All language subtitles for ripper.street.s04e02.1080p.bluray.x264-turmoil

There is a little boy we could have.
This boy, Connor, has a father,

Rose. When the mother is gone,
it is up to Jackson to resolve, right?

Take him.
Please.

Please, Connor, it's for the best.
(CONNOR WAILS)

Don't ever die for real.
This borough here

has a taste for monsters.
Then let us hear of

the man behind that monster.

He's Isaac Bloom.

It would not be so hard a thing
to have a warrant card made for you.

Needs must
you would work under me, however.

(STREET HUBBUB)

MATHILDA: You are anxious.
REID: No, I'm not. I'm not anxious.

This work I am set to,
my research in Whitechapel,

you do not wish me to undertake it.

That I do not, no.

You think I'll be set upon
by wolves and demons.

But I told you before,
I'm equal to them.

We are, none of us,
equal to Whitechapel.

Then you are not only anxious for me,

for today you return to your duties
at Leman Street.

I am not anxious for that, Mathilda.
I am not anxious at all.

Then I may go about my work alone.

You know you may not.

It is your first day at it,
and you will go with me or not at all.

And so you win yourself
an hour or two's delay

before you walk through those doors
and become a policeman again.

Idle, drinking, violent.

I shall mark these houses
lowest class, loafer, vicious.

I have my doubts
of these categories of Mr. Booth's.

They do not do justice
to the human reality.

These people are not vicious or idle
or violent.

They do not choose this existence.

And yet in but three words
they are condemned.

Mr. Booth's categories
are none of your concern.

This is not your work. It is mine.

I shall see to this house myself, alone.

(KNOCKS AT DOOR)

(CHILD WHIMPERS)

(WHIMPERING CONTINUES)

(WEAKLY) I die.

Father!

Father!

Father, he's dying!
There, boy.

Open your chest. What's your name?
Where's your mother?

I'm dying. I die.
I am here. You are not alone.

What is your name?
(BOY MURMURS)

Tommy.
Tommy.

There, Tommy, do not be afraid.
I am here.

I'm here.

(LABOURED BREATH)

Where is it, my love? I shall be late.

Well, I'm quite sure I washed
at least one of your shirts.

And then there's so much linen.
All right, it's all right. Here it is.

Yeah, a little damp, but, er...

Here you go, Connor. Here.

No.
Come on, Connor.

No.
All right, all right, all right.

Connor.
Give us a go.

Now, little fella, how are you
gonna grow up big and strong

unless you drink your milk?

Ha!

Connor Drake, I hereby arrest you
for the criminal waste of milk

and the destruction of police property.

Eh?

Now, what do you think about that?
(GIGGLES)

What you gonna do about that, young sir?

Eh?
(GIGGLES)

JACKSON: He is safe.

He is loved, our boy.

Even now, your Rose holds him in her
arms. Do you find no comfort in that?

You're free.

You're alive.

And we're together.

Yeah.

We are. We are safe.

Let us delight in that.

900 days we were apart...

but I counted them, every one,
and I bled each and every hour.

You can't leave.

900 days.

All the hours we have lost.

We must make amends.

Captain Jackson will be along shortly,
I have no doubt, sir.

It's a workhouse boy.

His red scalp is iodine.

Workhouse practice against ringworm.

Sergeant, get on to the workhouses
between here and Poplar.

See who's gone missing.
Find out who he is.

His name is Tommy, and he has
a birthmark here behind his Left ear.

And how shall I mark the case, sir?
It is murder?

It is not a case as such.

I mean to find his family,
give him a proper burial.

But... But I must log the action, sir.
It's how it is done now.

And what is your name, lad?
Drummond, sir.

Samuel Drummond.

Do not worry yourself, Samuel Drummond.

It is a matter only for me.

Very good, sir.

And if you come with me now,
Mr. Drake is expecting you, sir.

I, Edmund John James Reid,
being appointed a constable

of the police force
of the Metropolitan Police district,

do solemnly, sincerely,
and truly declare

that I will serve our sovereign lady
Queen Victoria, and in all respects

to the best of my skill and knowledge,
discharge the said office faithfully

and according to law.

