Ripper Street (2012–…): Season 2, Episode 4 - Dynamite and a Woman - full transcript

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

It has been three months
since my last confession.

And you come now to accuse yourself?

I do, Father.

Of which sin, my son?

I am a liar.

♪ Climbed they up the ragged stair

♪ Rang their voices out in prayer

♪ God save Ireland said the heroes

♪ God save Ireland, said they all

♪ When for Erin dear we fall



♪ High upon the gallows tree

♪ Swung the noble-hearted three

♪ Climbed they up the rugged stair

♪ Rang their voices out in prayer

♪ Whether on the scaffold high... ♪

Shut it!

What are you doing here?

Ireland!

Sassenach!

Shut up, paddy!

♪ God save Ireland said the heroes

♪ God save Ireland... ♪

Does the bastard breathe?

What was it struck him?



Nothing. Clutched
at himself then fell.

There is a God.

Who here would help a true patriot?

A humble man wronged
by the cruel iniquities

of this uncaring government?

A brother - a warrior for justice!

Who would help me?

The keys?

Will you not give me the keys?

Are ye men, or are ye mice?

Are ye Irish men and women or not?

If not now, then never!

Maith an buachaill. Good lad.

What do you call a dead Englishmen?

A good start.

Maith an fear. Eirinn go Brach.

Jesus.

Is this to be laid at your door?

The balls on you would shame an elephant.

I hope you were not bored, Inspector.

Oh, by no means, Miss Cobden.

They come with a fervour, your friends.

They are not my friends.
They befriend me.

There is a difference.

The settlement movement - men and
women raised in the gracious avenues

of Bath or the rolling Surrey
Downs, now making their home here.

In the hope that the benighted souls
they now rub against might

somehow be elevated by such noble contact.

And you doubt their sincerity?

I doubt their efficacity. If people
wish to improve conditions...

And you do not wish for
improvement in people's lives?

No, I... Of course.
I fear they will be disappointed.

Men, I find. And women?

Yes. They too.

In my experience,
humans more often choose to

resist transformation than embrace it.

And you, Inspector. I invite
you to an audience with a...

over-educated cabal
of reformers and idealists

and you choose to attend.

Why, surely that is a transformation
of sorts, is it not?

Inspector Reid! You're wanted, sir.

Miss Cobden, my thanks. Time
with you is, as ever, educative.

Inspector.

Fresh from the admiring attentions

of the councillor for Bow and Bromley?

Sergeant.
This is our Newgate driver?

Yes, sir. Morris.

Fell from the seat of the Maria as
it passed underneath a clothesline.

Moved no more. Convict calls
for assistance. A boy obliges.

He frees himself - scarpers.

Any reports from the community
on either boy or prisoner?

Irish round there.
Shut up like an oyster.

This one, I pronounce...

...dead.

No clubbing, no shooting, no stabbing.

Heart failure, most likely.

But I'm going to open him up
and I'm going to get you sure.

So what was it - opportunism?
A stroke of luck for the escapee?

Do we have a name?

We do, sir.

Aiden Galvin. Incarcerated
at our pleasure since 1868.

Irish Republican Brotherhood.

Sent down with eight other
members of the IRB after

the Clerkenwell bombing.

Flat-head Fenians tried
to dynamite a prison.

Blew a crater out the street
next door in its stead.

12 dead - civilians.
Murdered at his hand.

It is a pitiless killer
who now walks free.

But, sir, he has not walked abroad
in this city for over 20 years.

He will be swiftly found.
And your method in so doing, Flight?

We roust the Whitechapel Irish, Inspector.

And the thought of that action
sits easy with you, does it?

I know what side I stand on, sir.

Sergeant, take a squad of men also.

The years roll round,

yet it is ever Irish
heads on the end of my club.

Police!

Now, everybody stay calm. We're
just having a little look around.

Get out, English pigs!
Evening, Irish scum.

Watch your mouth, pig!
All right then.

And so it goes.

