Grimesby!
Get out here, you rat bastard!
You know why I'm here! Come and face me like a man!
Grimesby! Roderick Grimesby!
You don't take favors with a man's wife
and not answer for it!
Get out here now!
By the faith Jesus, that hurts.
Ah, there's you done for, Roddy boy.
What have we here?
Roderick "Roddy" Grimesby.
45.
Part-time dock worker, full-time drunk,
according to the neighbors.
Alcoholic drinks himself to death -- not that unusual.
Why was I called?
Cause of death is still unknown, Detective.
Quite right, Doctor. Have you a time of death?
Between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m. This morning.
Very good.
George, this, uh, Stanley Paulk, the man who found the body,
why was he here?
He came seeking satisfaction, sir.
I beg your pardon.
For his wife's liaisons with the deceased here.
Ah, thus the broken-down door.
I'd like to have a word with him, George.
Sir.
The tongue and throat are swollen and burned.
Strong aroma. Some kind of paint product.
Hmm. Varnish?
Surely he would have known it would be fatal.
Perhaps that was the point.
Suicide? I don't think so. Look here.
This bruising, it's recent.
He was held down.
By the shape of it,
I would say the attacker was right-handed.
Then he poured varnish down his throat?
Murder.
Detective, Stanley Paulk.
There he is, the stinking pile of sheep --
Mr. Paulk, I'm Detective William Murdoch.
I take it the door was locked when you arrived, Mr. Paulk.
I didn't crack my shoulder for exercise.
No, I guess not.
And when you broke down the door,
this is how you found Mr. Grimesby?
Facedown in his own filth.
Fitting, I'd say.
Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?
You don't have time to hear the whole list.
And where was Mrs. Paulk last night?
Home. I don't let the tramp out of my sight these days.
If your wife was safely at home,
then why did you choose last night to confront Mr. Grimesby?
It was time to settle the score, once and for all.
I guess he settled it for me.
Mm. Did you know the Grimesby family?
We've been neighbors almost 15 years.
Turns out for half of them, he was having at it with my missus.
Yes, thank you, Mr. Paulk.
Do you know where the family is now?
Wife's been dead 15 years.
And the boy?
Harcourt. Odd one, that.
But he did all right by the old man.
Meaning?
Regular visits, food, and so on.
Drunken bugger didn't deserve the care.
It's by rights he's dead and cold.
Thank you.
Constable, see to it
that Mr. Paulk receives medical attention.
Sir.
Sir, do you really want to let him go?
I mean, the cheated-on husband?
George, the attacker was right-handed.
He's still here.
By Jesus, that's him.
- Who? - Harcourt. The son.
Ask me. Ask me.
Harcourt killed his own father!
How do you like them apples?
Hey!
What's your name, copper?
Constable Crabby or something? Eh?
Ooh, what's the matter?
You don't like wooden people, Crabby?
That's quite enough from you.
Thought so.
Now, this Detective Murdoch, serious fellow.
Thoughtful, clever.
Mr. Grimesby, if you could just sign this confession,
if you don't mind.
That coroner's not too shabby, either.
Willowy.
I like that.
She married?
Okay, that's quite enough.
No! Don't.
He stays with me.
Hmm!
Everything all right, Constable?
Fine, sir.
That'll be the written confession, then.
Why would a man who's clearly right-handed
write with his left hand?
Because he's as mad as a box of frogs.
I'll wait for the postmortem report before I speak with him.
A confession's not good enough.
Now, you tell me who the madman is...
Crabby.
Good timing, William. I've opened Mr. Grimesby up.
Excruciating death, I should think.
Someone wanted him to suffer,
perhaps suggesting a personal motive.
Yes. Well, Harcourt was a drunkard's son.
Then you, of all people, should understand the motive.
I suppose so.
You sound unconvinced.
Well, for years, Harcourt played the good son,
caring for an undeserving father.
Why choose now to kill?
Maybe he'd simply had enough.
I suppose. What about the eyes?
One dark, one light.
Condition called heterochromia. Usually a genetic phenomenon.
Oh, genetics. Heady stuff.
