I appreciate you releasing me from jail, Detec...

Oh look, a bulldog. I always thought they should be enshrined as our national symbol.

Because of their stubborn tenacity?

No, because they look so much like our queen.

Of course, given my fondness for food and drink, I may end up looking like one myself someday.

(yapping)

Anyway, onwards.

I've been here.

Well, yes, I suppose you would have.

The Albany Club is just around the corner.

I'm inside the penumbra of memory, Detective.

It's coming back to me.

Excellent.

Ah, welcome back, Mr. Churchill.

Splendid speech, m'boy.

Gave us genuine pause, it did.

I'm sorry. I don't remember.

Mr. Churchill has no recollection of last night's events.

Oh, had a merry one, did you?

Don't worry, my boy, we've all been there. (laughter)

If memory serves, you were halfway there already.

Gentlemen, what did happen?

Reginald came in with Mr. Churchill, and Edward here shouted out: "Hail to the men who exacted Gordon's revenge."

General Gordon. He was the Governor in the Sudan back in '84.

Beheaded, he was.

By the Dervishes.

Led by the fanatical Mahdi, as I recall.

It took 13 years, but Lord Kitchener finally defeated the Dervishes at the battle of Omdurman.

Was that the revenge to which you were referring?

Nay.

It was the revenge against the Mahdi himself that we hailed you for.

But the Mahdi was already dead.

Yes, and after the battle, Kitchener raided his tomb.

Disinterred his corpse and had it thrown in the Nile.

But not before he bestowed upon Reginald the dubious honour of removing his skull.

Good Lord.

Kitchener intended to use it as an inkpot.

We all thought it splendid stuff.

Tit for tat and all that.

And I spoke against it.

You remember?

No, but it's what I would have done.

You didn't speak against it, sir. You roared! (laughter)

This act. This act you hail so heartily was barbarous.

Shameful.

It degraded not just the men who committed it... it degraded every man, woman, and child of the British Empire.

You shamed us, sir.

Yes. It was a shame we deserved.

You spoke about what it was to be British.

How an empire brings with it not only glory, but a grave responsibility to bring civilization to the world.

Barbarism is a trait which lessens us as a people.

It makes us no better than our enemies.

We are Britons. Not thugs.

We are civilization!

(cheers)

God bless me, I had tears in my eyes.

Yes. I believe even Reginald was moved.

Where is young Reggie, anyway?

He's dead. m*rder*d.

Oh, good God in heaven!

Yes, gentlemen. That is why we are here.

We're trying to piece together what happened last night.

There's not much to say, I'm afraid.

You and Reginald had cigars, had a few drinks, and then left. No hostilities?

No. Everyone seemed very jolly.

Mm-hmm.

Do you know where they went?

Did anyone follow them?

Anyone here by the name of Vinwosni?

Vinwosni? What the devil kind of name is that?

People have the impression that battle is glorious.

I myself was once invested in the same impression.

At Omdurman, we faced 50,000 Dervishes attacking in a front a half-mile wide, all cheering for God, his prophet and the Holy Khalifa.

In any other century, it would have made a terrifying spectacle.

They never stood a chance.

a*tillery and maxim g*ns tore them to pieces.

They never got closer than 50 yards.

Kitchener then ex*cuted the wounded and dying.

There was no glory in that victory.

What next, Detective? We can't knock on every door in Toronto and ask if Reginald and I dropped in last night.

No. No, we can't. Oh.

Perhaps a newspaper.

Ah, good idea.

An advertisement. "50 dollars for information on the happenstance of Winston Churchill and his chum... "

No, no. There was an article yesterday proclaiming your arrival to Toronto.

Perhaps there's also something about what you were up to last night.

Ah.

Bit of a step down from the front page.

"A society party thrown by Mrs. Gertrude Miller was enlivened greatly by the arrival... "

Who is Gertrude Miller?

She's one of Toronto's leading temperance advocates.

She just lives on Jarvis, around the corner.

Brilliant, Detective.

Let's go.

Anything?

(laughter)

Mr. Churchill.