You! Bulldog Boy!

Have you not walked the streets
the last three years?

The IRB has given up its guns.

The days when a Fenian could be found

hid in a cider barrel are past.
We live in peace, now.

There's a prisoner on the loose, girl.

IRB with a taste for nothing but the
bloody destruction of innocent life.

You're one to talk.
The look in your eye -

you've quite a taste for it yourself.

His name is Galvin.
Once, he laid dynamite.

Now, we will search this house
and you will move aside.

Or you will know prison life yourself.

Thank you.

Although one must be careful
of these bohemians, Reid.

I mean, they promise much, certainly,

but that casual air of impudence,

it is more often a disguise,
I've found, for what can only be

described as a chilly disinclination
when proceedings come to a point.

Captain, tell me. I am curious.

We are now both well enough known
to each other, you and I.

Indeed, there are sides to our
lives shared with few others

and yet you persist
in this ceaseless goading.

Why do you suppose this is so?

Because we're men, Reid,
and that is what men do.

We needle and we goad

because if we did not, we would be
forced to speak the truth.

Suppose for just one moment
that was not the...

Suppose for one minute,
that was not the case.

What would the truth say?
The truth?

That the good councillor fits with you.

That the two of you look right together.

And that I am sorry that
your life is not less... complex.

And you needn't concern yourself
with conspiracies.

At least, not as far
as this man is concerned.

He got fluid in the lungs,
atheroma of the coronary arteries,

infarction of the myocardium.

His heart collapsed on him.
Your convict got lucky.

You have your mother's way
with the pot still, I see.

Is it you, Aiden Galvin?
It is, Evelyn.

My wee girl, Evelyn.

You're hunted.

It is a change to be wanted,
I can tell you.

Yet another evil of
this bastard government,

that they kept me from you.

And this government you speak of,

it prevents you from writing letters also?

I am not the letter-writing kind,
Evelyn. No.

You are the gunpowder-plotting kind.

So what'll you do now, Aiden,
before the police find you

and tear your skin from you?

There are one or two errands I must run.

And then there is you.

I would know you.

Help you, if I can.

Are you happy, Evie?

Is your life what you would wish it?

I live here, don't I?

What do you think?

You would leave this place?

Who, given the choice, would stay?

Aye, it is the arsehole
of the world, is it not?

With your permission,

I will have to see about removing
the pair of us from it.

Mr Parnell.

The acceptable face of Ireland.

A Protestant.

Trust him, we are told.

Trust an Irishman?

I would sooner play chess
with an Orang-utan.

I was 20 years with the Irish Constabulary

and I will tell you this -

the Irishman is a Negro turned inside out.

Given only to slavishness and violence.

The Irishman harps on freedom.

Freedom to do what, exactly?

Shoot landowners, thieve livestock,
explode dynamite.

Hear, hear.

The Irishman was put on this earth
to be ruled and it is up to us,

gentlemen, to rule him.

Quite so! Hear, hear.
I am for my rest.

Sleep well, Knightly. Good night.

I wish agonies on you, Mr Knightly,
and in hell soon.

Bastards.

Quick. Need some help!

Inspector Reid!

This for your tame Pinkerton.

And you, Inspector, are with me.

A convicted Brotherhood man
is sprung from these streets,

and you thought not to say?

Hardly sprung, Fred.
The driver's heart failed.

Galvin has been in
a cell for over 20 years -

I'm sure he can barely piss straight.

His physical condition
is not germane, Inspector.

How do you think this plays?

It is, "Whitechapel frees Irish dynamite

"and blows it back to London."

Michael Donovan, IRB. Centre
point of the Whitechapel Circle.

Mr Abberline, our masters
meet in banquet halls.

The IRB is now a recognised
political party that

negotiates with your government.

The days when such men
as ourselves convened in such

places as this to take secrets
off each other are in the past.

And yet, here I am, dragged from my
breakfast to converse with you here.

Yourself, and...?

Reid. H Division.

