All language subtitles for Ripper Street (2012) - S01E01 - I Need Light (1080p BluRay x265 Silence)

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Ladies and Gentlemen,
welcome to Whitechapel.

Be sure to look down as keenly
as you look up.

Mr Gladstone himself, only last week,
found himself fitted for new boots.

Follow me for the
haunts of Jack The Ripper.

Who wants a wager?

Yours, shitspade.

Our men in blue are still
cloaked in ignorance of Jack.

Here you are, darling, looking for
a bit of company?

Miller's Court. Five months past,
the scene of the worst.

The worst and, please, God, the last.

Mary Jane Kelly.

What that man, Jack, did to her.
Well, we shall not say.

He's tasty, all right. Where'd you
find him? I looked. Wasn't hard.

Fighters, whores, flesh
is what you seek,

there's no shortage in these parts.

Falls when he's bid?

Money's right, he'll give you his
mother and his sister, too.

I likes him.

All of this parish know little
else but thuggery.

How best to raise them
up from such iniquity?

Well, that's a matter for you
good people, of course.

Look! Look!

Black shit and buggery.

Murder! Murder!

Murder!

The inspector... I must see him...

Show yourself in there dressed
like that, they'll know he's blue.

You're champion this night!

You little streak of piss!

I've gutted younger for less,
do you hear? Let me.

This better be very good.

They've found a tart, sir.
Up on Folgate.

She's been ripped, Inspector.

Hobbs, you did right.

Cecil Smeaton's greed will keep him
warm for a day or two.

You will take a fall for him
tomorrow. Yes, sir.

This girl, if she has been carved
as has been described,

Ripper or no, word will have spread.

We will find the press, a mob,
whipped into a fear and rage.

This populace, still
without a culprit,

it is to our uniform that
they direct their fury.

So you stand strong and
follow your sergeant.

They'll do their duty, sir.

You. Name? Creighton.
Creighton, have you touched anything?

Have you arranged matters to
your benefit in any way? No, sir.

Who is it has paid for your time
here?

Mr Best at The Star, Inspector,
who else?

Well, you're on my ticket now. I want
these details, I want her face,

her eyes, her throat.
She wasn't cut here.

Where was she... where was
she brought in from?

We can't keep 'em penned
in much longer, sir.

But this is vital. All of it.
And this is next to useless.

I need this place uncorrupted
and in daylight. What?

The wall.

He's left word again.

"Down on whores."

I need more time with her. Sir,
there's the way things are,

and the way things should be,
but that lot are coming through.

Right, we need to move her.

You. You're not finished.
I want the ground

going in both directions away from
her. As much as you can get.

I want the wall, the writing.
You understand?

Stand aside.

Stand aside! Stand aside!

A comment for The Star, Inspector?
Is it him?

Is it Jack?

Away with you, Best.

These citizens need their questions
answered, Mr Reid.

No. They need their fears pacified.

Where would be the sport in that?

Where are we taking her, sir?
The London? Mr Bagster-Philipps'?

No. You take her back to
Leman Street. Use the back.

Find a cell, lock her in it.
Don't book her in, tell no-one.

Yourself, sir? Not the American.
Just get her hid.

Let's go!

Come on.

Captain Jackson, this is
all topsy-turvy, I'm sure.

Now, Rose. I have told you,

there are no rules here.

Jackson!

Sweet Jesus.

You cannot simply intrude here
any time of your choosing.

That this house thrives
and your girls are not walking

the streets this night is at my
whim and indulgence, Madam.

Don't forget that. Where is he?

What do I care? It's not
as if he ever pays.

First door on the left.

Jackson!

Jackson!

What!? He's taken me for the night!
Jackson!

Reid?

I'm occupied. I'll come see
you in the morning.

Can't wait. I need a surgeon.

You have your own. They're drunks
and incompetents. I want you.

Five minutes. Now! Now!

Now.

You going to tell me what this is
about? Just keep walking.

Don't touch me,
don't touch me! >

Jackson!

Is it him?

That's what you're here to find out.

Your sudden passion for the furtive?

I must be sure before
that hell rises again.

Get her naked, Sergeant Drake.

Gently.

Are those hands or meat hooks,
really?

It's no wonder to me
at all you're a bachelor.

The haemorrhage is from the
severance of the left carotid.

Was the stroke left or right?

Like the others.

And these are... these are stars,
aren't they?

And the eyelids slit apart.

Catherine Eddowes and
Mary Jane Kelly had the same.

And the writing on the wall?

Like Goulston Street the night
we found Miss Eddowes' apron.

The same words as was
in that letter.

What... what is that?

