16x10 - Dash to Death

[bunniefuu]

(THEME MUSIC)

More deliveries?

My accounts at the tailor and
haberdashery are through the roof.

We need to do something
before he bleeds us dry.

- These came for you.
- Ah! Splendid.

(GROANING)

(CHUCKLING)

Arthur, be a chum and help
me get into this here jacket.

Ah!

Whoo!

Exemplary work, don't you think?

It is quite beautiful,

but it is the third
smoking jacket this month.

- Do you need quite so many?
- Oh!

Um, one never knows when one
will be buried alive again.

I want to remain smartly
dressed just in case.

Arthur, open that box.

Aren't those slippers beautiful?

Put those on my feet, please.

Father, there's no need for this.

You can put on your own slippers.

Oh, wouldn't it be a shame
if I walked out of this house?

A dead man walking right into
the arms of the authorities.

You'd both be hauled off to jail.

So, when I tell Arthur to
put my slippers on my feet,

I want Arthur to put my
slippers... on my feet.

Oh, you can do better than that.

Well, I just did what you said.

Kneel.

Kneel down, put my
slippers on my feet, boy.

I'm waiting.

Good. Now the other.

(SIGHING)

That wasn't so hard now, was it?

Anything else?

No.

And thank you, Arthur.

Okay, where was I? Oh!

(CHUCKLING)

Our organization, the Canadian
Women's Olympic Campaign,

represents women in sport.

What are you trying to
accomplish here, ladies?

We want Canada to bring a team of women

to the Stockholm Olympics.

Did you know that women
have competed in the Olympics

since , but none from Canada?

Well, many would say
that's because no one

would ever watch women's Olympic sports.

Well, that's complete hogwash.

Women are just as thrilling as men.

British figure skater Madge Syers,

she b*at a field of men

and won the silver medal
at the world championships!

We are all athletes here, just
like the fellas over there.

We should be given our fair due.

- Well, what sport do you play?
- I'm a runner.

Ha! But that's not even
an Olympic women's sport.

That's precisely our
point. It should be.

Maybe embroidery should
be an Olympic sport?

- I beg your pardon?
- Maybe, uh, gossiping?

All right, ladies. That's enough time.

(SIGHING) Come on.

Tomorrow's demonstration
meet will allow these athletes

to measure their progress
as they work towards

the Olympic Games.

Next, we have the men
competing in the -metre dash.

Why don't you lot introduce yourselves?

Walter Knox.

Orillia.

John Armstrong-Howard.

Winnipeg.

Timothy Irons.

- Hamilton.
- Scotty Scorch.

The fastest man in Canada.

Born right in this great city!

Uh, Mr. Scorch, neither
you nor Mr. Armstrong-Howard

has lost a single race this year.

Now that you're going head-to-head,

are you a little nervous?

The only reason he's never lost a race

is because he's never raced against me.

I could say the same.

Don't let your little local
success get to your head, Scorch.

Only thing fast about
you is your mouth, Scorch.

Lucky nobody asked you, Timmy.

I'll show all you pitiful losers

exactly how fast I am
tomorrow on the track.

(EERIE MUSIC)

By God.

(PHONE RINGING)

William, you left at the cr*ck of dawn.

- You forgot your hat.
- Oh,

thank you. That wasn't necessary.

I just wasn't feeling
myself this morning

with the little one
screaming through the night.

Ah, yes, she's improved a
little this morning, thankfully.

She was finally eating
when I left her with Ellie.

Oh, well, that's good.

Yes, I should get
back to that, actually.

Oh, wait! Uh, I've made
something that should help

with Susannah's recovery.

- What is it?
- It is a hydration draft.

You see, colds and influenza

can put the body in a
state of dehydration.

Water, of course, is beneficial,
but by adding different sugars,

sodium, potassium and fruit,

I've created a drink that
helps to replenish electrolytes

that the body loses during illness.

William, it's blue.

It has blueberry. For flavour.

- (CHUCKLING)
- Yeah.

Ah, good morning, Doctor.

What brings you here
so bright and early?

- Ah, William forgot his hat.
- What?

You left the house without your hat?

- You all right, Murdoch?
- Apparently not.