Who'd have thought, eh?

Welcome back, Inspector.

You have heard me speak often enough
of this gentleman, Mr. Edmund Reid.

We are lucky indeed
to have him back with us.

I see this wall soon empty,
now he has returned.

And if I may, a little something
to ease you back to work.

A curious case, a spate of attacks,

the victims separated
from their right hands.

I have other business I must attend to,

but Sergeant Drummond
will see you fitted

with all the particulars of the case
and show you to the suspect.

Give this silent fellow a stir.
See if you can't make him whistle.

Your name and business, sir.
I told them slops before.

I don't talk to the police.

Slops?
Mm.

You've been accused
of severing the hands of four men.

It's a most particular crime, in some
cultures, the punishment for thieving.

Slops, coster speak for police.
You're a costermonger, a market trader.

And you serve your own justice
on those who would thieve from you.

You part them
from their light-fingered hands.

It's old coster practice, this.

These scars,
you must need knives for your trade.

You are a butcher.

But the scars
are on the underside of your palm.

So you hold your work in your left,
your knife in your right.

You are an oyster shucker.

(FOOTSTEPS APPROACH)

Mr. Reid, you are asked for, sir.
The boy's mother is found.

(DOOR CLANGS)

You have my boy. Where is he, sir?

I was at my interviews
down Durwood Street

and along comes this lady,
knocking on all the doors just as I was.

Looking for her boy, she says.
Madam, be advised,

the boy that we hold is dead.

Oh, God, save us.

Oh, God, forgive me. I've lost my boy.

I couldn't keep him no more.

I must put him in the workhouse.
I couldn't feed him.

I... I thought he would be safest there,
but look at him.

Oh, God, look what they did to him.
(WEEPS)

Poor boy.

The boy, sir, is Tommy Riggs, missing
from Whitechapel Union Workhouse.

Go to the mother.
See she wants for nothing.

I have questions that must be answered
at the workhouse.

I wish to know how a boy in its care
may die in such abjection.

Mr. Wilde, I have in my morgue in
Leman Street a young boy, Tommy Riggs.

I am concerned, sir,

at the state in which I found him -
underfed, neglected. Mortally, sir.

Tommy Riggs?

Yes, a...

a runaway, missing this week past.

I'm afraid I can not account for
what became of him beyond these walls.

These poor souls
whose parents have neglected them,

so many feel compelled to run away.

They do not see that the workhouse
is for their own safety.

It is our... our greatest sorrow.

Nevertheless, sir,
I should like to see for myself

the conditions
in which the children are kept.

Here, you see we teach literacy.

Along here, domestic skills.

For too long, the workhouse has been
a form of incarceration for the poor,

no hope of release, no hope of a future.

We must let go
of this notion of deterrent,

of threat, and instead
give the poor hope and possibility.

I will not consign these people
to despair, sir, nor to sickness.

We have separated
the children's infirmary

from the rest of the workhouse,

a kind of cordon sanitaire.

We must take the spread of disease
very seriously, even ringworm.

And this, what is this place?

The casual ward for tramps and vagrants,
those who stay only one night.

We're obliged to feed and water them,
let them return to the streets.

We are, as you see,
in the process of fumigating it,

for they bring the filth
of the world with them.

Salus populi suprema est lex.

The health of the people
is the highest law. Indeed.

Well, I hope you'll agree that
the workhouse has much changed

since you knew it.

It is indeed a marvel of order and
hygiene, which gives me to wonder, sir,

why Tommy Riggs should wish
to run away from such a place.

Pauper spirit, Inspector Reid.

The spirit of the streets, it is...
it is too strong in some.

They insist upon their freedom.

His mother blames the workhouse
for his demise.

What say you to that?

His mother?

Why, sir, that cannot be.
How so?

His mother is dead.

This is braided from my hair
for remembrance of me.

And they had us make them
for our Loved ones

that they might share their mourning.

