All language subtitles for Endeavour.S01E02.Fugue.720p.BluRay.DTS.x264-PublicHD

Constable Morse.

I loved your singing.

Dorothea Frazil,
Oxford Mail.

We met briefly
on the Tremlett case.

Oh, I remember you, of course.

It's a good angle.

"The Singing Detective."

Better than the one
I've got presently.

I've no wish to see my name
in the papers, Miss Frazil.

Look, covering
for the local arts correspondent

is never going to win me
the Pulitzer.

Just give me a quote?

I'll see there's something
in it for you.

Any such recompense
would leave us both open

to charges of bribery
and corruption.

If you'll excuse me.

Good evening.

Good luck with your story.

Constable!

I'll be off then, Aunt.

Phillip will be in tomorrow

to see if there's
anything you need.

Will he have time,
with the recital?

He's working very hard.

But coming to see you
is always good for him.

So...

How is he?

Can you get a tarp
over the timber?

I'm breaking my neck
for a jimmy.

What's the matter
with her?

I told you.

She's just not feeling right.

Don't go.

Please.

She's my mother, Lionel.

I do love you, Evie.

Fancy a pint?

If you're buying.

No, it's an emergency job.

Just come in.

Some old girl's sprung a leak.

I can't exactly leave her
in the lurch, can I?

Quick as I can, promise.

Love you too.

Watch ya.

Morse.

This way, Sir.

Yardman was doing
his rounds about 5:00.

Saw the wagon door open

and thought
he'd take a look.

How often does he check
on the rolling stock?

Start, middle and finish
of his turn most nights.

Though this end,
I think not so much

because they're all
out of service,

waiting on being
broken up.
This it?

Dr. deBryn.

Inspector.

No need to ask after cause,
I shouldn't have thought.

Ligature strangulation.

Almost textbook.

As to the time...

Three pink elephants...

Two pink elephants...

One pink elephant.

Sometime between 9:00
and midnight.

She has an earring missing.

I've a contingent
of cadets

coming down to search.

Got a name for her?

Evelyn Balfour.

She works behind the bar
at Cowley Bingo.

Husband last saw her
last night about 7:00

when she left to visit
her sick mother.

Wasn't he worried
when she didn't come back?

There was some possibility
she may stay overnight.

She told her husband
her mother was ill.

Mother's been spoken to;
nothing wrong with her.

What's that in her mouth?

A handkerchief.

Embroidered

with the letter "D."

Hardly the most romantic spot
for a bit of how's-your-father.

Private.

It's got that going for it.

Beggars can't, I suppose.

We're going to take the husband.

You can do her work.

Just the facts.

Don't need confusing
with any "theories."

Then you're back to the nick
and resume General Duties.

Right?

All was well with you
and Mrs. Balfour?

No arguments?

None.

Never a cross word, eh?

Did you go out last night?

No.

Just had my tea.

Got the children bathed
and put to bed.

I was catching up
on my returns.

You're an insurance agent,
that right?

Mutual and Provident.

What's that,
door to door?

Collecting payments.

Mrs. Balfour often go out alone
of an evening?

Only to see her mother.

She's not been in the best
of health lately.

Shingles.

How long's that been
going on then?

Couple of months.

Other than that,
Mrs. Balfour was more

of a home-bird,
though, was she?

Oh, yes.

She sometimes had a late turn
at the Bingo,

depending on the rota,
but otherwise...

Nice.

We just had it done.

Couple of months back.

Evelyn had been on for one.

A pal of hers at work

had a matching suite
put in at Christmas.

You know what
they're like.

Mrs. Balfour looks to have been
carrying on with someone, sir.

Romantically?

Common knowledge at the bingo
hall where she worked,

according to Morse.

Morse? I thought he'd been
returned to General Duties.

That's right, sir,
he has.

He just happened to be in early
when the report came through.

Amongst the first
on the scene.

Does the husband know?

About the infidelity?

Not the impression
he's giving.

Trying to protect
her reputation, perhaps.

Or his own.

No man likes to be thought
a cuckold.

Doesn't look as though
he's got it in him.

A fancy man, most likely.

Just a matter
of finding him, then.

You got that car theft
written up yet?

How's about you stick
to General Duties

and let the rough boys deal
with the grown-up stuff?

Why'd he leave
the door open?

The door hadn't been open,
she could've lain there for days

before being discovered.

Panicked, hasn't he?

Once he's done her,
fled the scene,

forgot to shut it
after him.

Reckless,
don't you think?

He made a mistake.

Or he wanted us
to find her.

I don't hear you typing.

Car theft.

Police! Open the door!

Hello! Police!

Did you close that door?

Police!

Was that you?

No, sir!

Yoon...

Back-ee-a...

Ankera.

Un bacio ancorra.

All right.

So what's it mean?

"One kiss more."

Italian.

"Un bacio ancorra" is Otello's
last line in Verdi's opera.

So what?

He sings it
having strangled his wife

in a fit of jealousy.

He believes she's given
a handkerchief

to another officer
as a sign of her affections.

And?

His wife's name is Desdemona.

The handkerchief stuffed
into Evelyn Balfour's mouth

was embroidered
with the initial "D."

You're kidding.