Sleep deprivation. Susannah
has us up all night.

Right. Well, there's been a
body found at Varsity Stadium.

Varsity Stadium? I was
there just yesterday.

You were?

Yes, I was speaking to the
press about women's athletics.

Can you believe that Canada
still hasn't sent a single woman

- to the Olympic Games?
- Do other countries?

I've been to the Olympic Games.

I don't recall seeing
girls running around.

Women have been competing since .

Hm, I won a gold medal,
did I ever tell you?

Ah, yes, I believe you
may have once or twice.

It was a crisp morning in St. Louis.

A light fog rolled majestically
across the pristine turf.

I really should get
to the stadium, then.

Yes, I should get
going myself, actually.

- Are you sure you're all right?
- Oh, yes, much better.

Ah, yes.

- Oh, ha!
- You don't want to hear the rest?

Ah, well, I'll take these.

Well, I guess your work is done here.

I have to do a full
examination just to be sure.

Did you notice the abrasion on his neck?

No.

Not like you to miss
something like that.

I've yet to inspect his neck, Detective.

There appear to be splinters
present under his fingernails.

Curious. (YAWNING)

Tired, Detective?

I didn't get much sleep this
past weekend. Susannah was sick.

Sorry to hear that. I take it
the little one is all better now?

Oh, yes. Yes, I've been
working on a solution

to help replenish her fluids.

You know, I hear athletes
use champagne to hydrate.

Maybe next time you can try that.

Henry, have you been giving
baby Jordan champagne?

Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I would never.

Ruthie is quite unnerved by bubbles.

We will need to postpone
the meet until tomorrow,

given the tragic circumstances.

Mr. Kittering?

- I understand you were Scotty Scorch's coach.
- Yes.

He was the star of my track club.

I cannot believe this has happened.

- Was he well-liked?
- Well...

I wouldn't say that.

Track and field can
be quite competitive.

Any idea how he ended up with
a javelin embedded in his chest?

None.

But I will say this:

throwing the javelin
is not an easy thing.

There aren't a lot of people
who could land that throw.

Oh. Well, then, please direct
me to the people who could.

Last night, myself and a few others

were at the Olympic committee dinner.

And what time did you leave this event?

At : AM.

I didn't know anything about
this until I arrived just now.

Did you or any of the other javelin men

- hold a practice yesterday evening?
- (SIGHING)

None of the javelin men have
anything to do with this nonsense!

Nonsense?

My teammate told me
those damned sprinters

got him drunk last night and
tricked him into giving him

the equipment room key.

- The key to the room you're standing in?
- Exactly.

And then, they came back here
and had a throwing competition.

Talk to Walter Knox,

he pulls these kinds
of stunts all the time.

Thank you.

When should I expect my
javelin to be returned?

- The one stuck in the victim?
- Yes.

She's my favourite.

_

We went to the pub around PM

and came back to the track at : AM.

The throwing competition
was just a bit of fun.

A bit of fun?

That k*lled a man.

- There's no way we k*lled Scorch.
- No?

How can you be sure?

- He wasn't with us.
- Didn't all of the -metre men go to the pub?

- Everybody but him.
- He wasn't invited.

No one liked him, not even
Timmy and they're teammates.

Please don't call me Timmy.

So, where was Mr. Scorch last night?

I have no idea.

Hm.

So, it was dark, you all were drunk.

Yes.

So it's possible Mr. Scorch
wandered onto the field

while you were having your
drunken throwing competition

when a flying javelin
struck him in the chest.

Sure. But I imagine if a
man was struck by a javelin,

we would have heard him scream.

A javelin through the heart would
have likely k*lled him instantly.

He probably wouldn't have
been able to make a sound.

- Could we have possibly...
- No way!

We didn't do this and that's that.

According to the algor
mortis calculations,

Mr. Scorch d*ed ten hours prior
to his body being discovered.

By : PM.

So, before the -metre
men went to the pub.

The javelin entered the
victim at a -degree angle

and penetrated his
body seven inches deep.

Seven inches?

Through his breastplate?

- Are you quite sure?
- Yes, quite.

What are you thinking, Murdoch?

- Momentum.
- What?

Mass times speed. Could a
javelin be heavy enough to...