Jesus, he's English.

(KISSES)

And I'll grieve for you every hour,
on the hour.

And you...

oh, my Caitlin,

you will stay within the bounds
of this place, within these walls,

and you will show yourself
to none but Croker. Promise me.

I promise.

And for that, Matthew,
you must stay away from our boy.

You made a promise to Drake.

You must keep that promise,
lest you ruffle his feathers.

For they'll not trouble us here.

Ah, Mr. Reid, sir,
I've been seeking word of the coster.

Yes, yes, yes, the woman,
the grieving woman.

Oh, she's gone, sir.

She's gone?
She packed up suddenly, lit out.

She left no word, she gave no sign,
no clue to her identity?

Indeed, sir.

It was found in the waiting room.

Bromide of potassium. Greasepaint.
She treads the boards.

I know how she may be found.

Sir, about the oyster seller.
I found three stalls

on Hanbury Street, Mitre Square
and Middlesex Street.

Middlesex Street.

Trader there some years ago charged with
several accounts of violent affray. Ah.

Orton, Orton, his name.

This may be his son.

Seek him in the archives.
Learn what you can of him.

And I would have an autopsy done
on this boy, Tommy,

though I do not imagine
Captain Jackson is of a mind to work.

On the contrary, Mr. Reid.

Work is my mind's only refuge,
after the old oak smoke, that is.

Captain.

Captain.

You are not expected here.

Go home, man.
Riot victim.

Straight to the morgue, boys.

But it would seem I am needed.

Blessed murder.

What's the case, Sergeant Drummond?

This riot we've had
at the Salvation Army shelters.

The Salvations are again set upon,
and their captain is now dead, murdered,

and strung up.

Captain Solomon Shaw, stabbed in
the guts multiple times, head sheared,

strung up like a piece of meat
for all to see.

A statement.

This is the work of the Skeleton Army.

It's a ragtag army of the poor.

They've risen against the Salvationists
and their so-called charity.

JACKSON: Jesus,
that's some kind of frenzy, huh?

Nuts.

DRAKE: Mr. Reid,
who's this boy in our morgue?

Tommy Riggs, workhouse runway.

I would request an autopsy.

I am concerned it is negligence
caused his death.

DRAKE: Well, you can see
the work waiting to be done here.

You will get your autopsy,
Inspector Reid,

but we have a murder
must be solved first.

Thank you, Mr. Reid.

JACKSON: These are double wounds.

My guess is blades, some kind of shears.

See the lateral splits in the wound,
most likely the impact of the hinge

as the shears hit the flesh.

(STREET CHATTER)

Mrs. Drake, I wonder
if you might be able to help me.

Er, I seek to discover the identity
of a woman who came to me

and since disappeared.

She is, er, I believe, a fellow
performer, an actress or a singer.

She's dark, perhaps your height.

She left this. Recognize it?

There is a... handkerchief.

It's embroidered with a swan.
Um...

She wears a cluster of flowers
in her hair.

Leda Starling.

She had a spot at Blewett's for a while,
but they let her go.

Last I heard, she was singing
for her supper at the Four Knives.

No.
Come on, Connor.

No.

(SIGHS DEEPLY)

He will eat for Bennet, but not for me.

Smile for Bennet, sleep for Bennet.

(SIGHS) What am I to do with him?

Well, you are grieving, both.

It is only to be expected.

It's good to see you again, Mr. Reid.

(KNOCK ON DOOR)
Who is that now?

Augustus!

Hello, old friend.
(SIGHS HAPPILY)

Oh.

Commissioner Dove.

Er, Augustus and I
were at the ragged school together.

He taught me to write the perfect R.

But, Augustus, I don't... doubt
you've met Inspector Edmund Reid.

Indeed, I have not.

Sir.

The honor is mine, Mr. Reid.
Whitechapel rejoices at your return.

Hm!

♪ Shall we never meet again, Love

♪ As we used to in the past?

♪ And the bright links
in love's chain, love

♪ Be rudely snapped at last?

