All language subtitles for Endeavour - 01x00 - Pilot.FoV.English.C.updated.Addic7ed.com

Good morning, everybody.

It's six o'clock on Sunday morning

and the BBC Light Programme
is beginning another day's broadcast.

Fierce fighting between North and South
Vietnamese troops in Phuoc Long Province...

Double?

I'd sooner cash, Emile.

But I suppose I can trust you.

Resync and corrected by APOLLO
www.addic7ed.com

Pint, Morse?

Morse.

Pint?

I don't drink.

You know that Have a squash.

Sally's serving. The one with the
charlies. I'd like to, McLeash.

Really, but um...

On a Sunday?

All work, old son...

Well, it's good of you to ask,
but another time.

That's what you said last time.

Lisa Bainwright?
Yes, miss.

Jenny Crisp?
Yes, miss.

Pauline Edmonds?
Yes, miss.

Valerie Quillen?
Yes, miss.

Anne Porter?
Yes, miss.

Mary Tremlett?

Mary Tremlett?

Is Mary not in today?

Has anybody seen her?

Crisp's daughter goes here, I heard.
I wouldn't know.

Any word on those extra bodies?

Request has gone in for reinforcements from Carshall.
Due first thing tomorrow.

'Mary Tremlett aged 15,
left home on Saturday

at approximately four
o'clock in the afternoon

for a trip to the cinema.

Last seen wearing an orange top,

green three-quarter-length
trousers in a fashionable

Capri pants style, she
has not been seen since.

Anyone with information
pertaining to her disappearance

should contact Detective
Inspector Fred Thursday

at Cowley Police Station, Oxford.

It is believed extra officers
from Carshall Newtown

'Ere, what's this I heard you tried to
get yourself taken off the inquiry?

Morse?

Wilcox, Duffle, Ellis, Wood,
you're assigned to Banbury.

DS McBain.
He's waiting for you in the canteen.

Cullen, Boyle, Madden, Mitchell,
Kidlington. DS Anthony.

Transport's through the yard.

Hurry it up.

Finger out of your arse.

You two, follow me.

I suppose you're feeling
very pleased with yourselves.

Dreaming of cracking
a great big juicy murder case, eh?

Get your name in the papers?
Yes, sarge.

Well, you can forget it.
There's only two

detectives in this nick:
Me and the guv'nor.

And that's Mr Thursday to you. Or
'sir'.

Get in. Go on.

You're here to take up slack.

Any questions? No, good.

I thought this was a missing persons
case.

You said murder.

Oh, it's murder all right.
Sex case like as not.

The way they go round
with all on show these days.

Just not found her body yet.

So, duties.

McLeash, office, duty log, telephone
calls, any and all information received.

Sarge.
E Morse.

Your guv'nor says you know the area.

College boy.

That right?

Right, door to door. Get that lot
circulated.

You can't tell from those
but she's a redhead,

well-developed for her age.
Someone would have seen her.

Shops, offices, railways,
commuters... Commuters?

If she left Oxford by train on
Saturday afternoon,

it's unlikely she'd have been seen by
the weekday crowd, wouldn't you think?

Well, I don't think. I follow orders.

Anyone want me, I'm with the guv'nor.

Kept that under your hat, didn't
you?

Bloody Oxford.

His verse notwithstanding, Ibycus is perhaps
most famous for the manner of his death

at the hands of robbers.

Wounded and dying, Ibycus looked up
to see a flight of crane...

A flight of cranes passing overhead.

At which he cried out,
'Those birds will be my avengers.'

His murderers repaired to Corinth,

where, Plutarch tells us,

spying a flock of the same birds,

one of their number exclaimed in
jest,

'Behold, the avengers of Ibycus.'

Bathroom's on the first
landing for proper washing.

But you've a sink up here for
shaving

and the necessary's where it should
be.

First time in Oxford?
Not exactly.

Well, that's nice, dear, isn't it?

This was Mr Bleaney's room.

He stayed here the whole time
he was at the Bodleian.

Do you know how long you'll be in
residence? I'm afraid not.

No, well, it's just yourself and
two other gentlemen at the minute.

Mr Goldberg and Mr McCann.

Very nice, they are.

Tea's at 6:30 as a rule.

But I can do you a boiled egg.

Oh, that's very kind of you, Mrs
Crabbin, but I'll get something out.

Then I'll let you get settled.

There's no overtime.

I realise that

So what is it, brown-nosing
or sucker for punishment?

There's no other kind of bloody fool still
in the office at this time of night.

Just us.

I thought I should take a look at
the Tremlett case files.

Which one are you?
Morse, sir.

Carshall Newtown.

So?

Mary Tremlett 15 years old,

Last seen by her parents Saturday
four o'clock when she left,

supposedly to go to the pictures
with another girl, Valerie.

- Valerie...
- Quillen.

Who denies any such arrangement.

No boyfriend.

No troubles at home.
So it's unlikely she's a runaway.

That's it.

Not much to go on.

There rarely is, this kind of case.

But we keep looking.

Good night, then.

There is one thing, sir.

Going through this list
of her belongings at home...

She's a copy of The Oxford Book Of
English Verse by her bed,

together with A Shropshire Lad
and a Betjeman Collected.

Young girls like poetry.

Young girls like Mary Tremlett?

Too highbrow for a girl whose father works
on the GMC assembly line? That your point?

No, my point is that they're
hardbacks.

Beyond the pocket of a schoolgirl,
I'd have thought.

Just struck me as odd, that's all.

Maybe they were a present.
Her parents, a school prize even.

There's official lines of inquiry
we're following, Morse.

Poetry books isn't one of them.

Is Mary fond of poetry, Mr Tremlett?

She's nice handwriting.

The teachers commended her on it.

A-plus last report.

Sharon, my eldest, she's visiting.

Police.

How do you do, Miss Tremlett?

Mrs. Veelie.

They had her read out
some of her essays to the class.

The house isn't the same.

Find her, will you, please?

Find our Mary.

What is it you're looking for?

Oh, just filling in some of the
background.

So you weren't here Saturday?

I dropped by the afternoon to see to Dad's
tea but I went straight home after.

About five.

Where's home?
Droitwich.

We had a stock-take Sunday, see.

Freeman, Hardy and Willis.

I'm Deputy Under-Manageress.

And your husband?

He's in carpets.

Travelling.