- What are you getting at?
- Henry,

we're going to need Constable Buster.

Oh, no. Not again, sir.

You heard the man, Higgins.

(SIGHING)

You heard him, Arthur.

If we try anything, we will go to jail.

I can't take much more of this.

And what if he's
plotting something worse?

We have to make our
move before he makes his.

You're right about that.

My father always has something
nefarious up his sleeve.

Then we act. Now!

I don't know.

We can't afford to miss again.

We won't.

I won't.

- How can you be so sure?
- I'm far from perfect, Violet,

but I never make the same mistake twice.

This is too dangerous.

You're not a k*ller.

- There must be another way.
- We've tried everything.

And what about the body?

What'll we do when that's all done?

Well, no one's looking for him.

He's already dead.

All we have to do is bury him.

No one will ever be the wiser.

I'm surprised that it's this difficult.

What did you expect?

We throw for distance,
not to hit a target.

Please, please, let
this be the last round.

Stand back.

Oh! Very good.

Finally.

The javelin has just
fallen to the side, sir.

Yes, once the javelin made
contact with the breastplate,

it simply bounced off.

Can I have my javelin back now?

Well, yes, of course.

Fifteenth time's the charm, eh?

So, the javelin could not
have penetrated the breastplate

with the amount of force generated
by a normal javelin throw.

So, the javelin that
k*lled Scorch wasn't thrown.

No. It was run through his
chest with deliberate force.

This was m*rder.

So, a group of drunken sprinters
start throwing javelins around,

our victim arrives and
someone runs him through.

Which means either some unknown
person was with Mr. Scorch,

picked up an errant
javelin and k*lled him...

- Or?
- Or our sprinters are lying.

Sirs.

The lads have finished searching
Mr. Scorch's rooms. They found this.

Newspaper clippings.

Mr. Scorch was keeping a
keen eye on the competition.

That's clearly Walter Knox.

But it says Peter Smith.

There he is again.

And this one says Fred Taylor.

A man of many names?

- Bring him in, Henry.
- Sir.

By the looks of things, Mr. Knox,

you've been going from town to town

- competing under fake names.
- Is that a crime, Officer?

You're a bloody shark. Challenging
locals to race for money.

I simply enjoy every
aspect of competition.

Don't get cute.

The Olympics is only
for amateur athletes.

Racing for money would
make you a professional.

Even if you are using fake names.

Exposing this would disqualify
you from the Olympics.

And Mr. Scorch was on to you.

You k*lled him to keep your secret.

I didn't k*ll him.

I didn't even know that he
knew about my enterprise.

That snake.

Why would he go to such
great lengths to blackmail you

and potentially exclude
you from competition?

Because if you want to
get to the Olympic Games,

you have to put on a good showing
at these demonstration meets.

I've been to the Olympics. It's
not all it's cracked up to be.

Well, us athletes don't feel the same.

A lot of the men here would do anything

to compete at the Olympic Games.

Men like Scorch, or
that Armstrong-Howard,

he's the most desperate of all.

What makes Mr.
Armstrong-Howard so desperate?

Chip on his shoulder.

He's always whining that he has
an unfair lot 'cause he's coloured.

- Maybe he has a point?
- No, he doesn't.

Canada's never sent a coloured man

to the Olympic Games because
none of them are good enough.

Be that as it may, a dead
man was collecting evidence

that could have ruined
your amateur athlete career.

So, you can see why you make
a most compelling suspect.

If I k*lled him to keep this quiet,

why wouldn't I have
destroyed the clippings, too?

Look at this beauty.

The finest cut of beef
from the butcher's shop.

- Must have cost a pretty penny.
- Oh, indeed it did.

- How about I carve it for you?
- Uh-uh-uh.

I'd like Violet to
carve the roast for me,

just like old times.

I wish you didn't force us
to fire all of the staff.

Would you rather your
little secret got out?

You know, botching my m*rder and all.

What are you waiting for, sweetheart?

Haven't got all day.

Ah. Now carve a big ole
piece for your dear old dad.

(SIGHING)

Oh, my!

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

- Sir.
- Ah, Henry.

I'm just preparing Mr.
Knox's release forms.

Could you please fetch
him from the cells?

