All language subtitles for Lockwood.and.Co.S01E04.1080p.NF.WEB-DL.DDP5.1.Atmos.H.264-SMURF

Hello?

Guys?

Wraith hunting without me?

How could you not realize
it was an execution site?

Because you gave me
no time for research, again!

They had time to figure it out! They knew
exactly what they were walking into.

They don't have to actually visit
the libraries and churches.

- I do!
- Hey.

Uh...

Hiya.

- How are you... feeling?
- Normal.

- Thanks for letting me sleep in.
- Are you sure you're okay?

Yeah, I'm fine. How about you guys?

- I'm guessing you didn't find that wraith?
- Oh, no, we did.

But then we found 13 others,
didn't we, George?

Total cluster case.

- We didn't have flares, did we, Lockwood?
- How did you get out?

- We were rescued.
- We were not "rescued."

Oh shit.

- Kipps' crew?
- Stuck-up mediocrities.

They saved our lives, killed the wraiths,
and sealed the source.

- It was quite dazzling.
- Did they share the fee?

No, finders keepers.

But that's not what this is about.

He wouldn't even acknowledge.

He's acting like
Combe Carey Hall never happened.

He must've signed the same NDA we did.

Yes, but he could let us know
that he knows. He lacks respect.

But you know he knows.

- But he won't show he knows.
- It was annoying.

'Cause you take the lie, and you take
Kipps's face and put them together...

And you just wanna watch him...

die.

Sorry.

Very long night.

Please tell me there's tea.

- You realize you slept for 14 hours?
- Did I?

I don't actually remember going to bed.

Do you remember
us carrying you?

- We found you unconscious in the basement.
- What?

You don't remember anything?

No, I definitely remember
putting the papers away, but that was it.

And you're not getting any hallucinations?

- Or weird voices?
- No.

No, like I said, I feel...

normal.

Well, we don't have any appointments.
It's probably mad old Mrs. Wick again.

You're just not rude enough
to her, George. Watch how it's done.

Hello. Mr. Lockwood?

Yes. Please, come in.

Come on. We've got a proper client.

I'm Sebastian Saunders,
and this is my partner, Pamela Joplin.

Business partner.

We're Sweet Dreams Excavations.
Maybe you've heard of us?

You're gravediggers?

We prefer
"excavation and clearance."

I'm sure you'll have seen the headlines,
Mr. Lockwood.

After all the avoidable deaths,

DEPRAC now require councils to assess
their cemeteries for risky plots.

We're currently engaged in
a major operation

in Kensal Green Cemetery.

- But that's huge.
- Thank you.

Pam usually susses out the dodgy ones

long before they present
any serious danger.

We dig for bones. She digs for stories.

I use burial records
to look for traumatic causes of death

likely to tip the odds for visitation.

Suicides, murders, sudden tragedy.

You never know
when a spirit might activate.

You're a researcher?

Did you know
Fittes has its own database now?

It's not very good.
Broad in scope, but there's no depth.

- Give me a stack of books any day.
- I couldn't agree more.

Mr. Saunders, Ms. Joplin, thank you
very much for taking the trouble.

But we're mansion specialists.

We don't do odd jobs for the council.

Are you sure? We heard you'd be grateful.

- Oh, sorry. Uh... amenable to this work.
- Well, you heard wrong.

Our listener, for example,
is one of the best in the country, and...

Lockwood, I'm good.

That's all.

We're good.
We're just a good, normal agency...

...who needs a job.

Kensal Green
is London's most prestigious cemetery,

owned and run by the Bickerstaff family...

Until one of the sons
was caught diggin' up corpses.

The scandal that brought the word
"necrophilia" into common usage.

Yes, but before then,
the clientele was very high-end.

And the grave in question
is in the older section?

The classy one?

- The classy one?
- Yes.

Pre-pleb?

Where the bodies
were dug up by the pervert?

Well, a visitor
with historical significance

would be more attractive to us.

It is within the original curtilage, yes,
but I can't give you a name.

