07x12 - Unfinished Business

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Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen.

Mother Isidora, you called for me?

He's taken a turn for the worse.

He's burning up with fever, and he's been severely distressed.

It's only natural, given his situation.

We're doing everything we can to make him comfortable.

It's not his physical discomfort I'm talking about.

It's his moral distress.

Something is weighing on his conscience.

That's more your realm than mine.

Father Ronan should be by in the morning.

That's why I called for you.

He doesn't want a priest; he wants a policeman.

Call them.

In the name of God, this must be made right.

I k*lled her.

(man snoring softly)

Mr. Roundhill.

Mr. Roundhill, I'm Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary. You asked for a policeman.

Police?

How did you know?

You asked for me to come.

You said that you had a confession to make.

A m*rder. A m*rder.

What m*rder, Mr. Roundhill?

I listened to the devil.

I did what I had to do.

I... I k*lled her.

Who did you k*ll?

Evelyn's blood is on my hands.

Who is Evelyn?

My wife.

Find her body, buried at Monarch Lake on the south side, near a stand of trees.

It was supposed to be so easy, yet so wrong.

I hit her in the head with a rock, my hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, but I wasn't strong enough.

I used her coat to suffocate her.

So slow.

And her eyes...

What have I done?

Mr. Roundhill, why?

Why did you k*ll her?

That's all for now, Detective.

You need to let him rest.

I suspect there'll be no rest for this man.

Sir, we're at the roots.

This hole is just like all the others.

Sir, this soil hasn't been disturbed in 50 years.

Maybe your man really was delusional.

I don't know, George.

At the time, he seemed quite lucid, so very certain.

I'm certain I'm going to expire if I shovel another spadeful, sir.

The hospital staff seemed to think that his wife disappeared about eight years ago.

Perhaps he got confused on some of the details.

All right, George, a few more minutes of digging and then we'll take a rest.

All right, lads, one more hole.

Uh, here.

Sir.

You see, George? Good things come to those who wait.

Sir, who buries women's clothing?

Whoever buried the woman they belonged to.

Gentlemen.

Hold it.

Gentlemen, I believe we've just made the acquaintance of Mrs. Roundhill.

I bet you wish every case had such a simple resolution.

A confession and a description of where he buried the body.

Cheeky bugger even packed her a suitcase to make it look like she was leaving him.

Hm. It certainly seems to have fallen into our laps.

Seems?

Sir, we should positively identify the body.

I've re-examined our skeletal friend against Mrs. Roundhill's medical records.

I can say there's little doubt that this is the poor lady in question.

The records say she suffered a broken humerus three months before her disappearance.

The position of the injury matches precisely.

As well, this gold tooth was also in her records.

According to Mr. Roundhill, it would have taken her some time to die.

Quite the opposite. I expect she d*ed quickly.

The hyoid bone was fractured quite cleanly, perhaps by some type of ligature, a wire or a small rope.

Death would have been quick.

According to Mr. Roundhill's confession, he hit her in the head with a rock, then tried to strangle her.

After being unable to apply enough pressure, he suffocated her with her own coat.

Unlikely. From my inspection, I didn't find any damage to the cranium.

Well, that's odd.

As I said, Detective, this is definitely Mrs. Roundhill.

Thank you, Dr. Grace.

You can't do things the easy way, can you?

Why not file the report, close the case, and accept the accolades?

It's simple, Murdoch.

She didn't die in the manner he described.

So what? He's half-raving as it is.

But, sir, it's an inconsistency.

Well, then talk to him again. He may have made a mistake.

Given his mental state, it's a surprise he can even remember which province he's in.

Excuse me.

Yes?

I need to question Mr. Roundhill again. Where might he be?

Hades, I imagine.

I beg your pardon?

Mr. Roundhill is dead.

Not entirely unexpected.

He was at the end of his resources.

The reward for a life of debauchery.

Could you explain?

He d*ed of neurosyphilis.

His brain was eaten from the inside.

Detective, much of what he told you could have been pure delusion.

Undoubtedly.

Except that a woman's body is lying in the city morgue, suggesting that at least some of it must be true.

Good day.

Thank you for coming so quickly, Father.

Oh, you're welcome, although I'm not sure how a country priest could help the Toronto Constabulary.