We're not really giving this
any weight, are we?

Interesting,
don't you think?

Maybe, but that
could've been

written up on the door
years ago.

More likely we're looking
for a bloke called Dave

than some bint called Desdemona.

This is some fancy man
she had on the go,

it'll have been
a spur-of-the-moment thing.

Exactly-- he's hardly
going to hang about

writing all that
on the back of the door,

then sliding it out of view

where nobody could find it,
is he?

It was found.

Sir...
Not as if anybody normal

would think
to look there, is it?

Thursday.

Where's this?

Morse.

Deceased is one
Grace Agnes Madison.

Eleventh of the fourth, 1896.

Widowed.

Found by her niece Faye.

Just gone half-past 10:00
this morning.

Pathologist been notified?

He's on his way.

But she was in general good
health, according to the niece.

She's outside
if you wanted a word.

Mrs. Madison was your aunt,
is that right?

Married to my father's
older brother.

Uncle Cedric.

He's deceased, I understand.

Yes.

He died in '62.

Aunt Grace returned to England
the following year.

From where?

India.

She was born in Witney,

but grew up and lived
most of her life there,

which is where she met
Uncle Cedric.

When did you see her last?

Yesterday.

Aunt Grace was all the family
we had left.

One or other of us
tried to look in every day

just to see if there was
anything she needed.

One or the other of whom?

My brother Phillip.

Today was his turn,

but he's presently rehearsing
for a piano recital.

She seemed in good health
when you saw her last?

Yes.

Pottering about the conservatory
as usual.

Aunt Grace was a botanist
of some note.

She'd written several books on
the flora of the subcontinent.

Doctor.

Morse.

Anything?

By "anything," I presume you
mean "anything suspicious"?

No obvious signs
of violence.

All I can tell you for now
is that she died

sometime between 4:00 and 7:00
yesterday afternoon.

I'd be grateful
if you could get

the contents of the teapot
taken away for analysis.

The teapot?

People do die
of natural causes, Morse.

Think someone bumped her off
for the inheritance?

I think the table's set for two

and her guest
hasn't touched their tea.

If that's the stuff the chimps
drink, I'm a Chinaman.

Mrs. Madison had an appointment
in her diary

with a Mr. Nimmo
at 4:00 p.m. yesterday.

There was a letter from him
dated Tuesday last.

Some sort of journalist.

Wanted to write
about her gardening.

She was a botanist of some
repute, apparently.

One day, I'll send you out
for a routine inquiry

and it'll turn out to be
just that.

But I won't hold
my breath.

You'd find something suspicious
in a saint's sock drawer.

I didn't know
you spoke Italian.

More under my hat than nits.

We came up through Italy
after North Africa.

Landed at Reggio.

Then on to Cassino.

Got a match
on a thumbprint

off Mrs. Balfour's
handbag, sir.

Roy Adamson.

Three months suspended for
receiving, some nine years back.

Runs a builder's yard
out towards Headington.

Looks like Othello's
in the clear.

Right, fetch the car round.

Mrs. Madison's niece
know anything

about this Nimmo character?

No, sir.

See if you can
run him down.

Find out what he
was doing there.

What about this builder?

The Balfours had
a bathroom suite

installed
a few months back,

round about the time she was
"visiting her sick mother."

Let's just say I'd be
very much surprised

if it wasn't Roy Adamson's
building firm

that was doing the work.

Oh.

Good afternoon.

City Police.

I'm looking for a Mr. Nimmo.

I believe he lives
at number 8.

I've never seen him.

How long have you
lived here?

Nearly three years.

Oh.

Well, thank you for your help.

Heard him, though.

You've heard him?

Music blaring out
till all hours.

I've written
to the landlord,

not that it's made
no difference.

What kind of music?

Classical.

You know,
bloody awful stuff.

Singing.

Well, caterwauling.

Thank you.

Yeah, we did some work
for Mr. Balfour.

There you go.

A bathroom suite.

Pink.

A few months back.

What did you make of 'em?

I didn't make
anything of 'em.

Just customers.

Nice enough.

Seen 'em recently?

No, not since
the job finished.

You sure about that?

Pretty sure.

See, the thing is, Roy,

we found Mrs. Balfour
strangled yesterday,

and your fingerprints have
turned up on her handbag.

Anything you'd like
to tell me about that?

That's you.

Go on, in you get.

He's admitted carrying on
with her.

Not that he had much choice.

Sergeant Jakes
found an earring

in the footwell
of a works' truck.

A match?

Took her up Boar's Hill,
he says-- car park.

Brings her back after by Osney,
where he found her.

Alive and well, presumably.

Call for you, sir.

Dr. DeBryn.

The "sudden" this morning.

Pending toxicological results,

I consulted a colleague
from the Botanic Gardens.

He identified the leaves
in the teapot

as having come
from Datura stramonium.

Datura?

A weed.

Also known
as the Thorn Apple,

or Devil's Snare.

Poisonous?

Oh, highly toxic.

The seed pods in particular.

I took the liberty.

Been used for centuries
by the Indians and Chinese

as a treatment for asthma.

But the line between a medicinal
and a lethal dose

is very thin indeed.

Contains atropine

and scopolamine.

