All language subtitles for Murdoch Mysteries S01E11 Bad Medicine.DVDRip.NonHI.en.ACORN

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Help!

Help!

Ugh!

Somebody help me!

Ohh! Somebody help me!

"Hell's version of Robin Hood."

That's how the
grounds keeper put it.

He discovered the
body this morning.

- Any witnesses?
- None.

And we've combed this
place stem to sternum.

- Stern.
- Stern?

The expression is "stem
to stern," not sternum.

Well, we'll have to agree
to disagree on that one, sir.

At any rate, the killer seems
to have done an excellent job

of covering his tracks.

It's like he's
vanished into thin air.

Nonsense, George.

The laws of physics dictate

that anytime two
objects make contact,

trace materials are exchanged.

Therefore, a killer always
leaves a calling card.

No doubt, sir.

But I was about to
say that it's our victim

who's left us the
most interesting clue.

Ah.

Very good, George.

- Good morning, Detective.
- Morning, Doctor.

Our victim's goodbye letter.

Hmm. "W.Y."

What does it mean?

Your guess is as good as mine.

Unfortunately, Dr. Grout died

before he had a
chance to finish.

Doctor?

- Did you know him?
- By reputation.

Francis Grout.

He's one of the founders
of the Greyson Institute.

Oh, yes. What is it exactly?

It's a research
center for the brain.

It's very well-respected,

with a reputation for
pushing the boundaries

of conventional thought.

I should think you'd
be right at home here.

Standard crossbow arrows.

Robbery likely
wasn't the motive.

What does it all mean, sir?

I don't know.

It seems as though the
killer hunted his victim

like an animal.

I mean, why so elaborate?
With arrows and all?

Arrows are silent. Less
likely to draw attention.

Or maybe the killer
was making a statement.

The use of arrows would suggest

the killer had a
flair for the dramatic.

It's rather well-executed, then.

If you pardon the pun.

So, sir, what's our next move?

Every patient, every
doctor, every orderly.

I want every name
associated with Dr. Grout

or this Greyson Institute

searched for the initials "W.Y."

Oh, and, Higgins, look into
the hunting and archery clubs.

See if anyone's familiar
with those arrows.

- Very good, sir.
- And remember, "W.Y."

Sir, if I may.

What if "W.Y." are not initials
but part of a larger word?

Like "Wyoming" or...

Gentlemen, why not
consider the possibility

that it could be either?

- Sir.
- Murdoch.

Someone in your
office to see you.

She says she wants to
help you with the case.

- A witness?
- Well, sort of.

Sort of?

- Sarah Pensall.
- The medium.

Maybe she has another
message for you from beyond.

Hello, Miss Pensall.

I understand you might
have some information for...

I know who killed the doctor.

- You do?
- He keeps coming to me.

- Who does?
- Again and again.

The hooded figure.
Like the Grim Reaper.

The Grim Reaper.

I know it sounds absurd.

But I knew he was going to
kill a doctor, and now he has.

And I've seen other deaths, too.

These other deaths,
tell me about them.

They... They happen at night.

Always with an arrow.

I can't seem to make
out the other victims.

Except for the final one.

And who is that?

It's you.

The visions come
to me in fragments,

in bits and pieces.

The reaper is angry.

And his... his face is
obscured by a... by a dark hood.

And you're sure
he'll strike again?

Yes, but there's someone else.

Who?

There's a spirit of a woman.

I know there's a connection
between her and the reaper,

but I don't know what.

I see.

Dr. Grout wrote the letters
"W.Y." before he died.

Does that mean anything to you?

No. Yes, I'm not sure.

It seems familiar,
but in what context?

So, you don't know
what the letters mean,

the figure you see is
obscured by a cloak,

you can't say who it is
or where it will strike next,

and you think the woman
trying to reach you is connected,

but you're not sure.

I may not know
everything, but I know this.

You are in danger.

Please believe me.

Thank you, Miss Pensall.

I will take this
information most seriously.

Constable, could you please
see Miss Pensall home?

Mm-hmm.

So?

She's been having visions.

Something about more murders to
come and a cloaked Grim Reaper.

The reaper?

What are we going
to be looking for next?

Frankenstein? Mr. Hyde?

I'm taking her
words with caution.

She does have a
tendency to embellish.

However, on occasion, she
has proven very accurate.

It would be foolish of
us to simply dismiss her.

What did she have to say?

As usual, the details
were somewhat hazy.

Surely, she must have given you
more than just a man in a hood.

Nothing.

What about the future
murders? Did she say who?

I'm afraid not.

Now, if you'll excuse me...

Well, if one of our constables

does happen to bump
into the Grim Reaper,

make sure they bring
him back here for a chat.

Bloody hell, it was never
like this in Yorkshire.

I've completed my
examination, Detective.