I read Gregor Mendel's
"Experiments in Plant Hybridization"
last July at the beach.
For some light summer reading.
Yes.
I'll need a sample of the stomach contents
to verify the poisoning by varnish.
A mystery under every rock, eh, William?
Yes.
George, I'd like you to bring in Mrs. Paulk.
But Harcourt Grimesby has just written a confession.
Yes, I understand.
However, there are still some unanswered questions.
And given Mrs. Paulk's alleged relationship with the deceased,
I believe she might be able to answer them.
- I'll bring her in straightaway. - Thank you.
Oh, and, George, how are things with the puppet?
It stares at me, sir, like it knows what I'm thinking.
And it's always grinning this grin.
Basswood and wires, Constable.
Murdoch, a word.
And when you pull a puppet's strings...
Sir, if this is about the Grimesby case --
Don't talk to me about that nutcase and his demon puppet.
A friend of ours has dropped by for a visit.
William.
Hail fellow, well met.
Mr. Doyle.
I am delighted to see you.
And it's Arthur, please.
My God, you're looking fit.
Thomas, have you shared my news with our detective?
I thought I'd leave that to you, Arthur.
My office.
- News? - Brace yourself, William.
For I have decided to base my next creation,
my next great detective, on you.
Me?
Well, not you precisely, but a character very similar.
A colonial detective.
New World meets Old World, science meets sleuthing.
But I thought you were basing your next Sherlock Holmes novel
on the inspector's idea of the vicious hound
that kills the man in the Scottish Highlands.
Much more compelling, I should think.
Yes, and I just may someday.
But, unfortunately, Mr. Holmes and I remain
at tiresome loggerheads.
You are the fresh blood needed to fire my imagination.
But I'm working on a case currently.
Oh, nonsense.
The inspector tells me you already have a confession.
True.
However, this case is more complicated
than we had originally thought.
That's the first I've heard of this.
I'll hardly be any bother at all.
I've already decided that I will use a real-life case
as the basis of my story.
I merely require you to guide me through your process.
And allow me, on occasion, to observe your methodology.
What say you?
Do you really think that people are interested in reading
about investigations that are over and done with?
Cold cases, if you will.
Yes, I do.
So much so that I believe that my little idea
will generate a lot of publicity for this station house.
Then, again, of course, fame can be such a nuisance.
Murdoch, on second thought, what would be the harm, really?
Sir, with all due respect --
And what better case to let Arthur Conan Doyle observe
than one that's already solved?
Impress him with your usual zeal
to see that even the scoundrels, the obviously guilty,
get a fair crack at the whip.
Explore any wild theories you like, Murdoch.
As long as you arrive at the foregone conclusion.
Arthur, you have our full cooperation.
Give me some soup.
No. It's for me.
Cream of celery is my favorite.
Everything is your favorite.
If you don't feed me, I could get upset.
You don't want that.
I need food. You're made of wood.
Wood doesn't get hungry?
Where shall we begin, Detective?
Perhaps with the interrogation of your suspect.
That would be improper, I'm afraid.
Oh, then I suppose I'll just dive into the research
on my cold case.
Which case would that be?
It's the death of an elderly Chinese gentleman
this March 22nd.
I read about the trial when I was last here.
It stayed with me ever since.
I believe you're referring to the Lee case.
Precisely.
As I recall, the victim was beaten to death.
An open-and-shut case.
Why would it be of interest to you?
Well, the Chinese community is an exotic backdrop.
Now, how would you handle this case, Detective?
I would visit the crime scene.
Long gone, unfortunately. Next.
- Speak to the witnesses. - Presumably in the files.
Could you arrange for me to see them?
Yes. I'll have Constable Crabtree see to it.
Next step?
I would speak to the doctor that conducted the postmortem.
Ah, the lovely Dr. Ogden.
Yes, it will be a great pleasure to see her again.
You'll soon have your chance.
William, I have a --
Mr. Doyle, what a lovely surprise.
Dr. Ogden. Enchanting as always.
I wonder, uh, if I might speak with you.
Speak with me?
Yes. I'm conducting research on my new book,
partially inspired by Detective Murdoch.
