Endeavour (2012–…): Season 1, Episode 2 - Fugue - full transcript

Excuse me.

Constable Morse.
I loved your singing.

Dorothea Frazil. Oxford Mail.
We met briefly on the Tremlett case.

Oh, I remember you, of course.

It's a good angle:
"The Singing Detective".

It's better than the one
I've got presently.

I've no wish to see my name in
the papers, Miss Frazil.

Covering for the local arts
correspondent

is never going to win me the
Pulitzer.

Just give me a quote. I'll see
there's something in it for you.

Any such recompense would
leave us both open to charges
of bribery and corruption.



If you'll excuse me.

Good evening.

Good luck with your story.

Constable!

I'll be off, then, Aunt.

Phillip will be in tomorrow
to see if there's anything you need.

Will he have time? With the recital?

He's working very hard.

But coming to see you is
always good for him.

So...
How is he?

Can you get a tarp over the timber?
I'm breaking my neck for a jimmy.

What's the matter with her? I told
you. She's just not feeling right.

Don't go. Please.

She's my mother, Lionel.



I do love you, Evie.

Fancy a pint?
If you're buying.

No, it's an emergency job.
Just come in.

Some old girl's sprung a leak.

I can't exactly leave her
in the lurch, can I?

Yeah. Quick as I can, promise.

Love you too.

Watch ya.
Morse.

This way, sir.

Yardman was doing his rounds about
five.

Saw the wagon door open
and thought he'd take a look.

How often does he check on the
rolling stock?

Start, middle and finish of
his turn most nights.

But this end, I think, not so much.

These are all out of service.
Waiting on being broken up.

- This it?
- Sir.

Doctor DeBryn.
Inspector.

No need to ask after cause,
I shouldn't have thought.

Ligature strangulation. Almost
textbook.

As to the time...

Three pink elephants, two pink
elephants, one pink elephant.

Some time between nine and midnight.

She's an earring missing.

I've a contingent of cadets
coming down to search.

Got a name for her?
Evelyn Balfour.

Um... She works behind the bar
at Cowley Bingo.

Husband last saw her last night
about seven o'clock

when she left to visit
her sick mother.

Wasn't he worried when she didn't
come back?

There was a possibility
she may stay overnight.

She told her husband her mother was
ill.

Her mother's been spoken to.
Nothing wrong with her.

What's that in her mouth?

A handkerchief.

Embroidered with the letter... D.

Hardly the most romantic spot
for a bit of how's-your-father.

Private.
It's got that going for it.

Beggars can't, I suppose.

We're going to take the husband.
You can do her work.

Just the facts.

Don't need confusing with any
"theories".

Then you're back to the nick and
resume general duties. Right?

All was well with you and
Mrs Balfour?

No arguments?
No.

Never a cross word, eh?
Did you go out last night?

No. Just had my tea.

Got the children bathed
and put to bed.

I was catching up on my returns.

You're an insurance agent.
That right?

Mutual and Provident.
What's that? Door-to-door?

Collecting payments.

Mrs Balfour often go out alone of an
evening?

Only to see her mother.

She's not been in the best of
health lately. Shingles.

Oh. How long's that been
going on then?

Couple of months.

Other than that, Mrs Balfour was
more of a home-bird, was she?

Oh, yes.

She sometimes had a late turn at
the bingo, depending on the rota.
But otherwise...

Nice.
We just had it done.

Couple of months back.

Evelyn had been on for one.

A pal of hers at work had a matching
suite put in at Christmas.

You know what they're like.

Mrs Balfour looks to have been
carrying on with someone, sir.

Romantically?

Common knowledge at the
bingo hall where she worked,
according to Morse.

Morse? I thought he'd been
returned to general duties.

That's right, sir. He has.

He just happened to be in early
when the report came through.

Amongst the first on the scene.

Does the husband know about
the... infidelity?

Not the impression he's giving.

Trying to protect her reputation
perhaps. Or his own.

No man likes to be thought
a cuckold.

Doesn't look as though he's
got it in him.

The fancy man, most likely.

Just a matter of finding him then.
Hm?

You got that car theft written up
yet?

How's about you stick to
general duties

and let the rough boys deal
with the grown-up stuff?

Why did he leave the door open?
If it wasn't open

she could have lay in there for
days before being discovered.

Panicked, hasn't he,
once he's done her.

Fled the scene and forgot
to shut it after him.

It's reckless. Don't you think?

He made a mistake.

Or he wanted us to find her.

I don't hear you typing.

Car theft.

Oh!

Police! Open the door!

Hello! Police!

Did you close that door? Police.
Was that you?

No, sir.

"Oon back-ee-o ankera".

Un bacio ancora.
All right.

So what's it mean?

"One kiss more." Italian.

Un bacio ancora is Otello's last
line in Verdi's opera.

So what?

He sings it having strangled his
wife in a fit of jealousy.

He believes she's given a
handkerchief to another officer

as a sign of her affections.

And?
His wife's name is Desdemona.

The handkerchief stuffed in
Evelyn Balfour's mouth

was embroidered with the initial D.