A hidden, unmarked grave
that's not on any official list.

One of our sensitives found it,

triggered by an extreme nausea
which eventually made her pass out.

Whatever's inside there, it's powerful.

We've a legal obligation
to bring in agents

for any grave
which might contain a Type Two.

DEPRAC cover the expense,

so the work must be done at night

so our claims can be verified.

Bureaucratic BS,
but, uh... makes things interesting.

You'll be well-supported.

We've got night watch, sensitives,
security to keep out the relic men.

The cemetery
really comes alive at night.

So... you're telling me

you think there is an unidentified
Type Two in an unmarked grave,

and you want us
to come and help you dig it up... at night?

Put like that, Mr. Lockwood,
I admit it could sound better.

Ms. Joplin.

It sounds irresistible.

Okay, let's keep our wits about us.
We do not want to get jumped by relic men.

Who even keeps those arseholes
in business? I don't understand.

There's a lot of rich,
twisted bastards out there

who want something
to scandalize their equally twisted mates.

- It's so messed up.
- But not surprising.

Sources are fascinating and illegal.

Put those things together,
there's your black market.

A ruthless one at that.
Relic men are the scum of the earth.

I know one notable exception,

but by and large...

...they'll kill you without hesitation.

So, if you see one, run.

This lot are almost as crazy.

Who are they?

Ghost cult.

They think instead of fighting visitors,
we should be welcoming them in.

They're the Venn diagram intersection

for noisy, angry, and deliberately thick.

So kind, honestly.

Sorry, there's no autographs tonight.
Thank you, though.

Murdering scum! There's no business...

That was horrible.

You get used to it.
It's this bit I don't like.

I know most of the dead here
are properly dead, but...

It still feels
like enemy territory.

Jesus.

Like the man said,
the cemetery really comes alive at night.

Who are all these people?

It's the security.

And the, uh... gravediggers.

Proper, honest blokes, you know?
Real salt of the earth.

You've never even spoken to them.

They're a bit scary.

Night watch. Lowest pay,
lowest life expectancy in the business.

They need to unionize.
I've told them a thousand times.

That could've been me.

But it's not, luckily.

You've dealt with sensitives
before, right?

No. Why?

They're basically listeners
too scared to pick up a rapier

or too posh to need to.

This lot, anyway. Highgate sensitives.

That's completely disrespectful.

- Go write a poem about it.
- You all signed contracts!

- Legally binding!
- What an arsehole.

Risk is exactly what I'm paying you for.

Ah, Mr. Lockwood. Just in time.

These troublemakers are refusing
to let their teams work.

It's not safe, and you know it.
You call it risk. I call it suicide.

Even I can sense it, and I haven't been
able to see a visitor for 35 years!

Which is exactly
why we have hired these agents,

the best of the best,
to deal with the whole situation.

Where's their uniform?
Where's their supervisor?

Myself and my team refuse to work
near that grave until it's made safe.

It's making us ill.

Ignore them. Let's get inside.

Mr. Saunders, if I could,
just for one moment...

I don't trust 'em.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

My name is Anthony Lockwood,
of Lockwood & Co.,

and I'm here tonight with my team
to assist you all.

Now, let me assure you,
your safety is our number one priority.

Get us proper agents!
Get us Fittes! Get us Rotwell!

Sir, I guarantee you
we are the best agents in London.

The only reason you haven't heard of us

is because we don't do our work
for applause or attention.

No, we do our work
discreetly and bespokely.

Now, I am certain that no one
knows this cemetery quite like you do.

We will do nothing without a full
consultation on what you have seen.

And, Miss, you have clearly
had a terrible experience,

so please, take all the time you need,

and when you and your team
feel strong enough,

you will have my undivided attention.

Fine.

Saunders.

If we ever really get famous,
he'll be absolutely unbearable.

Sorry about all that.
I'm short-staffed at the moment.

Joplin's got her head
in a coroner's report somewhere.

Unusual table you've got there.