Is one of my flock in trouble?

As a matter of fact, one has been, well, m*rder*d.

Do you recall a parishioner named Evelyn Roundhill?

Oh. I so hoped...

Are you sure?

You knew her well?

Mrs. Roundhill was a deeply pious person.

She helped the poor, organized women's groups, a stalwart of the parish community.

Did no one think it strange when she disappeared?

I had hoped she'd got away, found a new life, found peace.

(sigh)

Her husband was a very complicated man.

He had a weakness of character that no amount of money or romantic liaisons would fill.

Mrs. Roundhill knew of these liaisons?

We spoke of it.

It was a loveless and abusive relationship.

Privately, I suspected he was the one who had broken her arm a few months before she had disappeared.

Did the rest of the parish know of their troubles?

To all appearances, the Roundhills maintained a very civil front.

He bought her gifts, and then took his affections elsewhere.

She never spoke of leaving him?

Nor would she grant Mr. Roundhill the divorce he wanted.

When did you last see her?

Easter Sunday, 1893.

When she missed a prayer meeting the next day, I knew she was gone.

I allowed myself to believe that she might have found happiness elsewhere.

Perhaps she has.

I'm Miss Dignan. How can I help you?

Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary.

I have some questions regarding your former employer, Jeffrey Roundhill.

Certainly.

You understand, though, there are a thousand details to attend to with his passing.

Of course.

As long as you're not too busy to assist in a m*rder investigation.

m*rder?

I understood Mr. Roundhill to have d*ed from his illness.

He did, but not before confessing to a m*rder he committed in his past.

Mr. Roundhill was many things, but he was not a m*rder*r.

Who are you suggesting he k*lled?

He confessed to k*lling his wife.

I'll be needing statements from the rest of the staff as well.

He was ill. He was delusional.

His condition was not a secret to me.

I've taken his condition into account, Miss Dignan.

The truth is, Mr. Roundhill led us straight to his wife's body.

Well, he didn't do it.

He was in Winnipeg on the day his wife disappeared.

I can show you his itinerary.

I would very much like to see that, along with the rest of his correspondence.

Ok.

Ah. You can't leave well enough alone, can you?

There are witnesses, sir.

Constable Crabtree wired Roundhill's associates in Winnipeg, and he was indeed there April 2nd, Easter Sunday, the day his wife disappeared.

So he didn't do it?

I'm afraid not.

Then he hired someone.

If that's the case, how was able to recall the m*rder with such detail?

Guilt and time do funny things to a mind, especially one that's been half ruined by disease.

I don't know, sir.

At the time of the confession, he was quite lucid.

All right then, Murdoch, you tell me.

Why would Roundhill confess to a m*rder that he didn't commit?

And if Roundhill didn't k*ll his wife... then who did?

William, I must confess, I've been desperate to come here ever since they've engaged the new chef.

I hear he's from Paris, France.

Just look at this menu.

The soup is a consommé Sévigné, The fish, a choice between the casserolette of scallops à la Newburg... or cold lobster à la Châtillon.

And for dessert, the Charlotte Russe!

Or maybe that. What is that?

What are you going to have?

Oh, um, I don't know. The beef?

(She giggles.)

William, something other than fine cuisine and my charming self has clearly taken your attention.

Not at all, Julia.

If whatever case has its teeth in you is interesting enough to distract you from lobster à la Châtillon, it must be fascinating.

A dying man confessed to murdering his wife, and I found the body exactly where he said he buried it.

And?

He wasn't in the city at the time of the m*rder.

What?

He was in Winnipeg.

He hired someone.

Possibly. But he described committing the m*rder in great detail himself.

But his wife, the body I found, d*ed in a completely different manner.

Perhaps it was a false confession.

Presupposing you didn't force it out of him, he could have been protecting someone.

He didn't need to.

The m*rder occurred eight years ago.

He could have taken it to his grave and no one would have been the wiser.

Coercion then. Someone compelled him.

What leverage could someone possibly have against a dying man to make him confess to a crime?

He had no heirs, no loved ones to thr*aten, no need of money.

If only I could have heard his confession.

There are often clues that point to a subject's inner motivations.

I can arrange that.

What? I thought you said he d*ed.

I recorded the entire confession.

You could listen to it... or we could have dinner.

