All language subtitles for Endeavour.2x01.Home.1080p.BluRay.DTS-HDMA

It gives me great pleasure
to launch

Burridge's "Spring into Summer"
fashion collection.

The simple fact that King Harold

had to straightway hurry south
from Stamford Bridge

to repel the Norman invasion

is perhaps the decisive factor
in William's victory.

D-A-F-T...

N-U-P.

I have received
a heartfelt appeal

for Frida Yelland
of Wantage in Oxfordshire

to get in touch with her dad Bernard.

Dad says he loves you
and misses you very much

and just wants to know
you are all right.

When my late colleague Tom Duggan

took this seat in March,

it may have only been by 18 votes,

but let me assure you:

this constituency is more to me
than just a swing seat.

It's my home!

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Smoking?

No.

Drink?

The odd glass.

Are you sleeping all right?

Diana?

Diana, dinner, dear.

Yes, Mrs. Todd.

We don't want to make it

too late of a night, dear, do we?

Not with tomorrow.

Just five minutes, Mrs. Todd.

Don't fret yourself, Mu.

It's a woman's prerogative.

Traffic news just in.

Drivers traveling to Oxford
are advised to avoid

the center of town, where a pageant...

Someone's got a spring in his step.

Have I?

Starts back again today, doesn't he?

Properly, I mean, at the station.

Well, if the medic's passed him A1.

Fred, remember what you said
after that drink?

I'll get it!

Don't expect too much.

Come in.

You've lost weight.

What have they been feeding you
out at Witney?

Mockery and humiliation, mostly.

Morse.

Sir.

How's the leg?

Oh, fine, fine.

We'd have kept you on at the station

if I'd had my way.

It was, um...

The budget.

I know.

Something about carrying
dead wood, wasn't it,

Mr. Bright said?

You might want to avoid The Broad.

Because of the parade.

Today, this city celebrates
900 years of history.

900 years since these islands
fell beneath the Norman yoke.

It says something, perhaps,
for the Bulldog spirit

that we have never
been conquered again,

though many have tried.

Ah.

I would also like to welcome
back to the station DC Morse,

who after four months
counting paperclips at County

returns to us, FME assures me,
much restored.

Very well, carry on.

Well then, Morse, you'll be
pleased to be off Light Duties

and returned to your more
general responsibilities,

no doubt.

Sir.

Well, an eventful year for you,

one way or another.

Shot, the opera lunatic,

and then to top it all, your father.

Damn bad luck.

But back on the horse, yes?

When you have a minute, Thursday.

I'll leave you to get settled in.

How is he?

I ask with no side.

He's young.

He'll mend.

The ABC said that
she handed in her cards

the previous Friday.

I know my daughter.

Frida wouldn't just go away
and not tell me.

It was planned, then.

Not like she just disappeared
off the street.

Look...

Leave it with us.

Any news, we'll let you know.

My colleague will see you out.

Morse?

It's Mr. Yelland, isn't it?

From Wantage?

You came into Witney last week.

I've been all over.

What makes you think that
Frida's come to Oxford?

Well, I don't know if she has.

I'm just trying everywhere.

She'd have called or wrote
sooner than fret me like this

if she was going off.

Oh, damn.

I meant to give this
to the other fella.

Can you help me?

Please?

Yes, of course.

Try not to worry.

Anything in it?

Two weeks.

Girl's free, white, single
and over21.

Probably run off with the milkman.

Get off me!

It's just a bit of paint, that's all.

Stay calm.

Come along, miss.

Morse.

Hello, matey.

You're a sight for sore eyes
and no mistake.

Back full time?

Looks like it.

What did I miss?

You heard about my Sergeants',
I suppose?

Three lousy points.

If at first...

Yeah-- give up.

All right, brace yourself.

It's a bit, uh...

All right.

Wait a minute.

Name?

Take your pick.

There's about two dozen
different business cards

in his wallet.

Witnesses?

The traffic warden was writing
a ticket when he hit,

but nobody saw him jump.

The porter says access
to the roof is easy enough,

if people are of a mind
to go up there.

Off heights, are we?

Lately, funnily enough.

Mmm.

Not how I'd "my own quietus make,"

but he wouldn't have known
much about it.

Instantaneous.

Dead before his mind
had a chance to catch up

with the rest of him.

What do you make to these?

Commonly removed in suicides.

Automatic gesture.

And of course, the added benefit
in this instance

is that he wouldn't have seen
what was coming towards him.

Cause?

Something of a salmagundi.

Multiple catastrophic injuries
do you to be going on with?

Chapter and verse,
once I've had a rummage.

Nothing suspicious?

Only you.

Morse.

They're just jealous.

Now what have I told you, hmm?

When people say or do nasty things,

what do you do?

Stare back and smile.

Any word as to what was behind it?

Someone said perhaps
there'd been a falling out

over a boyfriend?

No, Diana doesn't have a boyfriend.

She's actually waiting
for Mr. Right, but...

Mr. Todd!

What I can tell you

is she's shooting a commercial
for the television on Friday

with the racing driver, Danny Griffon.

What's it for, Tone?

Sunlight soap powder.

Formula 1.

Very big new campaign.

It's very now, it's very "with it,"

and Diana's very excited about it.

As to anything else,

we're just here to run a competition.

Oxford heat's still
going ahead, then?

Absolutely, otherwise
there would be dozens

of disappointed young
beautiful ladies.

So yes, the show must go on,

and it will do at Cowley Lido
on Monday night.

Thanks ever so much.

Thank you.

How is she?

I'd like five minutes

with those stupid little bitches.

We're thinking suicide currently, sir.

Obviously more news to follow.

What's the word on Icarus, then?

Multiple catastrophic injuries,
according to Dr. DeBryn.

But we'll know more once he's
completed the postmortem.

You're up to that?

Wouldn't want to over face you
first day back.

I'm fine, sir.

Once more unto the breach, eh?

Excellent.

Well, splendid you're settling back in.

Splendid.

Absence makes.

There should be a notebook.

There was a notebook at the scene.

What's there is what came back, mate.

Receipts?

For petrol and motor oil

from a garage out towards Shotover.

There's another for breakfast

at Lyons on Carfax this morning.

What would a man planning
on killing himself

want with receipts, that it?

Force of habit?

He'd also tied a bit of string
around his finger.

A reminder to do something,
wouldn't you think?

Maybe he'd done it.

Either way, we need to know
who he was.

All right, stick with it for now.

See what you can dig up.

Thank you, sir.

Not back off Light Duties five minutes

and already it's foul play.

Just like old times.

All right?

Hello, sir.

Oxford Police.

Much trade?

Not since the bypass.

Holiday camp round the back
had it worse.

Closed now.

Sold three cans of oil yesterday.