A most intriguing idea.
I'd like to discuss some details surrounding a postmortem,
and perhaps you might also enlighten me
on some of our good detective's personal habits.
Certainly. When would be convenient?
Now is as good a time as any.
Unfortunately, Mr. Doyle is unavailable at the moment.
He'll be observing my interview with Harcourt Grimesby.
I will? Splendid.
Perhaps later.
Are you fond of French cuisine?
There are no French restaurants in Toronto.
- Perhaps something else, then. - I would love to.
I'd be more than happy to answer any questions you might have.
I would prefer to discuss the victim's stomach contents.
That's hardly a suitable dinner topic.
He means this, Mr. Doyle.
Ah, yes. Well, perhaps it is best we dine later.
I must be off. Gentlemen.
Oh, a belly speaker, no less.
From the ancient Greek Baal Obh,
meaning spirit voices
emanating from the ventriloquist's stomach.
Thank you.
Meet Harcourt Grimesby and Mycroft.
A name I'm all too familiar with.
I saw Fred Russell and his puppet Joe
at the Palace Theatre.
Previously, they'd all used hand puppets or small dolls.
That night, Russell introduced the single figure puppet
like Mycroft -- caused a sensation.
Now, of course, everyone's using it.
Yes, well, the entertainment industry
isn't exactly known for its originality, now, is it?
Precisely my sentiments.
What sort of approach do you intend on taking
in this interview, Detective?
I thought I'd talk to him.
Somewhat banal, but effective, I'm sure.
Yes, and I must ask that you remain out here, please.
No interruptions.
Oh, no. You have my word.
Thank you, George. You may step out.
Thank you, sir.
Good afternoon, Detective Murdoch.
So good of you to drop by.
I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Grimesby.
Any audience is a good audience.
Oh, watch this, Willy boy!
Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo!
Thanks.
So, Detective, what's on your mind?
Oh, there are a great many things on my mind.
A great many things.
Oh, things aren't looking good for you.
Not good at all.
I don't understand these questions.
My father was a violent, drunken terror
who drove my mother to suicide.
- What more do you need to know? - Please bear with me.
This is strictly for our records.
And establishing a timeline
would be a great help in that regard.
Ooh! Ask me! I know!
Please, sir. I will have the puppet removed.
No. Please. He'll be good.
I really must insist.
Otherwise...
Pardon me.
What is it, Mr. Doyle?
Brilliant strategy, threatening to take away the puppet.
It wasn't strategy.
The puppet is extremely annoying.
Ah. Well, then, yes.
Straight back at it, then, I suppose.
Off you go. Go on.
Pardon the interruption.
We were discussing the events
leading up to the death of your father.
Mycroft and I had just finished our performance...
prematurely.
The little girl's songbird escapes and is killed.
- She's compelled to bury it. - Yeah?
But she's digging a big hole.
And the woman next door says,
"Dearie, why such a big hole for your wee songbird?"
And the little girl says...
I needed room for your damn cat!
Don't you get it? The cat ate the bird.
So -- Okay. Just stop that!
Then I went home and drank to excess.
And that's when the rage against your father took hold?
Yes.
I set out for my father's flat,
and that's all I remember until the end.
If, as you claimed, you despised your fa--
You gave me your word, Mr. Doyle.
Yes, but is it not unusual that Harcourt,
if he was so hell-bent on murder, as he says he was,
that he brought his puppet along?
I don't know. Why don't you ask him yourself?
- That would be improper. - Yes, highly.
But I'm afraid it may be
the only way I can get this interview.
- Be my guest. - If you insist.
Who's the walrus?
Arthur Conan Doyle.
That supposed to mean something?
Mr. Doyle is here to lend his expertise.
Oh! He's an expert.
I'm curious, Mr. Grimesby,
on why you brought your puppet along
if you intended to murder your father.
- What are ya? Stupid? - Of course I brought him along.
You don't leave your best friend alone in the dead of night.
And yes, I know he's a puppet.
We don't like you, Doyle.
I take it you made Mycroft yourself, Mr. Grimesby.
Excellent craftsmanship.
You should see my good side.
