All language subtitles for Jonathan Creek s02e06 Mother Redcap.eng

The gangland savages who
redefined the word "evil. "

Tonight, underworld associates promise
reprisals will be swift and bloody.

The man who condemned them, Judge
Forrest Sweetland, is under armed guard,

as Chinese assassins declare
he'll be dead by morning.

Good evening. A massive security
operation has been launched

at the home of the High Court judge
in the so-called Bamboo Mafia trial...

OK. They helpfully sent one set of
these, so you'll have to pass them round.

This character might be used on a
major hit, known as the Invisible Man,

which I don't take to mean he'll
have bandages round his face.

If you see this one, take special
care. He's a martial-art type.

He'll snap your spine
as soon as look at you.

However, if this merchant turns up,
it's a whole different ball game.

He's a suicide bomber. One tap,
it could be goodnight, Vienna.

- Chief Inspector?
- Yes, sir.

We hope to have an early night.
I have to be up at six tomorrow.

No problem. The lads'll do
one final sweep of your room,

then we won't disturb you again.

I'm sorry, Ken. I can do
you "what" and "where",

but "how" is going to take
a bigger brain than mine.

It went through the centre of the heart.

The wound's barely a
millimetre in diameter,

as if he'd been stabbed
by - I don't know -

a rapier or something.

- How about "when"?
- Well, if they heard it at six o'clock,

any earlier, you wouldn't have
seen this carpet for blood.

Barred windows, solid walls, nothing
that comes close to a murder weapon.

What the hell are we looking at here?

Hello?

Who's been cutting their nails?

If they have, they were
very blunt scissors.

This looks as if it's been
ripped off someone's finger.

You would not believe how
boring life is at the moment.

I've had bugger all of any
interest for five weeks.

Hardly the in-tray of
a thriving crime writer.

- Who's Jason Tippet?
- God knows.

I got as far as he's an estate agent
and fell into a narcoleptic trance.

"I wonder if you'd be interested
in collaborating with me

"on a rather fascinating
history I'm compiling

"of a London hostelry
called the Mother Redcap.

"If convenient, I'd like to
ring you Monday evening... "

Oh! I'd better put this
answerphone on quick...

- 3810546.
- I'm dead. I've been cremated.

Yep. She's standing right
next to me, Mr Tippet.

Hang on while I pass you over.

Hello, Mr Tippet. Yes,
I did. I was just...

Well, that's all right.

Don't be silly. Why would I think that?

Well, it pays to be careful.
There are some odd people about.

Forgive my scrappy letter. I'm not
a writer, as you'll have gathered.

That's why I'd love you to
help me out on this project.

It's actually the most macabre
mystery that goes back almost 50 years.

And for my money, you're the
one person who can do it justice.

You reckon?

No, nothing that can't
wait. What a nice idea.

So, where are you thinking of going?

Mmm... Great.

OK. See you there, then.

Bye.

- You're not serious?
- What's your problem?

Can't stand the competition?
I need to run a bath.

Competition? You don't know
him. He could be some weirdo.

- Jonathan Creek?
- Yeah.

Fortunately, Jonathan,
not everyone is a weirdo.

We don't all live in windmills,
thinking up ways to saw women in ha...

Toodle-oo.

I'm assuming you know
nothing of what happened

at the Mother Redcap in the 1940s.

I don't know where you place it
- unsolved murders or weird ghost stories.

Amazingly, no one's
written a book about it,

which I rather hope
we could put to rights.

- Now, I know what you're thinking...
- I suppose a fork's out the question?

- I beg your pardon?
- Sorry?

Excuse me. Could you get
me something with prongs?

Obviously, the copyright,
royalties, everything would be yours.

The research I could help with.
I've already done quite a bit.

As I said, the whole thing's so
macabre. I don't know where you start.

The beginning. Thanks.

Ever since the man who owned
and ran this place died -

it was 1969, a man
named William Ambergast -

the old Mother Redcap pub in Edmonton
has been property market poison.