Uh, right away, sir. I'm just
gonna put Constable Buster away.

Right.

Oh.

Okay.

Sure it'll snap back on, sir.

Uh, all right, Buster.

Whoop.

All right.

All right.

All right, no. Ugh.

(GROANING) That's not right.

Henry! Just... just leave
it and fetch Mr. Knox.

- I'll take care of it later.
- It's all right, sir. I think...

think I've got him.

Fine work.

Ah, Murdoch.

What have you done with our suspect?

- I've released him, sir.
- Oh, that's a shame.

- I don't like him one bit.
- I can't say I do either.

But the question does loom large:

Why k*ll someone to keep a secret

and then not destroy evidence?

Hm, of course.

Well, if it wasn't him, then who was it?

One of the other sprinters trying
to eliminate the competition?

I'd like to speak with
Mr. Armstrong-Howard.

Right then. Bring him in.

Oh! Mr. Anderson, you came.

Just here to collect my due, Detective.

Who's this then?

Mr. Anderson here owns the
variety store on Adelaide.

Ah, The Easy Breezy Variety Store?

Yup, that's the one.

So, last week Reggie McFarland
stole from Mr. Anderson's shop.

Uh, that rascal's been
running amok for months.

None of our men have
been able to catch him.

Well, Mr. Anderson here ran him down.

Witnesses say he's as
fast as a lightning bolt.

Faster.

Old sticky fingers
didn't stand a chance.

Huh, brilliant.

There's a reward for
that one, isn't there?

- That's what I'm here to collect.
- Ah.

- Here you are.
- Mm-hmm.

If you're that fast, you
should test your mettle

in the track and field meet today.

Oh, yes! You could compete
in the or -metre dash.

I imagine you would do very well.

How fast are those boys running?

Some of the men are
running the metres

- in under eleven seconds.
- Eleven seconds.

Eleven seconds? Come on.

You think you could
run it faster than that?

When those boys break ten
seconds, give me a call.

I'll give them the race of their life.

(BOTH): Ten seconds?!

Why should we be at his beck
and call? We aren't servants.

He's jerking us around
like puppets on a string!

I purchased it this morning.

- Are you sure?
- Quite serious.

It'll all be done soon.

And everything will be
back to normal again.

Finally realized what's important.

Being a man.

For you.

Walter Knox told us that
you are desperate to win

the -metre dash so you'll
be considered for the Olympics.

Pretty high stakes,

especially for a coloured man
hoping to represent Canada.

Unbelievable.

Knox uses any opportunity
to throw dirt on my name.

Have you been trying to
knock out your competition?

Why would I need to?

None of these men have
ever b*at me in a foot race.

- Oh?
- Look,

I might not be as loud as
Scorch, or as seasoned as Knox,

but I have proven myself
to be the best in the field

with actual results, no talk.

But is it true that you
need to win today's race

to go to the Olympics?

Perhaps you needed Scorch out
of the way to guarantee your win?

Guarantee?

Guarantee?

I have no guarantee.

You really think winning this
race is gonna make any difference?

Win one race, win two, that's
not gonna change anybody's mind.

People like Walter Knox will
never think I'm good enough,

- no matter what I do.
- Begging your pardon,

but isn't that even more reason

- to get your competitors out of the way?
- You're not hearing me.

I'm a coloured man.

I could be the last runner in
all of Canada and still stay home.

I'm not stupid enough to
k*ll another competitor

and assume I'll be on easy
street to the Olympic games.

They characterize us as a
bunch of hysterical women.

Nothing about the organization at all.

I told you. It's like
talking to a brick wall.

Those men will never take us seriously!

We need to do something.

(SIGHING) Something to
get us some publicity.

You should enter that race today.

- But there are no women's races.
- Just race the men!

Oh, yes.

I like that!

Dr. Ogden, what on earth
are you feeding your baby?

Oh! (CHUCKLING)

It's a hydration draught
my husband concocted

to help Susannah
recover from her illness.

It's got potassium and a
pinch of salt and sugar.

It works like a charm
and it's delicious!

Would you like to try some?

It's blueberry flavoured.

Um, maybe another time.

(PHONE RINGING)

Excuse me.