Thank you, Detective.
He looks very much like you.
- It gets the laughs. - Says you.
One more thing.
If your father was a vile drunkard, as you say,
why have anything to do with him at all?
I'm an only child, Detective.
Regardless of my feelings towards him,
a son has a duty to his father.
Ugh.
Yes. Well, that'll be all.
Oh, you're right-handed, I take it.
Yet you employ your left hand almost exclusively.
To protect my right hand.
Operating Mycroft has caused pain and numbness in it.
If I'm not careful, my days on stage may soon be over.
Big parade on that day.
What am I saying? I'm for the noose.
They can hack off both my hands, and it's all the same.
Might he be angling for an insanity defense?
Spare himself the noose.
And guarantee a wretched life in an asylum?
Well, you were even throughout. Never judgmental.
You praised the accused.
Do you pity the doomed?
A fragile psyche like Harcourt's requires a delicate approach.
He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin, didn't he?
Mind you, I suspect I'd feel the same way
were I constantly barraged with insults by my own puppet.
There does seem to be no love lost on the puppet's part.
What are you suggesting?
Merely an observation.
He claims that his right hand pains him with numbness,
yet the killer used the right hand to hold the victim down.
No. He wouldn't do that.
And in a drunken rage, he thought to lock the door.
The Lee murder file, Mr. Doyle.
Yes. Thank you very much, Constable.
I don't know why you're interested
in this particular case.
It's rather open-and-shut. No secret panels or whatnot.
The suspect, Mr. Sing -- Is he incarcerated?
He is. Awaiting the noose, I believe.
Unfortunate.
I suppose, for him.
Although he was found standing over the deceased.
- Was he? - Yes.
The other tenants in the rooming house
heard the victim moaning in distress
and the police were called.
Hm.
Could you find out for me where he's being held?
Right away.
Um, I think it's quite something
that you're basing your new novel on Detective Murdoch.
He's got an uncanny grasp of the criminal mind
and just an unbelievably observational eye.
Yes, you see, all these platitudes are well and good,
but what I really need to know is how he thinks.
Platitudes.
Sounds like you're talking about a sea creature, sir.
Yes, I believe that you're thinking of the platypus.
I don't believe I am.
George, has Mrs. Paulk arrived yet?
She has. She's in the interview room.
Very good.
Now, go immediately to Harcourt's flat.
Retrieve any and all bottles of shellac, varnish, lacquer,
anything of the sort.
I wish to compare their contents
to what we find in Roderick Grimesby's stomach sample.
Now, sir, we have found a bottle of varnish
there at the crime scene.
Yes, but someone took the time to pour the varnish
from a can into a bottle.
So if we find that same varnish at Harcourt's,
- it furthers our case. - Precisely.
The only thing is I was about to help Mr. Doyle find --
I'm sure it can wait.
Sir.
William, I sense a reluctance on your part
in this endeavor of mine.
Mr. Doyle --
- Arthur. - Arthur.
How do I provide you with insight into my mind?
It simply works as it does.
There you are, Arthur.
Creative juices flowing, I trust?
All is well?
Excellent.
I've got a stomach that thinks its throat's been cut.
Perfect opportunity for lunch, yes?
Yes. Is there ale involved, Inspector?
Is the Pope a Catholic, Arthur?
Well, in that case, I'm your man.
I've also had the idea
of adapting my "Hounds of the Highlands"
to one of your new stories.
My character is investigating a terrible murder
over at Scarborough Cliffs.
Murdoch, of course, is assisting me.
Come on. I'll tell you on the way.
Bluffs, sir. Scarborough Bluffs.
Roddy never gave me a key.
Afraid I'd get into his booze.
- Would you have? - Of course.
Mrs. Paulk, where were you this morning
between 3:00 and 6:00 a. M?
Home.
Me husband, Stanley, says he's got the nerve up
to take it to Roddy.
I says, "Rubbish.
You've not got the nerve, you spineless fish,
which is why I've been flyin' me flag
on account of your girlie aspect."
And then I went back to sleep.
Are you sure this demonstration
is absolutely necessary, Thomas?
Ooh.
