Ripper Street (2012–…): Season 3, Episode 2 - Episode #3.2 - full transcript
- People have died. - This is Whitechapel. They die every day.
55 lives given up for 350,000
in unregistered and anonymous bearer bonds...
I imagine a man of my calling might find some purpose here.
See he gets what he needs.
You are come home.
- You were recruited. By who? - We were chosen for one skill or another.
These men who now await their earnings,
- they've not seen you, you are sure? - Certain.
He looked wrong. Like a village parson got off the wrong station.
'Polished his shoes too bright.'
- Your name again, sir? - Capshaw.
This programme contains some violent scenes
STREET CHATTER, DOG BARKS
- Morning. - Morning.
SHOP BELL RINGS
Clara!
- SHOP BELL RINGS - Clara, my love?
Clara.
- Anyone, my love? - Not a soul.
Oh, good morrow and welcome, thee both, to our House of Curiosities.
- May I perhaps interest you in... - Mr Buckley, please...
..desist.
My name is Mr Capshaw
and I represent the interests of your creditor.
We have time yet to pay, sir.
And one day would, no doubt, make every difference.
Your current position...
with interest.
Er...Mr Capshaw.
Clara's father was... Dreadful train accident, you see,
and, with the funeral costs,
- we have so little that... - Are you able to settle?
I thought not, and yet you continue to rebuff
the wholly reasonable offer of your creditor.
This shop is my livelihood. These four walls are my home.
I cannot give it to you. I will not.
I expected as much.
Henceforth, I shall be passing your debt forth to this gentleman.
His name is Mr Kendrick.
I suspect you may find his terms less amenable.
GOBLET CLANGS
Small wonder you can't make ends meet.
SPOONS CLINK
Well, now...
Let's take a look, shall we?
- Is this where the treasures are kept? - There's nothing in there.
- Please, Mr Capshaw, I beg of you. - Open it.
Get away from there.
How dare you? How dare you threaten and bully and force...
Clara! Forgive her, sirs. A woman's grief.
You and your cursed company. Smiling your liars' smiles for all to see
while you devour our homes, our shops.
Your smile is a wolf's maw
and we shall not submit to you as every other has.
Submit, madam.
They simply paid their dues.
If you please?
You get off! You get off! You get off!
No!
No! Get off! Oh!
HOLLOW THUMP
Tell me, Horace, is this where the treasures are kept?
- Get away from...! - SLAPPING
HE GROANS
Clara!
- HE SOBS - Clara, my love.
Clara!
You did this!
She fell, Mr Buckley.
You killed her!
Go. SHOP BELL RINGS
Come back!
GIRL: # Come unto these yellow sands
# And then take hands
# Curtsied... #
She's hit, falls.
Fractured cranium, maybe?
They say the Buckleys never traded a cross word.
Well, if it weren't a domestic, slim pickings for a hold-up.
- They were in debt. - Who to? - Only the figures.
Borrowing and borrowing, to claw themselves from under,
and only bringing more down upon themselves. They were buried alive.
Peaceful couples have broke peace for less.
MUSIC BOX PLAYS BLUE DANUBE WALTZ
Policing together again, Mr Drake.
Coppering thus. Circumstances aside, it's something I've missed.
Your abilities will always be welcome at H Division.
Alongside your own, sir.
I am not made for the Yard, Inspector. I, er...
Fred Abberline may have a bent for their politic,
but I... You and I are Whitechapel,
and I intend to remain so.
Then long may we copper thus, Mr Reid.
Barely open two weeks and see the work we do.
COUGHING Dr Frayn?
Might I?
My dear friend, Miss Erskine.
Doctor...a pleasure.
Miss Erskine, you bring a flush of celebrity to our clinic.
- Oh! - Miss Erskine's very visit here today
will help spread word of your work, Doctor.
I shall be in her debt. Hope you'll excuse me.
Of course.
Dr Frayn is a recent graduate
of the School of Medicine for Women.
I never knew such a place.
No, but I would make the likes of it here.
- Doctors, Rose, not match girls, nor market traders. - Nor whores.
Nor that.
Miss Susan.
Mr Capshaw requests you, Miss.
Screaming blue murder, she was.
She was hysterical.
She was imprisoned in a cellar. Such terror, she fainted.
- Give me room. - My God...
It was a...a child's dungeon.
All right, soldier? Keeping you busy, are they?
Inspectors? Perhaps you might spare a moment for the Star,
indulge our enquiries concerning the locomotive tragedy?
Sirs, will you not afford me modest audience?
- Not now, man. - No?
For what right have the people of Whitechapel to understand
why 55 now lie beneath the earth?
Why you send marionettes to the rope while a puppeteer wiles in shadow?
Unless the truth be that Edmund Reid cannot say because he does not know.
Any found with blood on their hands from that black day will know justice.
But this morning a woman lies slain in her shop
and it is to THAT we presently attend. Our work is not ended.
You, Mr Best, you are not alone in losing one you loved to that train.
Of course, you know, of course,
for is not Whitechapel's copper-in-chief
also these days its file-clerk-in-chief?
Allow me to assist with the distracting business of Clara Buckley.
'Tis her, I assume? The dead woman?
Kendrick, the collector, come for his dues.
Kendrick?
- Kendrick killed Clara Buckley? You saw this? - A reporter of mine
saw Horace Buckley running for his life,
Kendrick after him, wild as a dog.
I gave her laudanum for her terrors.
- Her condition? - Malnourished, though no more so
than any other child of this quarter, perhaps less than most.
Was she raped?
No, of that I'm sure.
The child has been cared for.
The only harm upon her, there is scarring. Her back.
She was beaten?
No, burns, from some years past.
Mr Capshaw says the Buckleys were childless. Who is she?
Alice, she says.
Though her faculties are...
Miss Hart, my concern would be more for the health of her mind than her body.
- She howls to be returned. - Where?
To the Buckleys. To her...she says pupa.
I believe she means her chamber.
The girl was...
..she was not their captive?
She is confused and afraid.
That is all I can presently say for certain.
She seems to fear everything but the Buckleys.
Dr Frayn, the welfare of this girl is to be your chief concern.
Is that understood?
Miss Hart, for what greater purpose my schooling and our clinic
than one so in need?
This man Buckley?
Kendrick lost sight of him in the rookery.
He'll be found.
Buckley shall not speak of what took place.
You believe that to be the matter critical?
It is nevertheless a matter of consequence...
..and he shall be found.
Whatever the truth of this...the girl regards the Buckleys as parents.
Already this morning, the Buckley woman lies dead by your hand
and I will not have the girl made orphan.
Find Horace Buckley and bring him to me.
Clyde Kendrick?
What have I won?
Horace and Clara Buckley.
You collected rent from them this morning.
Hm. The Buckleys?
Mrs Buckley's dead, Mr Kendrick.
- I think you know that. - How would I know that?
- You were seen. - You're mistook.
I've been sat at a desk all this morning. Why not ask my dear wife?
Ain't it so, Gertie?
The Buckleys?
Yes, new business, due to visit them Friday.
You are a frequent caller in these parts, are you not?
- There's a lot of debt in these parts. - And vultures will circle.
I'm no Shylock, gentlemen.
- You do not lend? - Certainly not. - Then who does?
My clients are various.
The Buckleys. Which client?
If there isn't a crime you wish to charge me with, Inspector...
I'm a working man with business to attend.
Now, you wait a bloody moment.
- "Obsidian Estates"? - The signature.
- Ronald Capshaw. - He's the lawyer, Susan Hart's lawyer.
How much business do you take from Ronald Capshaw and Obsidian Estates?
A new client, so I believe.
I very much doubt you will be recovering this debt, Mr Kendrick.
Do you imagine Susan Hart complicit in Obsidian Estates practising usury?