We're not together any more.

Are you close to your sister,
Mrs Veelie?

Not really.

All this fuss...

It'll just be some stunt.

Attention seeking.

What makes you say that?

Cos she's always been the same.

When Mum was alive, she spoilt her
rotten.

Dad too.

Whatever she wanted.

Their blue-eyed girl.

Silly little cow.

The police were here.

Nobody's seen her.

Do you think she knows something?
How would she know?

Extension 255.

Yes, I'll hold.

Morning.

Aye aye.

What you got there, then?
Mary Tremlett's poetry books.

Well, what's all that about?
I don't know yet. Nothing, probably.

Where the bloody hell have you been?

Got a suicide in Thrupp.
Unidentified male. You're on.

How am I meant to get there?

Want me to wipe your arse for you
an' all?

Use your initiative.

Morning.

Not for this poor sod.

You are whom?

Morse. Detective Constable.

On attachment from Newtown.

You're the pathologist, I presume?

Better hope so, hadn't you?

Otherwise I'm making one hell of a
mess of your scene of crime.

Max DeBryn.

Is it a scene of crime?

Initial report suggested suicide.

Looks to be. Single entry wound on
the right temple.

Typical starburst gunpowder pattern
on the skin surrounding the wound

together with contact scorching

would suggest the weapon was
discharged at point-blank range.

As you can see.

I'll take your word for it.

Squeamish, are we?

You won't make much of a detective if you're
not prepared to look death in the eye.

Find me when you're done.

RADIO: # MANFRED MANN: Do Wah Diddy

Finished?
The hors d'oeuvres.

Entree this afternoon.
Three o'clock sharp.

You can give me your findings
over the telephone.

You know, there's a word for people
like you, Morse.

Is there?
Necrophobic.

A word for people like you too,
I imagine.

Anglo-Saxon, though, rather than
Greek.

Weapon's a Webley, Mark VI,
if you're interested.

.455, standard army issue?

Not entirely a fool, then?
Not entirely. Time of death?

Yesterday between eight and
midnight.

Did he leave anything behind? Beside
his grey matter upon the greensward?

I was thinking more of a note.
Not that I've come across.

You might have better luck at his
lodgings. This was in his pocket.

Miles Percival.
Address is in Jericho.

I don't suppose there's any chance of
a lift?

Detective Constable Morse.

Oxford City Police.

- Mr...?
- Lomax.

Brian Lomax.

Would I be right in thinking
Miles Percival lives here?

When? I mean, where?

Last night.

His body was found down by the river
at Thrupp this morning.

Had you known him long?
Two years.

We sang together in the choir
for a bit.

When did you see him last?

Yesterday, at college.

How did he seem?

Anything worrying him?

No.

What about recently?

Anything out of the ordinary?

Money problems? College?
Girl trouble?

Nothing he told me about.

You're Australian, Mr Lomax.
That's right.

From where?
Sydney.

And you weren't concerned
that he didn't come home last night?

Well, I was in the Bird till
closing.

When I got back,
I thought he'd already turned in.

Did you know he owned a gun?

His grandfather's.

I'll need to speak to his tutor.
Sure.

He teaches over at Lonsdale.

Morse...

Morse.

Good God.
Hello, Alex.

I don't believe it.
What the hell are you doing here?

I'm looking for a colleague of
yours. Dr Stromming.

What's your business with him?

Police business. I'm a policeman.

Police?

The last I heard, you'd run off to
join the Foreign Legion.

What happened? Didn't take?

It was the Royal Signals.

But, no, 'didn't take'.

You're still...
Climbing the ladder of academe?

Oh, yes.

All the way to the top-most rung.

Master, one day, I suppose.

Well, you always were ambitious.
Genius does what it must.

Walk with me. I'm late for lunch.
I can't.

You won't find Stromming in today.
Home, probably.

Porter'll give you the address.

One must marry well, you see?

More than the half of it here
if you want to get on.

You taken the plunge?

Not yet.
No.

What was the name of that girl we were keen on?
Lived on St John Street.

Wendy, was it?
Susan. She preferred Susan.

Did she? Did she?

And you to me, as I recall.

Still, all's fair...

Well, I oughtn't keep you from
your...

But good to see you, Morse.
Very good.

A word of advice. As an old friend.

Whatever it is you're about in
college, mind how you go.

They won't take kindly to an
interloper.

Particularly one of their own.
I'm not sure I was ever that.

No.

Well, dig me out.
We'll have supper. Proper catch-up.

Ah, good afternoon.
I'm looking for Dr Stromming.

Oh, I'm sorry. He's out at present.

Is it college business?

In a manner of speaking.

Do you have any idea what time he'll
be back? No, I'm afraid not.

Can I take a message?

It's probably best if I speak to him
directly.

I see.

Well...
Yes, um, I'll...

Sorry to have troubled you.

Not at all.

Forgive me but it is Miss Calloway,
isn't it?

Miss Rosalind Calloway?

It was. It's Mrs Stromming now.

Ah...

Well, I can't say I've all,

but I've very many of your
recordings, certainly.

Good heavens.

Yeah, your Butterfly in '54.

If I had to save one disc on my desert
island from the waves, that would...

You are very kind.

Well...
Look, I'm sure Rowan won't be long.

Would you, um...

Would you care to wait?

You don't miss it, performing?

Not for a moment.

You see, I've got Rowan. My husband.

It seemed like more than a fair
exchange.

The one didn't preclude the other,
surely?

Well, not for Rowan's part.

For mine, it's not the kind of
marriage that I wanted.

Touring. Oceans apart.

Forsaking all others, certainly,
but... music.

No, I still have music.

I help out with the college choir
on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

And, oh, I have agreed to appear in a
charity gala at the New next Monday.

To be honest,
I think I'm more nervous about this

than any other performance I have
ever given.

Are tickets still available?

All gone, I'm told.
Of course.

Rowan. This is Mr...

Morse.

He's come to talk with you.

College business.
Yes, of course.

Are you sure you won't have one?

Um, no, thank you.

Please.

So, what can I do for you, Mr Morse?

Actually, Doctor, it's Detective
Constable Morse.

Oxford City Police.

I'm here about a student of yours.
Miles Percival.

Oh, yes?

I'm sorry to have to tell you, sir, but I'm
afraid he was found dead this morning.

Dead?

Oh, my God.