Have you come to apologize?

If... necessary.

I believe I've had quite enough of your apologies, thank you.

Show them the door.

Well. I confess I'm even more curious about what happened last night.

What, the slap didn't jar your memory?

Can't we bring her to the station and extract the information directly?

Her fingernails should be easy to pull out.

No. We have an even better witness.

What else can you tell us, Mr. Purcell?

Well, I was just there to cover the party.

I wasn't expecting to get much copy out of it.

Then you walked through the door.

Why would I attend a temperance party?

Well, I believe you'd been invited.

At any rate, you and your friend came in half-drunk, and when you learned there was no liquor, you bribed the footman into fetching a bottle of whiskey.

And what was Mrs. Miller's reaction to that?

Well, that's when the fun started.

Mr. Churchill.

You've brought whiskey to my party?

I had no choice, madam. There was none here when we arrived.

I'll have you know that abstention is the philosophy of this house.

I'm sorry. I was unaware.

Unaware?

In my experience, houses are not generally capable of philosophy.

But it doesn't surprise me, given their lack of intellect, that the best they could muster would be abstention.

Does not the Bible teach us that alcohol is the enemy to virtue?

Does not the same Bible also teach us the virtue of loving our enemies?

I must insist that you put down that drink at once.

Very well.

Mr. Churchill, you insult me.

Madam, I insulted only your bovine philosophy.

If I intended to insult you, I would have called attention to your bovine intellect.

But I did insult your house, and, for that slip of the tongue, I apologize.

(gasping)

(chuckling)

Well, that solves one mystery.

What happened after that?

Well, you both left...

Rather promptly.

Where did they go?

I'm sorry, I have no idea.

Julia.

William.

I thought you might be interested to know that Darcy and I are due to see the Judge tomorrow.

About your annulment.

But I thought that wasn't until next month?

Darcy wanted it done before his trip. To allow the gossip a chance to dissipate in his absence.

So this time tomorrow...

I'll be a free woman.

Detective, I wonder if I might trouble you for a word. Mr. Churchill, how wonderful to see you again!

Julia, you've met Mr. Churchill before?

Last night.

Berty and Lois took me out to their club and Mr. Churchill was there.

Or are you still going by the name Reginald Mayfair?

Unfortunately, Reginald has been k*lled.

Oh, how dreadful.

I was calling myself Mayfair?

Your friend thought that given your fame, it would be better to sully his name than yours.

Do you know what became of them?

I have no memory of last night.

Mr. Churchill and Mr. Mayfair were having a grand time impersonating one another.

It was all good fun until the incident.

The incident?

Gertrude Miller's husband showed up just as we were all leaving.

(laughter) Mr. Miller?

Which one of you is Churchill?

That would be me.

(shouting)

I'll k*ll you! I will!

Right.

We'll have to have a little chat with Mr. Miller.

So you admit to punching Mr. Mayfair.

I thought he'd insulted my wife.

For God sakes, I didn't k*ll the man.

Is he our man?

Well, he certainly has the motive.

Sirs, Doctor, we contacted Mrs. Miller. According to her, Mr. Miller came home directly after the incident and was with her the rest of the night.

Well, she would say that, wouldn't she?

Still, it will be a hard alibi to break.

I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I don't think it was him.

His wife had been insulted.

He felt the need to defend her honour.

He did so by punching the man he thought responsible.

His anger should have been ameliorated, not intensified.

I have to agree.

So where does that leave us?

Right back where we started, I'm afraid.

With Churchill as our number one suspect.

Well, that suits me fine.

Sir, the few times I've... imbibed a little too much, I must admit to a patchy memory.

But forgetting an entire evening?

Could he have been drugged?

It's possible.

He could also be suffering from what is known as traumatic amnesia.

Because he witnessed the m*rder of his friend.

And the reality was so abhorrent to him, that his unconscious mind has blocked out all memory of it.

If that is the case, then the memory is still there.

You just have to unlock it.

How do we do that?

We'd need him to re-experience anything associated with last night.