And you, boy, are not a man such as I.

We should have begun this task
one day ago, Edmund!

This is an act of war, sir.

No, Michael. It is a retaliation.

This, found beside the charred remains

of a Member of our Parliament.

A one-time Inspector General
of the Royal Irish Constabulary.

His escape was not
sanctioned by leadership.

The man Galvin is
not affiliated. Not no more.

The position of my leadership
still stands.

We are for home rule by peaceful means.

Michael, your little knackers

were still being felt by Father O'Hoolahan

when Aiden Galvin was plotting
to blow holes in my city.

Man like that is never for peace.

I am old...

but I know yet when an
Irisher feeds me horse shit.

Where will he go?

I don't know.

Please!

Nyaaaaaarrrgh!

Aaargh!

He has a daughter!

Gaaargh!

Evelyn Foley.

Barmaid at the Black Rose.

Good lad, Michael. Good lad.

No, Fred. He is yet too green.

Nonetheless, in the time available,
he is the best we have.

Detective Flight's face is right,
his is voice righter still.

He may sit beside her, watch
for Galvin, discern his purpose,

if indeed he does seek her out.

I have not forgot
the boy you lost last year, Edmund.

But you will lose more
before this life is out

and nothing to be done to
change that fact.

You oblige me, Inspector.

Flight, this man, Galvin.
There is a daughter, we are told.

Her mother, a woman named Foley.
Bethan Foley.

I shall get to the archives, sir -
see what might be found.

No, Flight.
Sergeant Artherton will manage.

Chief Inspector Abberline
has work for you.

If you've the chops for it, son.

Yes, sir, I have.

What is it you do to our Newgate driver?

There's a link here Reid.

Your detonator was charged
with a Leyden Jar.

It's a glass bottle
with silver sheeting around it,

set to carry current.

Knightly lays back in his bed to rest,

the bed springs depress,
connects the circuit,

then, boom! Electricity.

Which is interesting, because now
we have to ask ourselves

if our convict was freed with
the design of laying this charge

beneath Knightly's bed.

That, is a shock scar.

What, and sufficient to
cause his heart to give up?

Well, it is a vulnerable organ.

The charge would have
needed to be significant,

however, and conducted into him
I know not how.

With me, Sergeant.

The Maria makes its way along.
Where did it stop?

Somewhere here.

Let's take a look, shall we?

Leyden Jars. Attached to
the washing line. Pull it in.

So this falls upon our driver.

They would have needed, say,
nine cells of two-pint jars each,

to deliver a shock strong
enough to kill a man.

And what we thought chance
is now plotted conspiracy.

Quite so. But by the IRB? No.

When they kill they do so to
scream their grievance aloud.

They would never disguise
their purpose in this way.

The murdered MP, Knightly, known for
his vicious prejudice, certainly.

But I would like to know who else,
apart from the IRB,

might celebrate his death.

Yes, friend?

Er... a lemonade. Thank you.

Whatever's your poison.

♪ Oh, father, dear

♪ I often hear

♪ You speak of Erin's isle

♪ Her lofty hills and valleys green

♪ Her mountains rude and wild

♪ They say she is a lovely land

♪ Wherein a saint might dwell

♪ Why did you abandon her? ♪

Michael, what happened?
Did your pigeons turn on you?

A word with you, Evie. In private.

As you can see, we've a crowd in.
Will you return in an hour?

Now!

Outside.

Well, if you'll make a scene...

Your pa will be needing food and
shelter. He will not be able to rely

on the IRB for such support. And
where else will he come other than

to see how his wee girl has grown?

20 years. More than.

And not a single communication
of affection is delivered to me

from behind those bars.

Why would he remain in this city
when a boat for Bantry Bay

or Ellis Island might
be his for the boarding?

Because he has a taste
for murdering Englishmen

when the IRB dictates that such
actions are of the past.

He may be an old, limp cock,
tottering his way to the grave

but there is a warrior in your pappy yet.