Some kind of gelatine.

What kind?

From a meat pie. What?

How am I to know yet?

Don't you have evidence to collect?

I know it's tempting,
but try not to kill him.

Mr Reid, sir.

I'm hearing strange rumours.
Oh, yes?

That there's an unregistered
female on the premises.

Always an abundance of those,
Sergeant.

I'm not here to judge you, sir.

Just to remind you of our
obligations under the law.

Why, thank you for that,
Artherton. As always.

Creighton! Open up!

This one.

He dragged the body
through the archway.

Those?

Oh, I over-exposed them.

Worth our while to check.

Do you think me some bone-headed
flatfoot? They need more time.

Professional man like yourself, I
would have thought you'd know better.

That's the same wall!

Where's the message, Creighton?

The writing on the wall,
"Down on whores."

Was it you painted it up there?

You know who it was.

Best.

I just record what I see.

Get that to press, quick sharp.

How do you think they felt,
those girls,

the moment they knew that was it,
that breathing this air was up?

Hmm? The later ones.

They would have known what that
lunatic intended for their bodies.

Do you have a pity for them?

Do you have a pity for the many men
you've ruined with your accusations?

I have... I have never accused.
I have asked questions.

I have speculated!

Speculate! Well, I speculate
about you, Best.

The hand that penned that letter.

A letter I never credited
as bona fide.

And now,

this.

What else did you alter?

Nothing. Yeah, well,
I didn't have to, did I?

Just underlined what's plain
to a man who's as intimate with

the Ripper's doings as myself.

Well, myself and
Chief Inspector Abberline.

You spoke to Fred Abberline?

Your boss, as was. I have. Yes.

And he finds himself
in agreement with me.

Our friend is back.

Nothing's for certain. I won't have
people hiding in their homes again,

till I get to certain.
If I see this in print

I'll be back here for some
ripping of my own.

Oo-ooh!

Who do you think you are, Reid?

What, you come here to rattle me
when you forget what I know of you?

Oh, no. Do not fear, good citizens,
do not shake.

For sleepless, tireless
Detectives Reid and Abberline,

hunt our Jack down
dockside and rookery.

Two finer police the world
has not yet made,

so be of good heart, this maniac
will be brought to ground and hard.

Only, erm...

Oh, yeah, no, he... he wasn't,
was he?

The man and his works abide.

Friday. All right?

Unless you've got something proves
it's another knifeman...

this story turns over on Friday.

Ah, Inspector.
I know, I know, Artherton.

It's not that, sir. What?

Our past has come to say how-do.

Chief Inspector Abberline.
What merits such a visit?

Enough dancing, Detective.

If there's a diced up girl
in this shop, she's mine.

Out.

How could you do this?
This is my shop now.

This is my case!
I know what this looks like.

Look... look, this graffito.

This is Best's contrivance.
Look at her!

Her eyes, the stars on
her face, her guts.

Her abdomen was opened fresh,
right here, as part of the autopsy

conducted by Homer Jackson.

That Yankee clap-doctor!

The man was a US Army surgeon
and he was a Pinkerton. Pinkerton?

That's right.
A chartered mercenary with a badge!

And you place his word above mine.

I think you would have her
Ripper above all else.

Another bite, another chance at him.

But you would not?

I would have my innards
served to me cold

if I thought it would show him to us
but, Fred, what if...

what if this girl was dressed
as Jack for our eyes?

And in our fervour, we fill the
streets with uniform hunting for him

and miss the truth of it?
Now let me bring my mercenary

back in here and have him speak.

The fact he didn't open her up
strikes as strange.

Their guts, it's what he always
wanted the most.

To open them up and see the viscera
in his hand.

Then he was caught short,
as he was with Elizabeth Stride.

Her throat was cut,
the rest of her untouched.

But if he was disturbed with
this one, he went back to her.

Or he hid beside her.

But whichever, he waited some few
hours before bringing her here.

So long, in fact, that all the blood
had ceased to spill from her body.

You see these cuts and
gashes in her throat?

No blood on the road
she was dragged across.

I doubt there'd have been much
where they opened her, either.

When the woman's throat was cut?
The throat is a post-mortem injury.

Then what did for her?

Asphyxia.

Her hyoid bone is broken.

So she was strangled.
And all else happened after.

These slits in her eyes and her face,

with Kelly and Eddowes, they were
a postscript, an afterthought.

This girl, they're top billing.

This is theory. Not proof.

Get proof. If you cannot,
I'll pull rank and claim her.

What else?

Well, despite your friend
Best's connivery,

she had been serviced,
recently and vigorously.