The Long Susan I knew was a mistress of whores, but a woman of decency.
I can't speak for the Susan Hart to whom I return.
Even so, Capshaw's mark on this paper.
There is a stench around this man.
The reek of him drifts amid the blood and smoke of the robbed train.
Be that as it may, so far as Clara Buckley goes,
if Kendrick ain't a moneylender, he may yet well be a murderer
and we'll need more than Fred Best crying bogeyman to prove such.
We find Horace Buckley. Only he can say what happened in that shop.
Not only he, Mr Reid.
Clara Buckley may yet speak to us.
But it is neither you nor I who have the learning to listen.
Not the American. ANYONE but the American.
The Prairie Rose?
It is the, er...lowest form of reeking word-swill.
It's pandering, confected, trivial horse shit.
There ain't an ounce of human truth in the whole godforsaken story.
You're a cynic and a charlatan.
Who told you?
I'll be sure to share your constructive analysis,
and, if you wish to continue treating this playhouse
as your flophouse, you'll collect me at seven,
then feed me with roast meat, ply me with cheap liquor,
and defile me in abject and merciless ways.
Hey, darling, what's wrong?
Your glittering find, brother.
He thinks it'll pack the house and make a fortune.
Splendid! Perhaps it's one for you, darling.
- Darling? - You're a little early for a matinee, gentlemen.
The clown we seek cavorts everywhere but the stage.
Bennet, er... Inspector Drake.
Inspector Reid, may I present Mr Edgar Morton,
proprietor of Blewett's and...
- HE CHUCKLES - And, I'm proud to say, Miss Erskine's intended.
Congratulations, sir. She is...
Miss Erskine is...
You're very lucky.
Is he here?
Straighten your wits, Captain.
- I was trying. - They say if the doctor is not to be found in his rooms,
he broods these days at the Pavilion of Varieties.
From the body physic to the dreaming mind.
Truly, Whitechapel's very own da Vinci.
Well, even God takes a day of rest, Reid,
but, then again, I guess you don't believe in either of us.
We've need of your services.
You might. He doesn't.
- Whatever may have passed between you... - Whatever may have passed?
You mean Dolly Do-Right here didn't give you a blow-by-blow?
- You helped before. - A civic emergency, Benito.
Why don't you just come back next time a train ploughs off the rails?
We've come to you because we know of no other with your skill.
There will be coin commensurate.
Commensurate...for a degenerate unfit to serve the law?
No man is fit to work from the bottom of a bottle.
My wife walked out on me, goddammit!
I'd have thought you understood the hole that tears.
There was work needful of you.
And if there's one thing the three of us excel at,
is it not to fail whatever is most needful of us?
We're wasting our time here.
Drake.
No other with my skill, huh?
Well, I don't need your goddamn money
and I don't need you blowing smoke up my ass neither,
but I want to hear it from him...
I know that I'm shitty at a lot of things. In fact, most everything.
But your work, sniffing out a trail of dead, well, God help me,
that's something I've got a holy talent for
and I'm going to hear you say it.
I want to hear him say that
I'm not a piss-streaked scud of shoe shit,
that I ain't some cunny-chasing
gutter rat with a heart of scorched turd.
That's right, Reid.
I remember every word, every goddamn rock
that you threw at me from your polished pulpit.
I could have used a friend, not a one-man temperance movement.
I am a decorated United States Army captain and a doctor
and I want to hear this stuffed-shirt son of a bitch say it!
You are not a...
..piss-streaked...
..with a...
..of scorched turd.
You...you are a...
..doctor.
Yeah, I figured that's as good as it was going to get.
All right.
Seven sharp, darling, and, er...
put your hair up pretty.
Happy days are here to stay, huh?
Frontal fracture, orbital margin.
Punched, full fist.
- Kendrick wear a ring? - Not that I saw.
Well, whoever hit her does.
This incision here. Index finger, maybe. Husband?
Remains abroad. By all accounts, violence is most uncharacteristic.
Well, maybe there was someone else there, then.
We need Jackson at the Buckley shop.
Yeah, well, maybe Jackson's got affairs of his own, though.
Was she holding on to something?
The lesions on her palms and her nail beds are torn.
Nurse, tweezers.
No glare? No grimace? No, "Shut up, Yankee"?
Oh, I'm going to have to shoot him.
What is it, man?
It's a splinter.
It's varnished wood.
This bruising on her arms, fracture to the metacarpal.
She was grabbed hard and dragged from something.
They have anything worth gripping that tight?
OK, she's hit.
Bang.
Yes, we got that much, Jackson.
Is this Buckley some kind of mudlark?
I mean, have you checked down by the river?
It's a bloody long river. TAPS POT
This.
This. She was gripping this.
HOLLOW THUMPS
Jesus.
What is this place?
Who was kept here?
Buckley must have a workshop. This wood's salvaged.
It needs to be dried and treated.
And he builds, cuts. Man needs tools for that, space to work.
That box upstairs, that's fresh river pickings.
I once saw you inspect dirt like you was reading tea leaves.
I'll try it on.
And this?
Butterfly wings.
But the patterning... on each one, it's the same.
Catching the same breed.
Nothing about this is right, Reid. Nothing.
From the candles and the food, the room was inhabited until morning.
Girl, fair, given the brush.
The clothes. I don't know, ten or 13?
But you see here.
They've been darned over and over.
- Made bigger. - As she grew.
- So, she's been here... - Who knows? Years.
Then there's this.
You see these? Scratches and scuff marks.
- There was a struggle by the door. - Fighting to get out.
No, that's the thing.
These are her marks. But the impact?
She wasn't fighting to get out.
She was fighting to stay in.
Fighting who? Best said Buckley and Kendrick ran from the shop.
So, either Kendrick came back...
Or there's your third man.
Mr Kendrick has not afforded us full candour.
I want Horace Buckley...found.
Alice.
It's all right.
Good girl.
- SHE BREATHES HARD - Please take me back.
No!
My wings! The Wicked King will take my wings again!
I must be in my pupa!
Daddy! I must...
I can't... My wings...
I want my... I want my pupa! I can't...
Ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh!
Ssh!
And when she wakes, what then?
I will not have the girl doped.
There must be more we can do than stupefy her.
There is a new thinking on the Continent.
This man Breuer calls it the cathartic method,
a therapy for the mind.
The parts of the mind beneath the mind, you might say.
With your permission, Miss Hart,
I should like to assay these new techniques on Alice.
And do you believe it will help her?
I do.
Then proceed.
Mr Kendrick thought it best to take a prolonged sabbatical.
Er...Glasgow, I believe.
And Mr Buckley...
Mr Buckley has sent a proposal, offers all he has in the world,
of chief interest being the deed
to his premises and his lifelong silence, in exchange for the girl,
with whom he shall leave our fair city on the morrow,
never to darken our alleys again.
Your response?
As you'd expect from a reasonable fellow, I agreed to every term.
And tomorrow, at Buckley's nominated time and place,
I shall have a man meet him...
..and as per your wishes...
..bring him to you.
My wish is to know the truth about the girl.
The truth, madam, shall be dragged forth...
..by its very throat, if need be.
More of Buckley's wares, Captain.
All these goddamn bugs just look like...bugs.
- Keep that cooking. - Sir? - I'm going to the zoo.
The map, Inspector. All properties owned by Obsidian Estates, sir.
I had the constables go door to door and wired the Land Registry.
- Everything you wanted. - Thank you, Sergeant.
DOOR SHUTS
She has acquired whole swathes of Whitechapel -
shop, cottage, tenement. Here, here, here, these entire streets,
all of this, the expansion of the Obsidian Estates portfolio.
Defaulting debtors, like the Buckleys,
forced to forfeit all they own, and the likes of Kendrick
no more than blunt tools to gouge out a foul empire.
