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- You are anxious.
- 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 Lehman 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
and 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 that 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.

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?

- Tommy.
- Tommy, there, Tommy.

Do not be afraid. I am here. I'm here.

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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, ah...

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?

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?

What you gonna do about
that, young sir? Eh?

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.

And 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.

This red scalp is iodine.

Workhouse practise 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
birth mark 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'll 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 east 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.

Witness statements are
included herein, sir.

You'll find 'em in dates order.

- None of the witnesses could identify...
- Riot, riot!

Salvation Army, the
show is on Buckle Street.

They are set upon!

We'll see to this, Mr. Reid.

I am Inspector Reid.

Your name and business, sir.

I told them slops before.

I don't talk to the police.

- Slops?
- Hmm.

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 practise, this.

What's your stall?

These scars, you must
need knives for your trade.

You are a butcher.

But the scars on the
underside of your palm.

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

You are an oyster-shucker.

Mr. Reid, you are asked for, sir.

The boy's mother is found.

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.

Who but two streets from my Tommy,

I thought perhaps he
might be the boy she seeks.

Sir, I beg you. Take
me to him if he be here.

- Oh, dear God, sir, let me see him.
- Madame, be advised.

The boy that we hold is dead.

O God, save us.

O God, forgive me.

I lost my boy.

I couldn't keep him no more.

I must have put him in the workhouse.

I couldn't feed him.

I... I thought he would be safest there.

Look at him.

O God, look what they did to him.

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.

Sergeant, our suspect,
he is a costermonger.

Oysters are his trade.

Seek out every seller in this
square mile, for he's one of them.

We may know his identity and
shuck his confession from him.

Mr. Wilde, I have in my morgue in
Lehman 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 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's our... our greatest sorrow.

Nevertheless, sir, I should
like to see for myself

the conditions in which
the children are kept.

Yes. Let me show you, Inspector Reid,

how we treat our children here.

Arthur here is one of our boys,
trained now in clerical work.

Next year, he will leave the workhouse
with all the skills needed to...

to build a life for himself.

This is our great purpose. Come.

We mean to turn these
destitute young people

into viable members of society,
self-sufficient, productive.

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, er, 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,
er, 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
and 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.

But I believe you are no
stranger to this place, Mr. Reid.

For was it not in a mortuary here to which

Mary Ann Nichols was brought?

The Ripper's first?

Yes, it was.

Evil place, old Montague Street.

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

leads 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.

It 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.

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

And you, oh my Caitlin,

you will be watchful.

You will be vigilant.

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.

I shall be close, and
silent, and invisible.

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.

I see you, American.

Heart heavy to part with her, eh?

Do not fear, sir.

She will not want for company here.

Sergeant.

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

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

- She's gone, sir.
- She's gone?

She packed up suddenly, lit out.

Should I have held her, sir?

No, no, you couldn't have known.
She's not the boy's mother.

Boy's mother is dead.

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. Grease paint.

She treads the boards. I
know how she may be found.

Sir, about the oyster seller.

I found three stalls on Hanberry Street,
Midas Square, and Middlesex Street.

Middlesex Street, trader there some years

ago charged with several
accounts of violent fray. 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 the
Salvation Army shelters.

The Salvations are again set upon,

and the 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.

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

Nuts.

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

Tommy Riggs, workhouse runway.

I would request an autopsy.

I'm concerned it is
negligence caused his death.

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.

These are double wounds.

My guess is blades of some kind of shears.

See the lateral splits in the wound,

most likely the impact of the
hinge as the shears hit the flesh.

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

Ah, I seek to discover
the identity of a woman

who came to me and has since disappeared.

She is, er, I believe a fellow performer,

an actress or a singer.

She's dark, perhaps your height.

She left this.

Recognise 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.

Come on, Connor.

He will eat for Bennet, but not for me.

Smile for Bennet, sleep for Bennet.

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.

Who is that now?

Augustus.

Hello, old friend.

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 honour is mine, Mr. Reid.

White Chapel rejoices at your return.

Hmm.

♪ Shall we never meet again, luv, ♪

♪ As we used to in the past? ♪

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

♪ Be rudely snapped at last? ♪

♪ Yet my heart will still be thine, luv. ♪

♪ And its thoughts still cling to thee, ♪

♪ Like the tendrils of the vine, luv, ♪

♪ Around the old oak tree. ♪

Ah, thank you.

- Thank you.
- Madame.

You do not remember me?

I'm Inspector Reid from the
police station at Lehman 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.

Madame, 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.

Er, 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.

I'm 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. My boy.
- Ma!

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

This... this is my boy.

Come to your ma now.

Are you my ma?

Ms. Starling, you must come away now.

What is this now? Please remove her.

She is disturbing the children.

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 claiming
to be the mother of Tommy Riggs.

She is distracted. I own.

But she is driven to it
by the absence of her son.

And 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.

It is a harsh truth, I understand.

But these incursions into my
children's peace must stop.

She is unwell, sir.

Provision must be made for her.

- I will call the Marland 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.

I have something for it. Take one more.

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.

Dear God. What a road.

What sanctuary is that?

I will take her home for tonight. Ah...

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 has 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
someplace for her tomorrow,

somewhere better.

She's not your concern.

Morning, ladies.

Drake Carter, otherwise
known as Redskin Jake,

chief of the Skeleton Army, 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 practise, is it not?