(She laughs.) Dinner can wait.

And I promise to honour this engagement at a later date.

Of course you will. I have no intention of missing a good Charlotte Russe.

Julia.

Detective Murdoch.

Mr. Garland.

Leslie, how lovely to see you.

How was dinner? I hear their chef just arrived from France.

(both): We didn't eat.

Oh.

Well, it's fortuitous that I saw you here.

I promised to take you to the opera tomorrow night, but I'm afraid I won't be able to make it.

Well, I'm sorry to hear that.

Julia, please, take the tickets.

I'd hate to see them go to waste.

It's Rigoletto, by Verdi.

That's very kind of you, Leslie.

Perhaps the detective will accompany me.

Oh.

I will drop them off tomorrow.

Thank you, Mr. Garland.

Oh, and a fine table has just opened up.

(All chuckle.) Good evening.

I listened to the devil.

I did what I had to do.

I k*lled her.

Who did you k*ll?

Evelyn's blood is on my hands.

Who is Evelyn.

My wife. Find her body, buried at Monarch Lake on the south side, near a stand of trees.

(Murdoch stops the recording.)

Despite the fevered tone, it does sound like fractured memory rather than delusion.

Listen to this next part, Julia... so passionate and so detailed.

It was supposed to be so easy, yet so wrong.

I hit her in the head with a rock, my hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, but I wasn't strong enough.

I used her coat to suffocate her. So slow.

And her eyes...

What have I done?

How does a man, even one so delusional, sound so contrite about a m*rder he couldn't possibly have committed?

Julia?

The k*lling he's describing... perhaps it wasn't his wife's m*rder.

There's something familiar in the detail.

What is it?

William, come with me.

The m*rder was eight years ago, correct?

Yes.

The year I became a coroner, and the year I met you.

Julia, are you going to tell me what we're looking for?

Not what. Who.

Amelia Johnston. Remember?

Oh, of course.

m*rder*d April 12th, 1893. The victim suffered a contusion to the right side of the cranium, enough to cr*ck the bone, but non-lethal.

As well, there were markings around the throat which appeared to be from an attempted strangling.

But not strong enough to k*ll her.

And what finished her off...

Suffocation.

Fibers from the victim's own coat being found in her airway.

Exactly as described by Jeffrey Roundhill in his confession.

Amelia Johnston's m*rder was one of the first cases we worked on together.

Yes, I remember.

I believed her husband k*lled her to gain control of their company.

We could never prove it.

It appears I was wrong, and that Jeffrey Roundhill is responsible.

Hm.

What is it?

George Crabtree should watch himself.

It appears Dr. Grace is the subject of the attentions of Leslie Garland.

This is his stationery.

And this is Dr. Grace's personal correspondence.

William, it's not as if I was going to read it.

Would you have if I hadn't been here?

Well, there's someone I'm going to have to speak with.

You have a lot of a nerve.

I told you I never wanted to see you again.

Accusing me of murdering my wife, slandering my good name.

I recall the events, sir.

What am I doing here?

I have some questions for you.

Really.

Detective Murdoch will not talk to my brother without my attendance. Raymond, don't say anything.

My brother and I have nothing to say to you.

Mr. Johnston, I believe I have discovered who k*lled your wife.

You what?

A man named Jeffrey Roundhill made a deathbed confession about a m*rder, the details of which match your wife's m*rder.

Well, who the hell was he? How did he know my wife?

He was a manufacturer from Caledon.

You don't recognize the name?

Of course not.

He just said as much.

Did your wife have reason to visit Caledon?

My wife was a city girl. She wouldn't have been caught dead out in the country. Why do you ask?

Are you finished?

Or are you going to continue trying to impugn my brother's dead wife's character?

I'm simply trying to ascertain the connection between Mr. Roundhill and your wife.

He k*lled her. How's that for a connection?

Mr. Johnston, I am speaking to your brother.

One would think that you would be quite interested in finding out who's responsible for her death.

Let's go, Raymond.

Oh, Detective Murdoch, aren't you forgetting something?

You accused Raymond of murdering his wife, hounded him for months.

Is an apology not in order?

My feelings were quite hurt.

I apologize for wrongfully accusing you of your wife's m*rder.

There, that didn't hurt, did it?