I believe it's time I took tea with Miss Hart.
Follow me, sir.
Inspector.
DOOR SHUTS
What a rare pleasure!
- But I sense little joy on your part. - Your time is appreciated, Miss Hart.
Hm.
What might I help you with?
A woman, Clara Buckley, was killed in Whitechapel this morning.
A debt collector, Clyde Kendrick, implicated.
Are these names known to you?
They are not.
Perhaps to you, then, Mr Capshaw?
Given Kendrick acquired the Buckley debt from Obsidian Estates,
with your mark...
..there.
On occasion, it is more profitable to offer a debt to market
than to pursue it fruitlessly.
But if this man, er...
Kendrick, has involved himself in an ugly episode,
it is to my shame and regret our company associated thus.
Shame and regret?
Buckley's ledgers show interest inflated week on week,
loan to pay loan to pay loan, and the debt accrued
not to Kendrick but to Obsidian Estates.
Such dealings with this company are, I gather, not unique hereabouts.
So, how fares your...regret and shame, Mr Capshaw...
and yours, Miss Hart...
were I to posit that Obsidian Estates lends
purely as a mechanism by which it may bully,
extort and finally acquire?
But there's no coercion, Inspector Reid. It's merely legal transaction.
Perhaps you find the trade distasteful,
but the day righteous distaste is grounds for prosecution,
this borough shall see its jails burst asunder
and its streets bare of life.
That's an impressive ring, Mr Capshaw. Looks very solid.
I shall look into every detail of this matter, Inspector...myself.
You know me to be a woman of my word.
And yet every word I hear today, Miss Hart,
seems to ooze from the mouth of Mr Capshaw.
Mr Capshaw, perhaps now you might excuse us.
DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES Inspector, my project has ever been
to make of Obsidian Estates an engine of good.
To bring with it prosperity and hope
to streets which have never known such.
This company must obtain property if it is to shape this borough
for the future its people deserve.
But I have never, and will never tolerate illegality
in the pursuit of that future.
And your Mr Capshaw?
What is he prepared to tolerate?
KNOCK AT DOOR
Jackson needs more time.
His filtrations, he says.
Kendrick is missing.
Buckley is missing.
The girl he kept in his cellar for years is missing.
We are being played for fools by this Capshaw.
And here...
these streets...
..these streets we vow to protect...
..these people to whom we promise safety, order.
Susan Hart crows of her good work for these streets
but at what cost to them her new Whitechapel?
People extorted from their homes...
..terrorised by debt collectors.
When these streets belong to Obsidian Estates,
what is our promise worth?
Do we police for them?
I used to argue with a man
who believed chaos was the natural state...
..all things doomed to fall apart
and a...a fissure splitting wider day by day...
..set to swallow the gossamer dream that we make of order.
I argued with him, then.
But, er...now I feel the gossamer fray, Bennet.
I feel the fissure yawn into abyss faster than we can weave afresh.
Mr Reid...
..you used to tell me our work, that order, was a fight without end
but a battle worth the blood.
You believed that...
..and I believe it still.
And so we weave on, thread by thread...
..and we hold to the promise we have made.
Ronald Capshaw thinks to tell us
what he may undertake in Whitechapel within the law.
Then we shall show him likewise.
Five weeks past, you will recall, we foiled a snidesman,
who sought to pass his paper hereabouts,
counterfeit money, as you see, slick,
like a scum of oil on our streets,
and there is reason to believe some remains in circulation.
Now, these hostelries here, all owned by Obsidian Estates
and all, so the narks and blowers whisper,
all given to the conducting of business illicit.
Now, constables, it falls to you this night
to see that these premises know our law.
You will show them what it is to be policed in this borough.
Do not spare your billy clubs.
- Go! Now! - OTHERS: Sir.
Police!
Will you close your eyes for me, please...
..and imagine a garden,
a beautiful garden
just for you,
where you're safe and happy?
Now, look. A butterfly.
The most beautiful butterfly you've ever seen,
and I want you to watch her drift and soar.
Just watch the lovely, slow beating of her wings.
Inspector, I wonder if we might talk a moment.
The Greeks believed that the dead drank
from the waters of the River Lethe.
Lethe is forgetfulness,
flowing through the underworld into the cave of Hypnos,
and in so doing, they forgot for ever their waking selves.
Thus the superstition that it ill becomes he who toasts with water.
GLASSES CLINK
Sir.
All these years policing together hereabouts.
There were times we had to go further than we...
..well, than the law allowed.
Mr Reid, tonight, what you told those men.
What they are now carrying out,
rousting legitimate businesses and innocent people.
What you asked of them, that ain't policing.
I must offer my gratitude
that you come back after four years to teach me how to police.
When Fred Abberline asked my return here...
..there was talk of... that Inspector Reid
had made of his desk and his office a bunker.
Patrolled these days his archives, not his streets.
But what I saw this night
was the Inspector Reid I saw some four years past
at the ropes of a fighting ring.
A man driven by rage.
And when I left this city,
when I failed you as a friend,
I did so only that I might survive as a man.
You do not need to justify yourself, Bennet.
It is not my own peace which concerns me, sir.
We battle monsters, we become monsters.
And that abyss, which you speak of,
it is not only around us,
it's not only out there, it is inside us...
..and it bleeds a blackness that swallows all light.
I am, as I ever have been,
friend to you.
That is why I came.
That is why I say what must be said.
Cos this borough needs us.
It needs you, Mr Reid...
and for you to abide by the law.
Do you imagine Horace Buckley
endured a battle with himself, day by day...
..to keep a girl locked in his cellar?
Or is there a true nature to ourselves, Bennet?
Is the truth
that the abyss is not within us,
nor without us?
We ARE the abyss.
I appreciate your visit.
Till the morning.
Inspector Reid, sir...
Thank you, Bennet.
Till the morning, then.
I was his prisoner.
- SHE BREATHES SOFTLY - The Wicked King.
He made me his prisoner...
..and he made me forget.
- DR FRAYN: - Forget what?
Who I am.
And who is that, Alice?
A princess of the Feeorin.
Feeorin?
Fairies.
The winged ones.
My daddy helped me to remember myself.
Your daddy, Mr Horace.
After the sprites brought me to him and he made my pupa
and he taught me about the Wicked King.
But I...
- TRUNK CREAKS - ..I knew the King's secret.
I knew why he became sad.
Sad? Why?
He was...
- MUSIC BOX PLAYS - ..hurting them.
I can see.
The King is so sad.
So, I go into his throne room to sing to him, but he is gone
and I...
..I see.
What do you see, Alice?
Pictures.
I find pictures of them,
all hurt and...
Who? Who are they?
Dead fairies.
I am in his room of terrible secrets,
and he...
..the Wicked King punishes me.
How does he punish you?
He takes me on his ship.
The water.
All glitter in the sun and...
..so bright...
..and then...
Then what?
Alice?
Fire.
Fire.
My punishment.
I am burning.
SHE BREATHES HARD
The Wicked King wants to burn me
so my wings will never grow back and I will never fly away.
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
Alice...
Can you tell me what the King looks like?
- SHE BREATHES HARD - A man...
..on fire.
He screams my name,
but not my name.
What name does he scream?
He is...he is crying...
..and I am falling.
Falling.
The King reaches for me
and now the sprites have me.
The sprites?
The river sprites have me...
..and they carry me...
..and their arms are so cool on my back. And then...
# Come unto these yellow sands
# And then take hands
# And, sweet sprites, bear... #
And my daddy Horace finds me.
Alice.
Alice, can you look at something for me? Can you look at this picture?
No! No!
What is it? What is it, Alice?
The Wicked King!
You're safe now, Alice. You're safe now.
