All language subtitles for the-frankenstein-chronicles-s02e03-seeing-the-dead-webrip-x264-sng

Can you confirm this is the
second murder of a clergyman?

Two men were torn apart,
but Father Ambrose wasn't.

His heart was cut out.

Only Hervey's sick
enough to think of this.

I'm Augusta Ada Byron.

I may require your services for a dress.

Frederick, may I introduce Mrs. Rose?

- Thank you for coming.
- You could have bed and board here.

With all this talk of the
devil in Pye Street,

- I would prefer to have someone here.
- "Dean of Westminster

announces intended evacuation
of the Pye Street area

amidst fears of public
safety and plague."

Why did God abandon us?

My flock lies here

in the cradle of the church,

under the gaze of God.

Yet every day, they wander further
into the valley of death.

That's her third dead
child in as many days,

and her sister will soon follow.

Pye Street is cursed.

It's no superstition.

Why the red ribbon?

If the bereaved can ever
afford a consecrated burial,

they know which body to look out for.

FRANKENSTEIN PRESENTED BY THE CELEBRATED
MRS. WILD AND HER NEW PENNY EXHIBITION

Peelers were all over the
Archdeacon's crypt this morning.

You still haven't told
me what you were after.

You're as jagged and
closed as one of these.

Pye Street's emptying fast.

Plague's scaring them off.

All right. Get a move on.

Let's go.

Billy Oates.

A friend of yours?

FRANKENSTEIN PRESENTED BY THE CELEBRATED
MRS. WILD AND HER NEW PENNY EXHIBITION

Somebody left the horse untied.

Who was it? And don't blame Thomas.

Thomas gets blamed for everything.

Hey, Thomas!

Thomas!

We want them scared of you, remember?

You haven't seen a black horse
roaming loose, have you?

One white sock?

It's all right, Mrs. Wild.

What do you want?

- Where's Hervey?
- Hey!

What do you think this
is against your neck?

- A spoon?
- Easy.

He's trouble, Mrs. Wild.

And a dead man for that matter.

Then he must have something
important to say.

Let's talk like gentlemen.

So, where is he?

I haven't seen Hervey, Mrs. Wild.

You covered for him.

You could've saved Flora's life.

That's a bit rich.

I kept that girl fed and kept her pure.

I cared for her in my own way.

You sliced that poor
girl's throat, didn't you?

I didn't kill her.

- Are you sure about that?
- Hervey framed me.

You lied to me about him.

You gave me the wrong man.

And I got you transported.

Yeah well, I got myself out, didn't I?

I always do. Saw myself some sea.

What? Do you think I'm lying?

I'm a London-lubber at heart,

so I came home.

Point being, I haven't seen
hide nor hair of Hervey

before or since.

Somebody has been supplying
him with human hearts.

Murdered priests.

You supplied him once, didn't you?

I'm a showman now.

Either way, you'd have
to tell me your trick.

Slipping the noose.

I might have to call
for it myself one day.

Roll up, roll up!

Mrs. Wild's Penny Exhibition!

Would your mother be at home?

Mrs. Flynn?

Mrs. Flynn?

If it's payment you're after,
you have a wasted journey.

I have nothing left for you.

This is to put towards
your children's burial.

A proper one.

It starts in the hands.

Your help would be more use.

Yes.

Do you know how your children
came by the sickness?

They say it's the air that's killing us.

They gave us a choice. Freeze to
death without a roof over our heads

or hold our breath.

Whatever the cause, no one
is coming to save us.

It is God's will.

Elsie, come help your mom!

When the time comes, I beg of you,

lay us down together.

Elsie!

Thank you for waiting, Home Secretary.

Mr. Dean sends his utmost
sincere apologies.

You would have heard of these
terrible murders on our brethren.

- I'm aware.
- Then, you will understand that

with regards to your discretion
about your new cemeteries,

Mr. Dean must concentrate on
preserving the interest of the living

rather than the dead.