Explain yourself.

Ah, I was teaching him a lesson.

You ever had a Salvation Army breakfast?

'Cause they make you beg for it.

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.

'Cause that ain't charity.

A bone to the dog is not charity.

Charity is a bone shared with a dog when

you are as hungry as the dog.

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

And for that, you sheared
Solomon Shaw and 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 and strung him up.

Do you think me stupid?

I began my days in a prison, a workhouse?

What? Do you think I meant to
end them, locked up and all?

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

We've known the pauper's 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 help Mrs. Starling home.

Ms. Reid, oh, good evening.

Ms. Reid, how do you do?

Good evening, Captain Jackson.

Oh, erm...

young Mr. Drummond,
you... you wanted some more

of my miraculous beard serum.

I do believe, though, I must say you, ah...

you do me credit with
that, er, fine animal.

Don't you drink that all at once.

Mathilda, come.

There is soup, should you 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.

Inspector Drake, given the late hour,

I assume this is not a social call.

It is not.

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,

a bewildered actress and
her imaginary lost son.

The coster, I have him.

His name... Percy Orton.

Sells oysters from a
stall on Middlesex Street,

as his father did before him, his father

convicted of the severing of
a hand some 20 years since.

The son continues the tradition.

Ah, now, you see, that is why I need you.

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.

Oh, I know that, Edmund Reid.

What of this lady, hmm?

This Leda Starling?

Jackson tells me you've brought her home.

And no doubt that I've lost
my judgement 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.

But she is, is she not, in the
grip of some kind of dementia?

There is some unravelling of the mind, yes,

but why make up this story of the workhouse

if it were not so? Why haunt the place?

Some instinct drives her there.

This and the boy Tommy,
the workhouse runaway,

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

Well, I fear this case is food
for the pigs with 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 Paris halls, the polite conversation

amidst the tea cups.

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 splendour.

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.

No. no!

W... William.

William? William, William.

Leda.

Where's William?

William is your boy?

Where's Barnabas? Where's William?

Where's Barnabas? Where's William?

Are they missing? Now
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.

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

You will find him for me, hmm?

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.

Is she mad?

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.

You mean to make me generous?

You think me some feeble-headed girl

- with her brains in her tits.
- No, sir. No, indeed.

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

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

Well, then make yourself
useful, luv. 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.

If you mean to do business with us,
you will learn to keep a civil tongue.

Bo Nystrom?

Yeah, you have a memorable name.

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

Not since the steamship Gustovas
went down with all hands.

An unwarranted wreck in a calm sea.

Nevertheless, the insurance was
paid handsomely, fraudulently.

Our friends at Lloyds 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 wild cat.

Inspector Reid, is it not?

Ah, we've never met, but I feel I know you.

Your name travels ahead, sir.

My name is Castello.

Castello of the Star.

Yours travels too, miss.

And who is this wonderful girl, this hair?

I am Matilda Reid.

Miss Castello, you have
some business with me?

Er... your marvellous 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 Gorn, of the
orphanage on Worcester Street.

- Come, Matilda. 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 Matilda 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?

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.

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 of these souls
at a penny a go, than to keep 'em.

And 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 honour.

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

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 faeces.

Caused by?

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

excessive ingestion of iron or lead,
but equally it could be hog's cowhage.

It's a savage son of a bitch.

It's found in dust heaps 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. 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 reigns.

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.

All is neat and correct, orderly.

This order, this marvellous efficiency,

this systematisation,
I believe that here yet

attends some unforeseen evil,
some coldness to humankind,

some conscience lost.

This way.

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.

Mr. Reid, it's quarantined.
You cannot go in there.

Mr. Reid, you are going beyond here.

Where to now?

The casual ward.

It was recently fumigated.

Some poor kind of building work.

Ceilings in the wrong place.

Stinks of carbolic.

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,

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 residual.

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.

Jabas 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've 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 school teachers,

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 full 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.

Inside, these.

Blaud pills, treatment of
anaemia, sulphate 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's cheaper than keeping 'em.

Dear God, he is killing children.

Tommy Riggs ran away.

Jabas 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 there 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, and
you will identify them!

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

This, Jabas 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 Jabas,

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 a hundred children,

a hundred children, the
start in life they deserve.

At what cost, hmm?

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

Connor.

Come.

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.

♪ 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.

W...

You will come see him again.

You have him under your spell.

Say you'll come again, Jackson.

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

Well,

he need never know.

Well, we won't tell him,
now will we, little man?

Never let it be said
Abel Croker does not deal.

Ah, forgive me, Madame.

There are no ladies in my life down here,

and my manners are rough. Huh?

There.

Your share of the Viking
loot you won for me.

- And this?
- Ha...

Some graft for you, if you would.

Tell me how my business stands,
for I confess it, I have lost count.

There is every barrel, every spice,

every last cotton bale of the Empire

forgotten somewhere in here.

Yeah?

10 years past, my blood
would have roared for you.

Proud, old lion you are now, though.

Aye, but blunted claws.

I lost my boy.

I know where he lies.

It's a bright spot beside
the trees, where birds sing.

I know where he lies.

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.

I lost my boy.

But I know where he lies.

Beside the trees,

among the birds.

Edmund Reid,

you are forgiven.

Sync & corrections by PetaG
www.addic7ed.com