The "truth" drug.

That's right.

Taken in overdose,

symptoms include severe
hallucinations, seizures,

all leading,
step by jolly step,

to blindness, coma

and an eventual "How do you do?"
from St. Peter,

if one goes in
for that sort of thing.

What do you make to it?

Mrs. Madison.

Money?

With only a niece
and nephew living,

I'd expect they stand
to inherit.

What about your Mr. Nimmo?

No one's seen him
around his flat,

but a neighbor said he had music
blaring till all hours.

Opera, by the sound of it.

The entire lease
on his lodgings

is conducted
through a solicitor.

They're running down a check.

Should be able to get a more
reliable address from his bank.

A weed, Dr. deBryn said.

Not likely to be something she'd
have been cultivating, is it?

I wouldn't have thought so.

There's something about Datura
I can't quite put my finger on.

At least the Balfour case

looks like it's going
to run to form.

The builder?

Has he confessed?
Not yet.

I'm letting him sweat
for the minute.

I'll have another go
after lunch.

Speaking of which...

Now, let's see,

what have I got
to look forward to?

Luncheon meat.

Remind me never to spend
Christmas at your house.

"Ici loin du monde réel."

They're the last words

sung by Lakme, sir.
Hmm?

Lakme, sir.

An Indian princess.

The heroine of an opera
by Delibes.

According to Morse, sir,

this Lakme girl kills herself

by eating leaves
from the Datura plant,

the same as was used
to poison Grace Madison.

Makes it two, sir.

What makes two?

Two deaths, sir,
with a connection to opera.

There was a phrase from...
what is it?

Otello, sir.

By Giuseppe Verdi.

Chalked on the door
of the goods wagon

where we found
Evelyn Balfour.

"One kiss more."

His last words, Morse says.

You mean
Shakespeare's Othello?

The blackamoor?

That's him, sir, yes.

Evelyn Balfour
was strangled, sir,

like Desdemona,
Othello's wife.

There was a handkerchief
stuffed in her mouth,

embroidered
with the initial "D."

I thought we had someone
for the Balfour killing.

All right, Morse.

As you were.

Opera?

Good God!

A man would have to be

some sort of raving lunatic
to go to such lengths.

If he is
a lunatic, sir,

I'd have to say he's
a very clever one.

If you have no objection,

I'd like to second Morse from
General Duties for the duration.

Is that necessary?

Specialist knowledge, sir--

it comes to this sort of thing.

Very well.

But for the duration
of the inquiry only.

I don't want him
getting ideas.

That's kind of what
I'm counting on.

Sir.

Usual time in the morning,
is it?

No, you're all right.

Morse can fetch me.

You're off General Duties
till further notice.

8:15 sharp,
all right?

Morse.

Hello?

Hello?

Seen this?

Late edition.

How the hell
have they come by that?

"Reliable sources," I expect.

Are you serious?

Put it this way, matey.

For a bloke who puts it away
the way he does,

Jakes is never anything less
than flush, is he?

Anyroad.

Get 'em in, then.

I thought we might have a go
through the Fitton's.

You'll never get your
sergeant's otherwise.

I was gonna push off, actually,
if it's all the same.

It's your round.

I'll owe you one.

Right.

I don't suppose your aunt

might have mentioned this
Mr. Nimmo to your brother?

She may, but if she did,
he never told me.

I'd, uh...

I'd like to speak with him.

I'm afraid he's very busy
at the moment.

Of course.

At his convenience.

Well, good night.

I'm sorry to have
troubled you, Miss Madison.

Oh, uh...

Dad!

Well, don't stand
on ceremony.

It's probably best
if I wait in the car.

I think it's probably best
if you just do as you're told.

You've come in, then.

I'm impressed.

Most of Pop's it takes
at least six months.

That lump is my brother Sam.

You want a cuppa?

No, I'm fine, thanks,
Miss Thursday.

Miss Thursday!

She gets enough of that
down the bank.

Start calling her it at home
and she'll get airs.

That's Joan, love.

It's one of Dad's, Mum.

Well, I didn't think
he was from the pools.

Sit yourself down,
he won't be a tick.

So.

What do they call you, then?

Morse.

Morse? Morse what?

Morse Code.

Dit-dit-dah!

You still here, Joan?

Morning, sir.

I thought it was 20 past,
your bus.

I'm just going.

Sam, fetch the bins out
before you go to work.

Don't leave it to your mother.

Right.

We're off.

Here, let's have
a look at you.

Come home safe.

There, then,
you'll do, Fred.

It went well this morning?

You haven't said.

I don't want to talk about it.

But it's helping.

Phillip?

What did that policeman want
last night?

I told you.

He's investigating
what happened to Aunt Grace.

Why did he come
to the house?

I don't like people
coming to the house.

He was asking about someone
called Nimmo--

a journalist
of some sort.

Yeah?

The bank's come through with
an address for Mr. Nimmo, sir.

Some place called
Drover's Rest.
Good.

Thursday, I'd like to introduce
Dr. Daniel Cronyn.

Dr. Cronyn, Detective
Inspector Thursday.

How do you do?

Dr. Cronyn is a psychiatrist
in private practice.