Whether it's superstition
or what, I don't know.

Would you buy a
100-year-old building

where seven men were quite
literally terrified to death?

The way it's told,

the first one, Mr Clifford Jennings,
managing director of a big clothing firm,

was staying overnight with a lady friend
in a special room kept for visitors.

Round about midnight,
he was preparing for bed.

The death certificate
said it was his heart.

The truth was, no one
knew what had killed him.

The girl was convinced
he'd seen something outside.

"Something so utterly horrible,
it set off the fatal seizure. "

Between 1947 and '51,
there were five other cases,

deaths which have never been
explained from that day to this -

all in the same room, all after they'd
looked out of the window in the night.

Not a mark or scratch
on any of the bodies,

no evidence they'd been
poisoned or suffocated.

Four of them were found on
the floor the next morning.

Three were actually seen
at the moment of death,

collapsing in what appeared
to be a fit of mortal terror.

So, what are you saying?

Something appeared outside a window
that frightened seven grown men to death?

Why am I getting this image
of George Formby on a ladder?

Er, is there any chance you could
tell me what this is all about?

Oh, sorry!

Ken Speed, Chief
Inspector. How do you do?

I'm sorry about the Neanderthal
tactics of my two constables.

They thought they were
bringing a suspect in.

So I gather. I confessed to
two armed robberies on the way.

I was having a beer the other
week with DCI Janet Masterson.

That locked-room business
with the house of monkeys?

Work of genius. I thought, "If he can
help on this Sweetland thing, get him. "

- Judge Sweetland?
- That's right.

About six o'clock this
morning, he was found stabbed...

Oh, God. Is that a lump
coming up under there now?

- Tell me, does that feel swollen to you?
- Yeah...

Oh, right. Thank you, sweetheart.

WPC Radnor, this is Mr
Creek, the chap I mentioned.

Pull up a chair, and we'll take
you through the grisly details.

You're kidding? It's been
like this since the '50s.

Last year, it went for a song at auction.
Didn't even reach the reserve price.

Ah... Lock's been forced again.

I'm afraid it's a bit
of a haven for vagrants.

- Be careful.
- Yes.

This is the room.

Where seven men died of fright,

looking out of this very window.

Just kidding.

I suppose it's all been
redeveloped since then,

just to make our lives even more diff..

Jason?

Jason?

Over here.

- What's the problem?
- Thing keeps cutting out.

A connection that needs re-soldering.

Now we come to the riddle of the
torn-off nail found by the body.

Have you got the blow-ups, Fay?

The question here being why would
a self-respecting Chinese assassin

let his fingernails grow
nearly half an inch long?

- How are you feeling now?
- Yes...

better, now my heart's
back in my ribcage.

I suppose they're right. She was just
some old bag lady with a lungful of tar,

but talk about turning up on cue.

Be worth keeping tabs on, in
case it has a place in our story.

Listen, I feel, all of a sudden...

er, there's something
about me you ought to know.

What? You've got a month to
live? Just my sodding luck.

It's more in the way of... I suppose
you'd say an alternative lifestyle.

Myself and a few friends
I share a house with...

- Oh, bit of a hippy on the quiet?
- No, nothing like that. It's just...

If you have a problem with
a man who practises nudism,

now would be the time to say.

Well, I think it's wonderful.

- Seriously?
- Mmm.

It's been a fascinating
evening, one way and another,

and we must get together and talk more.

Only I've just seen someone I
know, so why don't you get off,

and I'll give you a buzz tomorrow?

Goodnight.

Bye, Madeline.

Yes, can I help you at all?

The bloke in there. What's he here for?

Look, press have to go
through the proper channels.

I'm Madeline Creek and
I'm that man's wife.

What's this all about?

So, if I come up with a solution
that leads to the killer's arrest,

by next week, I'm highest new
entry on the tong's UK death list.

Not much of an incentive.

A couple of hours tomorrow is all I
ask. I'll pick you up about ten o'clock.