Raymond, don't talk to the police without me around.

You apologized?

I didn't have much choice, sir.

You were like a dog with a bone.

Yet despite being a bloated arrogant gob-shite, he not a m*rder*r.

No, apparently not.

But why would Jeffrey Roundhill have wanted Amelia Johnston dead?

There has to be some sort of connection between the two of them.

Well, carry on, Murdoch.

Sir.

Fine job, son.

cr*ck on.

What have you, George?

Sir, I've never encountered two people less connected than Jeffrey Roundhill and Amelia Johnston.

According to Mrs. Johnston's friends, she almost never left the city.

Gentlemen. I was just curious as to how our case was progressing.

Dr. Ogden has a keen interest in seeing this case resolved.

Call it unfinished business for the Detective and me.

I see.

That's why we were wondering if you have any leads. Unfortunately, sir, very little. According to Mr. Roundhill's journal, almost all of his business was in Winnipeg. He was rarely in Toronto, and the couple of times that he was here, he was in "entertainment establishments."

Houses of ill-repute. Pardon me, Doctor.

Yes, well, that would explain how he contracted the disease that ended his life.

But how would he have come into contact with Amelia Johnston?

Both men's wives are m*rder*d within two weeks of each other.

Both men had ample motive for k*lling their wives.

And yet each was out of town at the time of his wife's demise.

It's almost too much of a coincidence.

Unless it's no coincidence at all.

Sir, if Jeffrey Roundhill k*lled Amelia Johnston, could Raymond Johnston have k*lled Roundhill's wife?

Why?

Perhaps a contract between the two men.

Some sort of pact.

You still have it in for him.

Sir, I admit, I have never liked the man.

I've always believed that he was guilty of his wife's m*rder.

And it's possible I may have been right all along.

Mr. Roundhill talked about a deal with the devil.

He knew he'd done something wrong.

He tried to make it right on the deathbed.

Think of it, sir. Two men from different cities, seemingly unconnected, make a pact, k*ll each other's wife. Who would ever make the connection?

You must appreciate the symmetry of the theory.

(Brackenreid laughs.)

You two.

You have a theory, nothing more.

If you intend to follow through on this line of investigation, you'd better have some solid proof before you go after Johnston again.

Sir, if Johnston is guilty, he won't get away from us this time.

George, we need to modify our search.

There may be no connection between Jeffrey Roundhill and Amelia Johnston, but there may be one between Roundhill and Raymond Johnston.

The two men?

Why would they be connected?

It's possible Mr. Roundhill and Mr. Johnston k*lled each other's wife.

So, Roundhill strangled Johnston's wife because Johnston strangled his?

Technically, she was suffocated.

But I believe it wasn't in retribution; more that the men made a pact.

Sir, I've researched both families extensively... they don't have much in common.

They could have met through business or a club or alumni organization.

Yes, or while travelling on a ship or a train.

Or a bordello.

Exactly.

It seems unlikely to me. I mean, two men meet for the first time and make an agreement to k*ll each other's wives?

What's the opening line in that conversation?

You're right, George. For the two men to have made such an agreement, they would have had to have known each other quite well.

Any connection between the two could serve as the key to exposing the truth.

Do your best.

Sir.

George?

Doctor?

I haven't seen Dr. Grace in a while. How is she keeping?

To tell you the truth, Doctor, I haven't seen her in a while myself.

Oh.

I see.

W...

Hello, Constable Crabtree.

Mr. Garland. I was just here to see Dr. Grace, but it seems she's gone to lunch.

Oh, that's unfortunate.

What are you doing here?

I have opera tickets for the doctor.

Mr. Garland, you know I'm courting Dr. Grace.

I think it's hardly inappropriate that you'd be asking her to the opera.

Yes, that would be inappropriate.

These tickets are for Dr. Ogden.

The detective is taking her to see Rigoletto in my place this evening, and I was just on my way to the station-house to drop them off.

Rigoletto is a fine play.

I haven't seen it myself, but I hear it's a fine play.

Oh, I'm hoping so, for the doctor's sake...

Dr. Ogden, that is.

Right, of course.

Good afternoon, Constable Crabtree.

Mr. Garland.

What the devil do you think you're doing?

We have a warrant for your records.

For what crime?

I'm not at liberty to say.