He's made a particular study

of these kind of deranged
individuals.

I thought you might benefit
from his professional opinion.

The perpetrator
of these crimes

clearly exhibits a profoundly
disturbed psyche.

Indeed.

I'm sure I'm not telling you
anything you don't know.

What may be less obvious
to you, perhaps,

is that he will also be
high-functioning,

which, I regret to say,

will make him very difficult
to apprehend.

But not impossible?

Thankfully, such cases are few
and far between over here,

but my colleagues
in the United States

believe this kind of killer is
something of a coming trend.

A trend?

Indeed.

Within the last ten years,

we've had
the Starkweather case,

the bodies in the swamp
at Fairvale

and DeSalvo in Boston.

What's he after?

What's behind him?

Impossible to say.

Other than that he conforms
to the triad personality

of narcissism, Machiavellianism
and psychopathy

posited by McDonald
a couple of years back.

I'd expect him to be
highly intelligent.

Though this may not necessarily
be reflected

in academic achievements.

How old?

Mid-20s to mid-30s.

40 at a push.

There's no possibility

this could be
the end of it?

Gentlemen, you're
confronting a mind

unconstrained by notions
of guilt, regret,

right and wrong,
good and evil.

So far as he's concerned,

we're just prey.

Prey?

In his eyes.

Kine reared to slaughter.

We'll stop him.

How?

You think you're
going to appeal

to his nobler instincts,
his better angels?

He doesn't have any.

The only thing I can tell you
with absolute certainty

is he will kill again.

Good afternoon.

Afternoon.

We're looking for Drover's Rest.

Some sort of farm, I believe.

Slaughteryard.

Old Ben Nimmo's place.

Mr. Nimmo wouldn't be
a journalist, then?

Not unless he writes
about pet food.

I see.

Could you point us
in the right direction?

What do you want
with Old Ben, then?

Police business.

City Police.

Are we far?

You've come past the turning
about two mile.

Well, thank you, Mister...

Oakshott.

Lemuel.

You won't find him there.

Gone away.

I haven't seen him
since Ada died, his wife.

Gone to his boy, maybe.

Canada.

Mr. Nimmo?

Take it down.

You go up there,
I'll go down here.

It's from Aida, sir.

Radames' final aria.

Just before he's
entombed alive.

Cement mixer in the yard,
wasn't there?

That looks new.

We've had a patrol round this
flat leased in Nimmo's name,

the one you went to.

Nothing there
but a record player

and a stack of LPs.

It's not been occupied
so far as the lads can tell.

I didn't think it would've been.

Look sharp, then, Morse.

It's the competition.

Somebody with even more
crackpot ideas than you.

Buried alive?

Nothing quite so quick,
I'm afraid.

This was immurement.

Walling up.

Cause of death
would have been

more likely dehydration
than asphyxia.

How long?

For some days.

My God!

Then as the organs of the body
began to fail...

Delirium.

Madness.

One can only pray
his heart gave out first.

Would you excuse me?

There's wickedness
in this, Morse.

I can understand gain,
jealousy, revenge, even.

But killing just
for the sheer hell of it?

That's something new.

Hello, Oxford Mail.

How can I help you?

What's this?

Found on the victim, sir.

It's from The Mikado,
KoKo's song.

"As someday it may happen
that a victim might be found."

I suppose he thinks
that's funny.

It's also known as
"The List Song," sir.

List?

KoKo was the Lord High
Executioner to the Mikado.

He read a list
of society offenders

he said he was going to execute.

The chorus runs,
"He's got 'em on the list

and they'll none of 'em
be missed."

Our three victims,
presumably.

How many more
has he got in mind?

That's what worries me.

Something you
should see, sir.

Through here.

You too, Morse.

Looks like you've got
an admirer.

There was a musical score
stuffed in Mr. Nimmo's pockets.

"The List Song,"
apparently.

Doctor?

Oh, no.

For a moment, I...

But it can't be,
I'm just...

There was a...

a patient.

I met him in the early '50s,

when I was working at Bellevue
Sanatorium under Dr. Elias.

He'd have been about 20 then.

Who would?

A young man called...

Miller.

Keith Miller.

He was some sort
of musical child prodigy.

Quite brilliant,
by all accounts.

But on the morning
of his 15th birthday,

he took an axe
from the woodshed

and buried it in the back
of his mother's skull.

What happened to him?

"Guilty but insane."

He was sentenced to be detained
at His Majesty's pleasure.

What makes you think
he's connected?

When he was in therapy,

he described horribly violent,
murderous fantasies--

what he would
and wouldn't like to do

to various members of staff

who'd rubbed him up
the wrong way.

It was a pet phrase of his.

"I've got a little list."

Where is he now?

I seem to remember a colleague
saying he'd been released,

cured about five
or six years ago.

The point is...

He was an Oxford boy.

Bad juju, Thursday.

Yes, sir.

Get to the bottom of it,
and quick.

I'm relying on you.

Morse!

You're off General Duties

because I'm told
this is your area.

See you prove
yourself useful.

Sir.

All right, Morse?

Why has he got my picture
on the wall?

It just tickled his fancy.

I wouldn't read
too much into it.

He's just trying
to get us rattled.

It's working.