- Any message you have, I shall pass...
- Then inform your Dean

that the dead are killing the living

with the miasma from their
overflowing burial grounds.

And that my new cemeteries will be built

whether the Dean likes it or not.

Does Mr. Dean truly seek to
prevent grieving families

from having a proper Christian burial

just because he will lose the
right to the burial fees

as if this is a mere business

- and the church created to make money?
- One would hope not.

Then he must stop obstructing
the King's royal assent

to the consecration of
the new burial grounds.

Then perhaps, Sir Robert,

this conversation would
feel more relevant

after you sought reelection

and of course, triumphed.

Deo volente.

Mr. Renquist, wherever
I sit in the commons,

I am this country's greatest reformer.

So, tell your Dean that with
your saturated graveyards,

and your clergymen being devoured
right under your very own noses,

that it is not the
devil you should fear.

It is me.

Bloody hell!

Oh, my God!

He's done it again! Another
body! Another murder!

Bloody hell.

Sir, another murder.

- Where?
- Pye Street! A street away.

Crowd's gathering quickly, sir.

Parish Watchmen will
be there any minute.

Run! Run then!

Stop! Stop. I need your help.

I need to get this man's body
to Westminster Police station

before the Parish Watchmen
take him. Come on.

Get it open. We need to leave!

Nightingale!

We know what you're doing.
It's against the law!

Well, take it up with
the Home Secretary.

A pox on you!

Another murder!

If you still suspect the killer
to be a Bethlem lunatic,

how difficult can it be to find him?

Being honest, sir, I'm less certain
than ever that it's the inmate.

Whoever is doing this is making
a mockery of our service!

Something that the Dean
and his Parish Police

will exploit with relish!

With respect, sir, Parish Police
are already obstructing us

with private inquests and not letting us

within twenty yards of
the poor souls' bodies.

What else can we do?

Show some initiative, man!

Get back! Everyone, back!

Sir Robert.

Inspector.

I took the liberty of claiming
Reverend Eastman's body

to beat the Parish Watchmen
at their own game, sir.

I do hope it's legal.

Promote him.

Fetch the coroner!

Reverend Eastman. Dead.

Who would do such a thing?

Somebody who has no fear of God, maybe.

I preached sermon after sermon,
three sheets to the wind.

Finally, the Dean of
Westminster hung me out to dry

not because of my rotten inner,

because I kept my bearings.

I dared to criticize Mr. Dean

for all his selfishness and his greed.

I soon learned that

if you dare to raise your
head up above the pulpit,

the Dean will come along
and knock it off for you

and you're out on the
street. Or so I thought.

The Archdeacon,

Reverend Ambrose, and now
poor Reverend Eastman...

They all knew that he was
as crooked as my elbow

and formed a faction against
him. A sort of holy trinity.

They wanted to prevent him
selling off the church's land

for his own personal gain.

Pye Street.

But instead,

these three good men are dead. Murdered.

The church blames the devil,

the Pye Street deal goes through,

and the Dean's pockets burst with gold.

Pye Street?

Who would buy it?

Fetch me another nail for my
coffin, and I shall think on it.

Small beer, please.

- The plague is clearing the place.
- You forgot my drink.

You said the Dean wanted
to sell Pye Street,

but you don't know who to?

This land is worth a
hundred times that value.

If they cleared the slums, that is.

The plague is doing that for them.

Read the bible, Martins.

Only God can send down a
pestilence to punish us sinners.

Not only God's work.

A man of science who believes
he has God's power...

God's right.

What is it that you're doing?

I'm configuring a clockwork figure,

just as life-sized and
life-like as you or I.

An automaton,

wearing that gown.

We will be unveiling her
at Mr. Dipple's party.

You mean... the gown is for a doll?

Why would a grown man be so
enamored of a contraption?

Knowing the gown is to be
worn by a mere contraption

will not diminish your
attention to detail.