A warrior that needs pacifying.

Important, therefore, and I'm sure
you understand, that it is me

that finds him first, not the blues.

And why's that, Mikey? So you may
put a bullet in his skull?

Don't be forgetting which
body of men it was that

paid your orphan way in this life.

Your mammy dead and gone,

the Brotherhood was more of
a father to you than he ever was.

This the way you London boys
hope to charm a lady, is it?

Bring your boys to stand
in threat then bully her?

Did I ask for your help,
country boy? No. I did not.

So, Lemonade, away with you. Go on.

That's right, muck-savage.
Back on the boat.

Now remember my words. Aiden Galvin.

He comes skulking about,
I'm the first to know.

Girl's mother, Bethan Foley -
kept IRB men safe

and secret off the streets.

Till she passed late
'67 in a house fire...

Evening, gentlemen.

Imagine, Inspector, the dance I had
to perform when it emerged that

Whitechapel H Division had requested
the personal and professional

particulars of so recently deceased
a dignitary as Cecil Knightly.

I do imagine it now and I am grateful.

And so you should be, Inspector.

The bloated fat-head sat
on Commissions - chaired them also.

Parliamentary delegation to decide which

and who might be offered government
contracts for public work.

The power to make men rich.

Or otherwise.

Flight!

Chief Inspector.
You are a poor, lost immigrant

searching for a home amongst your own.

What do you do straying off
the streets to fraternize with

the Metropolitan Police?

I made approach, sir, but was rebuffed.

I...I thought
it judicious to retreat.

And you said you had
the chops for it, son.

Gentlemen.

You get back on her, Flight.

Here.

This commission of Knightly's

lobbies to have the Basin Slum
at Shadwell torn down.

Central and South-East Electricity
Commission wish the Basin to

be emptied and re-purposed for
a new power-station and has invited

bids to be tendered for how that
power station might be constructed.

While the London County Council
would prefer for more

sanitary dwellings to be built.

Well, at least now you've got a
fresh excuse to row yourself past

Councillor Cobden's door, Inspector.

You, son. Sit down.

No, thank you.

You know, Constable, I hate to
chop your onions here...

The very thought of it

...but you keep resisting drink,

most men on this planet are going
to have a hard time trusting you.

Never mind a piss-crew
of Irish exiles.

You are to gain the trust of
a girl who has known little else

but the inside of a tap room.

And then, of course, there is
the matter of how best to penetrate

that frosty exterior
and melt the fruitful vine within.

I wish it were not so but there
is little Captain Jackson has

left unlearnt in this subject.

Now, she's pretty.

Correct?

She is.

Then she builds both crenulations
and portcullis about herself.

No sorcery known will allow a man ingress

until she first lowers
that drawbridge down.

You need to make her start
wondering after you.

Feel the twinge of intrigue.

Fellow feelings of vulnerability.

Here. You see?

Mother - cruelly killed
when she was but a child.

Father in lock-down
and a stranger to her.

You need to make yourself
the same, Flight.

You need to build yourself a story -
tragic loss, destitution.

It's got to be perfect, it's got to
be detailed and most important,

it has got to be felt.

Right here.

In your heart.
With your own secrets.

When you lie, you lie
with your own hidden truth.

We do not have all year, however.

The woman still needs
to somehow, notice him.

Then we mark him out.

Well, what kind of man would
this woman most likely pity?

A victim of police brutality, perhaps.

Well, I guess we'd have to
find ourselves a brutal policeman.

Drake, any spring to mind?

Now, put your hat down, Constable,
come on. Let's have you up.

Now this is with contrition,
you understand.

Look at you, Flight, you're irresistible.

Good morning, Lemonade.

I'd take whiskey from you right now,
Miss, were you offering.

Seems I need to find a new name for you.

You may have my real one.

I am Bertrand Doyle.

Then in you come, Bertrand.

I'm Evelyn.

Three of them, in uniform.

Accused me of vagrancy and did not
care to wait for my defence.