Then don't let it.

I need you thinking straight.

It was delivered around 11:00.

"? 3 - O.C.P. 0."

That's us, I suppose,
Oxford City Police.

Three-nil
to the Opera Phantom.

That was rather
my reading of it.

There's been another one?

Actually, Miss Frazil,

I'd urge you in the strongest
possible terms

not to make this communication
known to the public.

As a favor.

This person we're after

is clearly working
to some sort of plan.

I'd hope by your agreeing not
to publish that we might derail

whatever scheme it is
he's got in mind,

or delay it, at least.

24 hours.

After that...

Pray that's enough.

Morse.

I heard it.

Put your sandals on, then.

Every...

Good...

Boy...

Deserves Favors...

I've spoken to Bellevue, sir.

Seems there was a fire there,
three years ago,

destroyed several wings
of the sanatorium,

together with
the records office.

Surely if this happened
locally...?

Nothing on our files, sir.

I've put in a request
to County.

Sir.

Ah, our resident expert.

Opera!

I don't think the killer's

choosing his victims
at random, sir.

There may be a pattern.

A pattern?

To the killings.

I can't be sure, but...

Every Good Boy Deserves Favor.

Every what?

It's a mnemonic for remembering
the notes on a treble clef.

The lines, at least.

Every Good Boy
Deserves Favor.

E-G-B-D-F.

Evelyn, Grace, Ben.

That it?

So the next one
will start with a D.

Debbie?

Debbie?

Debbie!

Debbie!

Debbie Snow, sir.

Six years old.

Taken from the street
outside her house.

Description's been circulated
to all cars and foot patrols.

It's him.

We can't say that,

just because her name
begins with a D.

There's more than that, sir.

The translator from Lonsdale
identified the score

sent to Miss Frazil as
Snegurochka by Rimsky-Korsakov.

Snegurochka is Russian
for "snow maiden."

Somebody dies,
presumably.

The Snow Maiden herself.

She melts at dawn
as the sun rises.

Something stuffed down in
the toe, according to Uniform.

"No alibi err badly."

What the hell does that mean?

Maybe he's saying
we've made a mistake, sir.

One of the people we've seen in
relation to the other killings.

Someone without
an alibi, or...

"Near by Libra idol"?

Some kind of direction, perhaps?

He's setting us a test.

What sort of test?

It's a game-- solve the puzzle,
save the child.

"Near by Libra idol"?

Libra is the Scales, sir.

Justice, maybe?

The idol could be a statue
by the Law Courts.

Think you can you crack it?

I can try.

Try?

You need to do more than try.

All right, Jakes,
that'll do.

Meant to be the expert,
isn't he?

Laughing-boy's pin-up.

I said that'll do.

I'm thinking of the kiddie, sir.

Us turning on each other's
going to help find her, is it?

Exactly what he wants.

It's Morse these messages
are meant for, sir.

We all know that.

He's seen his picture
in the paper.

One bloody misfit
talking to another.

About your business, Sergeant.

He's right.

If I can't crack this...

It's not all on you, Morse,
whatever Sergeant Jakes says.

The Snow Maiden melts, sir...

at dawn.

However he intends to bring
that about, by fire...

We've less than 12 hours
to find her.

Then we'd better get a move on.

Morse.

Where is she?

"Libra idol."

Fool!

Hello, sir.

Detective Constable Morse,
City Police.

I'd like to know

if anyone's requested the score
for The Snow Maiden.

Rimsky-Korsakov.

Is that the Western score?

Mm-hmm.

Give me a moment.

Yes, indeed.

It was brought up
from the stacks

on the 17th of last month
for Mr. Miller.

Miller?

Keith Miller?

That's right.

Is he a regular reader?

This last year,
yes, indeed.

As a matter of fact,

a fresh set of scores have
just been delivered to him.

He's here now?

He arrived not quarter
of an hour ago.

Close the library.
I beg your pardon?

I need you
to seal the building.

Doors, windows, fire escapes.

I don't have the authority.

I'm a police officer.

That's all the authority
you need.

A child's life stands
in the balance.

Please.

Miss Crane,

will you and Miss Thornhill
close the library?

Close the library,
Mr. Straker?

Quickly and quietly,
if you please.

What about the readers?

They're to remain inside.

He's from
the police.

Step lively, now.

Ah... he's gone.

He was sitting there.

The man who was sitting here,
did you see where he went?

Is there a way out from here?

Not up there, no.

And you won't get him if he's
gone down into the stacks.

There's another five
stories underground.

The corridors go for miles.

What about exits?

The bicycle chain.

It's a pulley railway
under the Broad.

Call 999.

Tell them DC Morse
from Cowley Station

needs immediate assistance
at the Bodleian.

Police.

Leave... now.

Morse?

Morse?

Did you see him?

Which way did he go?

See who?

Him! The suspect!

You all right, matey?

Huh?

Your shirt...

Over here, man down!

All right, mate.
You're okay, matey.

Don't just stand there,
get some help!

All right, matey.

Ring the station.

Right.

Morse, I am going to put some
pressure on this, all right?

I know, mate, I know,
I know.

Not too deep,
thankfully.

But a clean cut like that'll
be a bugger to knit.