Note the form, Arthur.
My character in battle
against that ferocious hound on the cliffs.
Ah, yes. Of course.
The climactic boxing match between man and dog.
Fine form. Now, what about Murdoch?
I can't fathom him one little bit.
Uh, just spends half his time sitting and thinking.
But he's done well, all because of you.
Indeed, indeed.
But he lacks the fighter's instincts to turn the screws.
A little fear of God gets results.
None of this "Let's sit down
and have a nice little friendly chat" business.
Mrs. Paulk, what do you know
about the relationship between Mr. Grimesby and his son?
Was there any bad blood?
Haven't the faintest idea.
I was there to knock boots with Roddy boy, Mr. Murdoch.
I'm not otherwise taking notice.
Well, that will be quite enough.
There was one odd thing.
One odd thing?
Every while in his cups, Roddy'd get all teary-eyed,
talk about that godforsaken Mycroft.
- The puppet? - Yeah.
Nothing you could make out.
Just "Mycroft this" and "Mycroft that."
Boohoo and all.
I figure the loving's top drawer.
If the man wants to bring puppets into it,
I'm not complaining, am I?
You know, I -- Thank you, good fellows.
I was wondering if I could meet the suspect
in the Lee case, Mr. Sing.
The suspect?
Oh, yes, I find it as important to understand
the psychology of the villain as it is the hero.
I suppose it can be arranged, but I doubt you'll get much.
Why?
Well, my understanding is that when they raided the flat,
they found a room full of roots and herbs.
Most likely an opium eater. Bit doolally, I expect.
Yes. Well, nonetheless, if I could speak to him,
I'd be in your debt.
Repay me with another pint, Arthur?
Splendid.
These are samples of the varnishes found
in Harcourt Grimesby's home.
Methanol.
Ethanol.
Isopropanol.
And methyl isobutyl ketone.
In other words, he only used high-quality shellac
on his puppet.
Yes.
Now...
the stomach contents.
That's just low-grade varnish.
That would be consistent with my findings.
How so?
Shellac affects the muscular system,
while varnish causes gastric bleeding.
Mr. Harcourt only suffered gastric bleeding.
So, for some reason, instead of using the shellac on hand,
Harcourt went to the trouble of purchasing low-grade varnish
with which to kill his father?
Yet another inconsistency.
Yes. Yet another inconsistency.
He's still there.
Shut up.
What did you do?
Shut up, you creature.
What did you do?! What did you do?!
Shut up! Shut up!
What's happened to your puppet, Mr. Grimesby?
We had an altercation.
Oh? About?
Mycroft has a mind of his own, doesn't he?
If I say yes, you'll think me insane. I'm not.
You and I are very much alike, Mr. Grimesby.
We are?
Yes.
Both our fathers were alcoholic.
Our mothers died when we were very young.
And as a boy, I, too, had an alter ego.
A stuffed bear toy.
What was his name?
Bear.
Straightforward. Fitting.
My point is that my stuffed bear also spoke for me on occasion.
He knew all of my secrets,
as I suspect Mycroft knows all of yours.
May I see him?
You take very good care of him, don't you?
He can be difficult, but he means no harm.
I think he likes you, Detective.
He's very glossy.
It's shellac, I assume.
It strains the budget, but he's worth it.
Low-grade varnish would damage the basswood, wouldn't it?
I wouldn't dream of using the stuff.
Then how is it your father came to be poisoned by cheap varnish?
We've taken very careful note of your father's injuries.
They are not consistent with poisoning by shellac.
You must be mistaken.
Why are you so determined to hang for this crime?
Let me help you.
Here it is. Haw See Lee.
I know you didn't personally perform the postmortem, Doctor,
but anything you could tell me would be most helpful.
Of course, Mr. Doyle.
I must say, it seems rather routine.
Yes, but it is in the minutiae that is the texture of a tale.
Well, the victim was found dead in his rooming house.
He had suffered extensive bruising to the upper torso.
And what was the cause of death?
The victim was elderly.
The beating was thought to have contributed to heart failure.
The bruising, was it to the back?
Yes.
By any chance, were there specific shapes to the bruises?