How awful.

What was it, a car accident or
something?

We believe he killed himself.

Have you any idea why he may wish to
take his own life?

None.

His work had fallen off quite badly
of late.

Missed tutorials. Drinking.

There was some talk of him being
rusticated.

He was quite highly-strung.

But I had no idea he was in that
kind of...

My God, the poor boy.

I need a name and address
for your Saturday puzzle-setter. Oz.

Out of luck, then, aren't you. He's
anonymous.

Like most of them.

Well, you send his fee somewhere,
presumably.

Fee?

This is Oxford. They do it for the
honour.

Look, I really am fearfully busy.
I've got the stars to do by lunch.

I'm only at Taurus.

People don't really believe such
guff, do they?

You'd be surprised. The chaplain at Christ's
has just declared for reincarnation.

When's it usually delivered?

The Saturday grid.

First post Wednesday as a rule.

We go to press Thursday.

And last week?

Funny you should ask.

Came in late. Caused quite a flap.

In the end a young chap dropped it
round...

Well, what did he look like?

Like a young chap.

Undergrad, I suppose.

Gave it to one of the subs. I caught
a glimpse.

Well, perhaps I could speak to this
sub.

You'll have to scour the Cairngorms, I'm afraid.
Walking holiday as of Monday.

Very well.

- Well, if you remember anything
else... - Of course.

Thank you.

What did you say your name was?

Morse.

Why?
Have we met?

I don't think so.

Another life, then.

Oi, Lott's rung in sick.

You're to fetch the guv'nor.

How am I supposed to get there?

Oh.

No DS Lott today?
Unwell, sir.

You don't say.

Now, Friday, must be corned beef.

Ah, what did I tell you?

When it comes to reliability,
the fixed motion

of the heavens has
nothing on my woman.

Anything overnight?

There is something I wanted to talk
to you about.

Mary Tremlett's poetry books.
I thought we'd been through that.

I know, but they're not just hardbacks, sir,
they're first editions. Quite valuable.

How do you...? You've been there.

Right, tell me on the way.

- Morning, sir.
- Morning.

Just bringing Mr Crisp up to date,
sir.

You were, were you?
I thought you were sick.

A bit liverish first thing.
Fancy.

OK, Morse, back to your desk.

Wait a minute, Arthur.
See what you make of this, sir.

The lad's been having a bit of a dig
round the Tremlett case.

Tell him.

Mary Tremlett keeps a few poetry
books by her bed. First editions.

And she's bookmarked certain poems with
crosswords cut from the Oxford Mail.

The Saturday edition.
All set by someone called Oz.

Oz? As in the Wizard of?

Well, the same spelling, yes.

Um, but the thing is, there's only ever
two clues she's filled in any puzzle.

The same two.
The first across and the last down.

The down's invariably a number.

Five gold rings, six geese a-laying,
so on.

But the across clue always refers to
somewhere in or around Oxford

mentioned in the poems.

Fyfield, Cumnor, Godstow.

That it?
No, sir, not quite.

The crossword that came out
the day she disappeared

refers to a poem by Matthew Arnold,

The Scholar Gipsy,

which mentions Bagley Wood.

Bagley Wood?

The down clue gives the number
eight.

I just thought it could be a time.

And place.

Possibly.

You think someone's making
secret assignations with her?

Through crossword clues in the
Oxford Mail?

Extraordinary, isn't it?
That's one word for it.

Begging your pardon, sir, but I've
never heard so much codswallop.

It does seem a bit fanciful,
far-fetched even.

Bagley Wood! Have you signed off
on that Thrupp shooting yet?

Then I suggest you see to your duties
before you start gallivanting.

Bloody crosswords!

Just come through from the information room, sir.
A body's been found by ramblers.

A young girl, redhead.
Looks to be Mary Tremlett.

Where's this?

Kennington, out by Bagley Wood.

Make sure the photographer gets
this.

Back of her right hand.

It's already smudged.

It looks to be FLA17...

something.

Letter B, possibly.

Car registration?

Or flat, maybe? Flat 17B?

Then what? Post-mortem?

Formal identification first.
Morse can run me.

You'd better keep an eye on the
search.

Organise a few snaps of her outfit
before it goes for forensics.

Get them out there.

It might jog a few memories.
Very good, sir.

Who's a clever boy, then?

Sarge.

Over here.

The subject is a well-nourished
female.

Approximately 15 years of age.

Five foot two.

Nine stone six pounds.

So, we begin with a lateral
incision...

across the cranium.

Peel the scalp forward,

thus to expose the skull.

Morse... Morse!

You'll be all right.

Actually, sir, I don't drink.

Very commendable. Now, get that down
you.

If you're going to apologise, don't.

Your first?
Well, like that.

North Africa was mine.

Long Stop Hill.

A lad by the name of Mills.

Gunner Mills.

Not a mark on him.

I thought he was asleep.

Till I turned him over.

Mortar.

What did I miss?
Strangled.

Her own brassiere.

Struck on the back of the head first.

Hadn't been interfered with,
according to Dr DeBryn.

Then why take off her clothes?

Maybe the spirit was willing...

Saturday night, he'd had a skinful,
tried to have his way.

When he couldn't manage it...

She'd been pregnant at some point
within the last six months.

Very professional job
was the doctor's opinion.

So there was a boyfriend?
Our man Oz?

The search turned up a gent's wristwatch
near where her body was found.

The face is smashed,
which gives us a time of death.

8:16 Saturday night.

Oh, and her stomach contents
turned up half a pint of whelks.

Talk to her mate Valerie.

See if she's been holding back.

She might open up more
to someone nearer her own age.

Right.

Mary Tremlett told her father
she was going to the cinema with you

Saturday afternoon.

Any idea why she'd say that?

I can understand if you've been
wanting to... protect her.

Maybe her reputation.

But as of this morning,
things have changed.

For the worse, I'm afraid.

Are you saying she's dead?

So it's important you tell me
the truth. Now. Do you understand?

Where was she going Saturday night?

Who was she seeing?

I don't know.

Look, I want to go home.

I'm upset. I've had a shock.

You can't talk to me when I'm upset.

Are you here about Mary?

We were best friends before she fell
in with Valerie's crowd.

You're not part of that?
No fear. Little tarts.

They used to rag on us when we first
started.

Only, last year Mary and Val got
really pally.