Youngster round lunch,
woman after tea,

and Mr. Meeker about 8:00.

How old would he be, Mr. Meeker?

Reckon he was about early 40s.

Biggish fella.

What was he driving?

Lincoln... Continental.

Did he make any mention
of where he was headed?

Ask for directions?

No, didn't need to.

Stopped here, didn't he?

How long was he checked in for?

Last night and tonight.

Did he give a home address?

In the register.

He's stayed once or twice,
I think, the last few weeks.

Dentist.

Thanks.

900 years of history,

and the best that they
can come up with

to represent the contribution
my sex made to this nation

is Miss Great Britain.

Have you got a daughter?

What I might or might not have
isn't an issue, miss.

So you'd be happy to see her
on the back of a float

with everybody staring at her,
would you?

You letting off
your starter pistol like that

put a lot of folk
in fear of their lives.

Fear!

Do you know how many women
are beaten or die

in this country each week

at the hands of their boyfriends
or husbands or fathers?

As a matter of fact, miss, I do.

Probably better than you.

Fractured skull.

Lacerated aorta.

Any of which would've done for him.

Stomach contents?

The full English.

About an hour before he put

Sir Isaac's Law of Universal
Gravitation to the test.

Any word as to who he was?

Name's Meeker.

Dentist, apparently.

With teeth like that?

I've seen better gnashers
running at Uttoxeter.

You didn't have a notebook
come in, did you?

There was a notebook
at the scene of the crime,

on the roof of the car

amongst his other
personal effects.

I'm a pathologist,

not a road sweeper.

If something's been pinched,

I should call the police.

Good afternoon.

This is Detective Constable
Morse, Oxford City Police.

Would I be right in thinking
this is the dental practice

of a Mr. Meeker?

It was?

I see.

What age was Mr. Meeker
at the time of his decease?

The Jeremiahs say to me,

"Barbara, three elections
in two years?

"The voters have had enough.

"You know, we're sitting there
in Parliament

on a 90-odd majority."

I think you know exactly
what the danger is.

We give an inch of ground back
to the Tories

and they'll thieve a yard!

Hear, hear!

Ah, Thursday, come in.

May I present Captain
and Mrs. Batten.

Detective Inspector Thursday.

How do you do?

Mr. Batten owns the paint
factory on the Botley Road.

The Saucies?

What?

The Worcestershire Regiment,
Chief Superintendent.

My tie.

Burma?

You?

North Africa, Italy...

Well, unfortunately,

it appears Mr. and Mrs. Batten's
daughter is amongst

the group we're holding
in connection

with that incident
at the Broad this morning.

Kitty.

She attends Lady Matilda's,

but Captain and Mrs. Batten
have brought with them a letter

from her tutor in Medieval
Studies at Beaufort.

He assures me she's a person
of previous good character.

I think he says "exemplary."

A Running Blue, "Cupper,"

and likely prospect for Mexico
in the 800.

If she's done something wrong...

Barb...

She should face
the consequences, Archie,

the same as anyone else.

Admirably expressed, Mrs. Batten.

However, not everyone else's
mother has been selected

to stand for Parliament.

They've been released?

All of them?

The quality of mercy, Mr. Bright says.

The quality of Captain Batten's
backhand, more like.

Assistant Chief Constable's
doubles partner, isn't he?

In the Seniors' Round Robin.

His paint firm sponsors

the Annual Police Winners
and Orphans, doesn't it?

Yeah, well, there you go.

Same as I was telling Strange:
not what you know.

Morse.

Pint of?

No, I'm not stopping, thanks.

I just wanted to report
on the garage at Shotover.

How'd you make out?

Well, according to the owner,

Meeker's stayed there
three times this last month.

"Meeker" amongst his business
cards, wasn't there?

Dentist, Swiss cottage.

He died two years ago.

Some sort of con artist?

Possibly.

I found this on his bedside table.

"98018."

What's that, a telephone number?

It's unobtainable if it is--
I've tried it.

D-Day? Friday?

Well, you've got that wrong
for starters.

D-Day was on a Tuesday.

Well, what's with the Friday, then?

Something he had to do

tomorrow, perhaps?

I wondered if it mightn't be
Friday at all.

Well, there's a young girl's
gone missing from Wantage.

Frida Yelland.

I thought rather than Friday,
it could be "FRIDA Y,"

couldn't it?

Or it could just be Friday.

You're keen to get back
in the swing, I know,

and that's to be commended.

But?

Tying in a suicide to a missing girl

off the back of a single word?

Got to admit,
that's a bit of a stretch

even by your standards.

Suspected suicide, isn't it?

In any event, we'd be
better placed to know

if certain of his possessions
hadn't taken a walk.

What's that?

Meeker's notebook has gone missing.

Somewhere between the scene

and the Exhibits desk.

Could be the coroner's men
swept it up

with the rest of the detritus

when they bagged the body.

Who was in charge there?

Strange-- although I'm not saying...

Well, I'll have a word
with Mr. Bright in any case.

We can't have uniform
falling down on their duty.

Right, then.

Let's see...

Thursday.

Must be...

Ham and tomato.

Kitty, Kitty!

What?

Didn't you think what
this might mean... for you?

For the family?

I thought you might understand.

Approve, even.

Don't you want things to change?

Well, of course I do.

What the hell do you think
I'm standing for?

My God.

You think you'd be standing at all

if some old man hadn't died?

If the party really gave a damn,

they'd have selected you to
stand for the general in March,

not in some bloody
also-ran by-election.

Kitty...

It doesn't matter
whether you win or lose.

It's just a game.

Yes, it's their game!

And you're playing it!

It's 1966, Mother.

You don't have to wait
to be asked to dance anymore.

Why don't you wait with the car?

I'll see her in to her tutorial.

I'd sooner you didn't come in,
if you don't mind.

I'm a big girl.

Did Frida ever mention a man
called Meeker, Mr. Yelland?

Raymond Meeker?

About 45 years old.

Might have described himself
as a dentist.

Drove a Lincoln Continental.

One of the girls she worked with
at Aerated Bread

said she thought she saw Frida
in Oxford with an older man.

When was this?

Since she's been missing?

Few weeks before.

I told them at Kidlington.

I thought I'd told them at Witney.

It's got that I've told so many,

I don't know what I've said
and what I haven't, and to who.

Why?

You think you've got something
with this Meeker fella?

Uh, for a moment.

It's just something I'm looking at.

It's probably nothing.

Diana?

Diana?

Ah, Thursday.

Town Hall have made a request
of Division

for additional security

at this girl competition
or whatever it is.

I'd like someone from CID on it.

Sir?

Just a few hours of an evening

making sure the contestants
go unmolested.

You're taking a chance.

Don't let Muriel catch you.

Look who's talking.