♪ Yet my...

♪ Heart will still be thine, love

♪ And its thoughts still cling to thee

♪ Like the tendrils of the vine, Love

♪ Around the old oak tree... ♪

(APPLAUSE)

Ah, thank you.

Thank you.
Madam.

You do not remember me?

I'm Inspector Reid
from the police station at Leman Street.

You are Leda Starling.
This is yours, is it not?

Oh, er, you must excuse me, sir.

I am, as you can see,
a little mops and brooms.

There was a boy. You came to see him.

No, he was not my boy.

Madam, you must explain yourself.

You had me believe that you were
the mother of the boy in my morgue.

No, I am the mother
of a boy who is lost.

How is he lost?

I gave him up.

God bless him.

I would have kept him,
but you see what I'm reduced to.

So I... put him in the workhouse.

Oh, God, what has become of him?

Do you believe some harm
has come to him?

Sir, I do fear it.
In the workhouse?

It's a fearful, dark place.

But they say he's not there,

but if he were not there,
he would be here with me.

Where else in the world could he be?

Shall we not go there,
get to the heart of this matter?

And find my boy?

The master is not in his office, sir,
at present.

Then find him.
We're here for a boy - Starling.

What's his Christian name?

Um...

My boy.

My boy!
Ma?

Yes.

Yes, your ma's here. Come to me.

Ma!
My boy.

Oh!

Uh...

No, you're... you're not my boy.

This... This is my boy.
Come to your ma now.

Are you my ma?

Miss Starling, you must come away now.
You must come away. You must come away.

What is this now? Please remove her.
She is disturbing the children.

I... I know I left him.
I know I left him.

My office, if you please.

She seeks her son.
She is much distressed.

Inspector Reid, is this woman the origin
and cause of your earlier visit?

For you must understand, sir,
she is deranged. Do you not see?

She has lost her wits.

I do not doubt that it was she claimed
to be the mother of Tommy Riggs.

She is distracted, I own, but she is
driven to it by the absence of her son.

Then I grieve for her,

but she comes here
twice, often three times in a week,

to ask after him, and every time
I must tell her that she is mistaken.

We have no knowledge of her son.
He has never been an inmate here.

I...cannot help her.

She is unwell, sir.

Provision must be made for her.

I will call the Mile End asylum.
No, no.

No, do not trouble yourself.
I will see that she's taken care of.

Very well.

Will you take me away from this place?
Yes.

Come.
Please.

I see now, Inspector Reid, how it is
that you take such an interest.

You insinuate, sir?

I merely remark that it is not
a criminal case you pursue here, is it?

I do not doubt you have more
pressing police matters to attend to.

(JACKSON WHISPERS)

I have something for it. Take one more.

(DOOR CLOSES)

Loss of short-term memory,
neurasthenia, insomnia.

She's taken bromide of potassium.

Tertiary syphilis.

It's in her brain.

At one moment,
she'll be lucid, rational,

the next, she'll be scattered,
maniacal, bewildered.

The asylum's her only future now.
Oh, dear God. What a road.

What sanctuary is there?

I will take her home for tonight.
Er, she needs rest,

and I would know more of this story
of her boy and how he is missing.

And perhaps she will be calmer
when she is rested.

Perhaps she will remember more.
You cannot take her home, Reid.

She is suffering
the general paresis of the insane.

For that I will find some place for her
tomorrow, somewhere better.

She's not your concern.

Morning, ladies.

Jake Carter,
otherwise known as Redskin Jake,

chief of the Skeleton Army...
(BELL RINGS)

and soon to be convicted
of the murder

of Captain Solomon Shaw.
Caught him trying to shear

a Salvation Army lad
with these little beauties.

It's the black cap for you, my friend.
Come on.

Hallelujah! Look at him now.

He's a proper little workhouse boy,
ain't you, lad?

Come here to my sergeant.
Can you tell me what happened?

Wilfred Higgins...
That man, he grabbed me.

You sheared this boy.

I have two other such assaults,
or am I wrong?