And then a couple of weeks ago
they had a big bust-up.

Do you know what it was about?

Mary thought Valerie
was trying to steal her bloke.

They had a fight over it.

Did Mary ever mention anyone called
Oz?

A nickname, maybe.

Not to me.

And who's Mary's boyfriend?

Johnny Franks. He's a car mechanic.

Works at a garage over at Park Town.

All Valerie's gang go there.

She's an absolute beauty, isn't she?

Nine months old, three thousand on
the clock and does she go.

Mr Samuels?
Yeah. Call me Teddy.

Please. Mr... Detective Constable
Morse, City Police.

Oh, yeah? What can I do for you?

I'd like to speak with one of your
mechanics. Johnny Franks.

He's not in any trouble, is he?
I know a lot of your boys.

They'll tell you, I run a straight go
and I make sure my lads do the same.

Right, you'd better come through.

Have you seen Johnny?

Where were you Saturday night,
Mr Franks?

Railway Arms in Didcot.

Anyone vouch for you?
Yeah. The rest of the team.

Darts. I play in the league.
We were away to Didcot on Saturday.

What time did that finish?
Er, 11-ish.

I suppose I got home around midnight.

Right, then?
Not quite.

I understand you knew Mary Tremlett?

Yeah, slightly.

It was more than slightly,
wasn't it?

You were her boyfriend.

I don't know where you
got that I've a few

birds on the go but Mary
weren't one of them.

I mean, I might have given her some old
chat but that's as far as it went.

What about Valerie Quillen?

What about her?

Well, she had a fight with Mary.

Over you. The other week.

I wouldn't know about that

A lot of young girls hang around the
garages.

You know what they're like at that
age. Lad-mad.

They get an idea in their head,
what can you do?

Mary did have a boyfriend, as it
goes, but it weren't me.

Miles something.
College sort beginning with a P.

Miles Percival?
That's it. Miles Percival.

You want to know about Mary,
you should go talk to him.

Mary broke it off with Miles
six months ago.

Was he sleeping with her?
What sort of a question is that?

She was 15.

He wanted to marry her, for God's
sake.

Said he was saving himself.

Was Miles Percival keen on
crosswords, Mr Lomax?

Miles?
Yeah.

God, no. No, couldn't stick a
crossie at any price.

Didn't have that kind of mind.

I used to drive him nuts.

You did?

Hey, look, you've no idea what he
was like. It was awful.

After she left him, he was either
drunk or...

In the end, he got it into his
head...

that she was seeing someone else.

Did he say who?

Er...

He thought that I...?

It's absurd.

You did know her, though?
Miles brought her to a drinks party.

She seemed very personable.
Very quick-witted.

Really, it was just one of those
stupid things.

One of the younger dons mentioned

it was a pity we didn't see more
people like that coming to Oxford.

Like what?

Well, of her class.

The wine was in, I suppose, but...

Reece hit upon a wheeze to see if,
with a bit of coaching,

we couldn't convince the bursar
that she was an undergrad.

At Lady Matilda's. Do you see?

Alexander Reece?
Mm. Why? Do you know him?

Yes.

Would have scared the
bursar half to death

to hear the finer points of
Pindar's monostrophic odes

discussed in an accent
rather more town than gown.

And was he?

Scared half to death.

No, in the event the opportunity
never arose.

You couldn't inveigle Mary Tremlett
to join your subterfuge.

On the cobtrary, she was all for it.

Someone taking an interest in her.

I imagine she was flattered.

I imagine she was.

Now, if you've any more questions, you'll
have to put them to me on the hoof.

When did you last see Mary?

Sometime earlier in the year.
When you were tutoring her?

Once a week, once a fortnight,
something like that

After lectures, at home.
A case of when one could fit her in.

Since you knew Mary, I'm bound to
ask where you were Saturday night.

I was at home.

Anyone confirm that?
My wife.

Your wife has choir practice
on a Saturday evening, doesn't she?

Look, whatever Miles Percival
may have thought,

my relationship with Mary Tremlett was
based wholly on an academic experiment.

Did she prove an apt pupil,
Dr Stromming?

She had a facility for conning by
rote.

But I'm afraid, after
a while, what had in

one's cups seemed amusing
no longer felt...

well, quite right.

Alex?

Oh, I say, full marks. You timed that
one rather well, didn't you?

Scoff, and a bloody good claret or
two, of course.

Free and gratis.

Oh, if it's all the same...

On duty, I suppose?

There's something I need to talk to
you about.

Mary Tremlett. This bet that you've
got with Rowan Stromming.

Ah, I see.

Donald.

Yes, I was wondering why you were
creeping about in college.

Anything more to their relationship?
Aside from this bet.

I wouldn't have thought so.

Filled a sweater well enough
but a mite odalisque to my taste.

Tout avec frites, I suppose.

Take the girl out of Cowley...

You didn't use to be so cruel.

Poor old Morse.

You were never Oxford material.

Too bloody decent, by half.

Abingdon 4185.

Yes.

Yes, I have.

Shocking.

No.

Well, I think that's wise.

Listen, I'm just about to leave for
London.

You can reach me there if there's
anything you think I should know.

Flaxman 1788.

All right?

'That the involvement of British forces
in the crisis remained unlikely.

Meanwhile, there are reports
of fighting between

South and North Vietnamese
troops in Dong Xoai.

In other news, an early handwritten
draft of Ozymandias

by the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley

is to go on show
at the Bodleian Library in Oxford.

Gifted to the library in 18...'

Boundless and bare, the lone and
level sands stretch far away.

Ah.

Detective Constable Morse.

What brings you here?

I met a traveller from an antique
land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless
legs of stone

Stand in the desert...

And on the pedestal these words
appear:

'My name is Ozymandias,
king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty,
and despair!'

I'm afraid I don't...
Oh, I think you do, Dr Stromming.

Or would you prefer 'Oz'?

Ozymandias.

'Look on my works, ye Mighty,
and despair!'

But then crossword-setters aren't exactly
famed for a lack of self-regard.

The gentle teacher bestowing wisdom
upon the young and eager pupil.

It may even have started out that
way.

But it's not how it ended up. Is it?

What happened, Dr Stromming?

Did you tire of her just as quickly
once the shine was off it?

Or was your wife getting suspicious?
Rosalind had no idea...