You were their sport, nothing more.

What brings you here, Bertrand?

The prospect of nowhere to sleep
but the cobbles of Whitechapel?

Work brings me, Miss.
The hope of it, at least.

Money. Food in my belly.

And that's an improvement on home, is it?

No home. Never was.
Not much of, leastwise.

My mother, taken by typhus
when I was five.

My father, taken by drink soon after.

I've no knowledge of him.

And that is why the lemonade.

You've no need.

Not to impress me.

Come.

Wash your face.
Take those boots off and rest.

I'll bring food for you.

Evelyn! Get yourself down here.

Do you think these pints pull themselves?

Thank you, Evelyn.

Rest, Bertrand.

I'm sorry. They're so beautiful.

One arrived for me
each year on my birthday.

They came to me inside a letter from
a man who claimed he was my father.

Was he that?

If he is, then it seems
I have two of them.

Then where is the other?

Oh, I have not seen so much of him.
Not until recently, at least.

He is from home? From Ireland?

He's been in London all my life.
But... out of reach.

I'm sorry.
I don't mean to be so obscure.

I feel without care in this life
and yet am made claim on by two men

who are entire strangers to me.

Even were my mother still here, she
might find it hard to offer clarity.

From what folks here have said,
she was not exactly...

exclusive in these matters.

If I had had a brother, or
a father for that matter, I imagine

I might have done this for him.

Woke him with milk and bread and butter.

The idea, the way other
folk say it is, I mean...

it's our family instruct us, is it not?

Tell us who we are, how we should be.

And...

...without that instruction it's
hard, sometimes, I find, to...

...to make sense of ourselves -
what we want.

What is right, even.

You...

You scare me.

Inspector, what a lovely surprise.

Miss Cobden, a moment of your time.

Of course, sir. Would you like
to follow me? Thank you.

St Paul's Wharf side -

or what the people who must
live in that slum call the Basin -

is felt to be dead land, without purpose.

I would build new homes there.

For the men of the Central and
South East Electricity Commission,

however, there is opportunity there
for industrial development.

It offers a convenient location.

Coal can be delivered from
Northumberland, South Wales,

and used to fire
the power station they propose.

And the now-atomized Mr Knightly
sat to decide on which party

would be awarded
the privilege of constructing it,

giving a motive to murder him
to any electricity supplier who felt

that Knightly would not
support their bid. Indeed.

It just so happens there will be
a practical demonstration

this afternoon by one Charles Broadwick,

who hopes to present his
suitability for such privilege.

Broadwick is one of
the many tenders to build it.

The theatre is on your beat, is it not?

The light above your door,
the fire in your stove,

the miniature steam-train on
your boy's bedroom floor -

all will be brought into energetic purpose

by your very own supply
of electric current,

arriving beneath the paving
stones of your street

and into the life of your home.

None of this is in question.

But yet... there is
one debate left for us.

A debate which must be decided
before this future finds you.

Where will this power
be brought into being?

How will it be delivered
to your hearthside?

Because for all its wonder,

the electrical age is also one
of profound danger, my friends.

The choice we all face
is between currents.

Alternating current or direct current.

Both cages are set for identical
voltage but differing currents.

The contrast between the two is alarming.

If you please?

Behold!

Behold, alternating current.

I send you away now, ladies and
gentlemen, to ponder only this...

Which of these currents
would you allow into your home?

There can be only one choice.
And that is direct.

Direct current for London,
ladies and gentlemen.

Good evening. Charles Broadwick
of Broadwick Machine Works.

If you have further questions,
I'm only too happy to oblige.

Reid. Police. Councillor Cobden.

I am delighted.

A member of our august
and newly minted County Council.

And a man whose mind is designed
to see truth wherever it is hid.

And what truth would you have me
describe here, Mr Broadwick?

That animals and electricity
do not make great bedfellows?

You are not convinced by
my demonstration, Mr Reid?

I have asked myself
if that cage was even charged.