If he has any sensation of familiarity, ask him the first word that comes to mind.

Sir, here is everything we found in Mr. Churchill's suite as of this morning.

Thank you, George.

Mr. Churchill, look closely at this.

What's the first word that comes to mind? Shame.

Shame?

It's a good cigar. Shame it was wasted.

Mr. Churchill...

It was the first thought that entered my head.

Try again.

Concentrate on the cigar.

Relax your mind and say the first Match.

Light. Smoke rings. A cigar is just a bloody cigar.

Sir. Look here. Paper matches.

This is the type they sell at Murphy's pub.

Murphy's pub?

Do you recognize the name?

I don't know.

What's the first word that comes to mind?

Rule.

Rule?

Britannia.

You again!

You've got a bloody nerve coming back in here again.

Gentlemen, gentlemen, Toronto Constabulary.

Still hiding behind John Law, are ya?

Alright, back off, all of you.

I'll have no more trouble.

What trouble?

Why don't you ask him?

I don't remember.

Not surprised.

You were falling-down drunk. As was your jelly-boned friend.

(laughing) Bartender.

A whiskey for my friend and another for me.

Oy.

This here is an Irish pub.

Make that two Irish whiskeys.

You're not welcome here, friend.

Oh, you're not my friend. But the rest of these men are.

Drinks on the house! (cheers)

Things calmed down for a bit after that.

Until Reagan started singing his bloody rebel songs.

♪ Go back home ♪

* Ye bloody British *

♪ Go back home from whence ye came ♪
♪ And never set your bloody boots ♪
♪ On Ireland again ♪
♪ Rule Britannia ♪
♪ Britannia rules the waves ♪

(all singing at the same time)

Enough!

No more singing.

Get back to your seats.

And that's where it might have ended, but you... had to open your big trap.

You should feel honoured toto be part of the greatest empire the world has seen.

Honoured? Where is the honour in being conquered?

Better to be the arm of a great beast than the scat it leaves behind.

Are you calling Ireland scat?

Perhaps you're not familiar with the concept of metaphor.

Run. Now!

And that's the last I saw of them.

The rest of us chased them down Queen Street, until they took refuge behind a copper, still singing Rule bloody Britannia.

What happened then?

(chuckling) The copper arrested them.

Here it is. 12:45 AM.

They were here. In our cells?

I thought there was something familiar about this place.

The arresting officer was...

Jackson!

Did you arrest this man last night?

Yeah, him and his friend.

Bloody hell.

It was for their own good. Singing Rule Britannia in Corktown? They were looking for a b*ating.

How long were they here?

I kept them in until the bars closed and then I released them with a strict warning. No more singing.

What then?

I went back on patrol.

Did you see where they went?

Last I saw they was heading up Parliament Street.

Parliament Street.

Does that sound familiar?

Say the first thing that comes to mind.

Vinwosni.

There's that name again. I wasn't thinking about it. It just came out.

Maybe this Vinwosni fellow lives on that street.

Oh, ho, ho!

Back to work, Jackson.

There's an after-hours speakeasy called Insomnia.

What the devil is he doing?

Just wait and see, Mr. Churchill.

We keep shutting it down.

But, it keeps popping back up with a different sign. This time, they've inverted the name.

You.

Where's my bloody swords?

Officer swords? Brass hilt?

He knows what they look like. Those are my Grandpa's swords.

He used them in the w*r of 1812. And they've got sentimental value, mate.

Those swords were taken as evidence.

They were used in the commission of a crime.

Would that crime be m*rder?

Why would you ask that?

Well, the way you and your friend were going at it last night, I figured one of you would k*ll the other. Ain't that right, Al?

Yup.

Tell me everything you remember about last night.

Barkeep. Some whiskey, if you please.

You no sooner sat down than you started in arguing.

About what?

About some gal named...

Maddie.

Your friend had done something terrible to her.

But felt he was justified on account of what she had done to his friend, Gordon.

That about sum it up, Al?

Yup.

Reginald and I often debated the desecration of the Mahdi's tomb.