Hi.

Hello.

I'm Monica.

With the moped.

From across the way.

Morse.

Sorry to knock,

but you haven't got
a tanner, have you?

I've something on the stove to warm,

and the gas has gone.

Come in.

I'll let you have it back.

Call it quits if you've
a tin opener I can borrow.

Just moved in, haven't you?

Weekend before last.

I'll fetch the opener.

You wouldn't have an iron,
would you?

Mine's given up the ghost.

Stretching that sixpence,
aren't you?

How is he?

Bit ring-rusty, maybe.

Soon work that off.

Fred, when you came back
from that drink with him,

you were worried sick.

I don't know I'd go that far.

Yes, you were.

What was it you said?

"The light's gone out of him."

Has it?

So...

What do you do?

What do you think I do?

A teacher, maybe.

In the Colleges.

All these books.

Are you?

I'm a policeman.

You don't look like a policeman.

What do policemen look like?

Not like you.

Thanks for the opener.

Welcome.

I'll, um...

Night.

Good night.

Someone get the police!

There's been a robbery!

Theft was discovered shortly
after 7:00 this morning, sir,

by one of the porters.

When were they last seen?

Just before the college was
locked up for the night.

Around 11:00.

Nobody in or out in between.

Inside job, then.

If the place was shut tight.

Since you're wearing a hat,

might one assume that
you're in charge?

DI Thursday, sir, City Police.

Might we assume the same
of you, Mister...?

Doctor.

Copley Barnes.

I'm the Macullen Chair.

Medieval Studies.

And this isn't a hat, it's a bonnet.

My colleague, Dr. Speight,

Senior Research Fellow
in Anglo-Saxon Antiquities.

How do you do?

What's been stolen exactly?

Speight?

Come on, man, this is you.

Ah, yes, well...

We've an excellent photographic
record of the exhibits,

as you can see.

The quality of the objects

together with certain
runic inscriptions

suggests they belonged to a thegn

or high-ranking housecarl

in the retinue
of King Harold Godwinson.

King Harold that got it
in the eye?

And people decry the merits
of the Secondary Modern.

Yes, Constable, even he.

The center piece
is a golden helmet,

known by dint of the chief
archaeologist's taste for Wagner

as the Tarnhelm.

A spearhead.

A Dane axe.

Various arm-torcs...

What Speight's trying
to tell you in his scenic way

is that the swag constitutes

all the major finds from the
Second Wolvercote Trove, yes?

The which, sir?

You're familiar presumably
with the dig of '31,

which unearthed

a late-Saxon belt buckle
presently held by the Ashmolean?

Strangely enough, I can't
imagine that a working knowledge

of the Historia Ecclesiastica
looms large

in the Hendon curriculum.

I can't imagine it would do us very
much good if it did.

I beg your pardon?

The Historia Ecclesiastica
Gentis Anglorum,

to give it its full title,

appeared 335 years before the events

with which this exhibition
is concerned took place.

Venerable the Bede may have been,

but not clairvoyant.

Please, Dr. Speight,

do go on.

Get uniform cracking
on the particulars

of the movement
of everyone in college

between the time
the place was locked up

and when the loot was missed.

Sir.

Sir, um...

That suicide that went off
the Rates Office roof...

There was an Exhibition Guide
amongst his personal effects.

Half of Oxford's got one,
I shouldn't wonder.

I spoke to Mr. Yelland,

the father of the
missing girl, Frida.

He said one of her colleagues
at work had seen her in Oxford

with an older man.

I know what you said, sir,

but what if that older man
was the body that we found?

What if?

We've got three cases.

Three separate cases.

A suicide, a missing girl
and now a robbery.

You want to lump all three together

because the dead man
had an exhibition guide

and wrote "Friday" down

on a piece of paper.

Well, it could be today,
couldn't it?

Friday.

The day of the robbery.

Two minutes ago, you said
it was this missing girl,

Frida Yelland.

Which is it?

I don't know.

You don't have to prove anything.

Just having you back
in one piece is enough

to be going on with, all right?

I'm going to go and have a word
with the porter.

Oh, hello, stranger.

They let you out, then?

Good behavior.

You?

How are you?

Operational.

There's been a robbery, hasn't there?

Something to do
with the Wolvercote Trove?

I'm sure the college
wouldn't want us

to go into details, Miss Frazil.

Any chance there's a connection

to yesterday's larks in The Broad?

There's talk one
of the girls involved

has a connection to Beaufort,

but no one's naming names.

What do you hear?

I hear very little.

And divulge even less.

It really doesn't matter
what you tell me.

We've had orders from on high
that it's a non-story.

Miss Batten?

Detective Constable Morse, City Police.

I wondered if I might ask you
a few questions

about last night.

Last night?

Someone stole a sizeable portion
of the Wolvercote Trove.

Did they?

Well, there's one in the eye
for Copley Barnes.

Quite literally.

My tutor.

Yes, I know.

You don't care for him?

Not as much as he'd like.

My God, you don't think
I'm something to do with it?

Well, I think you made

quite a spectacle of yourself
on The Broad yesterday.

Perhaps you feel you didn't make
your point strongly enough.

That was different.

Was it?

In 1913,

Mary Richardson walked
into the National Gallery

and slashed the Rokeby Venus.

All in a good cause.

Can anyone vouch for your
whereabouts yesterday evening?

No...

Oh actually, I called home
at about half-past 10:00.

to speak to mother,

but my father said
she was out campaigning, or...

I don't know.

I just wanted people to see the truth.

There's more to women

than an empty head and a Colgate smile.

But it's futile.

Nothing's going to change.

I'll walk away from Oxford
with a degree, and for what?

housewife.

Am I selfish, Archie?

Have I been?

All this.

I know it's been hard
on you and Kitty.

It's my fault.

She's her mother's daughter.

Headstrong, brave,
smart as they come.

Not much of a fault
from where I'm standing.

Any other circumstances,
I'd have been cheering her on.

She does know that.

It's just...

When you believe in something...

I had to try for it.

Know what I believe in?

You.

Kitty.

The three of us.

According to the neighbors,

it's been parked here
since yesterday morning.

Fishing waders.

But no rod or tackle.

Switchblade.

Risky old game, dentistry.

According to the Logbook,
the car's registered

to a Mr. John Pettifer,
11 Drexel Court, London.

That's Soho.

Pass it on to London, then.

He died on our ground.

I thought I might take a look.

Did you?

Listen, Morse.

Mr. Bright's looking for a volunteer

on this Beauty Contest.

I've put your name down.

To do what?

Keep an eye.

They're expecting you
at Chipperfield Studios

around midday.

Ask for a Tony Frisco.

I'm meant to be off Light Duties.

It came from the top,

after all that hoopla with the pageant.