It would seem that Dr. Grout's
cause of death was...

the three arrows
jutting out of his back.

That was a joke, William.

Sorry.

Something on your mind?

You'll think it absurd.

Well, that's never
stopped you before.

Do you believe in destiny?

A weighty topic for an
afternoon's postmortem.

Yes, well, normally,

I take comfort in
knowing God has a plan.

However, when that
plan involves my demise...

Your demise? What on earth
are you talking about, William?

Miss Pensall came by today.

- The medium?
- Yes.

Said she had a vision. About me.

That I was fated to die.

Well, you mustn't confuse
the words of a medium

with the words of God.

Yes, so, what do we have?

Something quite interesting.

The first two arrows missed
the vital organs completely,

but the third directly
pierced the aorta.

So death would have
been instantaneous?

Precisely.

But for that kind of accuracy,

the killer must have been
virtually standing over him.

So, the perpetrator
must have seen Dr. Grout

writing the letters,

yet he chose not to erase them.

Or perhaps he felt that
the letters were gibberish.

Or he wanted us to find them.

Francis was more
than merely a partner.

He was like a brother to me.

Do you know of anyone

who might have wanted
to harm him, Dr. Greyson?

No, no, none at all.

Staff loved him. His
subjects loved him.

I can't think of anyone here

who's had harsh
words with Dr. Grout.

And what about
outside of the institute?

Did he have family?

The institute was his family.

I see.

Do you recall what he was
doing the last time you saw him?

Yes, he was in the common
room with his subjects.

Subjects? You mean patients.

This is not an
asylum, Detective.

Everyone here possesses
a brain which is...

What shall we say... special.

Special?

Some are genius, some
damaged, and some just a mystery.

We hope that this research
will one day be able to control

dementia, brain fever, female
hysteria, things of this nature.

Fascinating.

And just how many subjects
were under Dr. Grout's care?

All of them, technically.

But there were three which
were of personal interest to him.

I'd very much like to meet them.

Yes, of course.

Francis was primarily
interested in subjects

who were, in one way or another,
trapped inside their own minds.

That's Miss Pringle
playing the violin.

Miss Pringle possesses
an extraordinary brain

for a woman.

For a woman?

Men have a brain
capacity of up to 19% larger.

Women's brains are not
designed for complex thought,

their reproductive
organs sapping energy

from any further development.

And this has been proven?

There are naysayers, of course.

You know, they said
the same of Darwin.

Now, the fascinating thing
about Miss Pringle's case

is that two years ago she
suffered a carriage accident

and when she
awoke from her coma,

she did so with a
heightened sense of empathy,

as if able to sense
the emotions of others.

Now, Mr. Horton.

Now, Mr. Horton here
is quite the opposite.

He is unable to sense emotion,

but he does possess
an extraordinary recall.

Mr. Horton can recite
a thousand digits of pi.

And when he does so,

he sees each digit
as a different color.

Synesthesia.

Oh, you're familiar?

I've read about it in
the medical journals.

Dr. Galton's work is
particularly intriguing.

Well, then, you should find
Mr. Horton quite fascinating.

Mr. Horton, what
day was July 7, 1888?

Saturday. Sunny,
high of 71 degrees.

Impressive.

Please.

Mr. Horton, I'm
Detective Murdoch.

What can you tell me about
your last meeting with Dr. Grout?

We met to play chess.

He wore a navy-blue
jacket with a red tie.

Cigar stains on his fingers.

- And did you play chess?
- He had no time.

16 steps, click.
16 steps, click.

He means Dr. Grout
walked 16 steps as he left.

The click was the latch as
the door closed behind him.

With time, one
becomes accustomed

to Mr. Horton's means
of communication.

Detective Murdoch,

Miss Katherine
Barrington, our head nurse.

It's a pleasure.

Did you speak with
Dr. Grout yesterday?

Yes.

He seemed a little distracted.

But, of course, I last
saw him in the morning,

which was not his finest hour.

If only I'd known what
was about to happen...

If you'll excuse me...

Yes, Richard, what is it now?

Richard Binney.

The third subject
under Francis' care.

A stroke left him almost
completely paralyzed

and unable to speak.

Although his
intellectual faculties

remain completely intact.

And the bell?

His means of communication.

He can move
only a single finger.

One bell for
"yes," two for "no."

To be quite honest, it
can grow rather tiresome.

- Oh, and the gentleman with him?
- Andrew Nesbitt.

Not one of Dr. Grout's subjects.

Mr. Nesbitt has the ability
to see in three dimensions,

like the great Da Vinci.

They refer to him
as "Mr. Tinker"

due to the fact that he's
perpetually repairing something.

Mr. Nesbitt, Mr. Binney,

I'm Detective William Murdoch,

investigating the
death of Dr. Grout.

I wonder if either of
you saw him yesterday.