Of course not.

And in answer to your question,

I believe these machines to be the
pinnacle of man's own creation.

In the future, they will be able
to do anything we tell them to do.

Perhaps even put you out of a job.

That is if your tongue
doesn't get you there first.

Hey.

What are you doing here?

There are people looking for you.

Go home.

I didn't disturb you, did I?

No.

You're a night owl like myself?

Not through choice.

We have that in common.

Do you play?

As a boy, a little. At service.

If you played something,

it might help me sleep.

The reverend's throat was sliced first,

incapacitating the victim.

The knife was then used to
carve through the ribcage

from the top of the
chest to the sternum.

But he left a wide
enough margin to ensure

that the victim's heart could be removed

without any harm to the organ itself.

No other organ was taken.

Whoever committed this crime

is well-practiced, precise

and methodical.

If you ask me,

he is no escaped lunatic.

Thank you, Dr. Lennox.

The other two clergymen had
exactly the same wound.

Hearts missing, yes,

but not torn limb from
limb by the devil himself.

To whom do I owe this privilege?

Your articles are terrifying
and misinforming the public.

Whoever your source is,
you're printing their lies.

And you believe that missing hearts

will scare them less?

Sir, this man is asking for you.

Well, I just came to
collect my cart, sir,

but I wanted to express my thanks
for the bravery you showed

amidst such passionate local
mistrust. Thank you, sir.

You see, not all the
public hate your guts.

I believe that the
victims from the clergy

were murdered by order of
the Dean of Westminster

on account of their
opposition to a land deal.

Details here.

Names.

Hey!

Do you know of any other priests
that might be in danger?

Yes.

- Me.
- You're a priest?

Ex-priest.

But if the Dean finds out
I'm talking to you...

Go, follow him. Make
sure you get his name.

That's him, Mr. Renquist.
Sergeant Nightingale.

We're already acquainted.

Sergeant Nightingale, I have
here a magistrate's order

to release Reverend Eastman's body
at once for a private autopsy.

He's all yours. Go ahead.

Take him. We've got
everything that we need.

Mrs. Rose, will you permit
me to see your work so far?

It is very fine.

Thank you, sir.

I've been beguiling Mrs. Rose
with tales from the future.

About how there will come a time

when everywhere you look,

everything you see and do,

will be influenced by machines.

You talk as though you
have seen the future

with your own eyes.

I don't intend to see it.

I intend to make it.

Mrs. Rose, Ada is an analyst

and in this her age,
the age of machines,

we must embrace it

or we will be chewed up in its cogs.

If man can create machines

and make them do as we command,

then man will have more power than God.

I've no desire for man
to have power over God.

For women to have power
over men, however.

Why shouldn't men have power over God?

Because "Power,

like a desolating pestilence,

pollutes whatever it touches.

And obedience,

bane of all genius, virtue,

freedom, truth, makes slaves of men,

and of the human frame.

A mechanized automaton."

Did I say that to your father?

It was Mr. Shelley.

Do you enjoy poetry, Mrs. Rose?

When I have the time.

But in all honesty, I
prefer your father's work.

Leaflets and verse only do so
much to hold power to account.

It really takes blood.

Lord Byron knew that more than most.

Will Miss Ada be back
with us again tomorrow?

She shall.

I have told her if she doesn't
finish her work on time,

I shall paint her gold and pass
her off as an automaton myself.

I believe she would.

She is certainly a force of nature.

Oh, she is more than that.

Her mother was afraid

she would inherit her
father's turbulent spirit.

She hoped that science would
curb her lust for life.

It has done the opposite.

- I wish I had her courage.
- How so?

I can see the cogs
whirring in your mind.

How would it be to try to
answer without calculation?

I think, perhaps, I am afraid to live.

I'm sorry. You must think me very weak.

Not at all.

- Are you married?
- I am widowed.

Oh, I'm sorry for asking.