What if it wasn't a suicide?

What if his death
is somehow connected

to this missing girl?

Frida Yelland.

If you're looking to keep
your mind occupied,

it's this theft at Beaufort
we could use a lead on.

You saw her, didn't you?

Kitty Batten?

What do you make to her?

Confused.

Sincere.

Angry.

Any chance the theft of the Trove

could be part of the same stunt?

Well, anything's possible, but...

It's all right, Morse.

It was just a car backfiring.

I wasn't...

I wasn't expecting it, that's all.

I know.

It took you by surprise, that's all.

Very close.

Made me jump.

You really think there could be
something to London?

I can get the train.

After I've been to see
Tony Frisco, of course.

All right.

That was smashing, Diana.

You're a natural.

Hello there.

Tony Frisco, Mr. Todd's assistant.

Detective Constable Morse.

Please, come on over,
I'll introduce you to Val--

Mr. Todd.

You been with him long?

Yeah, a few years.

Started out as his driver.

Worked my way up.

Is it interesting work?

Beats pest control.

That's my former vocation.

Vermin, pigeons, rats, wasps.

That's how I first met Val.

Squirrels in the loft.

Next thing I know,
I'm wearing a chauffeur's cap,

sitting behind the wheel
of the Roller.

Sounds... fabulous?

Oh, it is.

I mean, take Saturday gone.

Diana opened a boutique in Marylebone.

They were all there.

Simon Dee asks me if I like his shirt.

You can't put a price on that.

Where are the cars?

I don't know how I'm meant
to do it right

if there aren't no cars.

"Any cars."

They will put them in later.

Val, Detective Constable Morse.

Thanks very much indeed for coming.

This is my good lady wife
and the partner of my labors.

This is Muriel.

Mrs. Todd.

This is one of the nice
young gentlemen

who's going to be looking
after us tomorrow.

Can we find him an evening suit?

He has an evening suit.

Don't worry about Muriel.

She's like a cat on a hot tin roof

before a competition.

No smoking on the floor, please.

Sorry, that's me.

Let's go.

So what's the form
with this kind of thing?

Traditionally, there's three rounds:

there's day wear,
evening wear and swim wear.

But this is not all about looks.

These girls are judged
on having a personality

as much as anything else.

Do you get many applicants?

Are you joking?

For the right girl,

this competition is the chance
at fame and fortune.

This is personal appearances,
this is endorsements,

all of which
we take care of for them.

For a percentage, presumably.

As the man says,

show business,
not show friendship.

Val, they're ready to go again.

Diana's playing up.

Oh, and Mr. White's
on the phone from Play-Tone.

Right, listen,

thanks so much for coming.

I really appreciate it.

You're going to have to excuse me,

but Tony will see you out.

Someone's beat us to it.

Right, get him up and cuff him.

What are you doing?

Look sharp, Mr. Pettifer.

Wakey, wakey.

Don't talk, listen.

Recognize Mr. Mallory here?

You know what we want.

What's the numbers?

I'm not Pettifer!

You are going to tell me
those numbers.

Come here!

Bring her in here now!

Who are you?

Lydia-- Lydia Martin.

Please, I'm just a secretary.

You come up with the combination
for the safe,

you might save yourself a beating.

I don't know it.

I've only been here three weeks

You'd have to ask Mr. Pettifer.

What do you think we're doing?

That's not Pettifer!

I'm a police officer...

Check him.

He's right.

Let's get out of here quick!

Thursday.

Is this Oxford City Police?

I'm Lydia Martin.

The bigger of the two is Mallory.

He's an Inspector.

Vine Street.

Mallory's wife thought he had
a bit on the side.

Mr. Pettifer's main line was divorce.

So somehow Mallory's got wind of it.

Any idea what Pettifer
was doing in Oxford?

He didn't tell me much.

Well, whatever Mallory was after
is in here.

You sure you don't know
the combination?

No.

Let's try 98018.

Try 15, 58,

16, 03.

Or some variation thereof.

The combination.

The string around his finger.

He had a bad memory.

Yeah, he was always forgetting
to pay his bills.

He kept everything important

written in his little black book.

15... what is it?

58,

16, 03.

How did you know that?

He hung the portrait to remind
him of the combination.

The years of Elizabeth Tudor's reign.

Mallory?

Who wants to know?

Fred Thursday, Oxford City Police.

What can I do for you?

Soho this afternoon.

You and your pal had a rare old time

at the expense of one of mine.

Suppose you tell me
what that was all about?

Suppose we don't.

Then I'll have to take off my hat.

How long have I been out?

Nearly back.

While you were having a doze,
I dug out Mallory.

Turns out Pettifer
was a shake-down artist.

Mallory's wife hired him

to find out if her husband
was seeing another woman.

He was.

Only sooner than
come clean to his client,

Pettifer put the squeeze on.

Only Mallory wouldn't roll over.

About the size of it.

Still doesn't explain
who was waiting for me

behind the door
of Pettifer's office.

You sure it wasn't Mallory?

According to Miss Martin, no.

They didn't turn up till after.

Well, I fetched you this out

in any case.

Souvenir of London.

Do you need any help?

No, we're all right
for the minute, Miss.

Thanks for asking; I've got him.

That's it, let's get you sat down.

Still think Pettifer was a suicide?

Some other husband
had the same idea as Mallory,

only this one threw him
off the roof?

If whoever hit me

was after the same thing as Mallory,

then the answer's got to be
somewhere in that lot.

You're in no state for book work.

Get some sleep.

And I don't expect to see you

at work in the morning, all right?

Is he all right?

Touch of concussion.

Could you look in on him now and then?

Oh, I don't want to...

I know.

In case he needs anything.

And if he takes a turn for the worse,

you call an ambulance,
and then call that number.

Any time.

Are you family?

Colleague.

Good night, Miss.

Wotcher.

You walk into a door or something?

Your idea of a day off, is it?

You're meant to be laid up

with a bag of ice on your head.

There's something you should see.

That is your signature, Mrs. Todd.

30 guineas to be drawn

against the account
of ValMu Promotions.

We know Mr. Pettifer's
bread and butter

was divorce work,

Mrs. Todd.

It was silly, but can you blame me?

Surrounded by beautiful young women?

Who he is?

I thought maybe she'd got
her claws into him.

Who?

Diana.

They'd been spending
a lot of time together.

Promotional tours.

Val had become a little distant.

I was wrong.

Mr. Pettifer told you that?

Yes.

I'd no reason to doubt him.

She's worth a million of those.

When I first met Muriel,
I didn't have a pot to piss in.

Do you know what I was?

I was entertainments officer
at some two-bob holiday camp.

But she saw something in me.

I'd be nothing without that woman.

Because she's the brains.

She's the real business acumen.