It's far better gashing yourself
on something jagged.

I'll bear that in mind

next time I chase a lunatic
under the Bodleian.

What led you there?

An anagram.

Well, double anagram.

"No alibi err badly.

Near by libra idol."

Both phrases use
the same letters.

Bodleian Library.

Cheers!
Your health, surely!

It's going to be tight and quite
tender for the next few days.

So... bed rest.

And my finest Broderie Anglaise
notwithstanding,

don't exert yourself overmuch.

Well, the girl's still missing.

I've got to get back.

Morse...

If he'd decided to stab
and not to slash,

I'd presently be getting more
acquainted with your anatomy

than either of us
might care for.

Soon as not be heaving
your tripes into a tray,

if it's all the same.

Not just yet at least.

Uniform recovered this lot

from a bin on Catte Street
by the library.

Another one of those
score things.

"Some coppers have no brains.

All coppers are bastards."

I want it back,
clean, starched and pressed.

You sure you're fit for duty?

Sure.

It looks much worse
than it feels.

What did I miss?

The Ice Cream Man's been found.

He thinks--
only thinks, mind--

he saw a girl answering Debbie's
description talking to a man.

Beard, glasses,
walking stick.

It's a Modus Bocardo
syllogism.

A category of logical argument.

Two propositions,
one major, one minor,

and the "therefore" symbol
is the clue.

"Some coppers have no brains.

"All coppers are bastards.

Therefore some bastards
have no brains."

It has to be more
than that.

He has to give us
a sporting chance.

Else, where's
the fun in it?

Well, whatever it means,

as an exercise in bamboozling
the police, it's brilliant.

I doubt Debbie Snow
would see it that way.

It really matters to you,
doesn't it?

Finding this girl.

I mean, it matters to me.

Don't get me wrong.

But with you, it's...

Why did you become a policeman?

We're not here to talk about me.

If you've nothing else to add...

In my experience,

a policeman's need
to save people

is typically born of a need
to save one person.

Who couldn't you save,

Constable Morse?

Good night, Doctor.

The girl is "materiel"

in whatever diabolical game
he's playing.

But the real object here

is to prove whose
intellect is the greater.

So far, it's...

You admire him.

Respect, perhaps, his ability.

His singularity
of purpose.

Which is?

He lives to kill.

He eats, he sleeps,
he kills--

that's all he does, with no more
sympathy for his victims

than you would feel
in taking a paper to a wasp.

Then why didn't he kill me?

Because it suits him
to have you alive.

We're not going to make it.

Are we?

Bocardo.

Bocardo Prison...

Morse.

The riddle the killer set
was a Bocardo syllogism.

Bocardo?

That's the key, sir,
the word "Bocardo,"

not the syllogism.

I knew there was another Bocardo
connection to Oxford

but I couldn't place it

until I passed
the Memorial on the Broad.

The Martyrs' memorial?

Prior to being burnt
at the stake,

all three were held
in the Bocardo Prison.

In Oxford?
Never heard of it.

It used to stand
right here by St. Michael

in North Gate.

The Martyrs' cell door
is on display

in the church tower, right?
Yes, sir.

Get it open!

Oh...

You're going to be all right.

Thank you.

Bye-bye.

When was this?

Over.

Morse?

Oh, no, thanks.

Come on, matey.

A full belly
and a few hours' kip,

you'll be right
as ninepence.

It was too easy.

Not how
I heard it.

It doesn't make any sense.

Not if he's playing
by the rules.

The Snow Maiden...
she melts.

Melts?

Oh.

You think he meant to
burn her then, or...?

Debbie Snow was never
in any real danger.

There were air holes
in the casket.

No, he was just playing
with us.

Out.

What worries me is why.

Cronyn?

Given the condition
of the corpus,

there's not a great deal
I can tell you.

Beyond, of course,

that life is extinct.

Who found the body?

Phillip Madison, sir,
and his sister Faye

turned up for a 9:00 session
with the doctor and, well...

I'd advise you

to stand well clear, Inspector.

Until we can get it
safely stoppered.

Acid?

Aqua regia, by the smell.

Royal water.

Nitro-hydrochloric acid.

Hence the state of him.

From the green tinge,

the container was sealed
with a brass bung.

Acid would've eaten through
that in about an hour.

And poured out onto his head.

Melted.

Like the Snow Maiden.

It wasn't Debbie,
it was Daniel.

Daniel Cronyn.

E-G-B-D.

Then we need to find
whoever F is

before the killer does.

How long had your brother
been seeing Dr. Cronyn?

Four months.

Phillip is rather
highly strung.

The artistic temperament,
I suppose.

We lost our parents, you see.

Quite young.

Phillip took it worst,
of course, being the eldest.

He suffers dreadfully
with his nerves.

I'd had a bad attack.

Yesterday evening.

I telephoned Dr. Cronyn

and made an appointment
for first thing this morning.

When I arrived,
the door was on the latch.

I went in and...

Well, you saw what I found.

He has a recital coming up,
you said.

Indeed. Tomorrow.

Will he be in a fit state
for that?

This will be his first recital
from memory.

But he's determined to go ahead.

For Aunt Grace's sake.

They were close?