So she was a tart?
No, I don't think so.

See, I place her no younger than 28.

Her skin, nail beds, the essential
health of her... apparatus.

By that age even the more
costly are worn through.

So, if she wasn't a professional?

My guess...

The lady taught fiddle.

Yeah, she lived to the north.
The new suburbs.

Has the Pinkerton been
conferring with spirits?

Enough, Sergeant. Go on.

Here, beneath her chin.

You see this moon-like impression
in the clavicle? Her fingers...

worn and puckered by strings.

And her hair, there are heavy
deposits in it.

Soot.

From the underground railway.

Which arrives, Drake, I believe,
from which direction?

Finchley, Highgate, Crouch End.
Missing persons reports.

Can't be too many lady violinists.

Just a warning, sir.
It may take some time.

The Type Printing Telegraphs
you ordered...

What of them? They're faster.

So it is said... Reid.

You have a type-printer?

Hobbs. You were instructed,
were you not?

Yes, Inspector. Well?
It's a bit of a handful.

Come on, boy, this is the future!

The lad might come to terms
with it sooner, sir,

if you weren't stood so close.

And that, Reid, is the
human barrier to progress.

I'm home to change.
You need to rest, too.

Captain Jackson.

The tonic you took from her thighs,

have you wondered whether it might
not be some kind of silver solution?

From a peeper's dry plate?

Emily.

Have you been to church?

I am home for a shirt.

And now you go back.

It cannot be helped. Of course.

There is a particular reason
why I must return.

Has he come? I don't know.

I don't know, it might be.

Please don't go out
after nightfall.

I'll get word to you if
I'm to be gone all night.

I don't want you to worry. I know.

No.

Send the runner to Mr Reid.

He'll be taking the Metropolitan.
Finchley's missing a violinist.

Johnson!

It's the call to send them
underground that troubles me, sir.

Seems unnatural.

Well, they're building more.
More trains, digging more tunnels.

It means the city can spread out
and we can stop living like rats.

What, and come live
on these streets?

Would you like that, Bennet?

I'd like many things, sir.

Is this it?

Mr Thwaites, sir? It's the police.

Drake! Drake! I cannot hold him.

What did Reid want?

Weren't you taught to knock?

The day you pay rent,
Jackson, I'll knock.

Is that maniac on the strut again?

Who? Reid?

Relax, darlin'. You need to start
frisking men for knives again,

I'll let you know. Now...

Any of the girls
get their picture taken?

Is this what brought Reid here?

Jackson, that man could ruin us.

He wants my help.
What am I supposed to do?

You tell him sorry,
but you're indisposed?

Fine. But he'll ask himself why.

And me and you, we don't want that.

You stop lavishing your care
and attention on him.

Coming here was your idea.

When we came here, you said this was
the kind of lawless shit swarm

that we could hide ourselves
in and you were right.

But, darling, in case you haven't
noticed, we're not hiding anymore.

We live here. Now, if that man wants
to make a friend of me,

he is welcome.

Cos if he ain't a friend, he's
an enemy, and an enemy like that

we do not need.

So, please, which of the girls
has a leaning to smut?

Myrtle!

Get Rose up here.

You can keep 'em if you like. I may.

Where'd you get these done, Rose?

Two men boarded a coach
with some toff.

Trimmed whiskers, moustache.

Mr Thwaites, these men,
they put you up there?

And the man Sergeant Drake
describes, do you know him?

Were you here to talk about Maud?
My wife?

Sir, you should prepare yourself.

Whatever the outcome, it may be safer
for you to remain with us a while,

Mr Thwaites, until we find those men.

And I would apologise for where
I have been forced to lay her.

She will be moved as soon
as circumstance allows.

Oh, Maud.

This is it.

Queen of Sheba.

Little Bo-Peep.

Boadicea, Queen of the Britons.

Rose?

S'all right, Perce. He's with me.

Thinking of joining up, ain't you?

Business good?

Never better. So long
as we don't get copped,

and find the right distribution.

Rosie here'll be lighting them
up in Blackpool.

Sarah Bernhardt and I
shall be one of a piece.

You already are, Rose.

You already are.

Don't you get cold out here?

Wouldn't know. Never been
out here before.

We have her name.

We know how she was killed.
And nothing else.

What does he want?

Your lead, Inspector,
your notion about the dry plates.

And this relates how?

And we have this, too.

It's more, er...

evolved.

That's disgusting!

It's disgustingly remunerative.

The act itself, Reid,
that's the future of smut.

Maud Thwaites was
caught up in this?

It would fit.

No streetwalker, but so recently
and energetically squired.