Yes. Distinct circular patterns.
The examiner thought perhaps a potato masher or a large pestle,
some such item.
Tell me, Mr. Doyle, how did you know about the shape?
I must have read about it in the newspaper article.
Was the victim suffering from consumption?
Mr. Doyle, you seem to know far more about this case
than what one would find in a newspaper article.
Tell me, Doctor, have you ever heard of cupping?
Always with the blackboard, Murdoch,
always with the blackboard.
Must you persist?
As I've said before, sir,
Harcourt Grimesby is not being truthful.
He claims to have killed his father with shellac,
yet the poison used was a cheaper varnish.
A quibble.
- A lie. - I reiterate -- He confessed.
- But why? - He's guilty.
- Of what? - Killing his father?
But would guilt consume Harcourt Grimesby
if he despised his father, as he claims?
Is this another of your confounding Jesuit arguments?
I'll admit, it is possible.
I'm simply saying
that there are inconsistencies in his confession
which make no sense.
Unless...
Bloody hell, Murdoch, say it. Unless what?
Unless there was a third party involved.
A third party?
All right. I'll go along with that.
We've eliminated the cuckolded husband and his lovely wife,
and Mrs. Grimesby is long dead.
So you tell me, Detective, who does that leave?
Stop it! You'll kill him!
That's the whole idea, stupid!
I have no relevant theory at the moment, sir.
Well, until you do, the belly speaker stays locked up.
What I find puzzling is Harcourt was in the room.
He saw the killer.
And if so, why does he insist
on protecting the killer's identity?
William?
Inspector. May we have a word?
Yes. Of course.
Mr. Doyle has convinced me
that a great miscarriage of justice has been carried out.
What are you talking about?
Thomas, it has to do with Mr. Lee's death.
It was not murder.
This is very serious. Are you sure, Mr. Doyle?
The bruising on the deceased body was a result
of an ancient Oriental treatment for congestion of the lungs.
It's a technique called cupping.
Cupping? What the bloody hell is that?
Yes. I've heard of this technique.
It involves a heated cup placed on the skin
to create a partial vacuum.
Drawing up the underlying tissues.
And after a few moments,
the blood is drawn to the surface of the skin.
Yes, much like -- What is the colloquialism?
- Love bites. - Correct.
But more importantly, the marks appear to be bruises,
causing the illusion that the victim has been beaten.
So the victim was cupped to death?
No, no.
The victim was suffering from consumption.
Mr. Sing is an Oriental medical practitioner.
That's what the herbs in his flat were for.
So Mr. Sing was employing this cupping technique
to try and cure the victim.
But, being elderly, he suffered a heart attack.
This all sounds like weird, African witch-doctor business.
Eastern medical practices are very different from ours.
Regardless, Mr. Sing is innocent and must be released.
Well, unfortunately, you're a tad late, I'm afraid.
What are you talking about?
Well, I tried to get you in to speak with the Oriental old dog,
but, uh, he met his maker three days ago.
Damnation.
Mr. Doyle? What on Earth?
What's wrong with Arthur?
I'll speak with him.
Mr. Doyle, you have led me on quite a chase.
Ah, if it's not the great detective,
staring blankly in the face of death without skipping a beat.
Sir, I am not Sherlock Holmes.
Now, please tell me what is going on.
What are you talking about, sir?
You are not here to write some book about me, are you?
Barkeep, another!
Whatever it is you are doing here
has something to do with this cupping incident.
My reasons for being here are my own, damn it!
Damn it all to hell!
Barkeep, I said another!
Ah!
Barkeep, I want another drink!
Murdoch!
You can't do this to me, Murdoch!
I demand to speak to Inspector Brackenreid!
You will speak to him, Mr. Doyle, once you are sober.
You can't do this to me!
I demand to speak to Inspector Crabandpeed.
That all you got, Doyle? Huh?
Oh, something on your mind, Doyle?
Why are you mean to me?
You know.
I've done so much for you. I made you part of the family.
- Oh, now we're brothers, are we? - I tried.
Yeah, big deal.
Ooh! The pugilist wakes.