ALICE SOBS
Safe and sound.
He requests audience, sir.
Tell him to get out of my police station before I have two constables
assist him without delicacy.
What I have to say warrants your good ear, Inspector.
May I?
Thank you, Sergeant.
Two trains mangled, dozens dead.
Five men hanged, for what?
A robbery, yes, but naught claimed amiss.
Strange days, would you not agree?
If you come to berate my investigation afresh,
I shall shackle you for a month.
Your investigation indeed!
Poked your snout around the goods yard, I hear,
but truffled thus in vain,
because no stevedore wished to implicate himself
- to a copper in acts illegal. - What acts?
Levying what one might call an unofficial handler's fee.
They skim.
Some, with rigorous efficiency,
which is why they remarked upon the sea-cans.
The sea-can what was robbed,
Hoboken, New Jersey to Whitechapel, London.
And for a year now, month on month,
sea-cans just like it arriving on the same shipping ticket.
Locked up like a safe. No dice, thus, for our skimmers.
Except one time.
The sea-can was damaged in transit. Locks smashed, doors warped.
The stevedores? Well, they're giddy for a peek, and what do they find?
Carpetbags.
A few bloody carpetbags filled with...
well, they call it money that weren't money.
Not good old readies, Inspector.
This was paper marked "bearer bonds"...
..in United States dollars.
Bonds? That's what it was all for?
Bags stuffed, Inspector. Picture and count.
Hundreds of thousands gone.
And unreported. Why?
You intend to print this?
What, and blow a trombone to startle those behind it?
Give them cause to scarper? No, sir.
I shall continue to enquire on the hush, and now so may you.
And you seek what in return for this?
You think me a muckraker, a Peeping Tom,
a-sniff at the knicker drawers of this town.
But I...
You are aware a friend of mine perished for the greed of those bloody bonds.
I would not fail him as I once...
- HE SIGHS - What do I seek? I seek justice done in Whitechapel, Inspector Reid.
That and nothing more.
Mr Best.
Follow the bonds.
Now, I took the mud apart every way I could
and it's sodden with chromium, chromium sulphate.
They use that in tanneries. And ammonia. In these quantities,
I'd say it's the run-off of a dye-works.
- I'll get on it. - Wait, wait. Better narrow the field.
All the ammonia in the soil, it's going to be overgrown.
The butterfly wings, it's all the same breed, right?
Old World swallowtail. Lepidopterist at the zoo identified it.
And they feed on milk parsley.
My guess is, he catches these on account that it's right on his doorstep.
It's the best I can do for an X and Y.
Fine work.
Have at it.
Inspector!
Buckley's place. They know it.
Buckley. Horace Buckley.
DOOR OPENS
DOOR SHUTS
Is it true?
The girl is Reid's daughter?
I believe so.
Edmund Reid becomes a danger.
I've a man at the East London Bank.
He tells me a police wire was sent across the city,
enquiring after bearer bonds.
And Reid has found Buckley. The man draws ever closer.
However...
there remains, I believe...
..a means of deflection.
We are, after all...
..not without collateral.
We are not.
WOMAN COUGHS
- CAPSHAW: - What we ask, we ask only for the sake of the girl.
Her confusion, after all, remains.
Dr Frayn, all of us know too well what befalls lost children on these streets.
Orphan house to workhouse to whorehouse.
Whitechapel will swallow her whole.
We can protect her from that.
We can see that a semblance of hope yet awaits her.
A stricken child.
A broken mind is not a broken bone.
There is no standard prognosis.
And her confusion remains a great concern.
I will do right by the girl.
You've my word.
What is it you ask of me?
Did you kill your wife, Mr Buckley?
- No. - Kendrick, then. - Who?
- Tell us about your cellar, Mr Buckley. - My... My...
- Who did you keep in your cellar? - Mr...Mr Capshaw...
he struck my Clara.
He k-killed her. He killed her.
I'm...I'm not a brave man.
Capshaw? Ronald Capshaw? He was there?
- He ruined our world. - Will this be your testimony, Mr Buckley?
Will you speak up for your wife
in court so that we may punish her killer?
Yes, and then I shall be free!
Who is the child?
Cellar? P-P-P...
Perhaps Clara.
We take Capshaw first. Buckley's going nowhere.
- CHARITY: - I couldn't stop them.
Take him in for the murder of Clara Buckley.
Where is the mistress of this house?
Good day, Inspector.
Before you take Mr Capshaw, I beg you to hear me.
I have not afforded you the full candour. I...
We have both always strived,
above all else, to make safe this small quarter,
made our mission to protect.
But today you protect the wrong man.
Horace and Clara Buckley were not victims, Inspector.
You saw the cellar.
Mr Capshaw and Mr Kendrick found her.
Where...where is she?
I summoned doctors but her suffering was too great.
Doctor... Dr Amelia Frayn, Inspector.
She strived her utmost, but...
Her suffering had been too great and for too long.
The trauma, I believe, of taking her from her...from her dungeon.
I... There was nothing could be done for the child, sir.
Her peace came swiftly. For that, at least, we may be grateful.
Where...
is she?
She was buried this morning.
She could not speak, Inspector.
Could not walk, for rickets.
Had been starved, tortured,
forced...
And it is her rescuer, Mr Capshaw, you now seek to shackle,
on the word of the monster that made her slave and plaything.
But why?
Why did you not bring this to me?
Why?!
Because, Mr Reid,
I could not be sure this poor broken girl...was not your daughter.
Jesus Christ, Susan!
How dare you?
Her burns, Dr Frayn.
There was scarring.
- Scars of fire all upon her back. - Her age was...
This ain't right, woman.
I'm not claiming it is so.
But if she were your Mathilda,
I would not have had you look upon her in that way.
I sought to protect you from that horror.
But she was someone's child,
and if you still wish to charge Mr Capshaw...
- Take him in. - But if it were Mathilda
kept by Horace Buckley, what then?
What vengeance could there be that would not destroy you?
Buckley.
I will know the truth.
Who was she?!
- Sir? - The girl in the cellar!
- What cellar? - What cellar?
What cellar? I shall show you what cellar.
I beg you, sir, please!
Argh!
Get up!
I beg you, sir! Please!
- Please, I didn't mean to! - What cellar?! Huh?
Please! I didn't mean to. She was my little fairy,
the river's precious gift.
- The river? The river? Who was she?! - Alice. My princess. I never stole.
The...the Wicked King.
His ship of fire. She was burned, so burned, and I...
HE YELLS
No, sir!
- JACKSON: - Reid!
- Who was she? - We just wanted a child, sir. We so wanted a child.
You tortured her and then you murdered her!
No, no, no! I love her. I love her. She's my little princess.
- Where is she? Is she safe? - Her name!
- Alice. - Don't lie to me!
- Who was she?! - Reid!
When I found her, she never knew,
and I made the stories to help her,
- and...and then she remembered. - Remembered what?
But I...I made them to...to help her.
I knew she... she wasn't a real fairy, but...
but I...I made her believe.
She remembered...what?
Who...who she...
Her name.
M-M-Mathilda.
- WHISPERS: - Mathilda?
M-Mathilda Reid.
She was my daughter.
HORACE SOBS
The day she said her name,
I... I knew...I knew she was yours.
- WHISPERS: - How...
how could you keep her from me?
She feared you. The death around you, like a...a black halo.
Your own daughter had t-t-terror of you.
HORACE BREATHES HARD
You...
n-never loved her the way I did.
You couldn't love her enough to keep her safe!
HORACE BREATHES HARD
Reid.
Reid, do not do this, brother.
Do not do this.
Listen to him, Edmund.
Edmund!
- Don't do it. - Reid! - Listen to me...
No...!
No, Reid! No!
WET CRUNCHING SQUELCH
Inspector.