This is your practice, is it not?

Explain yourself.

Ah, to teach him a lesson.

You ever had a Salvation Army breakfast?

Cos they make you beg for it.

(CHUCKLES) I've had many a Salvation
breakfast. Never once was I made to beg.

Good people, merciful, who filled my
belly, and I was glad of it, grateful.

They want your soul in return.

I sheared the boy
just to show he's one of us - human.

And for that,
you sheared Solomon Shaw an' all.

It was not for this you killed him.

He came upon your territory,

threatened your criminal dominion,
and you made him answer for it.

Stabbed him in the guts, strung him up.

Do you think me stupid?

I began my days in a prison,
a workhouse.

What, d'you think I mean to end them
locked up an' all?

We, the Skeleton Army,
are the army of the free poor.

We've known the paupers' punishments.

"You may leave, but if you're worthy."

"You may live, if you're deserving."

We defy 'em.

We will live as we choose,

without shame of our poverty,

without apology!

Beef, good beef!

Beer, good beer!

Banger!
Shut your noise!

Yes, miss?
I'm here to take Mrs. Starling home.

Miss Reid, oh, good evening.

Mathilda, come.

(CLEARS THROAT)

(DOG BARKS IN THE DISTANCE)

There is soup,
should she be hungry later.

Thank you for this care of her.
It's only for tonight.

Tomorrow we'll find the right
and proper place for her.

(KNOCK ON DOOR)

Inspector Drake... Given the late hour,
I assume this is not a social call.

It is not.

(DOGS BARK)

Oh, I think you know it.
You overstepped the mark.

And I cannot help
but wonder why this is so,

when I ask you to pursue one task for
me, this amputating costermonger,

yet I must find you
inventing quite another.

Inspector Drake,
I do not act in opposition to you.

I mean no disrespect. It is...

It is only my doggedness that drives me.

I think you know that well enough.

(CHUCKLES)
Oh, I know that, Edmund Reid.

What of this lady, hm?
This Leda Starling?

Jackson tells me
you've brought her home.

And no doubt that I've lost my judgment
in this matter.

But she is ill...
and she will be given proper care,

but first she must rest so that
I might pursue my inquiries of her.

And these inquiries are?

She's lost her son.

She says that in dire straits
she gave him up to the union workhouse,

but he has since gone missing.

She haunts the union for news of him,

but the master there
claims no knowledge of the boy.

I have some sense,

a sickening thrum, that there is
some kind of malice at work here.

The master, this Cornelius Wilde, he has
a needling, deflecting way about him

that resists all inquiry.

I wish to talk to the Redskin.

He was a workhouse boy.

I should like to hear
what he has to say of the place.

I, er, must say, Mr. Reid,
I have my doubts for this.

Well, I fear this case is food for
the pigs, there are that many scraps.

You are working on a say-so
of, forgive me, a lunatic.

Workhouse boys.
I mean, they run away every day.

What is there to see in this?

Your boy Tommy is dead.

I grieve for him, but you forget,
this is Whitechapel.

For all that we have done here, she is
still the merciless bitch of the east.

And it gives me to ask,
what possessed you to come back here?

You've seen Hampton...

the promenade...

the parasols, the polite conversation
amidst the teacups.

There is nothing of it that breathes.

There is nothing of it that is alive
and quick and stinking and bright.

Whitechapel is life,
in all its wild and rotten splendor.

Beside it,
the rest of the world seems a tomb.

It is rotten and wild.

It is heaving and pitiless and ignorant.

And I have yet seen nowhere to match it.

It is our heartland, Bennet Drake.

It is our life's work, Edmund Reid.

(TRAIN RUMBLES PAST)

LEDA: No! No!

(SOBS) Will... William.

William? William, William.

Leda.

Where's William?

Hm?
William is your boy?

Where's Barnabas? Where's William?
Where's Barnabas? Where's William?

They're missing. You must listen to me.

My mind is so often clouded,
but it is clear now for a moment.

Hear it, please.
M-My little boy was afraid.