It's a catafalque, according to Joplin.
Gawd knows what it does.

It's a lift to take coffins
to the catacombs.

I'd never normally say this,

but you really shouldn't be using it
to serve biscuits.

I work with what I've got.

- Right, let's get this signed.
- What happened at the incident?

The gravediggers mistimed it. Got caught
with an exposed casket as the sun set.

Did anyone see a visitor?

Sensitives can't get
their stories straight.

Apart from the fact they're all sick
and need a lie-down.

No backbone, your generation.

- You said the casket was exposed?
- Yes, but not open.

That's your job.

You'll be on your own.

I'll not have anyone else near that grave
until it's made safe.

I can't risk any more disruption.

You said we'd be well-supported.
This is not what we agreed.

What if there are relic men,
or some other active visitors out there?

If you wish to complain,
just complete the relevant paperwork.

- I am not filling out more forms.
- Suit yourself.

But you're still under contract.

We shouldn't even be here.
We should be front-page news.

Lockwood, let's just get it done.

Come on.

They really did leave in a hurry.

Okay.

Ready?

There's no death-glows.

Nothing else visible.

Got anything?

Nope.

Some kind of...

...vibration.

Great.

George takes first inspection. Watch him.

I'll take lookout. Let's not hang about.

In position.

Be careful.

It knows you're there.

This casket's not level,
and it's not as deep as it should be.

So we've got a rushed, illegal,
and very amateur burial

which has been here
as long as these other plots.

Oh God...

Why hasn't it rotted?

Keep the light steady!

Oh, this thing is strong.
I don't feel good.

- Joplin's coming.
- Well, keep her away.

Everything all right?

Sebastian said he'd sent you down here
without any help. I can only apologize.

Lucy.

Luce?

What's going on? Are you okay?

Where's my light?

It's here. I've got you.

This coffin's made of iron.

Get out.

Okay. Okay. The coffin's made of iron,

but it was put in the ground
way before the Problem started.

So, what exactly is in there
that they needed to trap?

And how did they know
how to do it?

- We need to regroup, research...
- No time.

There's a hole in the casket.
We need to open it and seal the source.

Lucy, are you okay?

Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.

It's just... Can you hear those flies?
What is that?

No. But... I'm getting
intense waves of nausea.

Let's get back to the casket.

I'll protect you.
Deal with whatever's inside, then...

Luce, grab the net.

Lucy...

Lucy!

- What is it?
- Come on, focus.

Don't get distracted.
Bring the net.

Oh shit!

Hello? Can I get some help, please?

Yes! Help!

Help!

This isn't a coffin at all.
There's a door in it.

They're coming out
through that gap.

- So loud!
- Lucy, stand by!

No!

- No!
- It won't budge.

Please, just make it stop!

Make it stop...

Lucy!

Seal it up!

Here comes the cavalry. Finally.

God.

- ...come down that way...
- Yeah, keep your eyes peeled...

It's safe now. We secured it.

Okay, we've got it from here.

- Luce, you okay?
- Right, people.

- Coffin and body into the chapel.
- I'm fine. It was just an accident.

Are you okay, George?

- George?
- Yes, I'm here.

- What was that?
- Not our finest hour.

- Whatever it is, we contained it, so...
- Did we?

I still feel... weird. I...

Can you guys still hear flies?
I can hear flies and...

- ...grid reference...
- Don't know. There's just too much noise.

What was that in there with him?
Some sort of ornament? A mirror?

I don't know. It... it was black,
but there was something in the blackness.

I... I didn't see it directly,
but it felt like it was looking at me.

Could explain the iron casket.

It must've been down there over a hundred
years, way before the Problem started.

Silver and iron have always been used
by the superstitious.

He was shot in the head too, did you see?

Yeah, it's not our problem.
A job's a job, and it's done now,

so it's time for DEPRAC
to go and tidy it all up.

See?

All someone had to do
was apply themselves.

Wasn't so difficult, was it?
Good work, Mr. Lockwood.

If you'll come with me, sign a few forms,
I can release payment.