You may have five minutes.
I can give no more.
SHOP BELL RINGS
55 lives given up for 350,000
in unregistered and anonymous bearer bonds...
I imagine a man of my calling might find some purpose here.
See he gets what he needs.
You are come home.
- You were recruited. By who? - We were chosen for one skill or another.
These men who now await their earnings,
- they've not seen you, you are sure? - Certain.
He looked wrong. Like a village parson got off the wrong station.
'Polished his shoes too bright.'
- Your name again, sir? - Capshaw.
This programme contains some violent scenes
STREET CHATTER, DOG BARKS
- Morning. - Morning.
SHOP BELL RINGS
Clara!
- SHOP BELL RINGS - Clara, my love?
Clara.
- Anyone, my love? - Not a soul.
Oh, good morrow and welcome, thee both, to our House of Curiosities.
- May I perhaps interest you in... - Mr Buckley, please...
..desist.
My name is Mr Capshaw
and I represent the interests of your creditor.
We have time yet to pay, sir.
And one day would, no doubt, make every difference.
Your current position...
with interest.
Er...Mr Capshaw.
Clara's father was... Dreadful train accident, you see,
and, with the funeral costs,
- we have so little that... - Are you able to settle?
I thought not, and yet you continue to rebuff
the wholly reasonable offer of your creditor.
This shop is my livelihood. These four walls are my home.
I cannot give it to you. I will not.
I expected as much.
Henceforth, I shall be passing your debt forth to this gentleman.
His name is Mr Kendrick.
I suspect you may find his terms less amenable.
GOBLET CLANGS
Small wonder you can't make ends meet.
SPOONS CLINK
Well, now...
Let's take a look, shall we?
- Is this where the treasures are kept? - There's nothing in there.
- Please, Mr Capshaw, I beg of you. - Open it.
Get away from there.
How dare you? How dare you threaten and bully and force...
Clara! Forgive her, sirs. A woman's grief.
You and your cursed company. Smiling your liars' smiles for all to see
while you devour our homes, our shops.
Your smile is a wolf's maw
and we shall not submit to you as every other has.
Submit, madam.
They simply paid their dues.
If you please?
You get off! You get off! You get off!
No!
No! Get off! Oh!
HOLLOW THUMP
Tell me, Horace, is this where the treasures are kept?
- Get away from...! - SLAPPING
HE GROANS
Clara!
- HE SOBS - Clara, my love.
Clara!
You did this!
She fell, Mr Buckley.
You killed her!
Go. SHOP BELL RINGS
Come back!
GIRL: # Come unto these yellow sands
# And then take hands
# Curtsied... #
She's hit, falls.
Fractured cranium, maybe?
They say the Buckleys never traded a cross word.
Well, if it weren't a domestic, slim pickings for a hold-up.
- They were in debt. - Who to? - Only the figures.
Borrowing and borrowing, to claw themselves from under,
and only bringing more down upon themselves. They were buried alive.
Peaceful couples have broke peace for less.
MUSIC BOX PLAYS BLUE DANUBE WALTZ
Policing together again, Mr Drake.
Coppering thus. Circumstances aside, it's something I've missed.
Your abilities will always be welcome at H Division.
Alongside your own, sir.
I am not made for the Yard, Inspector. I, er...
Fred Abberline may have a bent for their politic,
but I... You and I are Whitechapel,
and I intend to remain so.
Then long may we copper thus, Mr Reid.
Barely open two weeks and see the work we do.
COUGHING Dr Frayn?
Might I?
My dear friend, Miss Erskine.
Doctor...a pleasure.
Miss Erskine, you bring a flush of celebrity to our clinic.
- Oh! - Miss Erskine's very visit here today
will help spread word of your work, Doctor.
I shall be in her debt. Hope you'll excuse me.
Of course.
Dr Frayn is a recent graduate
of the School of Medicine for Women.
I never knew such a place.
No, but I would make the likes of it here.
- Doctors, Rose, not match girls, nor market traders. - Nor whores.
Nor that.
Miss Susan.
Mr Capshaw requests you, Miss.
Screaming blue murder, she was.
She was hysterical.
She was imprisoned in a cellar. Such terror, she fainted.
- Give me room. - My God...
It was a...a child's dungeon.
All right, soldier? Keeping you busy, are they?
Inspectors? Perhaps you might spare a moment for the Star,
indulge our enquiries concerning the locomotive tragedy?
Sirs, will you not afford me modest audience?
- Not now, man. - No?
For what right have the people of Whitechapel to understand
why 55 now lie beneath the earth?
Why you send marionettes to the rope while a puppeteer wiles in shadow?
Unless the truth be that Edmund Reid cannot say because he does not know.
Any found with blood on their hands from that black day will know justice.
But this morning a woman lies slain in her shop
and it is to THAT we presently attend. Our work is not ended.
You, Mr Best, you are not alone in losing one you loved to that train.
Of course, you know, of course,
for is not Whitechapel's copper-in-chief
also these days its file-clerk-in-chief?
Allow me to assist with the distracting business of Clara Buckley.
'Tis her, I assume? The dead woman?
Kendrick, the collector, come for his dues.
Kendrick?
- Kendrick killed Clara Buckley? You saw this? - A reporter of mine
saw Horace Buckley running for his life,
Kendrick after him, wild as a dog.
I gave her laudanum for her terrors.
- Her condition? - Malnourished, though no more so
than any other child of this quarter, perhaps less than most.
Was she raped?
No, of that I'm sure.
The child has been cared for.
The only harm upon her, there is scarring. Her back.
She was beaten?
No, burns, from some years past.
Mr Capshaw says the Buckleys were childless. Who is she?
Alice, she says.
Though her faculties are...
Miss Hart, my concern would be more for the health of her mind than her body.
- She howls to be returned. - Where?
To the Buckleys. To her...she says pupa.
I believe she means her chamber.
The girl was...
..she was not their captive?
She is confused and afraid.
That is all I can presently say for certain.
She seems to fear everything but the Buckleys.
Dr Frayn, the welfare of this girl is to be your chief concern.
Is that understood?
Miss Hart, for what greater purpose my schooling and our clinic
than one so in need?
This man Buckley?
Kendrick lost sight of him in the rookery.
He'll be found.
Buckley shall not speak of what took place.
You believe that to be the matter critical?
It is nevertheless a matter of consequence...
..and he shall be found.
Whatever the truth of this...the girl regards the Buckleys as parents.
Already this morning, the Buckley woman lies dead by your hand
and I will not have the girl made orphan.
Find Horace Buckley and bring him to me.
Clyde Kendrick?
What have I won?
Horace and Clara Buckley.
You collected rent from them this morning.
Hm. The Buckleys?
Mrs Buckley's dead, Mr Kendrick.
- I think you know that. - How would I know that?
- You were seen. - You're mistook.
I've been sat at a desk all this morning. Why not ask my dear wife?
Ain't it so, Gertie?
The Buckleys?
Yes, new business, due to visit them Friday.
You are a frequent caller in these parts, are you not?
- There's a lot of debt in these parts. - And vultures will circle.
I'm no Shylock, gentlemen.
- You do not lend? - Certainly not. - Then who does?
My clients are various.
The Buckleys. Which client?
If there isn't a crime you wish to charge me with, Inspector...
I'm a working man with business to attend.
Now, you wait a bloody moment.
- "Obsidian Estates"? - The signature.
- Ronald Capshaw. - He's the lawyer, Susan Hart's lawyer.
How much business do you take from Ronald Capshaw and Obsidian Estates?
A new client, so I believe.
I very much doubt you will be recovering this debt, Mr Kendrick.
Do you imagine Susan Hart complicit in Obsidian Estates practising usury?
The Long Susan I knew was a mistress of whores, but a woman of decency.