We'd never come to blows over it.

Oh, it didn't end there.

Then he started jibbing you about your mother.

My mother?

Yeah, your mother.

All I'm saying is she has a reputation, old boy.

She's getting married to a man half her age. What does that tell you?

That love is not determined by the year of one's birth.

Well, it tells me she needed someone who could keep up with her.

w*apon of choice, sir.

Are you... challenging me to a duel?

Hey, hey, hey! What are you doing?!

Then what?

Then they left... and they took my bloody swords with them.

Take me in, Detective.

It would appear that I am the man we are seeking.

Julia.

What is it?

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't lie.

Julia, please speak plainly to me.

The judge didn't grant the annulment.

Why not?

Oh, William, it was all my fault.

He asked me, under oath, if we'd consummated our marriage.

And I couldn't do it. I couldn't lie.

I couldn't do that to Darcy.

I see.

But Darcy says he'll consider a divorce.

A divorce.

Does it really make a difference?

We can still be together. We can legally marry.

But not in the eyes of God.

Then damn God, William.

You know I've been intimate with men.

And now I'm going to be divorced. You know this!

Julia, please...

This is who I am.

This is the woman you say you love!

This isn't easy...

I can deal with the legal matters. You work it out with your God.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Hell of a thing to k*ll your own friend and not even remember it.

Then again, maybe it's best not to remember something like that.

The memory loss could be caused by something called traumatic amnesia.

Few things would be more traumatic. It's a shame.

I had a feeling this Churchill fellow was going places.

Detective. Do you have a minute?

Before I closed the Y-incision, I thought I would weigh the liver.

Not strictly necessary, given the cause of death was obvious.

But I was curious to see the immediate effects on the liver of a bout of heavy drinking.

Go on.

And that's when I noticed that the stomach was nicked.

I thought at first I had done it myself during the excision. But just to be sure, I decided to track the passage of the sword through the body.

I'd thought about doing that anyway.

Not very often one gets a chance to track a sword wound.

Go on...

I'll show you.

The sword entered here and exited here.

Detective. The top of the stomach sits here.

So how did this sword nick a stomach that was sitting at least an inch lower than the bottom of the blade?

It couldn't have.

Exactly.

It is my conclusion that the sword that k*lled Mr. Mayfair was curved.

Now you think he's bloody innocent?

Mr. Churchill's sword was not the m*rder w*apon.

Then how did it get blood on it?

I believe the two men did have a duel which ended with Mr. Mayfair's arm being cut.

The spillage of blood no doubt sobered the men up.

And then someone else came in after them, with a different sword?

Yes.

How many bloody swords are there in Toronto, Murdoch?

So we're back where we started.

In fact, we're back where we started before we started.

I'd like to return to the Palace Hotel with Mr. Churchill.

To what end?

Perhaps I can jar his memory.

If he is suffering from traumatic amnesia, then perhaps he was a witness to the m*rder.

Does anything come to mind, Mr. Churchill?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Sir.

Have a look at this.

It appears to be some sort of writing.

It seems to have blended into the wallpaper.

Why would somebody bother writing something so difficult to see?

Because, George when this was written it would have been bright red. It's blood.

It's since dried to the same colour as the wallpaper.

I'm going to need my ultraviolet light.

Blood, even dried blood, fluoresces under ultraviolet light.

Why blood?

Not just blood.

Urine, semen...

Scorpions... for some reason.

George, if you could get the lights.

Om... Omdurman.

Maybe the k*ller was taking revenge for what happened at the battle of Omdurman.

Or perhaps for the defiling of the Mahdi's tomb. Reginald played a part in that.

Who would know this?

Everybody at the Albany club.

But who at that club would give a tuppence for the bloody Mahdi?

But the British Empire is not what defines us as British.

Not to be praised, or honoured...

Your valet was there.

The Arab fellow?

My God.

Gentlemen.

Ahmadi is a Nile Arab.

I met him in Khartoum.

What is more, he's a Mohammedan.

When Kitchener defiled the tomb, he defiled Islam.