- Perfect.
- Well done.

- Keep an eye on George.
- Yeah.

Is it wrong
that I feel a bit excited? Sorry.

It's just so nice
being part of a... proper team.

Um...

Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?

I just need any details
that might help identifying the body.

Sorry, just... excuse me one second.

It's okay. I can do it.

- Are you sure?
- Yeah, I'm sure, I'm sure. Come on.

Sign that...

- There you go.
- Lovely, thanks.

Then I think we've got one here from...

- Where's she gone?
- The council, this one.

Lucy.

Lucy!

Lucy!

It said my name.

It spoke to me.
That thing, it... it said my name.

- I'll have that back.
- Thank you.

Pleasure doing business with you,
Mr. Lockwood.

George, don't cross the chain.

Where would we even
start research on this?

And the object you saw inside,
were there any identifying marks?

I didn't get a good enough look at it.

No. No! George.

The net!

No!

No!

George!

Lucy. Lucy!

Oh, just do it, just do it.

Okay. Okay.

You spoke to me.

You.

You.

Come closer.

- Thank you.
- Oh, you can talk.

You can hear me.

No, no, no, no, no. I must be losing it.

No. Finding it.

- I've been so lonely.
- No, but... this is an actual conversation!

You're a Type Three.

- Yes, so dangerous.
- Yeah, I know that.

Not me. Them, if they find out.

- What? Who?
- The boy has secrets.

The door!

- What? Lockwood?
- I can explain.

But not in this jar.

Let me out.

No. I can't do that.

But I've so much to show you, teach you.

Trust me.

No, wait. No, ju...

Where have you been?

Working, at the cemetery.

- Which cemetery?
- What?

- You've been near power.
- How do you know that?

Tell me where you've been.
Tell me! Death is coming!

- You're demented!
- Death is coming!

- Shut up! Please, just shut up!
- Death is coming!

You let a non-agent
inside the iron circle.

I'm sorry.

Joplin asked about identifiers,
and I'd seen an inscription on the mirror.

- Now I've got it to translate.
- No, George, we are done.

If it wasn't for Lucy, you would be dead.

There are ghosts and then there's us,
and it is kill or be killed.

- You let yourself get distracted.
- Lucy legged it in the middle of a job.

But you'd never bollock her like this.

And, by the way,
this mirror predates the Problem.

Just think about that.
Let that blow your mind for one second.

Who knows what it could tell us?
We should never have left it there.

What happened to you?

- I told you to watch him.
- The skull.

It was talking, just now.

And not some random repeated death loop.
An actual conversation.

With me.

Is it talking to you now?

No. No, no, look, right, I know
how this might sound, but it happened.

I'm telling the truth. It used my name.
That's why I passed out yesterday.

- Lucy, that's impossible.
- No, it's not. Marissa Fittes did it.

Right, this valve, yeah? You turn it,
you twist it, then it lets its voice out.

Come on, George. You have to believe me.

It said you had something dangerous
hidden in that room.

The secret one on the landing.
So? Is there?

Because if there is,

then it proves that we have a real
sentient Type Three on our hands

- and that I am...
- Clinically insane.

Really fucking powerful!

That is not just a nick.

You need to get that looked at.

- Could be some toxins got into your blood.
- No! No!

I am not poisoned or delusional
or going crazy. George, look at me!

This is real!

Lockwood, this is what happens when
you let people accessorize with sources.

You gave her a free pass just 'cause
you like the way she looks at you.

But I'm the one who's distracted.

- I don't know what you're talking about.
- Yeah, sure.

Lockwood, please, you have to believe me.

- You're not Marissa Fittes.
- Why?

'Cause you can't handle
being my Tom Rotwell? Second best?

Oh my God. That is it, isn't it?

'Cause you know that I am not lying.

And I am right
about whatever is in that bloody room.

You are talking about something
you do not understand.

You can hear visitors
better than anyone I have ever met,

but you cannot talk to them,

and if you ever mention that room
ever again, you are done here.