Hello? Dr. Julia Ogden.

Oh, Mrs. Hart.

I started with algor
mortis for time of death,

which indicated the
victim had d*ed ten hours

prior to discovery, but...

Yes?

Um, there were some inconsistencies

when I tested the
stomach contents later on.

Is everything all right, Mrs. Hart?

Oh! Quite fine. Just tired.

Oh. Here we are.

Please take a look.

The food is broken down
less than it should be

for a ten-hour timeframe.

So your estimated time of death is off?

Yes. The stomach contents suggest

the victim d*ed only eight
hours prior to discovery.

Hm, how curious.

I do love a deathly conundrum.

Oh, what is that?

- What?
- Look.

Oh! Something has separated.

Mercury?

- Precisely.
- Found in the victim's stomach contents.

Could it have been an ingredient
in a tincture of some sort?

Well, I've seen it in all
kinds of remedies and medicines.

I wouldn't be at all
surprised if athletes thought

a small amount might
help them run faster.

But this was no small amount.

We believe he was poisoned.

(SUSPENSEFUL MUSIC)

(GRUNTS)

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

What's this all about?

You, be quiet.

One of you is a k*ller and
we're going to find out who.

Timothy, what's happening?

They haven't told us anything, Father.

This is ridiculous.

You have no right to be
going through their things.

Step back, sir. Don't
interfere with police procedure.

Just tell us what you're looking for

and we'll point you
in the right direction.

Mind your own business.

Nothing here, sirs.

Inspector.

What is it?

I saw Mr. Archibald using
this to move equipment earlier.

Look.

Blood.

Do you think the k*ller
used this to move the body?

It certainly would
explain why no one heard

a m*rder being committed out
in the middle of the field.

Hey! How long will this take?

Can I get into the cold
cure in the meantime?

- We just finished the prelims.
- Yeah, the finals are coming up next

- and I need to get ready.
- Hold your horses. We'll be done soon enough.

Sirs.

Have a look at this.

Mercury.

You are coming with us, sir.

This is ridiculous!

Mr. Irons, please calm down.

Calm down? You're harassing my son

and right before his race, no less.

I told you, sir, the detective just has

a few questions and if all is well,

- your son will be free to go.
- We don't have time for this.

His race is at four o'clock

- and he still has to have his warm-up massage.
- Sir, please!

I will not allow you
blundering brigadiers

to distract my son and disrupt
his competitive temperament!

Yes. I gave him a little quicksilver,

but it was just to slow him down.

There's no way that's what k*lled him.

But he is dead.

And you've just admitted to
being the one who poisoned him.

But it can't be! I
didn't mean to k*ll him.

Scorch and I have always
had this tit-for-tat,

but I never hated him.

It was more of a spirited rivalry.

A rivalry that included poisoning?

You'd have to be a
sportsman to understand.

I did no less than what he's
done to me time after time.

You're saying Mr. Scorch
has poisoned you in the past?

Not just me.

He did it all the time. He'd poison
the entire field and walk to victory.

Don't you see? I was
just getting back at him.

And I swear I only gave him enough
to make him queasy and sluggish.

Be that as it may, he is dead.

So you will be kept in our cells

until charges can be
brought against you.

But what about the race?

(CLASSICAL MUSIC PLAYING)

(DRAMATIC MUSIC)

(g*nsh*t)

(KNOCKING ON DOOR)

- Mrs. Hart. You called?
- Oh, we did.

There's been something of a revelation.

We?

Dr. Ogden and I have been working

on confirming the cause of death.

William!

Mr. Scorch definitely
suffered mercury poisoning.

It caused kidney damage and a
unique rash on his upper body.

But that isn't the whole story.

There's a second, very
distinctive rash on his leg.

In addition, found a significant amount

of bloody discolouration in
the synovial fluid in his knees.

He was an athlete. It
could have been an injury.

I initially thought the same,

but, along with the other symptoms,

it suggests something else.

Biggest curiosity was
the presence of urine

in the interstitial tissue.

Urine? How odd.

It's called cold diuresis.

When the body is trying
to preserve warmth,

the blood vessels constrict

and the kidneys purge
all unnecessary fluid.

It results in a large
production of urine.