You're kidding? We're not really
giving this any weight, are we?

Interesting, don't you think?

Maybe. But that could've been
written up on the door years ago.

More likely we're looking
for a bloke called Dave,

than some bint called Desdemona.

If this is some fancy man
she had on the go,

it'll have been a spur
of the moment thing.

Exactly.

He's hardly going to hang about
writing all that on the door,

then sliding it out of view where
nobody could find it, is he?

It was found.
Sir?

It's not as if anybody normal
would think to look there, is it?

Thursday.

Where's this?

Morse.

Deceased is one Grace Agnes Madison.
11th of the fourth, 1896.

Widowed. Found by her niece, Faye.

Just gone half-past ten this
morning.

Pathologist been notified?
He's on his way.

But she was in general good health
according to the niece.

Oh. She's outside if you
wanted a word.

Mrs Madison was your aunt, is that
right?

Married to my father's older
brother. Uncle Cedric.

He's deceased, I understand.

Yes. He died in '62.

Aunt Grace returned to England
the following year.

From where?
India.

She was born in Witney, but she grew
up and lived most of her life there,

which is where she met Uncle Cedric.

When did you see her last?
Erm... Yesterday.

Aunt Grace was all the family
we had left.

One or other of us tried to
look in every day,

just to see if there was
anything she needed.

One or the other of whom?

Erm... My brother. Phillip.

Today was his turn -

but he's presently rehearsing
for a piano recital.

She seemed in good health
when you saw her last?

Yes. Pottering about the
conservatory as usual.

Aunt Grace was a botanist
of some note.

She'd written several books on the
flora of the subcontinent.

Doctor.
Morse.

Anything?

By anything, I presume you mean,
anything suspicious?

No obvious signs of violence.

All I can tell you for now is
that she died sometime

between four and seven o'clock
yesterday afternoon.

I'd be grateful if you get the
contents of the teapot taken away
for analysis.

The teapot? People do die of
natural causes, Morse.

Think someone bumped her off
for the inheritance?

I think the table's set for two, and
her guest hasn't touched their tea.

Hm. If that's the stuff the chimps
drink, I'm a Chinaman.

Mrs Madison had an appointment
in her diary

with a Mister Nimmo at 4pm
yesterday.

There was a letter from him.
Dated Tuesday last.

Some sort of journalist.
Wanted to write about her gardening.

She was a botanist of some repute,
apparently.

One day I'll send you out
for a routine enquiry

and it'll turn out to be just that.
But I won't hold my breath.

You'd find something suspicious
in a saint's sock drawer.

I didn't know you spoke Italian.

More under my hat than nits.

We came up through Italy after North
Africa. Landed at Reggio.

Then on to Cassino.

Got a match on a thumbprint
off Mrs Balfour's handbag, sir.

Roy Adamson.

Three months suspended for
receiving, some nine years back.

Runs a builder's yard out
towards Headington.

Looks like Othello's in the clear.

Right. Fetch the car round.

Mrs Madison's niece know anything
about this Nimmo character?

No, sir.
See if you can run him down.

Find out what he was doing there.

What about this builder?

The Balfours had a bathroom suite
installed a few months back.

Round about the time she was
"visiting her sick mother".

Let's just say I'd be
very surprised

if it wasn't Roy Adamson's building
firm that was doing the work.

Oh. Good afternoon. City Police.

I'm looking for a Mister Nimmo.
I believe he lives at number 8.

I've never seen him.

How long have you lived here?
Nearly three years.

Oh.

Well, thank you for your help.

Heard him, though.

You've heard him?

Music blaring out till all hours.

I've written to the landlord.
Not that it's made no difference.

What kind of music?
Classical.

You know, bloody awful stuff.
Singing.

Well, caterwauling.

Thank you.

Yeah, we did some work for
Mister Balfour.

There you go. A bathroom suite.
Pink.

A few months back.

What did you make of 'em?

I didn't make anything of 'em.
Just customers.

Nice enough.
Seen 'em recently?

No. Not since the job finished.

You sure about that?
Pretty sure.

See, the thing is, Roy...

We found Mrs Balfour strangled
yesterday.

And your fingerprints have
turned up on her handbag.

Anything you'd like to
tell me about that?

That's you.

Go on, in you get.

He's admitted carrying on with her.
Not that he had much choice.

Sergeant Jakes found an earring in
the footwell of a works' truck.

A match?

Took her up Boar's Hill, he says.
Car park.

Brings her back after by Osney,
where he found her.

Alive and well, presumably.

Call for you, sir. Dr DeBryn.
The "sudden" this morning.

Pending toxicological results,

I consulted a colleague from
the Botanic Gardens.

He identified the leaves
in the teapot

as having come from Datura
stramonium.

Datura?
A weed.

Also known as the Thorn Apple,
or Devil's Snare.

Poisonous?
Oh, highly toxic.

The seed pods in particular.
I took the liberty.

Been used for centuries
by the Indians and Chinese

as a treatment for asthma.

But the line between a medicinal and
a lethal dose is very thin indeed.