♪ Long afloat on shipless oceans ♪

♪ I did all my best to smile ♪

- ♪ Till your singing eyes... ♪
- Before classification,

an agent's work
was chaotic and unpredictable.

Hmm, they were fighting
in the dark.

There was no science to it.

But once we began noticing patterns
of behavior, we began categorizing.

The weakest visitors as Type Ones,
the stronger as Type Twos.

You've spoken of a third, somewhat
controversial category of visitor,

the Type Three.

So rare that you're the only person
on record ever to have encountered one.

What's your question?

What would you say to the people
who don't believe Type Threes exist,

that they're a myth?

Denial is a very human reaction
when faced with new ideas.

Especially such frightening ones.

A Type Three is a visitor who defiantly
refuses to move on from the mortal realm.

A spirit of extraordinary strength
and intelligence.

It thinks, feels,
and speaks like you or I,

but it does that alone
and in darkness for all eternity.

Until it happens upon a living soul
with the talent to communicate.

And, as far as we know,
I seem to be the only one.

Yeah?

Hi.

Uh...

I know I look like Anthony Lockwood,
but I'm not.

I'm actually a fully qualified doctor, so...

Good.

'Cause he was
a massive prick to me just now.

Come on, then.

Bring it in.

Uh, I'm not sure what I should...

This is gonna hurt.

Thanks for the warning.

I was...

I was orphaned at the age of six.

So, uh...

all I can say is I don't really enjoy
talking about my past.

And that's what's behind that door.

Okay.

And, uh...

you used it to convince me that,

not only are you one of only two people
in the history of the world

to be able to talk to ghosts,

but that we actually have
a Type Three ghost in our house.

You know, two events
with one-in-a-billion probability.

- And the chances of you being right are...
- I know.

I wouldn't believe me either.

That's... not the problem.

The problem is, when you like
the spotlight as much as I do,

it's quite an adjustment to realize
that the real reason you might be here

is to shine it on somebody else.

You believe me.

I do.

About everything.

Thanks.

You know I don't actually
want the spotlight, right?

I know.

It's maddening.

I suppose it would make me, uh...
quite the asset, wouldn't it?

I'm not gonna make that mistake again.

We'll go carefully.

I promise.

Uh, so, go on, then, what did it say?

Yeah, um...

Well, he... he, um...
he said he could smell power on me.

He turned really nasty. Then he had
this really weird prophecy about death.

- Prophecy of death?
- Yeah, I know, I know. Big deal, right?

But he... he seemed really sure of it.

We should probably tell George.

George?

I'm sorry about earlier.

Can we talk?

Lockwood, where is he? It's 2:00 a.m.

We need to find him.

Now.

A crime scene. What the hell?

Karim.

- What the hell are you doing here?
- I didn't do that.

Whatever it was that someone did.

You're in my crime scene.
And the mirror's been stolen.

What? But this has only been
out of the ground a few hours.

I hear you lot did the excavation.
Anything out of the ordinary?

No. Absolutely by the book. Any suspects?

Not yet.

But they knocked out a 12-year-old
night watch kid to get in, so...

they're definitely gonna pay for it.

Why weren't we contacted?

It's no longer your case.

Put another team on it.

Karim! We've just been hearing
about your excavation.

Is Lockwood here? Or is he gonna
throw you under the bus for this?

We're right here.

- Ah!
- Good evening.

- You all right, Kat?
- Good evening, Inspector.

Anthony Lockwood
and a case gone wrong.

Nothing seems to change.

Nice to see you here, Kipps.
What's that, third time this week?

- Twice, by my count.
- The mirror's gone.

- This is big.
- It is, yeah. And it's our case.

Not anymore. We've already made
a preliminary report.

The first question is, why an iron casket
a century before the Problem?

Well, the Fittes database
confirms it to be a still,

used in breweries
in the late 19th century.

It also confirms
that 1886 saw a violent labor dispute

at Hildrew's Ales at Kilburn.

There you go, sir.