How's your head, Doyle?
How's your nose, puppet?
Clever. You should be a writer.
Sherlock, Shmerlock.
You did what?
Doyle was drunk and disorderly, sir.
Choffing hell, Murdoch! He's not a thug!
Drag him out the pub, let him cool down, yes!
But don't lock him up!
The man is a literary lion,
possibly the world's greatest living author.
And now he's locked up in a jail cell like a common ruffian.
Miller, release him!
If the broadsheets get hold of this, we'll be demonized.
Arthur, please, please forgive this injustice.
- I am appalled beyond outrage. - It's quite all right, Thomas.
I beg your pardon, but like bloody hell it is.
Allow me to buy you breakfast by way of atonement.
A welcome gesture, Thomas.
Murdoch, I believe you have something to say.
Yes, sir.
Inspector, if I might have a word alone with the detective,
I'll be with you straightaway.
If you insist.
Set this straight.
- Arthur. - William.
I apologize profusely. I behaved a fool.
Hey, I'm the one you punched. Talk to me.
Would someone please put a termite
up that puppet's applecart?
Oh, now, that is just rude.
I have an applecart?
That's enough, Mr. Grimesby.
Apologies notwithstanding, Mr. Doyle,
I daresay your behavior last night
was not entirely the fault of drink.
Yes, I suppose not.
Touie's very ill.
Touie?
That's my wife, Louise.
I call her Touie. She has consumption.
Ooh, so sad!
- So sad! - Stop it!
- You stop it this instant! - I'm coughing up sawdust here!
William, what are you doing?
- Uh-oh. - George, get in here!
William!
Get him away!
No! Leave him alone!
Give him back!
- Please. - Come, Arthur.
Please... please, please, please give him back!
Give him back, please!
You and I, William, have much in common.
My father, like yours, was a terrible alcoholic.
I felt my only hope was to have him committed.
He died recently.
I'm sorry.
And now Touie's illness.
Same that took your Liza.
Is that the reason for the interest in the Lee case?
Consumption.
I've traveled extensively, seeking some cure.
After I left Toronto, I traveled the Midwest.
Chicago.
And there I met a man who told me about cupping.
So I've heard.
Then I remembered reading about Mr. Lee's murder
and the strange bruising.
I realized there must be a practitioner here.
That's why you returned.
Yes, to confirm my suspicions.
And to free the practitioner.
Mr. Doyle, why not simply tell me?
Pride, I suppose.
Fear of failure, as is now the case.
I'm becoming increasingly agitated,
as last night painfully demonstrates.
Mr. Doyle, I am truly sorry for you,
but I still don't believe you're telling me the truth.
I assure you.
There is a very large Oriental population in London.
Surely, you could have sought treatment for her there.
Then what possible reason could I have for being here?
I believe you're running, sir.
Running?
I know how painful it can be,
watching the woman you love slowly die.
Powerless to do anything to help.
How does one rise above it, William?
You don't.
You descend into it.
And you cherish every moment you have left with each other.
Mr. Doyle, go home.
Be with her.
Sir, pardon me.
I thought you might want to know
the suspect has become quite agitated
since we took his puppet.
That might not be a bad thing, George.
Just keep an eye on him.
- Please. - Sir.
If I may return the favor, William, of helpful words.
- An observation? - Of course.
Your prisoner and his puppet had a roiling bond between them.
I've seen it. Its meaning escapes me.
It's like a war of the wills or conscience.
Like I had on occasion with my brother.
In fact... the puppet calls Harcourt his brother.
Dismissively, but I think it may be significant.
Ooh! Ask me! I know!
Hoo-hoo!
Thank you, Arthur.
Here are all the "G" birth records
between 1865 and 1870.
Excellent. Thank you.
So, I understand that you and Mr. Doyle had a disagreement.
Yes. We've sorted matters out.
And?
He revealed personal reasons which explain his being here
that I'm not at liberty to discuss.
So he won't be writing stories based on you, then?
Uh, well, he didn't say exactly, but I'd rather expect not.
Ah, here we are.
Baby Grimesby.
- Aha. - What is it?
There are two Grimesby birth certificates.