Contains atropine and scopolamine.

The "truth" drug.
That's right.

Taken in overdose, symptoms include
severe hallucinations, seizures.

All leading, step by jolly step,
to blindness, coma

and an eventual "how do you do"
from St Peter.

If one goes in for that sort of
thing.

What do you make to it? Mrs Madison.

Money?

With only a niece and nephew living,
I'd expect they stand to inherit.

What about your Mister Nimmo?
No-one's seen him around his flat.

But a neighbour said he had music
blaring till all hours.

Opera, by the sound of it.

The entire lease on his lodgings is
conducted through a solicitor.

They're running down a cheque.

Should be able to get a more
reliable address from his bank.

A weed, Dr DeBryn said.

Not likely to be something she'd
have been cultivating, is it?

I wouldn't have thought so.

There's something about Datura
I can't quite put my finger on.

At least the Balfour case looks
like it's going to run to form.

The builder? Has he confessed?

Not yet. I'm letting him sweat
for the minute.

I'll have another go after lunch.

Speaking of which...

Now, let's see.
What have I got to look forward to?

Luncheon meat.

Remind me never to spend Christmas
at your house.

"Ici... loin du monde reel."

They're the last words sung
by Lakme, sir. Whom?

Lakme, sir. An Indian princess.
The heroine of an opera by Delibes.

According to Morse, sir,
this Lakme girl kills herself

by eating leaves from the
Datura plant.

The same as was used to poison
Grace Madison.

Makes it two, sir.

What makes two? Two deaths, sir.
With a connection to opera.

There was a phrase from... What is
it? Otello, sir. By Giuseppe Verdi.

Chalked on the door of the goods
wagon where we found Evelyn Balfour.

"One kiss more."
His last words, Morse says.

You mean Shakespeare's Othello?
The blackamoor?

That's him, sir, yes.
Evelyn Balfour was strangled, sir,

like Desdemona, Othello's wife.

A handkerchief was stuffed
in her mouth,

embroidered with the initial D.

I thought we had someone for the
Balfour killing.

All right, Morse. As you were.

Opera? Good God!

A man would have to be
some sort of raving lunatic
to go to such lengths.

If he is a lunatic, sir, I'd have
to say he's a very clever one.

If you have no objection,

I'd like to second Morse from
General Duties for the duration.

Is that necessary?

Specialist knowledge, sir -
it comes to this sort of thing.

Very well. But for the duration
of the inquiry only.

I don't want him getting ideas.

That's kind of what I'm counting on.

Sir.

Usual time in the morning, is it?

No, you're all right.
Morse can fetch me.

You're off General Duties till
further notice.

8.15 sharp. All right?

Morse.

Hello?

Hello?

Seen this?

Late Edition.

How the hell have they come by that?
"Reliable sources", I expect.

Are you serious?
Put it this way, matey.

For a bloke who puts it away
the way he does,

Jakes is never anything less
than flush, is he?

Anyroad. Get 'em in, then.

I thought we might have a go
through the Fitton's.

You'll never get your Sergeant's,
otherwise.

I was gonna push off,
if it's all the same.

It's your round.
I'll owe you one.

Right.

I don't suppose your aunt

might have mentioned this Mr Nimmo
to your brother?

She may. But, if she did, he never
told me.

I'd er... I'd like to
speak with him.

I'm afraid he's very busy
at the moment.

Of course.

At his convenience.

Well, good night. I'm sorry to have
troubled you, Miss Madison.

Uh...

Dad!

Well, don't stand on ceremony.

It's probably best if I
wait in the car.

It's probably best
if you just do as you're told.

You've come in, then. I'm impressed.

Most of Pop's it takes
at least six months.

That lump is my brother Sam.
You want a cuppa?

No, I'm fine, thanks,
Miss Thursday. Miss Thursday!

She gets enough of that
down the bank.

Start calling her it at home
and she'll get airs.

That's Joan, love.
It's one of Dad's, Mum.

I didn't think he was
from the pools.

Sit yourself down.
He won't be a tick.

So.

What do they call you, then?

Morse.

Morse? Morse what?

Morse Code. Dit-dit-dah!

You still here, Joan?
Morning, sir.

I thought it was twenty-past,
your bus. I'm just going.

Sam, fetch the bins out
before you go to work.

Don't leave it to your mother.

Right. We're off.

Here, let's have a look at you.

Come home safe.

There, then, you'll do, Fred.

It went well this morning?

You haven't said.
I don't want to talk about it.

But it's helping.

Phillip?

What did that policeman want
last night?

I told you. He's investigating
what happened to Aunt Grace.

Why did he come to the house?

I don't like people coming
to the house.

He was asking about someone
called Nimmo -

a journalist of some sort.

Yeah?

The bank's come through with an
address for Mr Nimmo, sir.
Some place called Drover's Rest.

Good.
Thursday, this is Dr Daniel Cronyn.

Dr Cronyn, Detective Inspector
Thursday.

How do you do? Dr Cronyn is a
psychiatrist in private practice.

He's made a particular study of
these kind of deranged individuals.