Oh, come, sir! Of course it is not!

These animals, whilst never dear,
still cost.

And all men of science must economise.

Mr Knightly.

The man who was murdered this night
last - I assume you knew of him.

Knew him in life, mourn him in death.

And currently await news
of who next I must bribe.

Parliament passed a law last year,
Mr Broadwick. An anti-bribery law.

Perhaps you'd care to
correct your last statement?

Oh, come, Mr Reid.
This is priceless.

You are welcome to arrest me.

But should you do so you will be
forced to do likewise to all men

who ever bid for governmental contract!

Every commercial body wishing
to turn St Paul's Wharf side

into a generating plant
was paying Knightly.

The only secret you
will discover from me, sir,

is whether I was paying
above or below his median rate!

In fact, we should ask Mr Ferranti!

Miss Cobden, you will,

I am sure, be attending
his exposition this evening.

Indeed. It is the invitation
of the season.

But Mr Ferranti's power station
at Deptford is already

constructed on the principle
of alternating current.

We must admire our rivals, Mr Reid,
if we wish to be worthy of them.

Of all the men who waited on
Mr Knightly's influence, it is

perhaps Mr Ferranti
who placed the most at stake.

He would add to the power station

he has already constructed
at Deptford and,

with his new design at St Paul's,
make it is his exclusive purpose

to power all of central London
from within his halls.

But there is talk of trouble,
of concerns over its scale

and the scale of danger it represents.

Mr Ferranti.

Yes?

Inspector Reid. Police.

How can I help you, sir?

You find us preparing
this evening's exposition.

Yes, for men and women of influence.
Influenced.

You are cynical, Inspector?

No, not of the science,

but the means by which
you purchase favour.

So I must ask you
whether or not you bribed Knightly

to support your bid
for St Paul's Wharf side.

Yes, we gave the man money.

But so we might not be ignored.

The field of play thus levelled,
we were to win, Mr Reid.

We are, yet.

My competitors cast spells
of death and destruction

as if they think the people of this city are
Neanderthals to be terrified at the sight of fire.

I have no need of such strategy.

Electrical current is
a fierce and unruly force.

What alternating power promises
is the means by which such

ferocity is made benign.

You drop the voltage
using your transformer,

then you hive it off
for domestic consumption.

Indeed. I have removed
the beast from the machine.

Oh, I know what you wonder -
whether I might have motive to do

worse to a man like Knightly
than meet his demands of bribery.

But I have no need to resort to murder

when I have the perfect logic
of science at my side.

Does he strike you as the breed of man
to consort with escaped dynamiters?

Not so much, sir. No.

And yet Galvin is connected
to this circuit somewhere.

And his beast remains intact.

You touch him and
I'm straight to the blues.

Do you understand me?

What's your name, boy?

What's yours, sir?

He is Bertrand.
And this, Bertrand, is Aiden,

who somehow now believes
he has a right to be my protector.

You do not.

And do I deserve the right to
a word with you in private?

Please, darling.

I leave this city tonight.

One way or another.

Will you give us a moment, Bertrand?

The MP exploded in his rooms.
That was you.

Don't tell me you weep for him, Evelyn.

I care not a thing for him.

But somehow, fool that I am,
I care for you.

Know you will now be pursued

and hanged right here in this city
that you hate so bitterly.

I do dream that, Evie.

But I have one last task I must perform.

And then... Look, my love.

New York.

One for you.

And, with this task achieved, one for me.

And with enough folding to see us righter
than a dosshouse in the Five Points.

Now, I know this is strange
for you, Evelyn.

I am unknown to you.

And yet, this -

to provide this for you -
is like a dream for me.

You don't have to befriend me, girl,

nor call me Father,
nor even look at me when we sail.

But you'll take this chance.

Take it.

Aiden.

Darling.

This task that you go to?

Not for you to worry over, darling.

I'll see you here later, all right?

Wait.

Do you know a man called Holland?

Do you?