So, you're accusing me of murdering my wife. Again.

I didn't say that, Mr. Johnston.

Then why do you want my records?

It's part of my investigation.

What is going on here? Stop this right now.

We have a warrant.

This is harassment, plain and simple.

This is nothing more than a police investigation.

One would think you would be quite curious to find out why a seemingly complete stranger m*rder*d your wife.

Good day, gentlemen.

Sir, have a look at this. April 2nd, 1893, the day Evelyn Roundhill was k*lled.

Her husband was in Winnipeg, but Mr. Johnston was in Toronto, and he'd booked off business appointments the whole week.

Perhaps an opportunity to fulfill his part of the pact.

Or just a man taking a week off work.

Quite right, George. Just because the man's time is unaccounted for doesn't mean he was anywhere near Evelyn Roundhill.

Have you had any luck finding that connection?

Doctor, there's nothing.

Mr. Johnston was born and raised in Toronto; Roundhill in Caledon.

And they went to different universities.

Religious affiliation?

Roundhill was a lapsed Catholic, Johnston was an Orangeman.

Business connections?

Roundhill was in ladies' foundation wear.

Johnston was in the mining business, coal and coke mostly.

What about travel?

Well, sir, they both travelled for business, but so far as I can tell, they were never in the same place at the same time.

Roundhill made regular trips to Winnipeg, but Johnston was mostly in Montreal, rural Quebec.

Sir, I've even gone through lists of their friends and acquaintances to see if there's a shared contact that may have introduced them.

There's nothing.

Well, perhaps we can try...

Murdoch!

My office, now!

Carry on, George.

Sir.

Amelia Johnston was one of the first m*rder*d women on my table. Her case has haunted me ever since.

If her husband really arranged for her m*rder...

We'll find it, Doctor.

We'll find it.

My brother may not be the sharpest Kn*fe in the drawer, but he is a good man and he's certainly no k*ller.

He's also not above investigation.

I'd agree with you if you had a shred of evidence, but you don't!

All you have is a detective compelled to find guilt where there is none.

Sir, I...

A lawsuit, against you and the entire Toronto Constabulary!

You are to stop harassing my brother.

I haven't harassed anyone.

You are interviewing our clients, implying Raymond is a m*rder*r!

I'm simply conducting a police investigation.

Yet you've admitted you've already found Amelia's k*ller.

Maybe if I knew what you were looking for, we might reconsider this lawsuit.

The Constabulary does not discuss open investigations, sir.

You are on a single-minded mission you began eight years ago: to destroy my brother's reputation, his business, and his life!

Good day.

George is still looking for a connection between the two.

Are you certain that Johnston is involved in this?

If he isn't, then the truth will exonerate him.

We'll find the proof we need.

Make sure you're right, Murdoch, or else we're all in trouble.

I'd wager you didn't hear a note of the music tonight.

Oh, I'm sorry, Julia.

It's just I can't help thinking about what this lawsuit means.

You said the inspector approved of you continuing with the case.

Yes, I'm not worried about myself, but the lawsuit itself means we're getting close to something.

A connection?

Possibly, but I am yet to find it.

I hope the great Detective Murdoch isn't ready to give up.

We'll find it, William.

We, Julia?

Yes, we.

Dr. Grace.

George.

Thought you might fancy a walk home.

I'm... I'm actually still working.

Of course, my... my coat. I... I was just chilly in here.

Well, should I come back?

Maybe we could go out on the town.

That's very nice of you, but I'm rather tired.

Well, good evening, then.

Good night, George.

If there's a connection between the two, there has to be a record of it here somewhere... some sort of hint as to where their paths crossed.

Well, he was thorough. He packed everything a woman would need to go on a trip.

It's a pity this chapeau was ruined.

It's quite a fine hat.

And expensive.

It's from one of the finest milliners in the country...

Danielle's of Montreal.

Montreal?

Where does it say that?

The label says Danielle's Millinery.

There's only one shop: in Montreal.

But Mrs. Roundhill was a homebody.

She rarely set foot outside of Caledon.

You said her husband bought her gifts to assuage his guilt.

But according to George's research, Roundhill was never in Montreal.

According to the records.

Raymond Johnston did business in La Belle Province.

What if they were both there at the same time?

Julia, you are brilliant!