That's not how the world sees it.

The world sees
what we want it to see.

But I tell you, believe me:

she's the punchline,
I'm just the boom-tschh.

Just as a matter of interest,

where were you yesterday afternoon?

Well, you know where I was.

I was at Chipperfield Studios.

And the morning of the pageant?

I was in the Broad,
keeping an eye on Diana.

Mu and Tony'll vouch for me.

Look, do you really think
I would risk everything

that we've built up together?

For what?

For some here-today,
gone-tomorrow bit of skirt

who's only interested
in what I can do for them?

He makes a convincing show.

I'd say a water-tight alibi

for the time both you
and Pettifer copped it

is a bit more than show.

All we've got to go on
is the wife's suspicions.

She wouldn't be the first to put
two and two and make five.

I thought I might talk to Diana Day.

Well, "D-Day."

Stretching a point, aren't you?

Besides, she's hardly likely to admit

they were carrying on.

If Pettifer had had
anything on Todd,

we'd have found more
in his file than just a check.

Don't you think?

Miss Day?

Oh, if you want a signed picture,

you'll have to write in.

Detective Constable Morse,

City Police.

Oh, thank God.

I thought you were a fan.

You haven't got a ciggy, have you?

I'm gasping.

I'm afraid not.

Do you mind if I sit?

Please.

So what's this about, then?

What happened at the parade?

No, it's about another matter.

I wondered...

Have you ever met a man
called Pettifer?

Not that I know of.

What about a girl called
Frida Yelland?

Do you know how many names
I hear in my line of work?

Who is she?

She's a young girl gone missing
from Wantage.

She may have known
this Pettifer character.

Oh.

Like I say,
I don't know either of them.

How would you describe your
relationship with Val Todd?

Professional.

He's my manager.

Three years ago,
I was just plain Betty Jones,

working in a shoe shop in Croydon

with no prospects
beyond a couple of kids

and a maisonette in Purley.

And everyone would have said,

"Ain't she done well."

Val saw something more in me.

"A smile to build a dream on,"
he called it.

And he sent me
to deportment classes

and elocution lessons, and gave
me new hair and clothes,

even a new name.

D-Day.

It's my birthday.

It's June 6.

Simple as that.

Simple as that.

Can I redeem this?

Yes, sir.

Thank you, sir.

Trill Mill Stream.

Runs underneath the city.

At least we know
why he needed waders.

T.E. Lawrence explored it
by canoe when he was up.

The point is,

it surfaces again
inside Beaufort College.

How far does this thing go?

About a quarter of a mile.

It ran on the surface originally.

Only enclosed during a cholera
outbreak in the 19th century.

What the hell was Pettifer
doing taking a photograph of it?

I don't know.

Casing the location.

Planning.

This must be the way the robbers
got into the college.

Maybe Pettifer...

Hold on, what's that?

Look there, up ahead.

Who was she?

We're not sure yet, sir,

but her outfit matches that
of a girl reported missing

out of Wantage-- Frida Yelland.

Age?

Early 20s, if it's her.

It's her.

Was she interfered with?

Know more once Dr. DeBryn
completed his postmortem,

but first impression says not.

Her underclothes
are still in place.

How was it you happened
to find the body?

A line of inquiry Morse
was following, sir,

to do with this suicide
off the Rates Office.

Cause of death would appear
to be a head wound.

Would have bled quite profusely

if she were alive when it happened.

Right parietal.

Between the superior
and inferior temporal line.

Someone hit her, yeah?

One might reasonably draw
such a conclusion.

Pettifer had a fractured skull,
didn't he?

He had a fractured everything.

But that was also on the right?

Between the superior
and inferior temporal lines,

if memory serves.

Whoever killed Frida Yelland
also killed Pettifer.

It would appear
they are both connected

to the theft of the Trove.

But what's behind it?

A falling out of thieves?

Perhaps.

But the girl was killed
two weeks ago at least.

Maybe she's not part of it.

Maybe she's heard or seen
something she shouldn't,

and they can't rely on her
to keep her mouth shut.

So what's with the photographs?

And why leave the negs
in the pawnbrokers?

Maybe he didn't trust his partner.

Or partners.

Maybe it was his insurance
against a double-cross.

Didn't work out too well
for him, then, did it?

After Elspeth died,
me and Frida moved here

to be closer to my family.

From where?

London.

I'd gone there after the war
to look for work,

which is how I met Elspeth.

She was a widow with a young girl.

What happened to Frida's father?

The Japs.

Frida took to me from the off.

My little button, she was.

This older man...

Does the name "Pettifer"
ring any bells?

No, not to my knowledge.

What about Beaufort College?

Did she know anyone from there?

We've never had anything
to do with anywhere like that.

Would you have a key for this,
Mr. Yelland?

No.

That's Frida's bits box.

Belonged to my Elspeth.

I let Frida have it
after Elspeth passed away.

You'd have no objection
if we took it away with us

and had a look inside?

No.

Take what you want.

Just catch whoever did it.

These could be anywhere.

Find wherever this is
and we might get some answers.

It's Pettifer's notebook we need.

Same again?

I'll have a large one.

He'll have a pint of Radford's.

I'm all for a beer at lunchtime.

There's nothing wrong with that.

But when you're on duty with me,
you lay off the spirits.

I've seen too many go that way.

What way?

You think I missed
all the bottles round your flat?

Six months, the rate you're going,

you'll have enough off the empties

to put down for a second-hand car.

Booze can be a good servant,
Morse, but it's a lousy master.

What's going on?

You all right?

Perfectly.

Why?

I'm just saying.

Sometimes...

with a shooting,
there can be a delayed reaction.

Shock after the event.

Here, try this.

The FME's rated me fit.

In body.

Seen enough of it in the war.

Men passed A1
and returned to the front line,

too soon for some of them.

I'm fine.

Thomas shot a couple of rolls
with her earlier this year.

I sent the 10 x 8s off to ValMu.

ValMu Promotions.

The organizer of this beauty contest.

That's right.

They put her
in the local heats at Henley,

but she only came runner-up.

Which was about her mark, to be fair.

Did she have a boyfriend?

Not that I know of.

What about a man called Pettifer?

She ever mention anyone
by that name?

Not to me.

That's it.

What was she like?

Not bad from a distance,

you put her in the right clobber.

Good legs, decent bust.

She was all right
until she opened her mouth.

Did you tell her that?

Did she know anyone
at Beaufort College?

That's lovely, Thomas, lovely.

No.

That wasn't her scene.

When did you see her last?

I couldn't tell you.

Try... Or do you want us
to take this place apart

and find out what's got her
as high as a kite?

Babe, why don't you go
and fix us a rum and coke, eh?

There's a good girl.

Couple of months, maybe.