He writes to me.

And these letters -
what do they say?

Well, he sends one every birthday.

He says that he's my father.

Oh, does he now?

You take this to Inspector Reid
of Leman Street.

I am Flight.

You do it now.

Sergeant! Message for
Inspector Reid. Urgent!

He found letters, he says.
Important to the girl. From America.

A man laying claim to her parentage.

But Galvin is her father, is he not?

And he was reclined in a cell at Newgate.

This man's name, Holland, however.
Letters to the girl since 1868.

The year after her mother's death.

And Galvin went down.

All right, so he's made note
of the different postmarks,

different towns and states till 1881,

then his travels cease. Cease there.

Raritan, New Jersey.

Raritan?

Letter after letter to the girl,

so we must assume this man Holland
settles there.

Menlo Park is in Raritan,
is it not, Captain?

It is, Reid, and thus the circuit's made.

Menlo Park is an industrial park
created by one Thomas Edison.

The inventor?
Also a man of business.

More patents filed in more fields
of inquiry than any man alive.

And yet his one ardent pursuit -

to secure the means by which the
United States of America distributes

its electricity and to secure it for
his own chosen charge and current.

He is for direct current.

Unlike Ferranti,
who is for alternating, is he not?

But akin to another man I have met
recently, Dr Charles Broadwick.

Captain, you would trust Edison

to own a telegraph machine, would you not?

The leanest and fastest, Reid.

Edison did indeed employ
James Percival Holland -

English physicist. Alma mater -
University College London.

And wanted by us
as a known IRB collaborator

in the Clerkenwell bombing.

The same circle as Aiden Galvin.

Wanted but never brought to ground.
He got on a boat, then.

Made his way and his life in America.

Receives employment at Menlo Park,

education at the feet of Thomas Edison.

The letters to the girl -
they ceased in 1887, did they not?

Indeed.

Because I am beginning to wonder if,
in fact, this man Holland left

America when those letters stopped
and travelled here to London,

travelling beneath a different name.

Broadwick Machine Works.
Instituted September 10th 1887.

Charles Broadwick, like Holland,
a champion of direct current.

Charles Broadwick was once
James Holland, he who sprung

Aiden Galvin from his prison wagon
and set him to kill Knightly.

And just what business of yours is she,

to be writing to her
all the way from America?

I knew her too, Aiden.
Remember the girl fondly.

Why should I not ask after her?

Because she is not yours to ask after!

Did you write from your cell?

I did not. Then is it not better
that one of us did?

One of us? Do not
make me the same as you.

One of us

Dynamite. That's all we ever shared.

Dynamite...

and a woman.

Bethan Foley was mine!

She was not, Aiden.
Not alone. Do you forget?

She was never particular.

And Evelyn?

Tell me, you bastard.

You'd been jailed. I was bound
for New York. Bethan found me.

Told me that I am Evelyn's father.

Asked if I might
make myself known to the girl.

But I could not - would not.

I may send her presents but I do not
have the strength to be a father.

And is that why you broke me out?

So that I might finally
have the truth from you?

I released you so that
you might know freedom

and vent your rage against
this country once more.

Don't come the charitable English
rebel with me, Jamie.

It is a venting designed to
suit your purpose and ambition.

This task you would set
me on is not for ideas

but for your own advancement and profit.

Perhaps.

But you're well paid for it, Aiden.

And it is that profit which
will see you to New York.

Before then, however, half of
the London County Council waits

on Sebastian Ferranti's word.

And on your dynamite.

Your last chance to spill the blood
of British politicians.

And mine, to extinguish my competitors.

The Aiden Galvin I remember would never
have declined such an opportunity.

Eirinn go Brach?

Eirinn go Brach.

Flight?

Sir, you need to see this.

The device described here -
Galvin has it.

Another electric circuit
to detonate the explosive.

But this - what is this within?
A wax stem?

That's a delay.
It allows him to get clear.

See, the wax plug keeps
the electric contact plates apart.