Did Mary threaten to tell her, then,
is that it?

She wouldn't go quietly. Is that why
you lured her to Bagley Wood?

What?

It's here, Doctor, in black and
white.

First across: 'Where
most the Gypsies by the

turf-edg'd way pitch
their smok'd tents.'

Answer, six and four: Bagley Wood.

Last down, how many cowgirls?

Five letters. Answer: eight.

I don't understand. Oh, you
understand all too well, Doctor.

You were to meet Mary Tremlett Saturday
night at eight o'clock at Bagley Wood

while your wife was safely out of
the way at choir practice.

I didn't say Bagley Wood.

Not last Saturday anyway.

I said Hinksey.

And it was six o'clock, not eight.

This is next week's puzzle.

Next week's?

Any setter worth the name...

will keep a few grids ahead of
himself.

Just in case he's taken ill...

Here. You see? Hinksey.

Six o'clock. This is the grid I meant
to send.

So that's why she didn't turn up.

I submitted the wrong puzzle.

Rowan handed me the envelope to post
as usual.

But what with rehearsals,
it completely went out of my mind.

So what happened?

Oh, come Wednesday,
it was still on the mantelpiece.

And I was about to run it into town
myself

when one of Rowan's students
knocked on the door.

A boy called Miles.

Miles Percival?

That's right.
I know him slightly through choir.

Rowan wasn't in and so to save
myself the trip,

I asked him if he wouldn't mind
dropping the envelope off.

Did he say what he wanted with your
husband?

I assumed it was college business.

But ask him.
I'm sure he'll tell you.

Miles Percival is dead.

He shot himself.

That's what I came to
tell your husband the other day.

Can you account for Dr Stromming's
whereabouts on Saturday evening?

His whereabouts? He was here.

Are you sure?

You have choir practice
every Saturday evening, don't you?

Well, he was in his study when I
left at six.

He was still there when I returned
later.

Detective...
What time was that?

Around 11.

After practice, when I came out to
the car, I had a puncture.

And um...

I had to wait an age for assistance.

But, please, what is this all about?

This is a delicate question,
Mrs Stromming... but one I must ask.

Yours is a happy marriage?

I beg your pardon?
I mean...

You've never had cause
to doubt your husband?

Never!

Never have I had cause to doubt my
husband, as you put it.

Not for one moment.

I have rehearsals to attend.

Just tell DCS Crisp what you told me,
all right?

You got a minute, sir?

Stromming planned the whole thing,
even down to the last detail.

I believe he even went so far
as to spike his wife's tyre

just to make sure that he got home
before she did.

So far as she's aware,
he'd been there the whole time.

Sorry to interrupt, sir.
So...

Saturday night he lures
Mary Tremlett to Bagley Wood,

and kills her.

To stop the truth about their affair
getting out.

And his alibi is what, for the time
in question?

That he's in Hinksey.
What's he doing in Hinksey?

Waiting for Mary.

He said that was the intended
rendezvous point for the 12th

only he accidentally submitted the
crossword puzzle for the 19th

to the Oxford Mail.

Anyone see him in Hinksey?
Well, no. He's lying. I know he is.

What do you think, sir?

If Stromming is this Oz character...

it stacks up. Bring him in.

Saturday night he killed her,
you say?

Then I think you probably want to
hang fire, sir.

I've got a vet downstairs
who swears he saw

Mary Tremlett alive and
well, six o'clock...

Sunday morning.

I got to Cherriot's Farm round about
two.

Breech presentation, which isn't too
much of a problem as a rule.

But the calf managed to get the
umbilical cord around its neck.

Hard go of it, I should imagine.

I doubt I should be bowling leg spin
again for a while.

But all safely delivered round about
five.

I collected my things and headed home
about half past.

Anyway, I'd just past the
left turn to Glympton,

and there she was,
waiting at the bus stop.

What time was this?
Oh, six o'clock.

The Home Service had just come on the
news.

What did she look like, this girl?

Redhead, like it says in the paper.

She was wearing some kind of get-up
with a...

I don't know what you call it.
A chevrony-type motif.

Er, green and white, I think.

You were 12 hours out.

It wasn't 8:16 Saturday night Mary Tremlett
was killed, it was 8:16 Sunday morning.

This vet saw her waiting on the
first bus to Woodstock.

Do you believe him?
No reason not to.

He's identified the dress.

I've just spoken to Mrs Stromming,
sir.

8:16, they were in church.
Her and her husband both.

Saint Saviour's. Vicar confirmed.

Which puts Stromming in the clear.

He might have had an affair with her
but the rest of it, no-go.

But she was found in Bagley Wood.

He's put in the wrong puzzle, like
he said.

Mary Tremlett goes there,
Stromming never turns up.

Then why doesn't she go home?
Where does she go?

Saturday night, until this vet finds
her at the bus stop Sunday morning.

I didn't say I had it pat.

Maybe she met someone.

However you look at it, the long and
the short is we're back to square one.

Maybe not, sir.
This watch we found by the body...

It was engraved on the back,
8th October 1964.

Now, a wristwatch is often given as
a coming-of-age present.

I checked on that suicide that Morse
is supposed to be dealing with.

Miles Percival.
Yeah?

Mary Tremlett's ex-boyfriend.

Her what?

Don't you think that's something
you might have mentioned?

I ruled it out.
You did, did you?

Percival's date of birth,
8th October 1943.

His parents confirm they gave him a watch
last year matching the one we found.

Anything else you left off telling
me?

Well, Miles Percival was
the one who delivered

Dr Stromming's clue set
to the Oxford Mail.

Say he took a butcher's at it, sir.

Maybe he tumbled onto how Stromming is
making his contacts with Mary Tremlett.

No, Percival didn't know the first thing
about crosswords. His flatmate told me.

Maybe his flatmate doesn't know
Percival as well as he thinks.

So, what, he's waiting in Bagley
Wood when Mary turns up...

Mm-hm. It could be he
was planning on doing

them both, sir, except
Stromming didn't show.

They argue, come to blows, even.
That's how he loses his watch.

She gets away from him,
holes up till first

light when she tries to
get the first bus home.

Only Percival finds her again,
takes her back to Bagley Wood.

Miles Percival was still in love with
her, sir.

There's no way
that he could harm Mary Tremlett.

Unless it slipped your notice,
Percival blew his brains out.