His friend William and his friend
Barnabas, they disappeared.

Disappeared?
From the house, from the workhouse.

He was afraid for 'em.

Well, I'm afraid.

You do believe me, do you?
Yes. Yes.

Oh, God, and now my boy's such another.

You will find him for me, hm?
Say you will find him.

If he be...

dead,

I do not care who or why or how.

I do not even ask for justice.

Only that my boy
be not alone in the world

and forgotten and unknown.
I will find him.

I vow it. I will find your child.

MATHILDA: Is she mad?
REID: She is on that path, yes.

My mother...

was she so?

She was very like.

I should not have brought her here -
Leda - forgive me.

I have wondered at it so often,
my mother's madness.

I could not imagine it. I dared not.

But I know it now. I have seen it.

I am no longer so, so afraid.

And... to have her here...

It's almost to be near her again.

You brought Lady Luck with you, sir.

Ah, this winning is too easy.

(CHUCKLES)
You mean to make me generous?

You think me some feeble-headed girl
with her brains in her tits.

No, sir. No, indeed. (CHUCKLES)

I will give the job
the man who offers me the best price.

For three, four...
We'll do it for half your fee.

(CREAKING)

Well, then make yourself useful.
I am dry.

Not cripple, I think. There is the wine,
and there are your legs.

Now, forgive me, my dear.

You have not been introduced.

This is...

jenny.

I bought her to pretty things up.

How much?

How long have you been waiting in dock,

while you float around
for this cheap price?

And all the while
paying in port fees and interest?

What is interest on your cargo?

It is not for this
that you are yet unloaded.

It is not the best price that you seek.
It is discretion.

Clever little whore.

Uhh!
If you mean to do business with us,

you will learn to keep a civil tongue,
Bo Nystrom?

(TUTS) Yeah, you have a memorable name.

You have not traded in
the Port of London for many years, sir.

Not since the steamship Gustavus
went down with all hands.

An unwarranted wreck in a calm sea.

Nevertheless, the insurance
was paid handsomely, fraudulently.

Our friends at Lloyd's
would be interested

to know of your return
to the London Docks.

These are our terms.

The job is ours and no others.

The price is double.

And there is a premium to pay
for my silence.

One minute and the offer is closed.

If you betray me...
I will carve you like scrimshaw.

Jenny's a wildcat.

Inspector Reid, is it not?

Your name travels ahead, sir.

My name is Castello.

Castello of the Star.
Yours travels, too, miss.

And who is this wonderful girl?

I am Mathilda Reid.

Miss Castello,
you have some business with me?

Er... Your marvelous return to us here,

it is owed to the fate of Isaac Bloom,
I understand.

You understand how?
We have a mutual friend.

And who that?
Deborah Goren,

of the orphanage on Woodseer Street.
Come, Mathilda. We'll be late.

She asks herself why it is you have not
sought her out since your return,

wonders if that return
is motivated by the execution

of your other mutual friend, Mr. Bloom,
if the murder of the rabbi Ratovski

still occupies
that restless mind of yours.

As you know, that case is now closed.

And yet so much of its detail
still stands injuncted,

withheld from the public by
the unseen hand of police officialdom.

Why is that, sir,
if, indeed, that case is closed?

Will you now leave us, Miss Castello,
or allow us to leave you?

Be my guest, Mr. Reid.

And a good day to you,
Miss Mathilda Reid.

Cornelius Wilde told me
this boy had been missing for a week.

Can a mere week out of the workhouse
reduce a child to this?

JACKSON: Fingernails missing...

sores in the mouth and the tongue.

And this cracking about the lips,
that's severe dehydration.

I'd say that's chronic in nature,
a matter of months.

Then no more delay.

An autopsy must be done on this boy.

Well, my work's done here anyway, so...

(FOOTSTEPS APPROACH)

Got a, er, fragment of steel
lodged in the vertebra.

Broken blade.

Redskin's your man.

You wished to have words with him,
Mr. Reid. Do you come, then?

Redskin Jake, murderer.
These your shears.