You might benefit from his
professional opinion.

The perpetrator of these crimes

clearly exhibits a profoundly
disturbed psyche.

Indeed.

I'm sure I'm not telling you
anything you don't know.

What may be less obvious
to you, perhaps,

is that he will also be
highly functioning.

Which, I regret to say, will make
him very difficult to apprehend.

But not impossible?

Such cases are few and
far between over here,

but my colleagues in the
United States

believe this kind of killer is
something of a coming trend.

A trend?
Indeed.

Within the last ten years we've had
the Starkweather case,

the bodies in the swamp at Fairvale

and DeSalvo in Boston.

What's he after? What's behind him?
Impossible to say.

Other than he conforms to the
triad personality

of Narcissism, Machiavellianism
and Psychopathy

posited by McDonald
a couple of years back,

I'd expect him to be highly
intelligent.

Though this may not necessarily be
reflected in academic achievements.

How old?
Mid-20s to mid-30s. 40 at a push.

There's no possibility this
could be the end of it?

Gentlemen, you're confronting
a mind...

unconstrained by notions
of guilt...

regret, right and wrong...

good and evil.

So far as he's concerned,
we're just... prey.

Prey?

In his eyes.

Kine...

reared to slaughter.

We'll stop him.

How? You think you're
going to appeal

to his nobler instincts,
his better angels?

He doesn't have any.

The only thing I can tell you with
absolute certainty...

is he will kill again.

Good afternoon.

Afternoon.

We're looking for Drover's Rest.
Some sort of farm, I believe.

Slaughteryard.

Old Ben Nimmo's place.

Mr Nimmo wouldn't be a journalist,
then?

Not unless he writes about pet food.

I see.

Could you point us in the right
direction?

What d'you want with Old Ben, then?
Police business.

City Police.

Are we far?

You've come past the turning
about two mile.

Well, thank you, Mr...?

Oakshott. Lemuel.

You won't find him there.

Gone away.

I haven't seen him since Ada died,
his wife.

Gone to his boy, maybe.

Canada.

Mr Nimmo?

Take it down.

You go up there, I'll go down here.

It's from Aida, sir.

Radames' final aria.

Just before he's entombed alive.

Cement mixer in the yard,
wasn't there?

That looks new.

We've had a patrol round this
flat leased in Nimmo's name,
the one you went to.

Nothing there but a record player
and a stack of LPs.

It's not been occupied
so far as the lads can tell.

I didn't think it would've been.

Look sharp, then, Morse. It's the
competition.

Somebody with even more crackpot
ideas than you.

Buried alive?

Nothing quite so quick, I'm afraid.

This was immurement.

Walling up.

Cause of death would have been more
likely dehydration than asphyxia.

How long?
For some days.

My God!

Then as the organs of the body
began to fail...

delirium...

madness.

One can only pray his heart
gave out first.

Would you excuse me?

There's wickedness in this, Morse.

I can understand gain, jealousy,
revenge, even.

But killing just for the sheer hell
of it?

That's something new.

Hello, Oxford Mail.
How can I help you?

What's this?

Found on the victim, sir.

It's from The Mikado, KoKo's song.

"As someday it may happen
that a victim might be found".

I suppose he thinks that's funny.

It's also known as The List Song,
sir.

List?

KoKo was the Lord High Executioner
to the Mikado.

He read a list of society offenders
he said he was going to execute.

The chorus runs,

"He's got 'em on the list
and they'll none of 'em be missed"

Our three victims, presumably.

How many more has he got in mind?
That's what worries me.

Something you should see, sir.
Through here.

You too, Morse.

Looks like you've got an admirer.

There was a musical score
stuffed in Mr Nimmo's pockets.

The List Song, apparently.

Doctor?
No.

For a moment, I...

But it can't be. I'm just...

There was a... a patient.

I met him in the early '50s,

when I was working at Bellevue
Sanatorium under Dr Elias.

He'd have been about 20 then.

Who would?

A young man called... Miller.

Keith Miller.

He was some sort of musical
child prodigy.

Quite brilliant, by all accounts.

But on the morning of his
15th birthday,

he took an axe from the
woodshed and...

buried it in the back of
his mother's skull.

What happened to him?

"Guilty but insane".

He was sentenced to be detained
at His Majesty's Pleasure.

What makes you think he's connected?

When he was in therapy,

he described horribly violent,
murderous fantasies -

what he would and wouldn't like to
do to various members of staff

who'd rubbed him up the wrong way.

It was a pet phrase of his.

"I've got a little list."

Where is he now?

I seem to remember a colleague
saying he'd been released, cured...

about five or six years ago.

The point is...

he was an Oxford boy.

Bad ju-ju, Thursday.
Yes, sir.

Get to the bottom of it and quick.
I'm relying on you. Morse!

You're off General Duties because
I'm told this is your area.

See you prove yourself useful.

Sir.

All right, Morse?

Why has he got my picture
on the wall?

It just tickled his fancy.
I wouldn't read too much into it.

He's just trying to get us rattled.
It's working.