The gelatine from a photographer's
plate on her thigh.

I am in your debt.

You tell me which scratch Drake
has taken his fall in tonight...

I'll consider it paid.

You've no right to ask
me this thing.

I fear I have every right, sir.

Your wife's body bears the signs of
recent intimacy and I need to know if

that intimacy was shared with
yourself. Of course it was.

Mr Thwaites, why do you think
those men chose to string you up

like they did?

I've told you,
I have no idea who they were.

No. I mean, there was trouble
taken to make it appear

self-slaughter,
as if driven by guilt or shame.

In any event, they
wanted your silence.

But just what is it they were
feared you might speak of?

What shame, Mr Thwaites?

This shame? Did your wife have
pictures taken like this?

How far and how openly did your wife
share her... intimacy?

Everything she did...

she did for us.

For me.

So that my pride might
not be ruined.

When I found her, she lived
near here, in Whitechapel.

She used to play for the
children of the orphanage

on Criterion Street, from
where I hoped to deliver her.

My church group, we raise
supplies for a number

of poor schools in the borough.

I loved her immediately.

Before I married her, however...

she confessed to a certain...

practicality.

But, as you say, you delivered her.
I did.

I promised her comfort and
dignity...

pupils to be taken in her own
home. And she deceived you.

No, Sergeant.

The deception was mine.

My...

employment was not
as secure as I thought.

I had no grounds to promise
her those things.

Her home, even her violin,

I mortgaged it all.

And so she returned to Whitechapel.

Where did she go? I don't know.

Who did she go to? I don't know.

Mr Thwaites,
it's unwise to rile him.

You think you can hurt me?

Here, when my most profound
wish is that those men had

succeeded in their task.

Can't you see, Inspector,
that I am the last person

who would ever know about the
things that she did because,

as far as I was concerned...

it wasn't happening, at all?

What do you think?

She was never Ripper, that girl.

That killer prospers
by this radical smut.

You really don't think it could have
been the husband, sir?

The shame is too much,
he follows her. Kills her.

He'd need lodgings.
Somewhere to work on her. No.

Well, Sergeant, like it or not,

Joseph Smeaton must draw
us away a while.

Are you fit and able? Yes, sir.

Don't fight it, pull on!

This scratch is over. Corner.

Come to, gentlemen. Fifth scratch.

He ain't got to deal with it for too
much longer now, does he?

Thought you said
he could be trusted! Hey?

Do the count, do the count!
Count it! Hurry up!

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five,

four, three, two, one.

Come and get your winnings,
here we go!

One for you, one for you, sir...

Leave off. What's going on?

Joseph Smeaton, I am arresting
you for the organisation of

and the illicit profiteering
from proscribed and rigged fights.

Put the irons on him.

You're blue? Buckle me?

You need to put the irons on every
man jack in east London!

They'll be leaving their earnings
with someone new by the morning.

Counterfeit currency. I shall send
you down for snide, too, Joe.

Sir!

Sir. The toff, whiskers, fight...

There!

Best make haste, Tucker. Yes, sir.

If Thwaites has anything more
to tell us about this man,

we are taking it this time. Thwaites.

Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no!

Find Jackson. Yes, sir.

Mr Thwaites' particulars, sir.
Thank you, John.

May I?

Sweet girl.

With dark secrets.

We've all got secrets.
Even Sergeant Drake, here.

I would be gentle with
Sergeant Drake, if I were you.

He's of a mind to murder someone

and tonight I do not
have the strength to...

stop him.

What do you see?

Death and corruption. Look closer.

There's a blemish. A mark on
the camera lens, most likely.

The same place on each photograph.
The same camera.

Creighton! Go on, Sergeant.

False bottom.

You may want to avert
your eyes, Drake.

This is some strong meat.

I have her.

Not much seems to be
beyond our Maud, does it?

Hang on! That's him.
It's the toff!

What is this?

Look at this. It's all exactly
the same. Show me.

No!

Creighton!

Water only inflames it.

What kind of fire will
not be doused?

The door is bolted fast.

Then all evidence dies here.
And all the men who know about it.

Jackson, sheets, pass me the sheets.

Clear out the space between the
hinges around the door with this.

Do it, Sergeant!
Cut me some strips.

Phosphorous. Flash powder.

What's he doing? The crazy bastard's
making guncotton!

Guncotton?!

This one in the bottom. Of course.

Come on! Back! Get back!

You're just shanking it.
You got to aim right.

You just take your time, sir.
Thank you, Sergeant.

Now what?

I see these images all
look identical,

but by the end of the sequence, the
bird sits in a different position.