Two?
Mr. Doyle suggested that Harcourt and his puppet Mycroft
were at a war of conscience -- like brothers.
There was a twin, named Mycroft.
Oh.
I've been speaking to the wrong witness.
I must speak to the conscience of the killer.
He saw it all.
Mycroft.
Thank you, Detective.
I will only speak to Mycroft.
You can't be serious.
Only to him or I take him away.
All right. Give him to me.
Mycroft...
...why are there two?
Two what? Two what? Show me.
I'm not speaking to you, Harcourt.
Mycroft, in our first interview, you said, "Ask me."
You said you knew what happened.
There are two birth certificates.
So now tell my why.
No. Don't answer.
- It's a trick. - Let Mycroft answer.
No, Mycroft. Don't.
Mycroft, you've been wanting to tell me the whole time.
You speak for Harcourt's twin brother.
- I don't have a twin. - Be quiet.
Look at it.
Look!
The birth record. Three minutes after yours.
It's not true. It's a mistake.
He was there, wasn't he?
You watched your twin brother murder your father.
I did not.
Who else would you be willing to go to the grave for?
- Huh? - Stop.
- Harcourt? - Stop.
The truth is out.
You can't protect your brother any longer.
It's over.
Where did you get that? You have no right to have that.
Why isn't he in the photograph?
What happened to him?
He's still there. He's still there.
Did your brother kill your father?
Did he?
Yes.
It was Mycroft.
Why?
Mother and Father couldn't afford to keep us both,
so Mycroft was given away at birth.
Damn them, they didn't even tell me he existed.
I had to find out from Mycroft himself.
Mycroft found you?
By accident.
He saw a show poster with me on it
and realized he had an identical twin.
He wanted to be a part of the family,
so I told him...
I told him where our father lived.
God forgive me.
You didn't know he was bent on revenge
or that he would frame you for the crime.
Harcourt, the day of the murder...
I went to look in on Father.
You did this to me.
This is your doing, brother.
Where is he now -- the real Mycroft?
I don't know. He lives on the streets.
So why just accept the blame?
I'm the reason that my brother lives in hell.
I couldn't also send him to the gallows.
Don't you understand, Detective?
Why was I the one they kept?
Why me?
Just dropping in to say my goodbyes, William,
and to congratulate you on a job well done.
Thank you, Arthur.
If you ever tire of this detecting business,
may I say a career as an alienist awaits?
What? Still at it?
The Grimesby murder even though Harcourt's released?
Well, we've yet to find Mycroft.
I'm confident you will apprehend him.
You know, it's not the case that bothers me.
It's the family decimated.
Yes. Family, as we can attest.
Well, I thought you'd like to know,
I've opted for the story of the hounds,
with my old friend Sherlock.
Oh, the inspector will be thrilled.
Perhaps.
Yes, there will be certain modifications to his story,
however.
And your next adventure?
Home. With Louise, where I belong.
Uh, would you relay my apologies to Dr. Ogden?
You could do worse than spend more time with that one,
- I estimate. - Oh?
Well, thank you, William. Until next time.
Good luck, Arthur.
And sad fortunes reversed.
Yes. Reversed.
Sorry?
I can't believe it.
It's been right in front of my eyes the whole time.
- What has? - Look here.
The boy's eyes. One dark, one light.
Yes, the heterochromia. What of it?
The eye colors -- They're reversed!
- From what? - From our suspect's eyes.
We never had Harcourt Grimesby in custody.
It was Mycroft all along?
Well, good God, sir.
Where the devil is the real Harcourt Grimesby?
He's still here.
Inspector!
So, this is Harcourt?
He looks to be about 10 years of age.
And his body has lay hidden here all these years.
So Mycroft lived life as Harcourt.
Apparently seeking out revenge on his father
for a lifetime of wrongs
and perhaps also for his brother.
Mycroft told a story just contradictory enough
that you end up exonerating him
and believing the real killer is on the run.
We'd have searched a lifetime in vain.
Crabtree, come on.
I want every available man looking for this nutcase.
Sir.
Harcourt Grimesby, my sincerest apologies.