Dropped me, didn't she?

How'd you feel about that?

That's the game, man.

Easy come.

Really?

She could've been your
meal ticket, couldn't she?

I did all right out of it.

I sold her on.

I transferred my interest to ValMu.

And what could ValMu do for her?

You'd have to ask them.

We get hundreds of those
through each week.

One pretty girl is
very much like another.

This one took part
in one of your local heats

for Miss Oxfordshire.

Really?

What's your interest,
if you don't mind me asking?

Our interest, Mr. Todd,
is she was found murdered.

Oh.

I'm sorry, that's...

That's terrible.

That's a tragedy.

Val?

It's Lane at SCDP.

East Coast.

Would you mind excusing me
just for a moment?

I'm sure Muriel can help you
with anything else.

What's this?

More about that nonsense
at the parade?

No, no, some young kid's
got herself killed.

What did you say
her name was again?

Frida Yelland.

We spoke to a Mr. Delfarge,

said he sold her on to you to manage.

Ah, yes, I remember.

We negotiated a percentage,
but nothing was signed.

But she worked for you?

She did a couple of exhibitions.

The boat show, motor show.

She wasn't really cut out for it.

She ever talk about a boyfriend?

What about Pettifer?

It's possible she may have known him.

Her father was killed in the war.

Yelland said as much.

He took on Frida and raised her
as if she were his own.

It's not the official telegram, sir.

There's a letter there
sent by his C.O. after the war.

"Dear Mrs. Spurling,

"You will by now have received notice

from the War Office
of your terrible loss..."

So? I've seen enough like it.

What's your point?

Well, lack of punctuation
notwithstanding,

it's more the signature
that caught my eye.

"Captain Archibald Batten."

My father was a miner
in the Valleys of South Wales.

He'd known poverty.

But it hadn't made him bitter.

He used to say to me,

"Barbara, when the world
shows you its worst,

that's when people show you their best."

That was a very good speech.

Last chance to convince any undecideds.

At least nobody told me
to get back in the kitchen,

which is something.

I thought it was very passionate.

I can count on your vote, then.

I don't.

Vote.

People died so you could.

It's your birthright,
paid for in sweat and blood.

All right, my dear?

Who's this?

Captain Batten.

I wonder if I might have
a moment of your time.

City Police, DC Morse.

Police? Is this about Kitty?

No, Mrs. Batten.

It's about another matter.

It won't take a moment.

I wrote many such letters.

Too many.

I've a vague recollection
of Private Spurling,

but sadly, I'm afraid,
faces do start to blur.

We wondered if Miss Yelland

had been in contact with you.

With me?

No.

To what end?

Some connection with
her father, perhaps.

Something brought her to Oxford.

I see.

Then I'm afraid
I'm sorry to disappoint.

I never met her.

I doubt I've thought about her name

from the moment I wrote
that letter until today.

You've never met or been contacted

by a man called Pettifer?

He's a private inquiry agent
from London.

No.

Good heavens, no.

I mean, the guttersnipes in the press

are always looking for an angle
to do Barbara down,

but I can't see even them
stooping so low as that.

Just for the record,

where were you
on the morning of the pageant?

Campaigning with Barb.

A speech to nurses
at the Radcliffe Infirmary.

And yesterday afternoon?

Canvassing door to door,

as my feet will bear testament.

I can slip my sock off, if you like.

No, that won't be...

Thank you for your assistance,

and the best of luck
to Mrs. Batten tomorrow.

Pint?

No, I won't, if it's all the same.

Night, then.

Good night.

You should've stayed.

You'd have been proud.

I am.

Sir!

This is indeed

the stolen spearhead.

Where did you find it?

In the tunnel, sir.

Close by Frida Yelland's body.

Looks like the thief

stumbled over the corpse
in the dark and lost it.

He was already inside the college.

He steals the goods,
then makes his getaway

under cover of darkness
through the stream.

One of your uniformed associates
mentioned in passing

that you were an Oxford man,
is that right?

I've always rather
despised that phrase.

Chippy, are we?

What, poor Third?

You're tutor to Kitty Batten,
aren't you?

What do you make to her?

Daddy issues.

Well, Mommy and Daddy issues
to be precise.

Hence all this "Look at me!" of late.

Nothing a good spanking
wouldn't cure, I'm sure.

Oh, I see.

Turned your head, has she?

Touch of the barley fever.

Got you yearning for bouts
of erotic gymnastics

punctuated by Thomas Mann
and the New Left Review?

Yum-yum.

The flesh is weak, I suppose.

I've seen all I need to, thank you.

There you go, sir.

Thanks.

Thanks, mate.

I hear it's off ration these days.

I've had enough advice
for one day.

And how do you feel
about giving some?

I've been invited to a meet
and greet this evening

with a view to being
initiated into a certain

ancient fraternity.

We haven't all got your brain, matey.

Never will have.

Some of us need a leg up.

A man can't serve two masters.

Sooner or later,

you'll have to choose.

Just don't lose your way.

It's easily done.

The Trill Mill is out of bounds
to undergrads and staff,

Dr. Speight, is that right?

Yes, yes indeed.

Students once used it
to get in and out after curfew.

The less murophobic, at least.

But after the rat infestation
of '63, we had it sealed.

Dreadful, pestilential pit
of a place.

You wouldn't catch me down there
for love nor money.

Sir?

Was there something else?

You again?

Don't you people ever rest?

I've already told your colleagues

the night the Trove was stolen,
I was in my rooms at College.

Was that usual?

My wife had taken a pupil up to London

for their Grade something-or-other

at the Royal College.

You don't expect a man
to cook for himself.

Im!

Try cartwheels!

But there's no one can vouch
for you at College?

Actually, I had Imogen
on a put-you-up,

but she slept through.

Something wrong?

"8, 10, 86."

What?

Are you quite well?

August 1086.

The date of the first draft
of the Domesday Book.

That's right.

We have some pages

from the original Oxfordshire
returns on display.

Stop there, everybody freeze!

What are you doing?

What the hell is going on?

City Police.

Open it up.

Is it all there?

Sir, it's Delfarge.

Get after him!

Where were you on the morning
of the pageant?

In my rooms at College.

Alone?

And Friday afternoon?

What is this?

Keep on him, Jakes.

You think I'm somehow involved
in the theft?

Worse.

Much worse.

Frida Yelland.

Whom?

The young woman we fished
out of the Trill Mill.

You killed her, didn't you?

We've got you now, Justin!

Give it up!

It's over!

You're delusional.

Or drunk.

I think you should go now.

Quite excellent, Thursday.

Thank you, sir.

It was Copley Barnes.

What was Copley Barnes?

That stole the Trove from Beaufort

and murdered Frida Yelland
and Pettifer.

Morse...

He was the older man.