Yeah, of course he did,
when he found out she was dead.

It was more than he could stand.
Very poetic.

Except he'd done for himself
before we'd found her body.

Couldn't have known she was dead,
sir.

Unless he killed her.

Mrs Stromming.

I feel I should apologise for...

You should.

It's a young girl.
I suppose you were doing your job.

A fine mess I made of that.

Well, that was all.

Morse?

What you asked me about Rowan,
should I have...

Mrs Stromming.
Look, you owe me that at least.

Have I been stupid?

Any stupidity was mine.

It's a policeman's lot to
hypothesise. And sometimes...

Is this your way of saying that you
were wrong?

I suppose it is.

Sorry, I just...

I have been going out of my mind
after what you said.

Well, think no more of it.

Any man with such a wife as you would have
to be mad to seek happiness elsewhere.

I don't think Dr Stromming's mad.

Look, can I get you a drink?
That's very kind.

A brandy, then.

Someone told Rowan
that you took Greats at Lonsdale.

Is that true?

More or less.

And how on earth does a Greats man
end up a detective?

I wonder myself.

I thought perhaps it might be
your father was a policeman.

No, no.

He was a taxi driver...
before he lost his licence.

And your mother?

She was raised a Quaker.
Good heavens.

I hope any child of mine might have

more to say about me than,
'She was an Anglican.'

She...

Oh, I...

She died... when I was 12.

I shouldn't have asked.
No, not at all.

I'm just afraid that each year,
one's memories, they...

But um...

Well, let's see, my abiding
impression of her is...

someone soft.

The scent of her hair.

Tenderness.

Well...

I'd better be getting home.

Um, thank you for the...
No, um...

Thank you for...
Well, just thank you.

Good night, then.
Good night.

Please don't tell my dad. Please.
I won't.

He'd kill me if he found out.
I won't say anything. I promise.

Where were you, Jenny?

Mary introduced me to this man she
knew.

He had these... parties.

A big house at Wolvercote.

We thought at first it would be a
giggle.

But it wasn't.

Last Saturday, Mary was there?

There was a few of us went.

Me, Val.

Mary left early, though.

Around seven.

There was a row over it.

He didn't want her to go.
Who? Who didn't?

Who threw these parties?

Wait till you get in it.
You've got the leather

seats and the walnut dash.
She's a real beauty.

Oh, hello. Change your mind about
the car?

You aware of the age of consent
in this country, Mr Samuels?

How the law stands in relation to
procuring, say?

Len, could you see to
this lady and gentleman for me?

Sir? Madam?

That's a bloody good sale you've
cost me.

By the time I'm finished
I'll have cost you a great deal more.

Mary Tremlett was a regular attendee
at your parties,

along with other girls from Cowley
Road School.

I want the names and addresses of the
men you pimped them to.

Listen, Sonny Jim,
you want to watch your mouth.

Who do you think you are, coming in here
with talk like that? I won't have it.

I'm a respectable member of the business
community and I'll be treated as such

or you will find yourself
back on point duty quick as.

Now, get out of my office before I have
someone break your legs, you little bastard.

Go on, get.

You went to see Teddy Samuels.

Yes, he's running parties out of
some big pile by Wolvercote.

Underage girls.

Mary was there Saturday night.
I don't care where she was Saturday.

She was fit and well Sunday morning.
Miles Percival picked her up.

Yes, well, he would have been
hard-pressed to do that, wouldn't he?

Seeing as he didn't own a car.

What the hell do you think you're
about? Pursuing inquiries.

And who gave you leave to do that?
I did.

On your way.

Something you want to say, Arthur?

You know the kind of people Teddy's
tight with?

I know he's got you in his pocket.

A pony on the first of the month for turning
a blind eye to hooky MOTs is bad enough

but this is the murder of a young
girl.

It's not just me.
Oh, I know.

Teddy Samuels has got half the brass
in town dancing to his tune.

In the county.

Judges, churchmen, councillors,
peers.

You really think you've got a chance
going toe-to-toe with that lot Fred?

I think you should take a couple of
weeks' furlough.

Run Irene down to the caravan and have a
long, hard think about early retirement.

You off your nut?
It's that or put in for a transfer.

Your choice. Either way, don't show
you face in here again.

I'd hate to have to pinch you,
Arthur.

You wouldn't dare!

Who owns it?
It's a murky area.

So far as I've been able to make out
from the land registry,

the land was owned by the De Veres...
the Earls of Oxford...

until the title fell dormant. It's
vaguely Crown Estate now.

Crown Estate? That's Treasury,
isn't it? Mm.

Do you want a brew?

I'm just warming the pot.

There's no milk, I'm afraid.
There's lemon, though.

Who the hell are you?

Dempsey. Inspector Thursday,
isn't it?

And Constable Morse.

That was you putting the windows in,
was it? What's your business here?

Presently a bit of light housework.

Defence of the realm is my
bailiwick.

National interest. Pax Britannica
and all that

What are you, special branch?
More or less.

Yes, why not?
Get bloody cute and I'll run you in.

Home Office extension 255.

Have the duty man put you through to Colonel Doleman.
He'll vouch for my bona fides.

No.

You're here about the girl.
What do you know about it?

All you need to know is she left
here alive and well

about seven o'clock on Saturday
evening.

Trust me, whoever's killed her is
nothing to do with this.

What is this exactly?
Tarts in high places.

HMG won't wear another scandal.

We're still going round with a
dustpan and brush after Cliveden.

This is a murder enquiry.
And I hope you catch him.

But if you keep digging here,
you'll be taken off the case.

I wonder what the papers would say
about the Department of State

obstructing a murder enquiry.
Concealing evidence.

Never see light of day.
We'd stick a D notice on it

and you'd be looking at a nice long
stretch for breaching official secrets.

Who are you protecting?

I wouldn't be doing my job very well
if I told you, would I?

Are you sure you won't have a brew?

Bastards like these,
it's business as usual.

So some leg-breaker guards the stumps
and we just walk away? Is that it?

I want a list of who else
was at this little shindig of yours.

Look, Inspector, I happen to count a
good number of your superior officers

amongst my close circle. Yeah?

Or should I say, Square?

I would hate for any of them to be
embarrassed.

Know what I mean?

Oh, bugger.

I left my tobacco in the car.

Have a shufti, Morse, would you?

Now?