Very.

She and Uncle Cedric
had the raising of us.

I mean,

we boarded in England
most of the year,

but we usually summered
in Jaipur.

Just for the record,
Miss Madison,

where was Phillip last night?

At home with me.

Who would do such
a terrible thing?

Let you out, then.

Small comfort,

but if it's
any consolation,

Dr. Cronyn was already dead
when the acid did its work.

So what was the cause?

From my examination of him,

he appears to have been
an habitual morphine addict.

There was a syringe in his
desk drawer, wasn't there?

Morse?

Uh, yes.

Together with some
ampoules of morphia-- mm-hmm.

Somebody gave him
an overdose, maybe,

or slipped something in the
syringe that wasn't morphine.

Possible, of course.

But until I've had his
blood results back...

Time was between 2:00
and 5:00 this morning.

Anything else?

General lack of care.

But nothing I wouldn't expect
to find in any other addict.

And him a doctor
of the mind.

Physician, heal thyself.

Morphine.

Access wouldn't be a problem
in his line, I don't suppose.

But he didn't strike me
as the type.

Did he you?

Morse?

Oi!

When'd you last
get any sleep?

Pull over.

Right.

Sit yourself down
through there.

I'm fine, sir.

Don't argue.

You're no good to me
dead on your feet.

I'll get a brew on.

Or there's a drop
of brandy if you like.

Better make it brandy.

What's this, home in the
middle of the afternoon?

I've got Morse
in the other room.

What, the new boy?

He seemed very nice,
I thought.

Very polite.

Shy, though.

What's that, brandy?

I hope you're not
leading him astray.

He's been in the wars.

Lost a bit of blood.

You got any stew and dumplings
you can warm through?

I'll put something on.

It's stout you need,
not brandy.

Something with a bit
of iron in,

build his strength up.

There's a bottle
at the back there.

There you go.

Ronnie?

Ronnie Gidderton
from the bank?

I thought you said
he was a bit wet.

You've scared off
all the decent ones.

Come in, Morse.
Don't stand on ceremony.

Budge up, Sam.

You shouldn't have
let me sleep, sir.

Looked like
you could do with it.

Mrs. Thursday's
done you some tea.

Win, dear.

You feeling better?

Oh, yeah, much,
thanks.

What happened to you, then?

Not at tea, Joan,
thank you.

I'm only asking.

I know what
you're "only."

There's one rule in this house.

Where do we leave work?

On the hallstand
by the front door.

Right.

What can we talk about, then,
the weather?

Yeah, whether you're
too big for a spanking.

I'd like to see you try.

You wait till I'm back
from the army.

Word of advice, Morse--
don't have children.

They'll make you old
before your time.

A Miss Frazil
on the blower, Pop.

After you called, I spoke
to my old editor, Sid Mears.

He sent these round.

He knew the Miller case?

Perhaps.

He remembered something similar
around the end of '43.

It'd stuck in his head.

Only the family name was Gull.

They ran a coaching inn
by Wolvercote.

I say "they."

It was just Mason Gull
and his mother.

Thing is, there was an American
general billeted there.

This was the build-up
to D-Day, don't forget.

Anyway, this general
had taken a bit of a shine

to Mrs. Gull, by all accounts,
and that's what led to it.

Sid and his photographer

were amongst the first
out to the inn

and got those few snaps
before the military police

descended on the place
and turfed them out.

In the end, word came down
from the War Office

at the very highest level

that the story was to be spiked.

D-Day looming.

Dangerous talk costs lives,
I suppose.

If his name was Gull,

why would Dr. Cronyn
know him as Keith Miller?

Maybe they changed his name,

buried him away in the country
somewhere, and forgot about him.

In any event, Sid never
came across a word

on any subsequent committal
or trial.

The boy just disappeared.

I won't let you down.

You never have.

Ready?

He played a record.

Tosca.

Tosca?

It's a penny dreadful of a plot.

Filled with murder,
torture, suicide.

Right up his street, then.

At the opera's climax,
the heroine, Floria Tosca,

hurls herself
from the battlements

of the Castel Sant'Angelo.

In summation, then,
apart from method

by which he means

to dispose of this fifth
and final victim,

we know neither the where,
the when,

nor the whom of it.

If the killer's sticking
to Morse's EGBDF pattern, sir,

it's got to be someone
whose name begins with an F.

It's Cronyn.

But what is?

The murderer,
it's Cronyn.

I appreciate your work
on this, Morse,

but I think you'll find...

Dr. Cronyn approached us,
didn't he, sir?

Yes, but...

He's the one had us
running around

looking for this Keith Miller.

But Morse!

It's a joke, sir,
a blind.

Keith Miller
doesn't exist, sir.

Rearrange the letters
of his name and you get...

"I'm the killer."

He's been toying with us
right from the beginning,

posing as Dr. Cronyn.

So who is he really?

Mason Gull, sir.

Good grief.

Then whose body did we find

in Cronyn's consulting rooms?

Are you sure this is it?

Outside of the rooms in town,

it's the only other address
for a Daniel Cronyn

showing
on the electoral register.

He's been here.

Of course he has.

This has been his bolt hole.

Dr. Cronyn, I presume.