Any Mohammedan would have been enraged.

Let's have a little chat with him.

I'm a Mohammedan, yes, but I'm not a fanatic. I'm not a Mahdist.

You're from the Sudan, are you not?

No. I am Egyptian.

Really?

According to Mr. Churchill, you met him in Khartoum.

Yes, but I am from Cairo.

Look at my face. Do I look like a Nubian?

What do you think?

He's right, sir.

Most Sudanese Arabs have n*gro features.

Hold it, Murdoch.

Our witness said she saw a n*gro man leaving Churchill's suite.

But she identified the boot man as the man she saw leaving.

She probably thinks one looks just like another.

It wasn't the boot man she saw leaving.

It was the k*ller.

All I'm saying is she has a reputation, old boy.

Love is not determined by the year of one's birth. She's getting married to a man half her age.

There was a n*gro man at the speakeasy.

He would have overheard the argument about the desecration of Mahdi's tomb.

He would know that Mayfair was responsible.

He could have put the knockout drug in Mr. Churchill's drink.

Odd that Churchill never thought to mention him.

He fought against the Sudanese.

He would have known what they looked like.

You're right, sir, that is odd.

George. Sir.

Where is Mr. Churchill now?

He said he wanted to return the swords to their rightful owner.

Bloody hell.

I've come to bring the swords back.

Keef Halak.

I knew it was you.

I could tell by your face.

Were you at Omdurman? I was.

I've come to bring you to justice.

You can come willingly... or you can try to stop me.

All right! Stop!

Dammit, man! I almost k*lled you!

Put down your swords.

I'll stop if he stops. I doubt he will... he'll hang either way.

So the way I see it. This is self-defence.

This is revenge.

Call it what you like, old boy.

Enough! (g*nsh*t)

k*ll him and you're dead.

I am dead anyway.

This is for my people, whom you degraded and slaughtered.

For your insult to the Mahdi and Allah.

The man you're about to k*ll spoke out against what happened at the battle of Omdurman.

He praised the Mahdi. Called him a priest, a soldier and a patriot. You're quoting my book!

Now, you can choose to die as a man of honour or as a m*rder*r. Your choice.

This fight is not over.

He fought with the Mahdi.

He was there when Kitchener desecrated the tomb.

What the hell is he doing here?

He k*lled one of the officers responsible.

He escaped through French North Africa, boarded a merchant ship, landed here in Toronto where he took up a job as a barman.

And a year later another toffy-nosed Redcoat comes waltzing through his door, bragging about how he's turned his Messiah's skull into an inkpot.

What are the odds on that?

I suppose remote enough that he considered it a calling from God that his work was unfinished.

I've just time to make my lecture.

Inspector, if you'd like me to sign that autograph book of yours...

What, and join the ranks of silly girls and pimply boys?

Inspector, of all the insults I've uttered in the last 24 hours, that is the one I wish I could forget.

If you still feel my signature worthy of inclusion, I'd be honoured.

Very well, if you insist.

Well, you've had an eventful stay, Mr. Churchill. Perhaps material for your memoirs someday.

I rather think I'll restrict my memoirs to the events I actually remember, Detective.

This hasn't exactly been my finest hour.

Good God. Look at these signatures.

Nikola Tesla, Harry Houdini, Buffalo Bill, Arthur Conan Doyle.

Is this the signature of the Prime Minister?

I'm not sure I am worthy, Inspector.

Ah, give it a scribble.

Who knows. Maybe you'll be Prime Minister yourself someday. (chuckling)

I wish you peace and good fortune, gentlemen.

It was a pleasure.

Until we meet again.

What did he write?

"To the man who made the rest of my life possible. Winston Churchill."

Let's hope he makes good use of it.

Five, four, three, two, one, good. That's enough for now.

William.

Julia.

I will stand by you.

If you divorce, I will marry you.

And your faith, how will you reconcile that?

I'll accept the consequences of my decision.

No matter what the Church says, I refuse to believe that love, any love, could be wrong.

And I love you.

And I you.