Then, don't let it.
I need you thinking straight.

It was delivered around 11.

"?: 3 - OCP: 0."

That's us, I suppose,
Oxford City Police.

Three-nil to the Opera Phantom.

That was rather my reading of it.
There's been another one?

Actually, Miss Frazil, I'd urge you
in the strongest possible terms

not to make this communication
known to the public.

As a favour.

This person we're after is clearly
working to some sort of plan.

I'd hope by your agreeing
not to publish,

we might derail whatever scheme
he's got in mind

or delay it, at least.

24 hours.

After that...
Pray that's enough.

Morse.

I heard it.

Put your sandals on, then.

Every... Good... Boy...

Deserves Favours.

I've spoken to Bellevue, sir.

Seems there was a fire there,
three years ago,

destroyed several wings of
the sanatorium,

together with the records office.

Surely if this happened locally...?

Nothing on our files, sir.
I've put in a request to County.

Sir...
Ah! Our resident expert.

Opera!

I don't think the killer's
choosing his victims at random.

There may be a pattern.
A pattern?

To the killings.
I can't be sure, but...

Every Good Boy Deserves Favour.
Every what?

It's a mnemonic for remembering
the notes on a treble clef.

Every Good Boy Deserves Favour -

EGBDF.

Evelyn, Grace, Ben.

That it?

So the next one will start with a D.

Debbie?

Debbie?

Debbie!

Debbie!

Debbie Snow, sir. Six years old.

Taken from the street outside
her house.

Description's been circulated
to all cars and foot patrols.

It's him.
We can't say that.

Just because her name begins with
a D. There's more than that, sir.

The translator from Lonsdale
identified the score

sent to Miss Frazil as
Snegurochka by Rimsky-Korsakov.

Snegurochka is Russian for
Snowmaiden.

Somebody dies, presumably.

The Snowmaiden herself.
She melts at dawn.

As the sun rises.

Something stuffed down in the toe,
according to Uniform.

"No alibi err badly."
What the hell does that mean?

Maybe he's saying we've made
a mistake, sir.

One of the people we've seen in
relation to the other killings.

Someone without an alibi, or...

"Near by Libra idol"?

Some kind of direction, perhaps?

He's setting us a test.
What sort of test?

It's a game.

Solve the puzzle, save the child.

"Near by Libra idol"?

Libra is the Scales, sir. Justice,
maybe?

The idol could be a statue
by the Law Courts.

Think you can you crack it?
I can try.

Try?

You need to do more than try.
All right, Jakes. That'll do.

Meant to be the expert, isn't he?

Laughing-boy's pin-up.
I said, that'll do.

I'm thinking of the kiddie, sir.

Us turning on each other's
going to help find her, is it?
Exactly what he wants.

It's Morse these messages are meant
for, sir. We all know that.

He's seen his picture in the paper.

One bloody misfit talking
to another.

About your business, Sergeant.

He's right. If I can't crack this...

It's not all on you, Morse,
whatever Sergeant Jakes says.

The Snowmaiden melts, sir... at dawn.

However he intends to bring that
about, by fire...

We've less than 12 hours to find
her.

Then we'd better get a move on.

Morse.

Where is she?

"Libra idol."

Fool!

Hello, sir. Detective Constable
Morse. City Police.

I'd like to know if anyone's
requested the score

for The Snow Maiden.
Rimsky-Korsakov.

Is that the Western Score?
Mm.

Give me a moment.

Yes, indeed, it was brought up
from the stacks

on the 17th of last month for Mr
Miller.

Miller?

Keith Miller?

That's right.

Is he a regular reader?

This last year, yes, indeed.
As a matter of fact,

a fresh set of scores have
just been delivered to him.

He's here now?

He arrived not quarter
of an hour ago.

Close the library.
I beg your pardon?

I need you to seal the building.

Doors. Windows. Fire escape.

I don't have the authority.

I'm a police officer.

That's all the authority you need.

A child's life stands in the
balance. Please.

Miss Crane, will you and Miss
Thornhill close the library?

Close it, Mr Straker?
Ssh.

Quickly and quietly, if you please.

What about the readers?
They're to remain inside.

He's from the police.
Step lively, now.

Ah... He's gone.

He was sitting there.

The man who was sitting here,
did you see where he went?

This way.

Is there a way out from here?
Not up there, no.

And you won't get him if he's
gone down into the stacks.

There's five storeys underground.

The corridors go for miles.

What about exits?
The bicycle chain.

A pulley railway under the Broad.

Call 999. Tell them DC Morse
from Cowley Station

needs immediate assistance
at the Bodleian.

Police. Leave. Now.

Argh!

Morse?

Morse?

Did you see him?
Which way did he go?

See who?
Him! The suspect!

You all right, matey?

Huh?
Your shirt...

Over here, man down!

All right, mate. You're OK, matey.

Don't just stand there,
get some help!

All right, matey.

Ring the station.
Right.

Morse, I am going to put some
pressure on this, all right?

I know, mate, I know. I know.

Not too deep. Thankfully.

But a clean cut like that'll be
a bugger to knit.