It's a tenuous link, William.

Yes, but links turn into chains. Thank you.

(She giggles.)

Danielle's Millinery?

On Ste. Catherine Street. Thank you.

Millinery? A gift for Dr. Ogden, Murdoch?

I certainly hope so.

Oui, bonjour, j'ai déjà appelé au sujet d'un chapeau vendus en 1893. Oui, c'est ça.

Vendus à M. Roundhill.

En personne?

Le 15 mars.

Merci beaucoup.

Bonne journée.

(Brackenreid chuckles.)

Roundhill purchased the hat in person on March the 15th Where was he supposed to have been then?

He attended a conference in New York and took a train home.

Let's check the train schedules.

Thank you very much.

There was construction on the line between March 14th and 16th. All the trains were re-routed through Montreal.

Montreal?

Julia, according to Raymond Johnston's appointments, he was in Quebec the week of March 13th visiting equipment suppliers. We've got them!

Well, William, it's a long way from knowing they were in the same province to putting them together to plan a double m*rder.

That's a bit pessimistic.

We're well on our way to solving this.

Yes. All we have to do is figure out where men usually meet and plan to m*rder their wives.

Hm.

Hotel? A tavern?

That's too prosaic. I imagine they met at a place where strangers find themselves thrown together.

Perhaps not by choice.

Here's something curious. Mr. Roundhill had a number of appointments scratched off his ledger on the three days following his New York trip.

He cancelled them.

Perhaps he stayed on in Montreal.

(Dignan): No, these aren't good enough.

(knocking on door) (Murdoch): Miss Dignan.

Detective.

What brings you back here?

A number of appointments were cancelled in Mr. Roundhill's book the week of March 13th, after his trip to New York.

Why were they cancelled?

As far as I know, Mr. Roundhill's was where his schedule says he was.

We know his train was re-routed through Montreal, and that he spent several days there.

That'll be all, thank you.

I suppose it won't hurt to tell now.

While he was travelling home, Mr. Roundhill suffered a series of seizures, the first symptoms of the disease that would take his life.

He was taken to the Hôtel Dieu de Montréal.

The hospital. How long was he there?

Three days.

I cancelled all of his appointments until he was well enough to travel. When he returned home, he demanded I keep his disease a secret.

Something... changed in him in the weeks before his wife's disappearance.

He was never really the same man.

Thank you.

According to Johnston's agenda, he was to be touring mining operations during those same three days.

And these coincide with Mr. Roundhill's hospitalization?

Yes. But the curious thing is that during this time he was out of communication with everyone.

So he could have been anywhere.

Yes. Let's hope that "anywhere" was at Mr. Roundhill's bedside.

And you're quite sure? Mr. Johnston from Toronto.

Merci beaucoup!

William, not only were they in the same hospital; they were in the same room. Mr. Johnston was admitted with abdominal pains on March 15th.

They're sending confirmation now.

Well done, Julia.

Doctors are usually more forthcoming with other doctors than they are with detectives.

Mm. Perhaps it's time to have another word with Mr. Johnston.

Hello, Emily.

Hello, George. I'm afraid I'm not quite finished the report on Mrs. Roundhill.

Oh, that's no trouble. I can wait.

So, are you tired at all?

Not at all.

I must admit I am a little tired myself.

Mm-hmm?

Well, I had quite the evening last night.

That's nice.

Quite the evening.

I started out with the lads at the pub.

It was nothing unusual, but we had quite a few laughs.

Well, good.

And then we went on to the music hall, and there was a man there all the way from the Sahara Desert who ate fire. Emily, he actually ate fire.

Amazing.

And then this young lass seated next to me, she passed out out of sheer fright.

I had to revive her.

You wouldn't believe this, Em, but they brought me up on stage with this big hero's applause.

I daresay you would be tired after all that.

Almost done.

So, how was your evening?

Oh, it was lovely, thank you.

Here's the report, George.

Ah.

Now, if you'll excuse me.

You realize I'm gonna continue legal proceedings.

I'll see that you end up in prison.

Of course.

Should be an interesting welcoming party, Murdoch.

Any other innocent people you've put away coming to visit?

(Both chuckle.)

Mr. Johnston, I wonder if you can tell me about your trip to Montreal eight years ago.