I can't speak for the Susan Hart to whom I return.
Even so, Capshaw's mark on this paper.
There is a stench around this man.
The reek of him drifts amid the blood and smoke of the robbed train.
Be that as it may, so far as Clara Buckley goes,
if Kendrick ain't a moneylender, he may yet well be a murderer
and we'll need more than Fred Best crying bogeyman to prove such.
We find Horace Buckley. Only he can say what happened in that shop.
Not only he, Mr Reid.
Clara Buckley may yet speak to us.
But it is neither you nor I who have the learning to listen.
Not the American. ANYONE but the American.
The Prairie Rose?
It is the, er...lowest form of reeking word-swill.
It's pandering, confected, trivial horse shit.
There ain't an ounce of human truth in the whole godforsaken story.
You're a cynic and a charlatan.
Who told you?
I'll be sure to share your constructive analysis,
and, if you wish to continue treating this playhouse
as your flophouse, you'll collect me at seven,
then feed me with roast meat, ply me with cheap liquor,
and defile me in abject and merciless ways.
Hey, darling, what's wrong?
Your glittering find, brother.
He thinks it'll pack the house and make a fortune.
Splendid! Perhaps it's one for you, darling.
- Darling? - You're a little early for a matinee, gentlemen.
The clown we seek cavorts everywhere but the stage.
Bennet, er... Inspector Drake.
Inspector Reid, may I present Mr Edgar Morton,
proprietor of Blewett's and...
- HE CHUCKLES - And, I'm proud to say, Miss Erskine's intended.
Congratulations, sir. She is...
Miss Erskine is...
You're very lucky.
Is he here?
Straighten your wits, Captain.
- I was trying. - They say if the doctor is not to be found in his rooms,
he broods these days at the Pavilion of Varieties.
From the body physic to the dreaming mind.
Truly, Whitechapel's very own da Vinci.
Well, even God takes a day of rest, Reid,
but, then again, I guess you don't believe in either of us.
We've need of your services.
You might. He doesn't.
- Whatever may have passed between you... - Whatever may have passed?
You mean Dolly Do-Right here didn't give you a blow-by-blow?
- You helped before. - A civic emergency, Benito.
Why don't you just come back next time a train ploughs off the rails?
We've come to you because we know of no other with your skill.
There will be coin commensurate.
Commensurate...for a degenerate unfit to serve the law?
No man is fit to work from the bottom of a bottle.
My wife walked out on me, goddammit!
I'd have thought you understood the hole that tears.
There was work needful of you.
And if there's one thing the three of us excel at,
is it not to fail whatever is most needful of us?
We're wasting our time here.
Drake.
No other with my skill, huh?
Well, I don't need your goddamn money
and I don't need you blowing smoke up my ass neither,
but I want to hear it from him...
I know that I'm shitty at a lot of things. In fact, most everything.
But your work, sniffing out a trail of dead, well, God help me,
that's something I've got a holy talent for
and I'm going to hear you say it.
I want to hear him say that
I'm not a piss-streaked scud of shoe shit,
that I ain't some cunny-chasing
gutter rat with a heart of scorched turd.
That's right, Reid.
I remember every word, every goddamn rock
that you threw at me from your polished pulpit.
I could have used a friend, not a one-man temperance movement.
I am a decorated United States Army captain and a doctor
and I want to hear this stuffed-shirt son of a bitch say it!
You are not a...
..piss-streaked...
..with a...
..of scorched turd.
You...you are a...
..doctor.
Yeah, I figured that's as good as it was going to get.
All right.
Seven sharp, darling, and, er...
put your hair up pretty.
Happy days are here to stay, huh?
Frontal fracture, orbital margin.
Punched, full fist.
- Kendrick wear a ring? - Not that I saw.
Well, whoever hit her does.
This incision here. Index finger, maybe. Husband?
Remains abroad. By all accounts, violence is most uncharacteristic.
Well, maybe there was someone else there, then.
We need Jackson at the Buckley shop.
Yeah, well, maybe Jackson's got affairs of his own, though.
Was she holding on to something?
The lesions on her palms and her nail beds are torn.
Nurse, tweezers.
No glare? No grimace? No, "Shut up, Yankee"?
Oh, I'm going to have to shoot him.
What is it, man?
It's a splinter.
It's varnished wood.
This bruising on her arms, fracture to the metacarpal.
She was grabbed hard and dragged from something.
They have anything worth gripping that tight?
OK, she's hit.
Bang.
Yes, we got that much, Jackson.
Is this Buckley some kind of mudlark?
I mean, have you checked down by the river?
It's a bloody long river. TAPS POT
This.
This. She was gripping this.
HOLLOW THUMPS
Jesus.
What is this place?
Who was kept here?
Buckley must have a workshop. This wood's salvaged.
It needs to be dried and treated.
And he builds, cuts. Man needs tools for that, space to work.
That box upstairs, that's fresh river pickings.
I once saw you inspect dirt like you was reading tea leaves.
I'll try it on.
And this?
Butterfly wings.
But the patterning... on each one, it's the same.
Catching the same breed.
Nothing about this is right, Reid. Nothing.
From the candles and the food, the room was inhabited until morning.
Girl, fair, given the brush.
The clothes. I don't know, ten or 13?
But you see here.
They've been darned over and over.
- Made bigger. - As she grew.
- So, she's been here... - Who knows? Years.
Then there's this.
You see these? Scratches and scuff marks.
- There was a struggle by the door. - Fighting to get out.
No, that's the thing.
These are her marks. But the impact?
She wasn't fighting to get out.
She was fighting to stay in.
Fighting who? Best said Buckley and Kendrick ran from the shop.
So, either Kendrick came back...
Or there's your third man.
Mr Kendrick has not afforded us full candour.
I want Horace Buckley...found.
Alice.
It's all right.
Good girl.
- SHE BREATHES HARD - Please take me back.
No!
My wings! The Wicked King will take my wings again!
I must be in my pupa!
Daddy! I must...
I can't... My wings...
I want my... I want my pupa! I can't...
Ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh!
Ssh!
And when she wakes, what then?
I will not have the girl doped.
There must be more we can do than stupefy her.
There is a new thinking on the Continent.
This man Breuer calls it the cathartic method,
a therapy for the mind.
The parts of the mind beneath the mind, you might say.
With your permission, Miss Hart,
I should like to assay these new techniques on Alice.
And do you believe it will help her?
I do.
Then proceed.
Mr Kendrick thought it best to take a prolonged sabbatical.
Er...Glasgow, I believe.
And Mr Buckley...
Mr Buckley has sent a proposal, offers all he has in the world,
of chief interest being the deed
to his premises and his lifelong silence, in exchange for the girl,
with whom he shall leave our fair city on the morrow,
never to darken our alleys again.
Your response?
As you'd expect from a reasonable fellow, I agreed to every term.
And tomorrow, at Buckley's nominated time and place,
I shall have a man meet him...
..and as per your wishes...
..bring him to you.
My wish is to know the truth about the girl.
The truth, madam, shall be dragged forth...
..by its very throat, if need be.
More of Buckley's wares, Captain.
All these goddamn bugs just look like...bugs.
- Keep that cooking. - Sir? - I'm going to the zoo.
The map, Inspector. All properties owned by Obsidian Estates, sir.
I had the constables go door to door and wired the Land Registry.
- Everything you wanted. - Thank you, Sergeant.
DOOR SHUTS
She has acquired whole swathes of Whitechapel -
shop, cottage, tenement. Here, here, here, these entire streets,
all of this, the expansion of the Obsidian Estates portfolio.
Defaulting debtors, like the Buckleys,
forced to forfeit all they own, and the likes of Kendrick
no more than blunt tools to gouge out a foul empire.