When the bladder becomes full,

the urine has nowhere to go

and so it seeps into
the surrounding tissue.

A rash, hemorrhaging, cold diuresis.

What does this all mean?

In combination, they occur
in only one specific instance.

This man wasn't poisoned,
he d*ed of hypothermia.

Let's go, Timothy. We've
wasted enough time here already.

Ah, not so fast, Mr. Irons.

Although I no longer believe
your son k*lled Mr. Scorch,

he has admitted to
intentionally poisoning him.

I told you. It was nothing
more than he'd done to me.

- A crime, nonetheless.
- You have to let him race.

I intend to, as a gesture of good will.

However, I do need your help, Mr. Irons.

Mr. Knox mentioned taking a cold cure.

I need you to tell me what that is?

I can do you one better.

I'll show you.

The cold cure is Coach Kittering's
revolutionary after-workout therapy.

You fill a wooden barrel
with water and ice.

After a hard practice,
you submerge yourself

to your neck for minutes.

Afterwards, your body
comes out refreshed.

I suppose reducing
swelling and muscle damage

would aid the body's ability to recover.

Ridiculous.

Kittering doesn't know what's what.

Cold's no good for muscles. Hot massages

are a far more effective therapy.

Truly. Whenever I get
into the cold cure,

I feel like I might have a heart att*ck.

Hm, scratches.

What?

We found splinters under
Scorch's fingernails.

Perhaps someone held him down
in the water with this lid.

Ah, Coach Kittering.

A word, please?

- (DOOR CLOSING)
- Arthur?

Oh, there you are.

You didn't do it, did you? (GASPS)

Arthur!

Arthur!

And what exactly was he supposed to do?

I mean, if it's any consolation,

I can help do whatever needs doing.

You k*lled him.

What does it look like?

I got rid of a problem.

(GASPS)

You should never have sent
a boy to do a man's job.

(EERIE MUSIC)

Of course, I knew you two
were plotting to k*ll me.

Every chance you got huddled together,

whispering so loudly,

the deaf man across the street
probably knew what you were up to.

If you knew, why
didn't you do something?

And miss out on the chance of
watching you two bumble about?

Oh, no. I quite enjoyed the show.

What happened?

I was sitting in the parlour
minding my God-given business

when I see this fool in the mirror

creeping up behind me, g*n drawn.

I did what I had to do.

It was self-defence, sweetheart.

You could have easily overpowered him.

- You didn't have to k*ll him!
- Why wouldn't I?

Why shouldn't I?

If he was gonna keep trying to
get rid of me, then fair game.

Now, what to do...

about you?

(GASPS)

Do it.

Hmm.

Ever the failure, Violet.

Now what do you suppose we
do about poor old Arthur here?

(CRYING)

Mr. Kittering.

Mr. Scorch d*ed of hypothermia

caused by being held down inside
one of your cold cure barrels.

The temperature in the barrel
today is about degrees.

It would have taken
approximately one hour

for Mr. Scorch to lose consciousness

and subsequently die.

Yes, well... (SCOFFS)

All right.

Perhaps degrees is a tad too cold.

Perhaps... this is your
moment to be truthful.

I found Scorch dead in the barrel.

I didn't know what to do.

But I did know that...

that if his death was tied
to my cold cure remedy,

that would be the end of my therapy,

my club and my career as a coach.

So I panicked.

You covered it up.

The sprinters were out on the field

playing around with the javelins, and,

so when they left...

I redressed Scorch's body.

I put it in the wagon and I
brought it out onto the field.

Once the body was out there,

you ran it through with the javelin.

I wanted to make it
look like an accident.

To make it appear as though

one of the sprinters had done it?

Yes,

but I didn't intend any of
them to be blamed for it.

I was just trying to protect myself.

You have to believe
me. I didn't k*ll him.

I covered it up, but I
didn't k*ll him. I'm innocent!

Innocent might not be the word
I would use, Mr. Kittering.

And the purpose of this, sir?

We need to determine exactly
how the victim was held down

inside the cold cure barrel.

- Now kneel down, Henry.
- Sir?

Get on with it, Higgins.

You're not in any real distress.

That's what you think.

All right.