The missing piece found in the backbone
of Solomon Shaw.

What say you now?

We have you, boy.

Your motive, sir?
What drove you to this act?

My protest...

my defiance
against the disposing of the poor.

I charge you with the murder
of Captain Solomon Shaw.

Inspector Drake, if I may.

You were a workhouse boy, sir.

Here is another fine institution.

I should have killed him.

The master,
should have killed him first,

for it is he that started
this pretty business...

peddling the lives of the poor.
This pretty business, expound it.

Well, he shut down the casual ward,

pays the Salvation Army a penny a man
for the vagrants he now turns away.

Shut down the casual ward when?
Two months since.

There is a lie told.
This Cornelius Wilde,

he claims he shut it for disinfection.

It's cheaper to pay off these souls
at a penny a go than to keep 'em.

He is managing his costs.

Here are boys, one dead, three missing,

and here is a man
obsessed with his books,

his accounts, disposing of the casual
wards. What else is he disposing of?

Your name, these... these markings?
I'm a redskin and proud.

A redskin. These are the infirmary boys
shaved and painted. This is iodine.

My badge of honor.

You think the workhouse
is the lowest of the low, hm?

Wrong.

It's the workhouse infirmary.

That's the lowest.

The sick and the weak.

You're just a burden, ain't you?

Left to rot, or...

better yet,
they give you the old black potion.

What is the black potion?

Poison.

This old black potion, it is folklore.

You ask at any workhouse, you'll hear
them talk of it. It is a pauper's myth.

Scarring in the intestinal tract,
severe bleeding in the Lower intestine,

dehydration, blood in the feces.
Caused by?

Well, it's many possible causes, er...

Excessive ingestion of iron or lead.
But, equally, it could be hog's cholera.

It's a savage son of a bitch.
It's found in dustheaps and bad meat.

You do not rule out that
Tommy Riggs was poisoned?

I do not.

That's reason enough for me.
Bring him in. Bring in Cornelius Wilde.

We will not bring him in.
(SIGHS)

We do not have enough to justify it.
We will go there.

We will make a full and thorough search,
then I may at least take your reins.

Find Cornelius Wilde. Detain him here.

Scour this place.
Seek out any hidden place,

any locked cupboard. Bring me
whatsoever you may find there.

Do you see it?
There's something inhuman here.

It is neat and correct, orderly.
This order,

this marvelous efficiency,
this systematization,

I believe that here yet attends
some unforeseen evil,

some coldness to humankind,
some conscience Lost.

This way.
(CHILD COUGHS)

What is this you give them?
Cod liver oil, sir.

This?
An outbreak of scarlet fever.

You may not go in, sir.
It's quarantined.

(DOOR RATTLES)
Mr. Reid, it's quarantined.

You cannot go in there.

(RATTLING CONTINUES)
Mr. Reid, you are going beyond here.

Where to now?
The casual ward.

It was recently fumigated.

Some poor kind of building work.
Ceiling's in the wrong place.

Stinks of carbolic.

POLICEMAN: Mr. Drake, sir,
Cornelius Wilde is found.

You see me here, Inspector Drake,
an innocent man shackled.

You will not hear the end of this.

Here is a man with a vision.

He means to invest in his young inmates,

teach them skills,
build them up ready for life.

It's a worthy vision, but it costs
money, a great deal of money,

and he has only limited resources.

And we see here

busy accounts indeed,
as money moved from here to there,

robbing Peter to pay Paul.

You pay a small fee to
the Salvation Army to rid yourself

of the great cost of the casual ward.
There's nothing illegal in that.

The casual ward was a drain
on my resources. I freely own it.

These men, the... these loafer paupers,

they are the lazy, the indolent,
the residuum.

They are irredeemable.

Undeserving of sympathy, of kindness,
undeserving of life.

Tommy Riggs, a boy in your care,
and yet he died in abjection in my arms.

Tommy Riggs ran away.
Tommy Riggs escaped from you.

He... He fled for his life!

Mr. Reid,
here is something you must see.