I believe it's time I took tea with Miss Hart.
Follow me, sir.
Inspector.
DOOR SHUTS
What a rare pleasure!
- But I sense little joy on your part. - Your time is appreciated, Miss Hart.
Hm.
What might I help you with?
A woman, Clara Buckley, was killed in Whitechapel this morning.
A debt collector, Clyde Kendrick, implicated.
Are these names known to you?
They are not.
Perhaps to you, then, Mr Capshaw?
Given Kendrick acquired the Buckley debt from Obsidian Estates,
with your mark...
..there.
On occasion, it is more profitable to offer a debt to market
than to pursue it fruitlessly.
But if this man, er...
Kendrick, has involved himself in an ugly episode,
it is to my shame and regret our company associated thus.
Shame and regret?
Buckley's ledgers show interest inflated week on week,
loan to pay loan to pay loan, and the debt accrued
not to Kendrick but to Obsidian Estates.
Such dealings with this company are, I gather, not unique hereabouts.
So, how fares your...regret and shame, Mr Capshaw...
and yours, Miss Hart...
were I to posit that Obsidian Estates lends
purely as a mechanism by which it may bully,
extort and finally acquire?
But there's no coercion, Inspector Reid. It's merely legal transaction.
Perhaps you find the trade distasteful,
but the day righteous distaste is grounds for prosecution,
this borough shall see its jails burst asunder
and its streets bare of life.
That's an impressive ring, Mr Capshaw. Looks very solid.
I shall look into every detail of this matter, Inspector...myself.
You know me to be a woman of my word.
And yet every word I hear today, Miss Hart,
seems to ooze from the mouth of Mr Capshaw.
Mr Capshaw, perhaps now you might excuse us.
DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES Inspector, my project has ever been
to make of Obsidian Estates an engine of good.
To bring with it prosperity and hope
to streets which have never known such.
This company must obtain property if it is to shape this borough
for the future its people deserve.
But I have never, and will never tolerate illegality
in the pursuit of that future.
And your Mr Capshaw?
What is he prepared to tolerate?
KNOCK AT DOOR
Jackson needs more time.
His filtrations, he says.
Kendrick is missing.
Buckley is missing.
The girl he kept in his cellar for years is missing.
We are being played for fools by this Capshaw.
And here...
these streets...
..these streets we vow to protect...
..these people to whom we promise safety, order.
Susan Hart crows of her good work for these streets
but at what cost to them her new Whitechapel?
People extorted from their homes...
..terrorised by debt collectors.
When these streets belong to Obsidian Estates,
what is our promise worth?
Do we police for them?
I used to argue with a man
who believed chaos was the natural state...
..all things doomed to fall apart
and a...a fissure splitting wider day by day...
..set to swallow the gossamer dream that we make of order.
I argued with him, then.
But, er...now I feel the gossamer fray, Bennet.
I feel the fissure yawn into abyss faster than we can weave afresh.
Mr Reid...
..you used to tell me our work, that order, was a fight without end
but a battle worth the blood.
You believed that...
..and I believe it still.
And so we weave on, thread by thread...
..and we hold to the promise we have made.
Ronald Capshaw thinks to tell us
what he may undertake in Whitechapel within the law.
Then we shall show him likewise.
Five weeks past, you will recall, we foiled a snidesman,
who sought to pass his paper hereabouts,
counterfeit money, as you see, slick,
like a scum of oil on our streets,
and there is reason to believe some remains in circulation.
Now, these hostelries here, all owned by Obsidian Estates
and all, so the narks and blowers whisper,
all given to the conducting of business illicit.
Now, constables, it falls to you this night
to see that these premises know our law.
You will show them what it is to be policed in this borough.
Do not spare your billy clubs.
- Go! Now! - OTHERS: Sir.
Police!
Will you close your eyes for me, please...
..and imagine a garden,
a beautiful garden
just for you,
where you're safe and happy?
Now, look. A butterfly.
The most beautiful butterfly you've ever seen,
and I want you to watch her drift and soar.
Just watch the lovely, slow beating of her wings.
Inspector, I wonder if we might talk a moment.
The Greeks believed that the dead drank
from the waters of the River Lethe.
Lethe is forgetfulness,
flowing through the underworld into the cave of Hypnos,
and in so doing, they forgot for ever their waking selves.
Thus the superstition that it ill becomes he who toasts with water.
GLASSES CLINK
Sir.
All these years policing together hereabouts.
There were times we had to go further than we...
..well, than the law allowed.
Mr Reid, tonight, what you told those men.
What they are now carrying out,
rousting legitimate businesses and innocent people.
What you asked of them, that ain't policing.
I must offer my gratitude
that you come back after four years to teach me how to police.
When Fred Abberline asked my return here...
..there was talk of... that Inspector Reid
had made of his desk and his office a bunker.
Patrolled these days his archives, not his streets.
But what I saw this night
was the Inspector Reid I saw some four years past
at the ropes of a fighting ring.
A man driven by rage.
And when I left this city,
when I failed you as a friend,
I did so only that I might survive as a man.
You do not need to justify yourself, Bennet.
It is not my own peace which concerns me, sir.
We battle monsters, we become monsters.
And that abyss, which you speak of,
it is not only around us,
it's not only out there, it is inside us...
..and it bleeds a blackness that swallows all light.
I am, as I ever have been,
friend to you.
That is why I came.
That is why I say what must be said.
Cos this borough needs us.
It needs you, Mr Reid...
and for you to abide by the law.
Do you imagine Horace Buckley
endured a battle with himself, day by day...
..to keep a girl locked in his cellar?
Or is there a true nature to ourselves, Bennet?
Is the truth
that the abyss is not within us,
nor without us?
We ARE the abyss.
I appreciate your visit.
Till the morning.
Inspector Reid, sir...
Thank you, Bennet.
Till the morning, then.
I was his prisoner.
- SHE BREATHES SOFTLY - The Wicked King.
He made me his prisoner...
..and he made me forget.
- DR FRAYN: - Forget what?
Who I am.
And who is that, Alice?
A princess of the Feeorin.
Feeorin?
Fairies.
The winged ones.
My daddy helped me to remember myself.
Your daddy, Mr Horace.
After the sprites brought me to him and he made my pupa
and he taught me about the Wicked King.
But I...
- TRUNK CREAKS - ..I knew the King's secret.
I knew why he became sad.
Sad? Why?
He was...
- MUSIC BOX PLAYS - ..hurting them.
I can see.
The King is so sad.
So, I go into his throne room to sing to him, but he is gone
and I...
..I see.
What do you see, Alice?
Pictures.
I find pictures of them,
all hurt and...
Who? Who are they?
Dead fairies.
I am in his room of terrible secrets,
and he...
..the Wicked King punishes me.
How does he punish you?
He takes me on his ship.
The water.
All glitter in the sun and...
..so bright...
..and then...
Then what?
Alice?
Fire.
Fire.
My punishment.
I am burning.
SHE BREATHES HARD
The Wicked King wants to burn me
so my wings will never grow back and I will never fly away.
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
Alice...
Can you tell me what the King looks like?
- SHE BREATHES HARD - A man...
..on fire.
He screams my name,
but not my name.
What name does he scream?
He is...he is crying...
..and I am falling.
Falling.
The King reaches for me
and now the sprites have me.
The sprites?
The river sprites have me...
..and they carry me...
..and their arms are so cool on my back. And then...
# Come unto these yellow sands
# And then take hands
# And, sweet sprites, bear... #
And my daddy Horace finds me.
Alice.
Alice, can you look at something for me? Can you look at this picture?
No! No!
What is it? What is it, Alice?
The Wicked King!
You're safe now, Alice. You're safe now.
ALICE SOBS
Safe and sound.
He requests audience, sir.