It's not 98018, it's 81086:

the month and year in which
the Domesday Book was completed.

Pettifer was blackmailing him.

He found out somehow

that Copley Barnes was involved
with Frida Yelland.

That's why Copley Barnes
stole the Trove:

to pay off Pettifer.

Pettifer?

Who was already dead?

What?

We've got the thieves in custody.

It's nothing to do
with Copley Barnes

or"Doomsday"
or any of the rest of it.

It was Justin Delfarge

and his photographer mate Thomas.

Thomas, it turns out,
is the Right Honorable

Gideon Bartholomew Thomas Fyffe-Drummond,

youngest son of the Marquis
of Stanhope.

He was also a graduate
of Beaufort two years since.

Which is how he got the job

taking photographs
of the Wolvercote Trove.

His name's on the blow-ups
and on the exhibition guide.

There's got to be more to it than that.

It's just circumstantial.

You remember the model

he was taking photographs of
when we visited his studio?

Yes.

The bracelets she was wearing?

That's lovely, Thomas, lovely.

The Torcs from the exhibition.

But what about Frida Yelland
and Pettifer?

Justin and Thomas

both knew Frida.

Pettifer, early days.

You're not actually serious?

Unless they've confessed.

Have they confessed?

Morse, remember
who you're speaking to!

Have they confessed?!

Morse!

A man should be big enough
to admit when he's wrong.

Trove has been recovered.

It won't do, Thursday!

It simply won't do!

Who the hell does he think he is?

Be this blow on the head
he got in London, sir.

A slight concussion, that's all.

Put him out of sorts.

Yes.

Yes, a slight concussion,
that'll be it.

A few days off?

I just got back.

Does it sound like a request?

You're not right.

Go home.

Your friend asked me to look in.

You shouldn't have gone
to all that trouble.

No trouble.

I'm used to it.

You're a nurse.

Is it the uniform?

I just wanted to leave you something

before I went on shift.

I tried the other morning,
but you gave me the slip.

Try and eat it while it's hot.

You need feeding up.

Hey, now.

You're shaking.

What's so bad
it's got you this way?

A father has lost his daughter.

That has to be put right.

If I can't do that,

there's nothing.

There, see?

You can add cowardice
to my list of offenses.

When your friend brought you
home the other night,

I didn't see a coward.

Just a man beat up too often
and for too long, maybe.

You're not yellow.

You're just blue.

Morse?

You know your moped?

I need to ask a favor.

Hello?

Anyone here?

Vote for Barbara Batten,
your Labour candidate!

This way, please.

Lovely.

Can we have one of you
as a couple, please?

That's it, big smile.

It's you.

Who did you think it was?

Some couple of bastards
from a few weeks since.

What bastards?

Never got a good enough look.

Two of them, though.

Big saloon car parked up back
by the cabin.

It's all right.

It's licensed.

You're licensed to own it, Mr. Fisher,

not to take pot-shots at strangers.

Trespassers.

My old man bought the land
when the camp closed.

Not that it's worth anything.

But I like to come fishing.

When was it, these two trespassers?

Uh... fortnight last Friday.

One of them was down by here,
lobbing sommat into the water.

I give him a warning shot.

Should've seen the bugger run.

Would you recognize them
if you saw them again?

The one by the water, probably.

Mmm... what you got there, then?

A hearty round of applause
for our lovely ladies!

And as the competitors
make their way around the pool,

let me introduce you
to tonight's judges.

Star of radio and television,

it's What's My Line's
Lady Isobel Barnett.

Racing driver Danny Griffon...

Who do you fancy to win?

Hmm?

The competition.

Miss Great Britain,
Diana Day!

When I was a child, my father
took me to a County Show.

The stock men led beeves
around a field.

The winner got a rosette.

The loser got a bolt
through their skull.

It's just a bit of fun, Morse.

First up, number one...

Oh, yes, it's all fun.

Till the music stops.

Mr. Todd?

All right, take care.

See you later.

Morse.

Any news on Justin
and his photographer friend?

Mr. Thursday's still sweating
them so far as I know.

What was all that about... with Todd?

You seemed very pally.

Val?

Yeah, yeah, he's all right.

I probably shouldn't say, but, uh...

That social event we were
talking about.

The meet and greet?

Todd was there?

All right. Keep it down.

It wasn't anything like you said.

It was no different

to a sort of rugby club do, really.

All very relaxed.

Where was this?

Pub out at Thame.

Yeah, the Lodge meets
above the saloon, apparently,

every Wednesday.

Doomsday Arms.

It's very picturesque.

We should take a run
out there sometime.

I think the returning
officer is ready.

Okay, just one moment.

Just give me a moment.

Captain Batten.

I wonder if I might have

a moment of your time.

I'm afraid I didn't
know her name.

So far as I'm aware,
she was just a contestant.

How was it you were
on the judging panel?

I was invited.

They sometimes ask local
businessmen to take part.

Counselors, that sort of thing.

So you've no private or personal
association with Val Todd?

I might have run into him
here or there.

When might that have been?

The last time, say.

Oh, not for some while.

Recount.

38 votes in it.

Everything all right?

Perfectly.

Thank you for your time.

Doomsday, right?

If I can ever be of service.

So here we are!

The moment we have all been
waiting for.

The returning officer for
the Oxford South Constituency

hereby give notice that
the total number of votes...

Number 7, Cheryl Atkinson
from Gagingwell.

Well done, Cheryl!

The total number of votes
recorded for each candidate

is as follows...

Operations Room?

Can you put me through
to MOD Lydd Barracks, please?

Greville Horatio, Conservative:
26,326 votes.

Yolande Barton from Cuxham,
well done, Yolande.

And finally, your winner is...

And I hereby declare
that Barbara Batten

is duly elected Member of
Parliament for the constituency.

Thank you.

Well done, Georgia!

They say behind every great man,
there is a woman.

I would just like to take
this opportunity

to thank my husband Archie
and our daughter Kitty.

Without them, I would not be
standing here today.

Evening, sir.

Morse, what is this?

Telling us to park up out of sight?

Thursday, you in on this?

More or less, sir.

It's the Frida Yelland killing

and the man off the Rates
Office roof, Pettifer.

I thought we were holding this
Beaufort robbery pair for that?

In the clear, sir.

Of the killings, at least.

Delfarge and his mate knocked
off the Trove by themselves

purely for gain.

Frida Yelland
passed through their hands,

but that's their only
connection to all this.

Morse.

You were right, sir, yesterday.

I was wrong, spectacularly so.

Worse still, I was disrespectful

to you, to Inspector Thursday
and to Sergeant Jakes,

and for that I apologize
unreservedly.

You were not yourself.

Thank you for saying so, sir.

But I suspect the truth is
I was myself all too much.