It's far better gashing yourself
on something jagged.

I'll bear that in mind next time
I chase a lunatic under the Bodleian.

What led you there?

An anagram. Well, double anagram.

"No alibi err badly.

Near by libra idol."

Both phrases use the same letters.

Bodleian Library.

Cheers!
Your health, surely!

It's going to be tight and quite
tender for the next few days.

So... bed rest.

And my finest Broderie Anglaise
notwithstanding,

don't exert yourself overmuch.

The girl's still missing. I've got
to get back.

Morse...

If he'd decided to stab
and not to slash,

I'd presently be getting
more acquainted with your anatomy

than either of us might care for.

Soon as not be heaving your tripes
into a tray, if it's all the same.

Not just yet at least.

Uniform recovered this lot from a
bin on Catte Street by the library.

Another one of those score things
here.

"Some coppers have no brains.

All coppers are bastards."

I want it back,
clean, starched and pressed.

You sure you're fit for duty?

Yeah. It looks much worse
than it feels.

What did I miss?

The Ice Cream Man's been found.

He thinks - only thinks, mind -

he saw a girl answering Debbie's
description talking to a man.

Beard. Glasses.

Walking stick.

It's a Modus Bocardo syllogism.

A category of logical argument.

Two propositions, one major,
one minor,

and the "therefore" symbol
is the clue.

"Some coppers have no brains.
All coppers are bastards.

Therefore some bastards
have no brains."

It has to be more than that.

He has to give us a sporting chance.
Else, where's the fun in it?

Well, whatever it means,

as an exercise in bamboozling
the police, it's brilliant.

I doubt Debbie Snow would see it
that way.

It really matters to you,
doesn't it?

Finding this girl.

I mean, it matters to me.
Don't get me wrong.

But with you it's...

Why did you become a policeman?
We're not here to talk about me.

If you've nothing else to add...

In my experience,
a policeman's need to save people

is typically born of a need
to save one person.

Who couldn't you save,
Constable Morse?

Good night, Doctor.

The girl is "materiel" in whatever
diabolical game he's playing.

The real object here is to prove
whose intellect is the greater.

So far, it's...

You admire him.

Respect, perhaps.

His ability.
His singularity of purpose.

Which is?
He lives to kill.

He eats. He sleeps. He kills.
That's all he does.

With no more sympathy
for his victims

than you would feel
in taking a paper to a wasp.

Then why didn't he kill me?

Because it suits him to
have you alive.

We're not going to make it.

Are we?

Bocardo.

Bocardo Prison...

Morse.

The riddle the killer set
was a Bocardo syllogism.

Bocardo?
That's the key.

The word Bocardo, not the syllogism.

I knew there was a Bocardo
connection to Oxford

but I couldn't place it until
I passed the Memorial on the Broad.

The Martyrs' memorial?

Prior to being burnt at the stake,
all three were in the Bocardo Prison.

In Oxford? Never heard of it.

It used to stand here
by St Michael at the North Gate.

The Martyrs' cell door is on
display in the Church Tower.

Right?
Yes, sir.

Get it open.

Oh...

You're going to be all right.

Thank you.
Bye-bye.

When was this? Over.

Morse?

Oh, no thanks.
Come on, matey.

A full belly and a few hours' kip,
you'll be right as nine-pence.

It was too easy.

Not how I heard it.

It doesn't make any sense.

Not if he's playing by the rules.

The Snow Maiden... She melts.

Melts? Oh.

You think he meant to
burn her then, or...?

Debbie Snow was never
in any real danger.

There were air holes in the casket.

No, he was just playing with us.

Out.

What worries me is why.

Cronyn?

Given the condition of the corpus,

there's not a great deal
I can tell you.

Beyond, of course,
that life is extinct.

Who found the body? Phillip Madison,
sir, and his sister Faye

turned up for a nine o'clock session
with the doctor and, well...

I'd advise you to stand well clear,
Inspector.

Until we can get it safely
stoppered.

Acid?

Aqua regia by the smell.

Royal water.

Nitro-hydrochloric acid.

Hence the state of him.

From the green tinge, the container
was sealed with a brass bung.

Acid would've eaten through that
in about an hour.

And poured out onto his head.

Melted. Like the Snow Maiden.

It wasn't Debbie, it was Daniel.

Daniel Cronyn.

EGBD.

Then we need to find whoever F is
before the killer does.

How long had your brother
been seeing Dr Cronyn?

Four months.

Phillip is...

rather highly strung.

The artistic temperament, I suppose.

We lost our parents, you see.

Quite young.

Phillip took it worst, of course,
being the eldest.

He suffers dreadfully
with his nerves.

I'd had a bad attack. Yesterday
evening.

I telephoned Dr Cronyn

and made an appointment
for first thing this morning.

When I arrived,
the door was on the latch.

I went in and...

Well, you saw what I found.

He's a recital coming up, you said.

Indeed. Tomorrow.

Will he be in a fit state for that?

This will be his first recital
from memory.

But he's determined to go ahead.

For Aunt Grace's sake.