Tell him to get out of my police station before I have two constables
assist him without delicacy.
What I have to say warrants your good ear, Inspector.
May I?
Thank you, Sergeant.
Two trains mangled, dozens dead.
Five men hanged, for what?
A robbery, yes, but naught claimed amiss.
Strange days, would you not agree?
If you come to berate my investigation afresh,
I shall shackle you for a month.
Your investigation indeed!
Poked your snout around the goods yard, I hear,
but truffled thus in vain,
because no stevedore wished to implicate himself
- to a copper in acts illegal. - What acts?
Levying what one might call an unofficial handler's fee.
They skim.
Some, with rigorous efficiency,
which is why they remarked upon the sea-cans.
The sea-can what was robbed,
Hoboken, New Jersey to Whitechapel, London.
And for a year now, month on month,
sea-cans just like it arriving on the same shipping ticket.
Locked up like a safe. No dice, thus, for our skimmers.
Except one time.
The sea-can was damaged in transit. Locks smashed, doors warped.
The stevedores? Well, they're giddy for a peek, and what do they find?
Carpetbags.
A few bloody carpetbags filled with...
well, they call it money that weren't money.
Not good old readies, Inspector.
This was paper marked "bearer bonds"...
..in United States dollars.
Bonds? That's what it was all for?
Bags stuffed, Inspector. Picture and count.
Hundreds of thousands gone.
And unreported. Why?
You intend to print this?
What, and blow a trombone to startle those behind it?
Give them cause to scarper? No, sir.
I shall continue to enquire on the hush, and now so may you.
And you seek what in return for this?
You think me a muckraker, a Peeping Tom,
a-sniff at the knicker drawers of this town.
But I...
You are aware a friend of mine perished for the greed of those bloody bonds.
I would not fail him as I once...
- HE SIGHS - What do I seek? I seek justice done in Whitechapel, Inspector Reid.
That and nothing more.
Mr Best.
Follow the bonds.
Now, I took the mud apart every way I could
and it's sodden with chromium, chromium sulphate.
They use that in tanneries. And ammonia. In these quantities,
I'd say it's the run-off of a dye-works.
- I'll get on it. - Wait, wait. Better narrow the field.
All the ammonia in the soil, it's going to be overgrown.
The butterfly wings, it's all the same breed, right?
Old World swallowtail. Lepidopterist at the zoo identified it.
And they feed on milk parsley.
My guess is, he catches these on account that it's right on his doorstep.
It's the best I can do for an X and Y.
Fine work.
Have at it.
Inspector!
Buckley's place. They know it.
Buckley. Horace Buckley.
DOOR OPENS
DOOR SHUTS
Is it true?
The girl is Reid's daughter?
I believe so.
Edmund Reid becomes a danger.
I've a man at the East London Bank.
He tells me a police wire was sent across the city,
enquiring after bearer bonds.
And Reid has found Buckley. The man draws ever closer.
However...
there remains, I believe...
..a means of deflection.
We are, after all...
..not without collateral.
We are not.
WOMAN COUGHS
- CAPSHAW: - What we ask, we ask only for the sake of the girl.
Her confusion, after all, remains.
Dr Frayn, all of us know too well what befalls lost children on these streets.
Orphan house to workhouse to whorehouse.
Whitechapel will swallow her whole.
We can protect her from that.
We can see that a semblance of hope yet awaits her.
A stricken child.
A broken mind is not a broken bone.
There is no standard prognosis.
And her confusion remains a great concern.
I will do right by the girl.
You've my word.
What is it you ask of me?
Did you kill your wife, Mr Buckley?
- No. - Kendrick, then. - Who?
- Tell us about your cellar, Mr Buckley. - My... My...
- Who did you keep in your cellar? - Mr...Mr Capshaw...
he struck my Clara.
He k-killed her. He killed her.
I'm...I'm not a brave man.
Capshaw? Ronald Capshaw? He was there?
- He ruined our world. - Will this be your testimony, Mr Buckley?
Will you speak up for your wife
in court so that we may punish her killer?
Yes, and then I shall be free!
Who is the child?
Cellar? P-P-P...
Perhaps Clara.
We take Capshaw first. Buckley's going nowhere.
- CHARITY: - I couldn't stop them.
Take him in for the murder of Clara Buckley.
Where is the mistress of this house?
Good day, Inspector.
Before you take Mr Capshaw, I beg you to hear me.
I have not afforded you the full candour. I...
We have both always strived,
above all else, to make safe this small quarter,
made our mission to protect.
But today you protect the wrong man.
Horace and Clara Buckley were not victims, Inspector.
You saw the cellar.
Mr Capshaw and Mr Kendrick found her.
Where...where is she?
I summoned doctors but her suffering was too great.
Doctor... Dr Amelia Frayn, Inspector.
She strived her utmost, but...
Her suffering had been too great and for too long.
The trauma, I believe, of taking her from her...from her dungeon.
I... There was nothing could be done for the child, sir.
Her peace came swiftly. For that, at least, we may be grateful.
Where...
is she?
She was buried this morning.
She could not speak, Inspector.
Could not walk, for rickets.
Had been starved, tortured,
forced...
And it is her rescuer, Mr Capshaw, you now seek to shackle,
on the word of the monster that made her slave and plaything.
But why?
Why did you not bring this to me?
Why?!
Because, Mr Reid,
I could not be sure this poor broken girl...was not your daughter.
Jesus Christ, Susan!
How dare you?
Her burns, Dr Frayn.
There was scarring.
- Scars of fire all upon her back. - Her age was...
This ain't right, woman.
I'm not claiming it is so.
But if she were your Mathilda,
I would not have had you look upon her in that way.
I sought to protect you from that horror.
But she was someone's child,
and if you still wish to charge Mr Capshaw...
- Take him in. - But if it were Mathilda
kept by Horace Buckley, what then?
What vengeance could there be that would not destroy you?
Buckley.
I will know the truth.
Who was she?!
- Sir? - The girl in the cellar!
- What cellar? - What cellar?
What cellar? I shall show you what cellar.
I beg you, sir, please!
Argh!
Get up!
I beg you, sir! Please!
- Please, I didn't mean to! - What cellar?! Huh?
Please! I didn't mean to. She was my little fairy,
the river's precious gift.
- The river? The river? Who was she?! - Alice. My princess. I never stole.
The...the Wicked King.
His ship of fire. She was burned, so burned, and I...
HE YELLS
No, sir!
- JACKSON: - Reid!
- Who was she? - We just wanted a child, sir. We so wanted a child.
You tortured her and then you murdered her!
No, no, no! I love her. I love her. She's my little princess.
- Where is she? Is she safe? - Her name!
- Alice. - Don't lie to me!
- Who was she?! - Reid!
When I found her, she never knew,
and I made the stories to help her,
- and...and then she remembered. - Remembered what?
But I...I made them to...to help her.
I knew she... she wasn't a real fairy, but...
but I...I made her believe.
She remembered...what?
Who...who she...
Her name.
M-M-Mathilda.
- WHISPERS: - Mathilda?
M-Mathilda Reid.
She was my daughter.
HORACE SOBS
The day she said her name,
I... I knew...I knew she was yours.
- WHISPERS: - How...
how could you keep her from me?
She feared you. The death around you, like a...a black halo.
Your own daughter had t-t-terror of you.
HORACE BREATHES HARD
You...
n-never loved her the way I did.
You couldn't love her enough to keep her safe!
HORACE BREATHES HARD
Reid.
Reid, do not do this, brother.
Do not do this.
Listen to him, Edmund.
Edmund!
- Don't do it. - Reid! - Listen to me...
No...!
No, Reid! No!
WET CRUNCHING SQUELCH
Inspector.
You may have five minutes.
I can give no more.
SHOP BELL RINGS