It won't happen again.

So what's the caper?

Dragging us out of our kip
at Sparrows?

Like I said, I was wrong
about most all of it.

It wasn't Pettifer had it upside-down;

it was me.

81086 wasn't 8-1086,

but I couldn't see past
the theft at Beaufort.

I over thought it.

It was 98018 all along.

It's a lodge number.

Captain Archie Batten and Val Todd

are members of lodge
number 98018, sir.

Also known as the Doomsday Lodge.

D-Day.

You had that right.

If I did, it was by luck,
not by judgment.

I misread the context.

Val Todd and Captain Batten?

Conspired to murder Frida
Yelland and John Pettifer, sir,

though I doubt either of them
committed the act themselves.

That fell to another.

But Frida Yelland was
killed right here

in this cabin.

Val Todd knew the place

from his days as
an Entertainments Officer.

Morse, are you sure about this?

These men are pillars
of Oxford society.

Proof of the pudding, sir.

Best get out of sight.

Well?

What's so important?

You wanted to see me.

Eh?

You're the one who called this one.

"We must meet up 0400.

"You know where.

Don't call me."

That's the message you sent me.

Actually, it's the same message

that I sent both of you.

One signed with an A and one with a V.

What is this?

This, Mr. Todd,
is conspiracy to murder.

The three of you plotted
and executed the killing

of Frida Yelland and John Pettifer.

This is madness.

That's what I thought at first,

but we spoke tonight
to the maître d' at the hotel

where the Henley heat
of the beauty contest was held.

He confirmed a record

of a dinner reservation for two
made there in your name

on the night of the competition.

We showed him a photograph
of Frida Yelland.

He confirmed she was
your dinner companion.

It was just supper.

I felt sorry for her.

She'd taken not winning
the competition quite hard.

There was more to it than that.

She'd remembered your name
from the letter you had written

offering your condolences
upon the death of her father.

When did she bring it up?

Before or after?

You knew my Dad.

In the war.

Private Spurling.

You sent my Mom
ever such a nice letter.

I don't doubt you denied it.

But Frida wasn't the kind
of young woman

to just leave it at that.

She wrote to the regiment,

seeing if they had
any photographs in the archive

of you and her father together.

They've kept her letter on file.

Of course, having taken
her stepfather's name,

you'd no way of knowing
before you slept with her

that Frida Yelland
was in fact Frida Spurling.

Your own daughter.

You couldn't risk
her finding that out.

See, it wasn't Private Spurling
who died in the war,

but Captain Archibald Batten.

You'd got Frida's mother pregnant

and done the decent thing,
but you didn't love her.

So when Captain Batten died
on long-range patrol,

you saw an opportunity.

You took his identity, his rank,

created a new life for yourself.

Married-- bigamously.

You even wrote home
as Captain Batten

to offer your condolences
to Elspeth Spurling.

Your own widow
still mourning for you.

If Frida had discovered the truth,

it would have brought ruin
not only upon yourself,

but also upon your new wife
and family.

You couldn't let that happen,

so you approached Mr. Todd
to get you out of a hole.

And why not?

By introducing you to Frida
Yelland, it could be argued

that he'd got you in that hole
in the first place.

Wait a minute...

You needed someone you could trust.

Someone you could rely on
to keep their mouth shut.

Who better than a member
of a society

who relies upon secrecy
for its very existence?

Your Brother Mason: Val Todd.

You misunderstand the nature
of our fellowship.

But not the nature of business.

If Mrs. Batten were elected,
she'd be well placed

to further your interests.

You might've got away with it, too.

But murder will out.

We've got your wife
to thank for that.

She thought you were having
an affair with Diana Day,

so she hired Pettifer
to keep tabs on you.

He saw you collect Frida
from the station

and followed you here.

You go in there, darling.

I'll be with you in a second.

Okay.

I imagine she thought
you were giving her

another shot at fame and fortune,

but she was walking to her death.

Don't bring me into this.

You are in this.

Up to your neck.

You'd planned to dump her body
in the river.

Only you were disturbed.

So you had to think
of somewhere else.

Somewhere with strictly
controlled access

known only to a few academics
at Beaufort.

And of course yourself,
the pest control officer

hired in '63 to rid the college
of its rat problem.

Evening coming on.

Light fading.

A flashbulb would have betrayed
Pettifer's presence.

But this was an opportunity
too good to miss,

so he came back in the daytime
to make his record.

He took just enough photographs
to make you think

that perhaps he had more
he was keeping back.

So you arranged
to meet for the payoff.

With all eyes on the pageant

on The Broad, it was
the perfect opportunity.

If the roof of the Rates Office
seemed an odd rendezvous,

Pettifer wasn't concerned.

He'd already left his evidence
in a secret place.

In exchange for the money,
he'd hand over the pawn ticket.

But he never got the chance.

So you sent someone to his office

to see if there were any copies.

Luckily for me,

Mr. Batten isn't quite
so well versed

in wielding a cosh as Mr. Frisco,

else I might not be here.

I didn't want...

Shut up!

They'd have nicked us by now
if they had any proof.

Proof?

Beyond the fact that
you came here this morning?

Morse's message made no mention
of a rendezvous

beyond "You know where."

Decent brief will rip that to shreds.

Perhaps.

But he'll have a harder time
with your cigar.

You didn't think we'd come
looking for a scene of crime.

But I doubt anyone else
in the past two weeks

has smoked a Romeo y Julieta here.

It wasn't meant
to happen like this.

Shut your mouth!

He was just meant to scare her off.

Maybe, but that's not
how it went.

You think...

My own daughter.

My daughter.

All right, take them in.

All this over some
little nobody from nowhere.

Everybody's somebody.

Frida Yelland had people
who loved her.

Look, that cigar butt
could go missing, couldn't it?

Evidence disappears
all the time, right?

What I'm trying to say is
it's still not too late for you.

It just depends.

On what?

On whether you want powerful
friends or powerful enemies.

A bunch of overgrown schoolboys

playing with the dressing-up box?

You really don't have a clue, do you?

You cross these people,
they will bring you down.

But not before they've destroyed
everything you hold dear.

Colleagues.

Friends.

Family.

Every action has its consequence.

And it would be inopportune
not to thank Oxford City Police

for their vital role

in restoring the Trove
to its rightful place.

Copley Barnes gave me an earful.

Said he'd remember you.

Vainglorious fool like that?

I doubt it.

Too self-obsessed by half.

I can't help feeling
like I've missed something.

You have.

Your round.

And it wouldn't be the first time.

You don't want to let a little
tripe hound like Todd bother you.

I'm not.

Good.

Because his sort's nowt a pound,
and shit's tuppence.

As my grandma used to say.

Northerner.

Right.

Luncheon meat.