If I may,

you are not alone in
being afraid to live.

There is much to lose.

Perhaps that is why I am so
entranced by these machines.

They never change and...

I am envious of them for that.

Does that explain how a grown man

can be so enamored of a contraption?

Undoubtedly.

Come on! Don't you have a home to go to?

Sit down here, Martins.

It's no palace,

but you are most welcome. Now...

This is a map of Saint
John's and the parish.

And this is the location of
every death from the fever

during the past month.

That's only around Pye Street.

- Not only that...
- Yes?

It's all clustered around
this market area here.

That must be where the miasma or...

the pox-ridden air, whatever
you wish to call it,

it lurks at its thickest.

That's right outside here.

How come you're still breathing?

I could ask you the same.

Martins!

Stop!

Martins, what have you done?

It's not the air. It's the pump!

Get water to your family from
somewhere else, anywhere else.

Do you understand?

What are you waiting for,
child? Go! Spread the word!

It's poisoned.

The water is poisoned.

Go on! Get away!

It's not the air! It's the pump!

- What are you waiting for? Go!
- Who are you talking to, Martins?

Get away!

Go!

Go away! Get away!

It's poisoned!

The water's poisoned!

It is not the air. It's the water!

What are you waiting for? Go!

Get away, all of you!

Go!

I have told you.

The water's poisoned!

Go!

There's no one here, Martins.

Martins?

- There's a body tied down here.
- Oh, God.

A sailor.

Miss Pickett tells me
your work here is done.

Indeed.

I hope it meets your expectations.

It is exquisite.

I am fortunate that Ada
brought you to me.

Thank you.

Has Braun arranged you a carriage home?

There's no need. I prefer to walk.

Thank you, Mr. Dipple.

I have enjoyed this immensely.

Mrs. Rose.

I paid you a gross insult

in what I first said to you.

- It was I who spoke out of turn...
- Please, allow me to finish.

I did not believe that you
would meet my expectations,

but you have surpassed them.

You have breathed your
own life into this gown.

I can see it.

I hope your evening is
a tremendous success.

And if the gold thread works
loose again, which it shouldn't,

please send for me.

Is there a patron saint for journalists

or is that a contradiction in terms?

- You're late.
- A minor disagreement with the police.

Reverend Eastman's autopsy report.

Courtesy of the church.

Was his corpse eviscerated,

his body dismembered,

like the other priests?

Tragically, so.

Indeed.

For a man of God.

It is a stormy night, a pervading omen.

For this evening,

I, Dr. Victor Frankenstein,
shall complete my task.

I have become master

of the secret of bestowing animation

upon lifeless matter.

The object of my experiments,

a huge automaton

in human form!

The thunder,

the lightning!

Calm!

It lives!

It lives!

If you wanted a seat, soldier,
all you had to do was ask.

You poisoned Pye Street,

did Hervey's bidding.

There's a dead sailor in the well,

and I know you put him in there.

What have I done?

- Where's Hervey?
- I don't know.

He has become a demon!

Avaunt, you fiend!

Avaunt!

Let me go! Hervey!

He's still killing people!
He's still killing them now!

Thomas, no!

And you're going to help me find him.

- Same as yours?
- Yeah.

Do you know him?

No.

I can show you where
he came from, though.

I have been invited to

a grand occasion tonight.

I thought you might be
able to accompany me.

- Frederick Dipple.
- Jack Martins.

- Jack Martins.
- Yes.

Marlott lives again.

This time I can stop him.

Well, good. Because
you've blamed yourself

for too long, Joseph Nightingale.

It's very unfortunate that the
sad business of these murders

seems to hamper us in
our parallel endeavors.

I blame the newspapers,

fanning the fires of public alarm.

These are not the words of God!

These are lies,

spoken in a house of lies!

Mr. Dipple's endeavors
have criminal intentions.

Mr. Dipple harbors nothing but
good intentions, I'm sure.