There is a man,

a Frenchman, Le Prince.
He's an engineer.

He has been experimenting with
photographic images...

that move.

Like a lantern show? No, real.

It's why the pictures appear
as a kind, because every

degree of muscular movement has
to be captured with precision.

So the end effect, therefore,
is fluid movement.

It is the... it is the precise
details of our lives caught

and re-presented to us.

Now what... what if you
could make these images move?

And be real? You see?

You see the leash?

Enough, perhaps, in a moment of
grotesque passion, to break her neck?

And what if this entire moment had
been captured by this new camera?

In the right circles,
it would make them a mint.

Then they'd make more.

This man. We must find this man.

Oh...

Evening, my ladies.
Good evening, sir.

Turkish Delight?

Thank you, sir.

Mmm.

Is there someone else in here, sir?

No-one you need worry about.

Here, take another.

All your snitches, every tart,
landlord, bully and thief.

He'll be wealthy, refined,

ruthless.

Artherton. I've come for her.
Where's Reid?

The Inspector addresses his men.
All right.

We only have these pictures,
we have no name.

His name is Sir Arthur Donaldson.

Summer '86, before your time here.

He got his cock out at a church
picnic in Victoria Park,

week or so later,

tore the blouse off a pregnant
woman on the Stepney omnibus.

Charged him but man
from such a family

as like to do jug as
Victoria herself.

The address was all
we ever had for him.

Thank you, Fred. Go.

Where's Rose, Susan?

Rose isn't with us this morning,
Mr Jackson.

Will one of our other girls serve?

She has to hear what I have to say.

She's got to stop with the smut.

You squire her one day and
then you daddy her the next?

What's the problem here, Susan?
Now you decide to get jealous?

Jealous?

I would rather shrivel and die alone
than let you near me again.

Then get the girl.

She's not here.

She was ordered out
and is yet to be returned.

They're late. And what's worse,
they paid me in snide.

Who did? I don't know.

A toff took two of them
away in his great charabanc.

Right, get your hat. You're going to
see Reid. I'm doing no such thing.

You touch me again
and I will kill you.

Oh, no, no, no, my beauty.

You're coming with me.

No.

Tristan or Bertrand or whatever
your name is, I'm going home.

I've paid for you, you're mine.

Get off me!

Get the door.

No-one at home, sir?

Hobbs! Donaldson's friends
and relatives, The Telegraph.

Scotland Yard must have their
names and addresses. Reid!

Show and tell, Susan.

Counterfeit, two of my girls
taken last night. Not yet returned.

Black coach, one horse.
They paid in that.

Smeaton! Come with me.

What's he doing?

This snide. One of yours, I believe.

There are mine all over the city.

Only they're not. Arthur
Donaldson, where is he?

What makes you think I know, eh?

Sincerely? Not a great deal.
Instinct.

Well, you can take your instinct

and you can shove it up this
animal's fundament.

Curse us.

Shall we make another?

Huh?

I need light.

Imagine, a little thing like that
come between us and our enrichment!

Light you shall have.

Where is Donaldson?

He lives in Mayfair!

We know that. He does no longer.

I only went there once!

Well? Under our noses, sir.

This will calm you.

Downstairs.

Donaldson! Arthur Donaldson!

Myrtle, Myrtle, where is Rose?

Jackson!

Get the sword, Sergeant.

Drake!

Argh!

Does she breathe, Sergeant?

She does, sir.

Whatever happens,

whatever punishment is seen fit
for all this, that is extraordinary.

This way.

I thought... at last...

I thought it was safe again.

Ssh, now. It is, it is safe now.

Thank you, Drake.
I'll tend to her now.

Hey, Rosie, hey...

Clear the way, lads.

The facts.

Have you lost your mind?

Why?

Because it is the truth.

And I would have the world know it.

She was never Ripper, that girl.
But you two...

You, for profit.

You, for guilt, I suspect,
wanted it so.

Now I ask us to undertake this,

that we find a little joy
in his continued absence.

That we cease to look for him

in every act of evil that
crosses our path.

There is an abundance
of that hereabout

and I would have obsession blinker
us to the wider world no longer.

Am I understood?

Then get out.

Edmund, this last year, that...

lunatic will ever bind me to you.

But you ask too much.

He lives still,
he breathes this air still.

These streets demand your vigilance.
No.

We did everything in our power.

Used every instrument allowed to us,
some that were not.

All that we can hope for now
is that he is gone and stays gone.

He will own my life no more.

The men of Whitechapel do your
job for you, once more. Yeah!

'He is my prisoner
and in my protection.'

Then at the time of my choosing
we will end you all this night!