The boy, Starling, marked here.

Jabez Starling...

lost to his mother.

She dying of grief,
and you denied all knowledge of him.

You denied her her boy.
You told her she was mad.

That woman... That woman, she...
She gave him up to the house.

She is a prostitute, a lunatic!
You bluster, sir.

You could not acknowledge him
for you could not produce him.

What have you done with him?
What have you done with him?!

How have you disposed of him?
Mr. Reid, Mr. Reid.

I will find you out, sir.

You have taken leave of your senses,
Mr. Reid.

You accuse me
of killing the boys in my care!

Inspector Drake, will you allow
this obsession, this... this mania?

You stop your yapping now and be silent!

The money from the casual ward, then.

Yes.

Here. You pay the salaries
of three schoolteachers,

and yet you are still in the red!

Now, let me see.
Where is the greatest expenditure made?

I will warrant it is in the infirmary.

The children's infirmary.

Costs fall month on month
this last quarter.

Says the children are dispatched. How
much does a sick child cost, Mr. Wilde?

How many do you need to be rid of
before you balance your books?

Why would I want to kill my boys when
my only purpose is to give them life?!

A locked cabinet, Mr. Reid,
and inside, these.

"Blaud pills, treatment of anemia,
sulfate of iron."

Huge cupboard, full of them.
Hundreds of bottles.

Tommy Riggs died from scarring
of the intestinal tract and dehydration

caused by the excessive ingestion
of iron.

He's killing the sick.
For it is cheaper than keeping 'em.

Dear God, he is killing children.

Tommy Riggs ran away.

Jabez Starling ran away.

Inspector Reid has taken leave
of his senses not for the first time.

Deaths.

They are not marked here.

He is not taking them to the pits,

or he must document them.
Where's he putting them?

The casual ward.

It was not the ceiling that was too low.

It was the floor. It was too high.

Sweet Jesus.

You will dig up every single one
of these boys that you have buried...

(COUGHING)
and you will identify them!

You will identify this boy,
or you will join him in the earth!

(COUGHS) This... Jabez Starling...

you... you... you do not understand.
You cannot.

This place, the waste of life,
it is... it is intolerable.

This... This... This boy...
This jabez...

himself blighted with syphilis,

his mother deranged,
his... his father absent.

There... There is no hope for him,

only poverty and degradation.

These... These...
These others, polio, rickets.

I only hasten the inevitable.

And there is...
There is a kindness in it.

There is a kindness in it for them.

Their sufferings, their...

pitiful lives are shortened.

These useless boys...

I have given 100 children, 100 children,

the start in life they deserve.

At what cost, hm?

Deserving poor, the undeserving poor,
who are you to judge?

Connor.

Come.
(GROANS)

Come.

Connor, calm yourself.

Rose.

All day it is like this.

He will have nothing of me.

Why don't you quit your fooling,
Little man? Huh?

You gotta behave...

for your mum.

(CONNOR GIGGLES)

JACKSON: ♪ Little girl, little girl

♪ Don't you lie to me

♪ Tell me where did you sleep
last night?

♪ In the pines, in the pines

♪ Where the sun never shines

♪ Shiver... ♪

The only kind of song I know.

Oh...

You will come see him again?

I don't think Mr. Drake
will care for that very much.

Well...

he need never know.

LEDA: I lost my boy.

I know where he lies.

It's a bright spot

beside the trees where birds sing.
(WOMAN WEEPS)

Why do you weep, sir?

The comfort you have for your son...

I could not give to my wife.

Our girl was lost to her forever.

You're a good man, Mr. Reid.

Do you not know it?

You're a mighty heart.

(SOBS) I Lost my boy.

But I know where he lies.

Beside the trees...

among the birds.

Edmund Reid...

you are forgiven.

MATHILDA: When the Count comes to London
he makes his lair in Whitechapel.

(SCREAMS)

JACKSON: Skin's penetrated
at the jugular.

You find what killed her?

What purpose?
Blood is life.

With me.
Your secret will be told.

Do not do this.