We believe this well-dressed man
was the owner,

murdered by his workers and buried
in the first thing they could find.

- An accidentally murdered brewer?
- An awful way to die, sir.

It would explain why he's unquiet.

The mirror's clearly a personal item,
treasured enough to be his source.

Unless Karim has a better answer?

Yes, I do, actually.

- You do?
- Yeah.

You sure you do?

I know who that man is.

This better be good, Karim.

Bobby, why would anyone
carry a cast-iron still for two miles

just to have something to bury a body in?

You do it because it's iron.

You do it to guard against
the evil spirits you're trying to bury.

Of course, we're talking a hundred years
before the Problem, so that's odd.

But then there's the inscription
on the mirror. You saw that, right?

We're working on it.
We've already hired an Aramaic translator.

They'll be glad of the work,
but this is Phoenician.

Very trendy
in Victorian occultist circles.

- It means "The truth lies beyond."
- The slogan of the Open Arms Fellowship.

And about six other ghost cults
over the decades,

but this is the earliest use I've found.

This death was no accident.

We're looking at a wealthy occultist
way ahead of his time,

executed and buried in secret

with a mirror that will be worth a fortune
on the black market.

So, is it our case?

If you have a name. I'm undecided.

What?

Have you got anything on Dr. Edmund
Bickerstaff in that report, Bobby?

His family used to own this cemetery.

Edmund Bickerstaff? He's a joke.
Britain's most famous pervert.

Mm-hm. Unless he wasn't.

Unless that was the cover story

for the real reason
he was creeping round graveyards.

Doing what, I don't know, but the iron
coffin, the inscription on the mirror...

- It's ghost-related.
- But you've got no proof.

Bobby, just a hunch. Something
I read in a book, if you remember those.

Wealthy Victorians often secretly
marked their belongings in case of theft.

So, why don't you release that clasp
for me?

Bickerstaff's crest.

Thank you, Bobby.
You've been a wonderful assistant.

The man in this casket
is Edmund Bickerstaff.

- No, no, don't.
- A dodgy Victorian doctor.

With secret links to the occult

and a missing mirror that'll be worth
a fortune to some very ruthless people.

Well, looks like the best team won.

- Oh, shut it.
- This is our case, okay?

- You wouldn't know anything.
- You shut it, Karim.

- You thought it was a brewer...
- Shut up!

I'm putting you both on the case.
Working together.

What?

It's not gonna be a problem, is it?

Not at all, Inspector.

- No, Inspector.
- Good.

Locate the missing relic.
Find out who's stolen it and why.

I need you to share information,
back each other up,

and get it done
before anyone else gets hurt.

Hurry up!

- Let's go.
- Sorry. My fault.

So, I'm guessing
Lockwood's decided to believe you, then?

Maybe, yeah.
Yeah, I don't expect you to.

Good. Shall we get hot dogs?

George Casper Karim, you bloody genius.

Is that an apology?

Yes. I should never have overlooked
your razor-sharp focus.

Though a lot of what I said still stands.

This mirror is some kind of clue
to understanding the Problem.

I can feel it. We have to get it back.

We're not really
working with Fittes?

Lockwood! What the hell was that?

You stole our commission.
This case is way beyond you.

You know it isn't, Kipps.
That eats you up, doesn't it?

We do this job better than anyone.

- You're irrelevant.
- Oh, for God's sake.

Quill Kipps, the walking appendix.

Someone really ought to cut you out.

There is no way
I'm working with you on this.

I hoped you'd say that.

Shall we make things
a bit more interesting?

A race to find the mirror.

Loser has to take out an ad in The Times
to congratulate the winner.

Oh. Full page?

Grow up, Tony. Here are the terms.

The loser quits
and never works in this industry again.

London will be a lot safer
with three less amateurs stumbling around.

Do we have a deal?

What's the matter, Tony?
Scared you'll lose?

Oh, you're kidding me.

Enjoy your last case.

What the hell is he doing?

Whatever the hell he wants.