He's a bit keen, your boy, isn't he?

A b it wet behind the ears, though.

Want a drink?

Scotch if you've got it.

With soda?

As it comes.

I've scraped better than you
off the soles of my boots.

So get this and get it straight.

I don't care who you pimp to
or who's pal you are down the Lodge.

You try and come it with me,
I'll break you.

Was in my pocket all along.

Mr Samuels has come over with a
nosebleed.

I told him to keep his head back.

We all done, then, Teddy?
You've made a big mistake.

Then that makes two of us.
You can keep the hanky.

Sir...
Save your breath.

I didn't march half way across the
world to put Jerry back in his box

for jumped-up spivs
to end up running the show at home.

What about the law?

There's right and there's wrong.

I know which side I'm on.

Do you?

I don't care how much. I'm not
interested. I think you will be.

I wondered for a while why no-one was
willing to go after a crook like Samuels.

Especially Crisp.

Well, you might have told me.

I didn't know who I could trust in
my own nick, never mind a stranger.

You think Teddy Samuels killed Mary
Tremlett?

Or knows who did.

Inspector Thursday in yet?
Gone to see the Tremletts.

Do you know much about women's
clothes?

Besides they look better off than
on? Why?

Something someone said.

I was trying to remember.

Morse?

Detective Chief Superintendent Crisp
wants you.

Morse.

Odalisque.

Oda what?

What's that mean, then?
Someone like Jenkins there.

What, Welsh?

Fed. For pleasure.

Is it true?

I'd advise you to consider
very carefully before you answer.

This is a very serious complaint.

Did Inspector Thursday hit Teddy
Samuels?

No, sir.

Right, clear your desk. I want you on the
next train to Carshall bloody Newtown

or wherever it is you came from.

I've no use for troublemakers.

My letter of resignation. It's been burning
a hole in my pocket this past week.

Perhaps you'll see it reaches
the appropriate channels. Get out!

Flunk out again, have you... college?

I read your file, boy.

Three years Lonsdale.

Threw the towel in before your
finals.

That's the trouble with you poshos.
No gumption.

First sign of bother, it's off back
home to Mummy, tail between.

Mm, no hard feelings!

You've done me a favour.

Pastures new.

Vice in the smoke.

And you on the slow boat to China.

What will you do?

Praise the God of all.

Drink the wine, and beer.

And let the world be the world.

Another?
No, got to mind the shop.

Did you ever make any headway with
what was on the back of her hand?

What was it, FLA...?

17B.

Or 178.

We tried it as a vehicle registration,
FLA 178, but nothing doing.

And if it was Flat 17B...

There was something missing off the
end, though.

Another letter or number, I think.
Maybe. It's hard to say.

Why?
What? Oh, just, well...

Nothing. Doesn't matter.

Well...
It's no longer my concern.

Can you tell Thursday, if he wants
to know who killed Mary Tremlett

find out where her clothes came
from.

Did Mary ever mention a Teddy
Samuels?

Runs a garage round the back of
Park Town.

It's not a name I've heard her
mention.

Have you?

She's got herself caught up with this
bloke, then, has she?

It's just we're interested in anyone
she may have known through him.

She ever go to Wolvercote,
so far as you know?

Oh. I'm afraid Rowan's not in.

It's you I came to see.

I wanted to say goodbye.
Before I push off.

You're leaving Oxford?
Oxford. The police. All of it.

You'd better come in.

I took the liberty...

It seemed too good an opportunity to
let pass.

It's seldom one gets to meet one's
heroines.

Heroine? Surely not?

Yeah, more than you could know.

You saved my life.

What an extraordinary thing to say.
It's true, nevertheless.

The place that I grew up
was a grey, unfeeling nothing.

Then one day I heard your voice.

And... And I knew for the first time
that there was...

beauty in the world.

Would you sign it?

It would mean a great deal.

Yes.

Oh, heavens, look at me.

I have.

Often.

Are you flirting with me?

A little.

Perhaps.

You mustn't.

I love my husband.

Very much.

I know.

What shall I put?

Samuels' insurance against police
interest.

Wicked thing, blackmail.

God knows I'd have done the same
if it had been my daughter.

I burnt the negatives. All of them.

Jenny doesn't have to worry any
more. And nor do you.

Sir.

Who else knows?

Between you, me and Morse.

You can rely on his discretion.
He's a good lad.

We wouldn't be where we are now
if he hadn't kept pushing.

Sharon!

Sharon...

Well, thank you for the coffee
and...

You know, you should find yourself
a girl.

I did once.

We were engaged.
What happened?

Oh... someone she'd left behind.

They'd been something in their first
year and after then she took up with me.

But not to be.

I'm sorry.

Truly.

Perhaps better to have loved
and lost.

So I'm told.

Well, goodbye, Mrs Stromming.

Yours, I believe.

There's been a development.

He had to pay.

For Mary.

I mean, I knew he was bad but...

I never thought...

His own daughter.

Our daughter.

You and Teddy Samuels?

Summer, '49.

Mum and Dad said I shouldn't have my
life ruined with a kiddie so young.

So they took her on.

Teddy didn't want anything to do with
it.

Threatened me if I told anyone.

And then you come round.

Just hearing his name...

something went in me.

All these years.

The thought of him
having anything to do with Mary.

I'm not sorry.

It's a rum go, Morse, and no
mistake.

Families, shame...

How is it any fault of a kiddie
whatsoever the sheets it's born?

Her flesh and blood and yet all
this,

as if we didn't all get here the
same way.

It won't do, I know that much.
It won't bloody do.

What's all this business
with Mary Tremlett's outfit?

Oh, well, Mary Tremlett took a size
36C in a bra

but the dress found with her body
was a size small.

She couldn't have squeezed into that
outfit if her life depended on it.

Bought by an admirer?
That was my thinking.

When it comes to women's dress sizes,
I mean...

Have McLeash run down a list of
local stockists.

In the meantime, we'd better have a
word with friend Teddy.

He might be in more of a mood
to make himself useful this morning.

It's Morse.

I'm in hospital with Inspector
Thursday.

Any luck with the outfitters?

Oh, well, keep trying.

The pips have gone. I'm out of
change.

Can you call me back?
The number's Otmoor 2270. Otmoor.

O-T-M...

Yes, straight away.
There's something I need to check.

She's done a proper job on him.
If he pulls

through, the doctor says
he's likely a vegetable.