- What are you doing here?
- I was worried sick about you.

Come on. We'll grab a coffee.
You can tell me all about it.

Of course, technically,
I'm retired. That's a joke!

After the third bypass, they told me,

"Watch the stress levels or
you could go at any moment. "

Of course, they're so short-staffed...

You brainless little turd!

I'll nick your Brylcreemed arse!

Cor! Did you see that? Didn't even look.

- On another planet, some people.
- Still, we're in good time. No hurry.

Then you've got my daughter. Says
she's gay. What's that all about?

Expecting her first baby in a month,
courtesy of the local sperm bank.

What'll go on the birth
certificate, "Father: some wanker"?

- God knows what the world's coming to.
- Yes... Well...

In a minute, we can ask him.

Personally, I don't know
what's left to look for.

We turned the place inside
out before and after.

We've had body heat detectors,
ultrasonics, the lot.

And two of your officers were
outside that door all night?

From about 10.30 to 6am precisely.

They heard a disturbance,
came in to find the body.

Which I think you said is what
woke you up at the same time.

Normally, I'm a very
heavy sleeper, but I...

The first thing I
remember with any accuracy,

the door's been flung open,
the police were in here...

and when I saw the
blood... on her hand...

Um... Sorry, just to fix it,

he'd half-fallen out
of bed about here...

with a load of stuff from
his table on the floor.

If I remember from the photo,
his clock, a glass of water,

some papers and a table lamp.

His clock, there's another weird
thing. The fact that when I...

except that I obviously was dreaming.

- Dreaming, Mrs Sweetland?
- It's all the worry of that night.

It took me a while to drop
off, and I kept waking.

The first time, I remember
clearly. I happened to open my eyes,

and the clock there by
his bedside said 5.10.

I nodded off. I must have
woken up later, and this time -

you'll think I'm mad
- it said 4.06.

At the time, I'd swear it was
real, but how could it have been?

Oh, why are we all
standing around pretending?

There are only two explanations
for my husband's death -

either somehow he did it
to himself or I'm lying...

because I was the only
person in the room.

I'm the only one who could
possibly have killed him.

If we take the evidence at face value,

and fall into exactly the
trap we're meant to fall into.

We believe he was stabbed at six o'clock
because it's when they heard the scuffle,

and because he'd barely started bleeding
despite a wound through his heart.

Even if he was killed
earlier, the question remains,

how did the assassin
get in and out again?

Sorry? Er, no, I think
you're missing the point.

That question remains, but
it's largely irrelevant.

Implying what?

Implying...

there's a third explanation
for what happened in this room

that's so ingenious, we're not
within a mile of seeing it yet.

Morning. Someone said you did the
PM on that old lady last night.

- Could you say what she died of?
- No. That information's confidential.

Of course it is. Shame.

I suppose I'll just put these
photographs in the post, then.

Sorry about that. Bye.

Just a minute. What photographs?

Photographs, Mrs Climpson, that might be
of considerable interest to your husband.

- So, he's not really a Chelsea fan, then?
- Get out.

Holy moley!

You're kidding? When
did you find that out?

My God! And we thought this
case was already complicated!

What's that theory? That
everything that happens in the world

is somehow connected to everything else?

I read an article once, that
if a man breaks wind in Hounslow

it can affect a hurricane in Java.

In fact, I think I know the man they
mean. Travels on the Circle Line.

Did you tell that WPC you were my wife?

Certainly not.

Certainly NOT.

So, come on. How does
all this fit together?

Corpses with ripped-off fingernails...

I'm going to have to put
a poultice on my brain.

You should never tumble-dry
a cotton and linen mix.

She wasn't a bag lady at all.

She was Sweetland's cleaning woman,
or someone with access to the house,

who the gangsters paid
to do the deed for them.

And afterwards, to shut her up,

they kill her and dump the body,
suitably disguised, in this old pub,

where no one'll find her till
she's rotted beyond recognition.