The real Daniel Cronyn.

He's kept him drugged
on morphine.

Far enough out so that nobody
could hear his screams.

Why not just kill him
straightaway?

Because the body
at the consulting rooms

had to be fresh.

The murder of Mrs. Gull
was investigated

by Detective Inspector Foxley
of Oxford City Police.

Two witnesses appeared
for the prosecution:

slaughterman Benjamin Nimmo,
who had dropped by the inn

for a pint of ale
and found the body of Mrs. Gull,

and barmaid Gertrude Tate,

who was there with her
eight-year-old daughter Evelyn.

What's the odds
Mr. Balfour will confirm

his wife's maiden name was Tate?

The case was heard by His Honor
Mr. Justice Madison.

Gull's been killing anyone
connected with the trial.

He's going
after Faye Madison.

Now-- F for Faye.

She's the fifth victim.

We need to get officers down
to Alfredus College at once.

That's why Gull played me Tosca

over the telephone.

Alfredus College is home

to the Oxford Scholars'
Choral Association,

the choir that I sing with.

So where does Tosca come in?

Well, the Oxford Scholars'
Choral Association.

We sometimes refer to it
by acronym...

TOSCA.

It's the police on
the telephone for you, miss.

They said it's urgent.

The police?

Hello.

This it?

Reserves are on their way.

You really think he'll come?

He must know
we'll be waiting for him.

Oh, he knows all right.

Then how can you be sure?

This is his grand finale.

He's not going to miss this.

Here, sir.

Gull's got her.

If he's sticking
to the plot of the opera,

he's going to throw her
from the roof.

Porter says there's a stair
at each corner of the quad.

I'll wait on the reserve and
direct them when they arrive.

He won't get away.

Help me!

Jesus!

I've found her!

Sergeant, follow me.

Yes, sir.

Don't worry,
Miss Madison.

You're safe now.

Where's Cronyn?

He told me not to worry
and went off.

You got her.

Is she all right?

No harm.

Where's Inspector Thursday?

Scarpia.

Morse?

Oh... Miss Madison isn't
the final victim.

This isn't Cronyn's plan.

I've made a mistake.

F for Faye, though.

No, it's not Faye.

It's Fred.

Fred Thursday.

Well, here's a how-d'you-do.

Where is she?

Oh, quite safe.

The proverbial sprat.

And you the mackerel.

How else do you imagine
I got you up here?

When it comes to a damsel
in distress,

the boys in blue can always be
relied upon to act predictably.

I thought it was Tosca
goes off the roof?

In Act Three, yes.

But it's Act Two
I've always had in mind.

The death of Scarpia,

the corrupt and venal chief
of police, at Tosca's hand.

I'm afraid the parts
are already cast.

I've nothing against you
personally.

You simply stand in place
of the detective inspector

whose lies put me away.

Foxley.

It should've been him
up here with me today.

But he died while I was... away.

Well, what are you
waiting for?

An audience.
What else?

Where does Morse fit
into all this?

Got to be about
more than torment.

You could've killed him
at the Bodleian.

Why didn't you?

Beethoven had his Schindler,

Haydn his Griesinger.

Every great artist
needs a biographer.

Someone to bear witness
to his greatness

and set it down for posterity.

How does it feel...

to be my crowning achievement?

Five's a good number,
don't you think?

Nice and simple.

Count 'em on one hand.

You're going to keep this up,

I wouldn't mind a draw on my
pipe, if it's all the same.

In lieu of a hearty breakfast,
by all means.

Oh, I've looked into the eyes
of far worse than you.

People who've committed
real atrocities.

And they were sane.

Next to them,
you're nothing more

than a third-rate freak show.

A bearded lady with glue
running down her chin.

You won't goad me
into recklessness, Thursday.

I'm serene.

And I'll be remembered.

A year or two, maybe five.

Comes to the annals of crime,

you're nothing more
than a footnote.

That's where you're wrong.

Ten years-- less, maybe--

they'll certify me cured.

I fooled them once.

I can do it again.
Timely, Morse.

Timely.

Watch your footing there;
it's a bit slippy.

Here comes Spoletta.

Right on cue.

La commedia e finita!

Scarpia dies.

You arrest me.

That's how this ends.

Not if I rewrite it.

Then you'd better be quick!

All under control, Thursday?

More or less,
sir, yes.

Lend a hand, Strange.

You think it's the end?

This is where it starts.

That's enough out of you.

We're the same,
you and me.

We bear the same burden.

Intelligence.

To be clever is to be alone.

Forever.

I see it in you.

I know who
you couldn't save, Morse.

Oh, bugger.

Broke my pipe.

Oh, bad luck.

A spare, thankfully.

Mind you, if Morse hadn't
shown up...

Yes, well...

I imagine getting back
to General Duties after all this

will seem like a holiday.

Hm?

Sir.

Carry on.

I'll book him in.

How do you do it?

Leave it at the front door?

Because I have to.

Case like this'll tear the heart
right out of a man.

Find something worth defending.

I thought I had...

found something.

Music?

I suppose music is
as good as anything.

Go home, put your
best record on,

loud as it'll play,

and with every note,
you remember...

that's something that the
darkness couldn't take from you.

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