What visit? I've travelled to Montreal dozens of times in the last eight years.

More specifically, your stay there in March of 1893.

Before my wife d*ed? Well, I visited our coke manufacturing interests in Quebec, but nothing of note happened in Montreal.

What's going on here?

Dr. Ogden has something she'd very much like to share with you.

This is a message from the admissions clerk at the Hôtel Dieu de Montréal.

You were admitted March 15th, 1893.

I most certainly was not!

My brother and I are done listening to these ridiculous accusations.

Where you shared a room with Jeffrey Roundhill.

With who?

The man who k*lled my wife?

Of all the cockamamie ideas I have ever heard...

Raymond, don't talk to him.

I told you, I never met that man.

Are you accusing me of hiring a k*ller from a hospital bed?

No. We don't believe that you hired him, but rather made an agreement with him... he was to k*ll your wife, and you to k*ll his.

What on earth? Are you mad?

We have statements that you spent three days side by side just two weeks before your wife was m*rder*d.

I don't care what those Frenchies say.

I didn't k*ll some stranger's wife, and I was never in that hospital!

Well, that should be easy enough to prove, then.

We're leaving.

Records show you had an emergency appendectomy, Mr. Johnston.

This is your case? Do you want to see the scar?

Well, that would help to clear matters up.

Clearing up matters? You want to throw me in jail for k*lling someone I've never even met?

Raymond, I do not want you to participate in this ridiculous charade.

I have nothing to hide.

Raymond.

I am gonna shut this man up once and for all.

Satisfied? Come on.

We're leaving. Let's go.

You sure you want to do this?

Yes.

So we have a deal?

Yes.

Mr. Johnston.

No scar, Detective. This is over.

Not you, sir; your brother.

Excuse me?

Get out of our way. We're leaving.

Mr. Johnston, we can clear up this entire matter right now if you would just lift your shirt.

If I see nothing suspicious, I promise you I will resign this instant.

William.

What does he have to do with any of this?

Possibly nothing. Let's see if he has the scar.

I will not.

It's bad enough you dragged my brother through this.

I won't stand around while you do the same to me.

Oh, for God's sakes, Victor, just do it and let's be done with it.

No.

What are you afraid of, Mr. Johnston?

Raymond. Let's go.

No, show him.

Raymond, I said let's...

Victor.

Take off your shirt, Victor.

Raymond...

Did you k*ll my wife?

No.

Mr. Roundhill k*lled your wife.

Your brother here k*lled Mrs. Roundhill.

Isn't that right, Mr. Johnston?

It's over. Hospital records will show that you were indeed there, and a physical examination will yield further proof.

Tell me the truth, Victor.

I tried to tell you that Amelia was going to leave you, but no, you were too stupid to realize what was happening!

I loved her!

She'd made arrangements to revert entire control of the company to her!

Both of us would have been ruined!

She didn't know anything about the company, not like you.

You k*lled the woman I loved!

I was helping you!

I was looking out for you, like I've done my whole life, you idiot!

Don't call me that, Victor!

I hate it when you call me that!

I was dealing with a problem that you refused to acknowledge!

I did it for us.

You son of a bitch!

Ugh!

No...

Constables!

That's enough! Victor Johnston, you are under arrest for the m*rder of Evelyn Roundhill.

Constables, take him to the cells now.

Mr. Johnston, my heartfelt apologies for ever suspecting you in your wife's death.

I always did what he told me to do.

Always did what he thought was best.

A full confession.

Signed, sealed and delivered.

We did it.

Yes, we did.

Two peas in a bloody pod, aren't you?

Well, I don't think we'll be facing a lawsuit anymore.

Good thing too. Well done.

Thank you, sir.

William, I have to say, I'm never happier than when I am working side by side with you.

As am I, Julia.

Well, I should go.

Julia.

Yes?

I do think we should do this more often... work together, that is.

Yes.

Yes, we really should.

I would like that very much.

(man): My dearest Julia, it appears our relationship has yet to come to an end. But you can be rid of me once and for all if you agree to my most simple proposition. You and Detective Murdoch must part. Forever.

If you marry him, he will die. If you inform him of this letter, you will both die. Yours most fondly, James Gillies."

Announcer: Murdoch Mysteries, next Monday at 8:00 on CBC.