Pardon?

Sorry?

Is that all I get, contemptuous
silence? Give me your mobile.

And she got in and out of the
room how? Astral projection?

Oh, she was in one of the drawers.
I don't know. That's your department.

If she was murdered, why does
it say she died of emphysema?

And how could she have killed Sweetland
when she'd been dead for a week.

- And why pick a 70-year-old asthmatic...?
- All right! You've made your point.

This Mother Redcap
thing, how does it go?

Seven men all died of fright?

While looking out the window.

Hi, Jason. It's Maddy.
I got your message.

I'd love to come round for
coffee. That'd be great.

I'm sorry we keep missing each other.

There have been some amazing developments.
I'll fill you in tomorrow. Bye.

Look, it all happened 50 years ago,
and it's probably apocryphal anyway.

One's fact, one's folklore.
I don't see the relevance.

You don't, but the killer did.

You're losing me, Jonathan.

50 years ago, Mother Redcap
- seven baffling deaths in a bedroom.

This week, Judge Sweetland
- baffling death in a bedroom.

What are you saying?

That the people there were all
murdered using some clever method

that's now also been
used to kill Sweetland?

Except their deaths couldn't be explained.
Your guy was stabbed through the heart.

A single, clean puncture, unaccompanied
by any peripheral tearing or damage...

which suggests there was no resistance.

Yet he brushed all that stuff
off his table onto the floor.

No resistance? Which means he must
have been stabbed while he was asleep.

Hmm... I've got a horrible feeling
it doesn't mean that at all.

I just wish I could get a fix on that
clock she said had gone backwards.

- What are you on about?
- When do you see your estate agent chum?

- Tomorrow at 11. Why?
- Get him to fill out the whole story,

as much as he knows, about the
guy who ran the pub, the victims,

the exact details of how each one died.

Somewhere in this place...

everything's telling me...

lies the truth behind
Sweetland's murder.

And it's got sod all
to do with a fingernail.

Hi. Welcome to our weird
and wonderful world.

I've told everyone all about you, but
they're dying to see you in the flesh.

This is really, really nice.

God, aren't you lucky?

So long as... I suppose there's a
danger you could just chuck yourself off?

People call you a recluse
because they love labels.

I go into a pub or a restaurant,

and they're all pointing, going,
"There's that bloody recluse again. "

It's deeply disturbing.

What are they like? I don't know.

This looks smashing.

So, tell me, what made
you become a copper?

Both my brothers were
already in the force.

They more or less twisted my arm.

Sound a right pair of bastards.

They were both killed
by an axe murderer.

There's some Parmesan
there if you want it.

Mmm!

I was just saying to Gareth and Pauline,

when we first spoke
- I don't know if you sensed it,

and it may be too strong a word
- but a certain simpatica.

Most people can be terribly judgemental

about a lifestyle they
simply don't understand.

Yes.

You're being held on suspicion of
murder, so you'd be well-advised...

Oh, can we take that as a confession?

Yes, just make yourself at home in
there for a day or two and bear with us.

That'd be smashing.

Oh, and no miraculously disappearing
through the walls this time, please.

Our job's hard enough as it is.

I mean, but that is a serious turn-off,

if you can't keep your
tongue in your mouth.

Right out it came each time,

in this revolting scooping
action, like a giant iguana.

Listen, you're lucky you
only had a tongue to look at.

Let's put it down as nil-nil,
shall we, and move on?

I have got everything you ever wanted
to know about the Mother Redcap,

plus, the power should be on.

We can see what we're looking
for... What ARE we looking for?

Victim number five, Mr
Gordon James Chapman, age 53.

A merchant banker.
Same as three and four -

dead on the floor the next morning.

No evidence of any human intervention.

Found him lying there with
a towel around his waist,

as if he'd had a bath,
gone over to the window

and just died of shock
or... Am I talking to myself?

Plenty of woodworm and
a fair old bit of fungus.

What the hell is it?