How did you make out?
Percival's in the clear.

Not only did he not have
access to a vehicle but,

according to Lomax, he
couldn't even drive.

That's not all.
What?

You remember what was written
on the back of Mary's hand?

FLA178.
A car reg, yeah. Nothing doing.

It wasn't a car reg or part of an
address or anything of the sort.

FLA is an abbreviation of FLAxman,

which is a London telephone exchange
covering the Chelsea area.

FLA178? You're a digit short.

I got McLeash to check all 10
possibilities.

FLAxman 1788 is the number of the
London home of Sir Richard Lovell,

Minister for Overseas Affairs
and constituency MP for Oxford North.

You talk to him?
His housekeeper.

Lovell was in Oxford last weekend
from Friday to Sunday.

He has a house by Woodstock
called Applegate.

Detective Inspector Thursday, sir.

Detective Constable Morse.

Wonder if we might speak to you
a moment?

With me?

Certainly. Please.

So, what can I do for you?

I'm hoping you'll be able to tell us
how your London telephone number

came to be found
written on the hand of a schoolgirl

murdered last Sunday in Bagley Wood.

My telephone number?

FLAxman 1788.

That is your phone number?

Yes, it is. But...

how this young girl came to have it,
I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest.

Her name was Mary Tremlett.

A redhead.

One of the young girls you'll have
met at Teddy Samuels' parties.

You attended one last Saturday at
Wolvercote.

I don't think so.

It sounds most unsavoury.

Dear, dear.

'Dear, dear'? A young girl strangled
and left naked in the woods

and all you can say is 'dear, dear'?

Morse.

Do you deny you were there, Minister?

Naturally.

And unless you have evidence to the
contrary...

I'm afraid this meeting
is at an end.

I think we can say who Dempsey's
looking out for, don't you?

A minister of the Crown.

Need more than a phone number
to make it stick.

Unless... Her outfit.

If Lovell was this secret admirer
and we can find who sold it to him...

We can tie him to Mary Tremlett.

McLeash come through with that list
of stockists? Yeah, should have.

You get onto that, I'll put Crisp in
the picture.

You tried the outfit girl?

Then we've got him.

What?

Whelks.

Mary Tremlett's last meal.

Eaten an hour or so before she died.

That's not my idea of breakfast.

Is it yours?

What are you saying?
She didn't die Sunday morning?

But the vet saw her at the bus stop.

Well, yes.

And no.

Either way, it wasn't Lovell who
killed her.

The awful thing is, it all started as
a joke.

A wager between two fools
who should have known better.

How much?
Five pounds.

You're on.

Flattered by Stromming's
attentions, perhaps

even believing herself
to be in love with him,

Mary Tremlett threw herself into
their affair,

abandoning the young man with whom
she had hitherto been close.

Distraught, Miles Percival confided
his fears

to the one person he thought might be
able to bring Stromming to heel.

Mrs Stromming, can we have a word?

I doubt that she believed him.

But gradually she came to realise the
truth.

Rather than confront her husband
and risk losing him for ever,

another idea took hold of her mind.

So she began.

♪ Un bel di from Madame Butterfly ♪

Have a wonderful day.

The substitution of the puzzle
was the easiest part.

What she really needed
was someone to take the blame.

She already had the perfect
candidate.

Drop that in for me, will you?

Sure.
Thank you.

The rest fell out exactly as she
planned.

On Saturday evening,

Mary Tremlett left Samuels's party
for Bagley Wood,

expecting to meet her lover.

Only, it wasn't Dr Stromming she
found waiting.

Mary. Mary!

I believe Rosalind Stromming was waiting
for her with some kind of crowbar.

She stripped Mary Tremlett and left a
green and white party dress by her body,

a dress rather than the dress.

There were two.

The following morning
anyone passing the bus stop

would have seen exactly what Rosalind
Stromming wanted them to see,

a redhead in a green, black and white
chevron print dress.

To be taken from Mary Tremlett.

The wig and dress I doubt we'll ever
find.

The stage was set for the final act.

All that remained was to provide the
police with Mary's murderer.

It was the perfect crime,
in all respects. Bar one.

It was essential to her plan that the
two dresses appear identical.

But what she failed to
take into account was the

fact that she is two
sizes smaller than Mary.

The shop girl remembered at once.

The beautiful woman with the diamond
earrings.

♪ Un bel di from Madame Butterfly ♪

Bravo.

Bravissimo.

Divina.

So, what's this about?

Your decision to retire from Her Majesty's
Government and retire from public life.

My what?

We thought grounds of ill health.
Spare everyone's blushes.

She was 15... Dickie.

It was just a bit of harmless...
Fun?

A schoolgirl coerced into bed round
from one dirty old sod to another

like the Sunday sprouts, 'fun'?

For you and your mates, maybe.

This is ridiculous.
Ridiculous.

A government minister at a sex party.

Writing his telephone number on the
hand of a teenage girl.

Now, THAT'S ridiculous.

We've kept your name out of it.
So far.

But there's a young copper chasing this
and he's not so willing to play the game.

Morse?

Explain to him.
Oh, I've tried.

Not for sale.

You do the decent thing, his guv'nor
might be able to rein him in.

We'll see what Harold has to say
about it.

This is what he has to say about it.

There's two ways out. This one... or
do I have to get blood on my shoes?

What time's your train?

It's quarter past.

Sleep?

If I'd have worked things through
sooner...

If I'd have realised...
Stop.

The 'if' game's no good to any
bugger.

You keep on, it'll drive you round
the twist.

I know.

Rosalind Stromming was dead from the moment
she decided to kill an innocent girl.

Or dying, at least, inside.

Whatever was good of her.

Come on, then.

If you're going to make that
train...

Mind if I drive?

Carshall Newtown,
that really what you want?

I don't know.

I was thinking I might pack it
all in.

Pick up my degree.

The world's long on academics, Morse,
but woeful short of good detectives.

Things as they are,
I could use a permanent back man.

I mean, we did pretty well
this time out.

Give or take.

I'd see you right, of course, make sure we
get you through your sergeant's exam, eh?

With the proper encouragement,
who knows?

What you've got to ask is, where do
you see yourself in 20 years?

Morse?

Endeavour.

Source MoS/estambul. Resync and
corrected by APOLLO, www.addic7ed.com