No circuit's made,
therefore the device is harmless

unless you put it beside a heat source.

Or...

inside one.

Ferranti's transformer.

The transformer melts the wax,
allowing the plates into congress.

Boom.

Councillor. Hello.

How wonderful to see you.
Oh, my pleasure.

I'm thrilled you could join us.
I'm looking forward to it.

Wonderful. We have
a fine show in store. Thank you.

Good evening.

Good evening, Miss Cobden.
Mr Broadwick.

Ladies and gentlemen.

I could, of course,
wish you welcome to the future

but, whilst this most certainly
is the future I am to show you,

I would not do so with fireworks.

Although such things are certainly
within my gift. I will show you.

Here, piped from our power station
at Deptford, I may deliver

almost 800 kilowatts of generated power.

Enough not only to kill whichever
dumb animal my competitors

would use as slanderous scaremongery,

but to stop a stampeding herd
of bison, if need be.

But no.

I do not hope to impress you
with such power,

but rather with the means by
which such power is mastered -

transformed by alternating current...

...and put to whichever
peaceful purpose we choose.

I will bring light to your
streets and peace to your homes.

The city illuminated,
ladies and gentlemen.

Bravo!

Ferranti! Shut it down now!

Mr Reid, explain yourself!
Shut it down. Do it now, sir!

Everybody out, now!
Get up and get out, nice and calmly.

This must be dismantled. Why?

Because we believe it
may have been sabotaged.

It should have blown by now.
You go back in there and you fix it!

No. I am no longer
your dynamite delivery boy.

You do it yourself, Jamie.

I go now to let Evelyn know
the truth of who she is.

She might be your flesh and blood
but she's my girl

and I will see her right in this world.

Eirinn go Brach, Jamie.

Everyone out now! Come on.

Let's get up and get out of here.

Come on, ladies and gentlemen,
move along. Keep moving.

You looking for this, brother?
James Holland.

Good evening. Inspector Reid.

You are under arrest. Murder and
attempted murder. Multiple counts.

You are for the rope, sir.

Infernal machines.

No! No! Don't touch him, sir!

God bless you. Safe journey.

Take care. Take care of yourself.

I thought my father
had scared you off for good.

Perhaps he did.

Still, my courage is found now.

Should I prepare myself
to fight him? Perhaps.

You leave with him, I think.

I do, Bertrand.

America.

I understand, Evelyn.

May I wait with you?

Perhaps shake his hand?

Think you're leaving, do you, Aiden?

And you are?

I am your centre. Your colonel.

Colonel? You're milk piss, boy.

There will be peace.

There'll never be peace.

Does he not come?

Well, he was never reliable.

Perhaps you should sail with me.

Send me an address and I'll come find you.

But who should I send it to, Bertrand?

Whoever you are,
that is not your real name.

Who are you?

Go. Take your boat, Evelyn.

And did you lose your mother?

And your father too?

Those things are true.

And the rest?

Take your boat.

One might say you saved
my life, Inspector.

That being the case, I have put
my mind to how I might thank you.

I thought I might allow you to
walk with me this Sunday afternoon.

At Hampstead, perhaps. We could
take a blanket and some cold wine.

Miss Cobden... When will you
call me Jane, Inspector?

Miss Cobden, I...

I do not know what you think it is
has passed between us.

I am married.

Mr Reid.

Edmund.

I am, as you know, for the present
and the future, but never the past.

There is nothing
but black magnetism there.

Allow me and I will help you to resist it.

I am sorry, Miss Cobden.

You run them - confess it.

No, sir! Yes, sir!

You pander and pimp those boys

who ought to be safe in your care.

I want you.

Tell me we can do this.

We can do this.
He'll pay. He has to.

These are mine. Silver and copper.

Within a week - 200.

And the value just soars.

How would you like the Star

to turn the biggest bank
in London upside down?

I acted in the best interests
of my bank and its investors.

By lying to them.

What is the purpose of our work?