Yeah, sorry. Number six.

Number six. Oh, yeah.
Got a picture of this one.

Sir Michael Pritchett QC. That was
his last entry in the family album.

You'd think word would have got round,

or you'd think the publican, Mr
Ambergast, would put a sign up -

"Caution. Do not gaze out... " What?

- What have you spotted?
- Shoes.

Over by the chest of drawers.

- So?
- The last one had just come out the bath,

and they were all going to bed,

so it's a fair bet that when
they died, each would have...

Yes...

Clever. It wouldn't
work every time, but...

Hang on. Who are we
talking about? Ambergast?

You think he lured people
up here to bump them off?

And no one tumbled it, because nothing
suggested a crime had been committed.

They swallowed that tosh
about dying of fright.

Three of them were actually seen
convulsing with horror as they looked out.

Doesn't that point you
in a definite direction?

Especially when you look at all
the things it couldn't have been.

- What did Holmes said to Watson?
- "Get your kit off and give us a kiss"?

Exactly. Which leaves us
with only one possibility.

Which is?

Why is there no woodworm in this skirting
board when the floor is riddled with it?

Pass.

Stay right where you are.

- What are you looking for now?
- Don't know till I've found it.

I still can't get over
that other, you know?

If you were looking for the quickest
way to destroy any sense of mystique,

opening the door stark bollock
naked would do it every time.

- Got you.
- What if there was a wasp or something?

Mistaken it for a sprig of buddleia?

I can tell you, you wouldn't
catch me dabbing on his Savlon.

Ooh, put me right off.

The things people get up to in pr...

Jonathan?

What are we doing in
this sodding place?!

I think I'm ready to
go home now, Jonathan.

Solution or no solution.

I'm afraid I draw the
line at bubonic plague.

Don't go near the window!

I'm sorry.

Oh, God!

I could have killed you.

What the hell happened there?

The same thing as happened
to those seven guys...

and nearly happened to you.

It's been electrocuted.

That's not woodworm in those boards...

They're the holes for a
set of tiny metal pins,

just very slightly proud of the surface.

Can you see?

Step on those in your bare feet...

You're kidding?

For a 50-year-old booby trap,
it still works surprisingly well.

Come on.

You've got a lever here, evidently,
which raises and lowers the pins...

and a switch here, on and off.

And that's how he did it?

Well, beats Sweeney
Todd into a cocked hat.

But... how do we put this together
with the murder of Judge Sweetland?

No.

That's the one.

He followed me home last week, and made
himself scarce when he saw the police.

OK.

That's very useful, Mrs Sweetland.

Have you got a moment? I think
Mr Creek has something to tell us.

Sorry to rake this all over yet
again, but last night, about 2am,

a load of stuff
suddenly came into focus,

and I finally got a sense of
the whole thing in context.

- Are you OK?
- Just get on with it.

Sometimes what looks sinister turns
out to be frighteningly normal.

Something like the time on the clock
that appears the wrong way around

with a glass of water in front of it.

It's safe to assume that the first time
you opened your eyes and looked across,

the time was actually twenty past one.

Only, because you were seeing it through
the water, the display was reversed,

and it read ten past five.

Next time you look, your husband has
taken a sip and put the glass back,

only this time not in front of the clock, so you see the correct time
- 4.06.

So...

the clock had nothing to
do with the murder at all.

Alternatively, it may have
everything to do with the murder.

God help us. If I get through
this one alive, it'll be a miracle.

Cutting to the quick,
we face two questions.

How was your husband
stabbed by an assailant

who spirited himself into the room
like Dracula, and then out again.

And what has an old bag lady,
whose fingernail was found,

got to do with the murder
of a High Court judge.

According to the
description in this report...

Mr Sweetland put up no resistance...

to the blade or whatever
it was when he was stabbed,

suggesting the attack took
place when he was asleep.

But how do we explain
the apparent struggle

and the way he'd knocked
all that stuff off his table?