They were close?

Very.

She and Uncle Cedric had
the raising of us.

I mean, we boarded in England
most of the year,

but we usually summered in Jaipur.

Just for the record, Miss Madison,
where was Phillip last night?

At home with me.

Who would do such a terrible thing?

Let you out, then.

Small comfort, but if it's any
consolation,

Dr Cronyn was already dead when
the acid did its work.

So what was the cause?

From my examination of him,

he appears to have been
an habitual morphine addict.

There was a syringe in his desk
drawer, wasn't there?

Morse?

Er, yes.

Together with some ampoules
of morphia. Mm-hm.

Somebody gave him an overdose,
maybe,

or slipped something in the syringe
that wasn't morphine.

Possible, of course.

But until I've had his
blood results back...

Time was between two and five
o'clock this morning.

Anything else?
General lack of care.

But nothing I wouldn't expect to
find in any other addict.

And him a doctor of the mind.

Physician, heal thyself.

Morphine.

Access wouldn't be a problem
in his line, I don't suppose.

But he didn't strike me as the type.
Did he you?

Morse?

Oi!

When'd you last get any sleep?
Pull over.

Right. Sit yourself down
through there.

I'm fine, sir.
Don't argue.

You're no good to me dead
on your feet.

I'll get a brew on.

Or there's a drop of brandy
if you like.

Better make it brandy.

What's this,
home in the middle of the afternoon?

I've got Morse in the other room.
What, the new boy?

He seemed very nice, I thought.
Very polite.

Shy, though.

What's that, brandy?

I hope you're not leading him
astray.

He's been in the wars.
Lost a bit of blood.

You got any stew and dumplings
you can warm through?

I'll put something on.

It's stout you need, not brandy.

Something with a bit of iron in it.
Build his strength up.

There's a bottle at the back there.

There you go.

Ronnie?
Ronnie Gidderton from the bank?

I thought you said he was a bit wet.

You've scared off all the decent
ones. Come in, Morse.

Don't stand on ceremony.
Budge up, Sam.

You shouldn't have let me sleep,
sir.

Looked like you could do with it.

Mrs Thursday's done you some tea.
Win, dear.

You feeling better?
Oh, yeah. Much. Thanks.

What happened to you, then?

Not at tea, Joan, thank you.

I'm only asking.
I know what you're "only".

There's one rule in this house.
Where do we leave work?

On the hallstand by the front door.

Right.

What can we talk about, then?
The weather?

Yeah, whether you're too big
for a spanking.

I'd like to see you try.

You wait till I'm back from the
army. Word of advice, Morse.

Don't have children. They'll make
you old before your time.

A Miss Frazil on the blower, Pop.

After you called, I spoke to my old
editor, Sid Mears. He sent these.

He knew the Miller case?

Perhaps. He remembered something
similar around the end of '43.

It'd stuck in his head.

Only, the family name was Gull.

They ran a coaching inn by
Wolvercote.

I say "they". It was just
Mason Gull and his mother.

Thing is, there was an American
general billeted there.

This was the build up to D-Day,
don't forget.

Anyway, this general
had taken a bit of a shine

to Mrs Gull, by all accounts,

and that's what led to it.

Sid and his photographer were
amongst the first out to the inn,
and got those few snaps

before the military police descended
on the place and turfed them out.

In the end, word came down
from the War Office -

at the very highest level -
that the story was to be spiked.

D-Day looming. "Dangerous talk
costs lives", I suppose.

If his name was Gull, why would
Doctor Cronyn know him as Keith
Miller?

Maybe they changed his name,

buried him away in the country
somewhere, and forgot about him.

In any event, Sid never
came across a word

on any subsequent committal
or trial.

The boy just disappeared.

I won't let you down.
You never have.

Ready?

He played a record. Tosca.
Tosca?

It's a penny dreadful of a plot.

Filled with murder, torture,
suicide.

Right up his street, then. At the
climax, the heroine, Floria Tosca,

hurls herself from the battlements
of the Castel Sant'Angelo.

In summation, then, apart from
method by which he means to dispose

of this fifth and final victim,

we know neither the where,
the when, nor the whom of it.

If the killer's sticking to
Morse's EGBDF pattern, sir,

it's got to be someone whose name
begins with an F.

It's Cronyn.

What is?

The murderer. It's Cronyn.

I appreciate your work on this,
but I think you'll find...

Cronyn approached us,
didn't he, sir? Yes, but...

He's the one had us running around
looking for this Keith Miller.

But Morse!
It's a joke, sir. A blind.

Keith Miller doesn't exist, sir.

Rearrange the letters of his name
and you get...

"I'm the killer."

He's been toying with us,
right from the beginning...

posing as Dr Cronyn.

So who is he really?

Mason Gull, sir.

Good grief.

Then whose body did we find
in Cronyn's consulting rooms?

Are you sure this is it?
Outside of the rooms in town,

it's the only other address
for a Daniel Cronyn

showing on the Electoral Register.

He's been here.
Of course he has.

This has been his bolt hole.

Doctor Cronyn, I presume.