Now, Henry, push up
with all of your might.

(BANGING)

Hm. All right.

All right!

Ugh. What is that?

- What's wrong, Murdoch?
- Someone has gotten oil, or...

something on the handle.

- Hm. Smells like mentholated ointment.
- Hm. Pungent.

Julia used something like this

with Susannah when she was ill recently.

Um, sirs?

Yes, Higgins, you can get out.

No, no, no. I came across
an ointment like that myself.

Uh, there was a jar of it
in Timothy Irons' locker.

It's a special heated ointment
my father makes himself.

He uses it when he gives
me my race massages.

We found traces of it
on the cold cure barrel

in the locker room where
Mr. Scorch was k*lled.

I didn't k*ll him.

He was alive when I left the track

and I was with the -metre
men for the rest of the night.

You can ask them.

You could have slipped away unnoticed.

Well, ask my father then.

He stayed behind to pack
up my things and lock up.

I didn't get back 'til : AM.

You finished?

- I have a race to run.
- For now.

Mr. Irons is the only person
who uses that ointment.

Not quite. There is one other.

Are you sure about this?

We'll see.

(CLEARS THROAT)

What are you doing?

Racing.

You most certainly are not.

Ay, ay. What's all this then?

What on earth?

(CLEARS THROAT)

Miss Roswell,

please step back!

No!

Why are you bothering me?

I'm here to see my son race.

Mr. Irons, what time did
you pack up on Friday evening

and what time did you leave?

Packing up didn't take long.

I left shortly after Timothy.

Was there anyone else left at the track?

Not that I saw.

Did you happen to touch

the cold cure barrels at any point?

- No.
- Then how do you explain us

finding a smear of your
special mentholated ointment

on one of the handles?

Gentlemen, please escort
Miss Roswell from the track.

Again, I ask you, did you have
cause to touch the cold cure barrels?

Especially when you said yourself
the treatment didn't work.

You keep your hands off her!

- Stop!
- Murdoch, get him.

Get off of me!

(EPIC MUSIC)

(SCREAMING)

(CHUCKLING)

Much obliged, Miss Roswell.

My pleasure.

Mr. Irons, you are
under arrest for m*rder.

Why would you do this?

Just so your son could win?

You would snuff out a young athlete

in the prime of his
career just for a race?

I would do anything for my son.

Including m*rder?

Timothy was the best until
Scorch started poisoning him.

That mercury stuff
permanently messed him up.

The poison had lasting effects?

After the sabotage,
Timothy tried to get back

into the swing of things.

He never regained his full strength.

Over time, mercury
can damage motor skills

and cause irreparable lung damage.

The last straw was that
shameless cur boasting

at the press conference
after all he'd done.

He was no champion, he was a fraud.

And you are now a m*rder*r.

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

I suppose we can see what she can do.

On your marks.

Get set.

And... go! (g*nsh*t)

(PANTING)

Go Iggy!

(APPLAUSE)

Wow. (CHUCKLING)

A very fast time for Miss Roswell.

Better than some of the men I coach.

And the women?

I have no idea how fast a woman can run.

(SCOFFS)

Well, hopefully you'll
find that out one day

when we are finally
invited to the games.

Then I await that day.

Who was that lady?

Oh, that's Miss Iggy Roswell.

- She's so fast.
- She certainly is.

- What's your name?
- Myrtle Cook.

One day, I'm going to be just like her.

_

You were amazing.

- I came last.
- You were still amazing.

I'd have to say I agree with her.

Well, thank you. I am
quite thirsty, though.

Oh! Really, you should try this.

Is that the baby's drink?

Yes, but it's rich with electrolytes.

It'll help you replenish
the fluids that you've lost.

Wow! What a thirst quencher.

This could really catch on.

Have some more!

So sweet of you to take
care of your husband.

I'm sure he's resting in peace.

Fitting that he's buried
where he planned to bury me.

And what do you have planned for me?

I guess I'll keep you around.

I could give you all the money.

- I'll start over.
- Ah, no need for all that.

All I ask is that you do me one favour.

Don't ever try to k*ll me again.

Yeah.

Your prints are all over this.

So play nice.

You and me?

Together, we're gonna tear up this town.

Hmm.