So let's run, for a minute,
with a different hypothesis -

that he was stabbed through the
heart after he'd been murdered.

Now we're looking for a different
cause of death, something less obvious,

that would be totally overlooked
next to a knife wound in the chest.

Enter Mr William Ambergast, a thoroughly
unpleasant character in the 1940s,

who electrocuted his victims at a
London pub called the Mother Redcap.

Electrocuted?

I'd been trying to squeeze the
mechanics of it out of my brain.

How do you electrocute someone without
anybody realising what happened?

You'd need to rig
something up in his bedroom,

something you knew he was going to touch
that was connected to a power point,

that looked entirely harmless.

If not for that thing about time going
backwards, I'd never have got it -

the frightening simplicity of a clock
that had been carefully sabotaged

so the alarm button
actually becomes live.

So that when he goes to hit it...

at 6am precisely...

I'm afraid everything that follows,
follows directly from that basic premise.

If Mr Sweetland was killed by
an electrified clock at 6am,

and less than 15 seconds later was found
with a stab wound through his heart,

there was only one
possible explanation...

and only possible killer.

Oh, God. Fay.

A quick trawl through the news
services filled in the gaps.

The man who slaughtered
both your brothers,

decapitating one with an axe,

and then himself being
killed in a police shoot-out,

had previously been released on bail,
pending another charge for assault.

Their deaths would never have happened
if that man had still been in custody.

It was a bum decision...

but did it give you the right
to murder the judge who made it?

Well, I couldn't believe it, could I?

When I found I'd been rota'd
on the protection detail.

My first thought was,
"To hell with it. "

Just produce a gun.
Hang what they did to me.

That's how much I wanted to blow
his trendy, progressive brains away.

Then something happened...

about a week beforehand...

that showed me I could be
more... creative than that.

OK. All right. Up you go.

My finger's caught.

Just caught.

There it goes.

I said I'd try and get her in a hostel
somewhere, but she wasn't interested.

This was her home.

I decided to stay with
her for a few minutes,

during which I got her life story

and the story of that
place, the Mother Redcap.

It turned out in the '40s,
she'd actually worked there...

and not as a barmaid.

A room upstairs was
basically a knocking shop.

Discreet service with professional
gentlemen of the day...

with the additional grisly
sideline you know about.

Seems these blokes' wives
coughed up a lot of money

to have their husbands
conveniently disposed of.

What it did... was set me thinking.

If I was clever...

I could do this... and get away with it.

Required some special expertise...
but I knew just who to go to for that.

The deal was done. They fixed me up with
a duplicate clock, suitably modified.

And to throw everyone off, I was given
one of their more... sophisticated devices.

Earlier, I'd made the switch, knowing
it would be easy to swap them back later.

At six o'clock, when
we heard the noise...

My God, you're proud
of what you did to him.

You murdering...!

Oh, my God. Someone call an ambulance.

Chief Constable Peter
Grisham paid tribute

to Mr Speed's incomparable intellect
and powers of deductive analysis.

His window Marjorie could cherish
with pride the memory of a husband

whose lasting memorial,
he said, was the resolution

of one of the most complex and
baffling murders in police history.

Now let's see the weather.

No, I'm impressed, I must say.

'Cause it wouldn't have mattered
a toss to him who got credit,

but you, Mr Self-Effacing Softie,
knew what it would mean to her.

It almost makes up for
you being a smart-arse

who never gets anything
wrong, not matter what he does.

Now... What have we here?

- How is it?
- Hmm... Bliss.

Utter... pure... bliss.

I've finally found something you're crap at
- food.

Ugh! This is absolutely horrible!

The worst Caesar salad I
have ever tasted, bar none.

- Urgh!
- Maybe I overdid the raw egg.

Raw? You're supposed to wait
until the chicken's laid it!

Didn't anyone tell you, the first rule
of preparing lettuce, take off the slugs?

- They're anchovies.
- Get your coat. We'll go to the chippie.

Mmm!

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