The real Daniel Cronyn.

He's kept him drugged on morphine.

Far enough out so that nobody
could hear his screams.

Why not just kill him straightaway?

Because the body at the consulting
rooms had to be fresh.

The murder of Mrs Gull was
investigated

by Detective Inspector Foxley
of Oxford City Police.

Two witnesses appeared for
the prosecution -

slaughterman Benjamin Nimmo,

who had dropped by the inn
for a pint of ale

and found the body of Mrs Gull,

and barmaid Gertrude Tate,

who was there with her
eight-year-old daughter Evelyn.

What's the odds Mr Balfour
will confirm

his wife's maiden name was Tate?

The case was heard
by His Honour Mr Justice Madison.

Gull's been killing anyone
connected with the trial.

He's going after Faye Madison.

Now. F for Faye.

She's the fifth victim.

We need to get officers
to Alfredus College at once.

That's why Gull played me Tosca
over the telephone.

Alfredus College is home to
The Oxford Scholars Choral
Association.

The choir that I sing with.
So where does Tosca come in?

The Oxford Scholars Choral
Association.
We sometimes refer to it by acronym.

TOSCA.

It's the police on the telephone
for you, miss.

They said it's urgent.
The police?

Hello.

This it?
Reserves are on their way.

Think he'll come? He must know
we'll be waiting for him.

Oh, he knows all right.
Then how can you be sure?

This is his grand finale.

He's not going to miss this.

Here, sir.

Gull's got her. If he's sticking
to the opera's plot,

he'll throw her from the roof.

There's a stair at each corner
of the quad.

I'll wait for the reserve to arrive.
He won't get away.

Jesus!

I've found her!

Sergeant, follow me.
Yes, sir.

OK.

Don't worry, Miss Madison.
You're safe now.

Where's Cronyn? He told me not
to worry and went off.

You got her. She all right?
No harm.

Where's Inspector Thursday?

Scarpia.

Morse?
Oh...

Miss Madison isn't the final victim.

This isn't Cronyn's plan.
I've made a mistake.

F for Faye, though.

No, it's not Faye.

It's Fred. Fred Thursday.

Well. Here's a how d'you do.

Where is she?
Oh, quite safe.

The proverbial sprat.

And you the mackerel.

How else do you imagine
I got you up here?

When it comes to a damsel
in distress,

the boys in blue can always be
relied upon to act predictably.

I thought it was Tosca
goes off the roof?

In Act Three, yes. But it's Act Two
I've always had in mind.

The death of Scarpia -

the corrupt and venal Chief of
Police - at Tosca's hand.

I'm afraid the parts are
already cast.

I've nothing against you personally.

You simply stand in place
of the detective inspector
whose lies put me away.

Foxley.

It should've been him up here
with me today.

But he died while I was... away.

Well, what are you waiting for?

An audience. What else?

Where does Morse fit into all this?

Got to be about more than torment.

You could've killed him at the
Bodleian. Why didn't you?

Beethoven had his Schindler.
Haydn his Griesinger.

Every great artist needs
a biographer.

Someone to bear witness
to his greatness

and set it down for posterity.

How does it feel...

to be my crowning achievement?

Five's a good number,
don't you think?

Nice and simple.
Count 'em on one hand.

You're going to keep this up,
I wouldn't mind a draw on my pipe,

if it's all the same.

In lieu of a hearty breakfast.
By all means.

Oh, I've looked into the eyes of
far worse than you.

People who've committed real
atrocities.

And they were sane.

Next to them, you're nothing more
than a third-rate freak show.

A bearded lady
with glue running down her chin.

You won't goad me into recklessness,
Thursday.

I'm serene.

And I'll be remembered.

A year or two. Maybe five.

Comes to the annals of crime,
you're nothing more than a footnote.

That's where you're wrong.

Ten years - less, maybe -
they'll certify me cured.

I fooled them once.
I can do it again.

Timely, Morse. Timely.

Watch your footing.
It's a bit slippy.

Here comes Spoletta. Right on cue.

La commedia e finita!

Scarpia dies. You arrest me.

That's how this ends.
Not if I rewrite it.

Then you'd better be quick!

All under control, Thursday?
More or less, sir, yes.

Lend a hand, Strange.

You think it's the end?
This is where it starts.

That's enough out of you.
We're the same, you and me.

We bear the same burden.
Intelligence.

To be clever is to be alone.
Forever.

I see it in you.

I know who you couldn't save, Morse.

Oh, bugger.

I broke my pipe.

Oh, bad luck.

A spare, thankfully.

Mind you, if Morse hadn't
shown up...

Yes, well...

I imagine getting back to general
duties after all this

will seem like a holiday. Hm?

Sir.

Carry on.

I'll book him in.

How do you do it?

Leave it at the front door.

Cos I have to.

Case like this'll tear the heart
right out of a man.

Find something worth defending.

I thought I had...

found something.

Music?

I suppose music is as good
as anything.

Go home, put your best record on...

loud as it'll play...

and with every note,
you remember...

that's something that the
darkness couldn't take from you.