No.

Mr. Binney?

Richard saw nothing.

I'd prefer if Mr. Binney
answered for himself, thank you.

No. Thank you both.

I'll need you to confirm
the whereabouts

of each of the patients
when Dr. Grout went missing.

Yes, of course.

Surely, you can't
seriously believe

that anyone here is
capable of murder.

Until proven otherwise,
everyone is a suspect, Doctor,

including you.

I see.

Well, good day, Detective.

Good day.

He left in a cloud.

- A cloud?
- A dark cloud.

It was in his eyes.

Something was troubling him.

You spoke with him?

I didn't have to, Detective.

I could see.

So, Higgins has checked

every hunting and
archery club in the city,

but no one can
recognize the arrows

and there's no one
with the initials "W.Y."

And this institute?

There was a Weston Young
who interned here briefly,

but he moved to England
about two years ago.

We're still waiting from
Scotland Yard to confirm.

Very good, George.

So, Dr. Grout arranges to play
chess with one of his patients,

something changes his mind,
he tells no one of his concerns,

he leaves in a cloud of worry,

and is found dead
the next morning.

So, why did he leave? An
appointment of some sort?

I searched his office.

There was nothing in
his appointment book.

But more interestingly,

all of the "W" files were
missing from his filing cabinet.

Is that right? Who
would have taken those?

- The killer?
- Possibly.

Or maybe the doctor himself.

Perhaps the good
doctor had something...

Sweet mother of...

Mr. Nesbitt, did you do this?

Yes.

An electric wheel.

That's quite a
feat of engineering.

Had to be done for protection.

I'm sorry. Protection?

Richard doesn't have the
means to escape like the others.

What happens if he
encounters the hooded man?

The hooded man?

He roams the halls
sometimes at night.

I've seen him.

A little larger.

And the cloak, it
drapes a little more.

And the crossbow
is in his left hand.

Yes, that's it.

Thank you. That's all for now.

Yes, sir.

Well, if there's
nothing else, Detective,

I'll make my way.

Miss Pensall, I wonder
if you can tell me more

about your vision.

I've already given
you an apt description.

No, I mean about me.

My fate.

The... The dreams
are always the same.

It starts with a noise.

A strange, hollow
screech, and I can't place it.

And then the flashes come.

And an arrow slicing the air.

No!

A woman's scream and
you falling on your knees.

Thank you, Miss Pensall.

Detective, please be caref...

No. No!

What is it? Are you
all right, Miss Pensall?

The reaper. He's striking again.

Mr. Nesbitt was last seen in the
common room around 10:00, sir.

And the body was found...

About an hour ago
by janitorial staff.

The doors are locked
every evening at 8:00 p.m.,

suggesting that the perpetrator

would have been someone
who had access to the institute.

Miss Pringle.

He had been so upset.

What about?

He'd been nattering on and
on about this hooded man.

Finally, I couldn't
take it anymore,

and I went back to
my room to play violin.

I should never
have left him alone.

Did you hear
anything last night?

At one point, I
thought I heard a shout

coming from the
other end of the hall.

And what did you do?

I went to my door and listened.

But there was only silence.

I assumed I'd been
imagining things.

Miss Pringle, whose room
is at the end of the hall?

Mr. Horton?

Ah, Mr. Horton,
Detective Murdoch.

I wonder, did you
hear anything unusual

outside your door last night?

Scream, 24, pause, boom.

Scream, 24, pause, boom.

24?

24 hours in a day. 24
karats in a gold nugget.

24 steps past my door. 24, 24.

Thank you, Mr. Horton.

So, the reaper
is in this hallway.

He fires the arrow

and runs toward the exit.

Using his hand as a pivot,

he jumped over the banister
and down to the floor below.

George, dust this
handrail for fingermarks.

Sir.

What is it?

Some sort of paste?

I don't know.

Detective?

Perhaps you should see this.

We found him in a closet.

It's as if he was trying
to escape or something.

One ring for "yes,"
two for "no," correct?

That would be "yes."

Mr. Binney, were
you alone last night?

Was Mr. Horton with you?

Did you see who killed him?

Was it a man?

Was it a woman?

D-D...

- Has he ever done this before?
- Yes.

He tries to speak when agitated,

but he's not capable
of forming words.

D-D...

Mr. Binney...

is this what you saw last night?

D-D-D...

Death.

The Hindus have their Yamaloks.

The Christians have
the four horsemen.

The Egyptians
have their god Osiris.

Oh, spare me the
history lesson, Murdoch.

Why would the killer
wear a reaper costume?

Two reasons. It conceals
his identity, and it spreads fear.

But it's more than just
a simple costume, sir.

He's deliberately chosen
to dress theatrically,

the embodiment of death.

He's trying to draw
attention to himself?

I think he wants
to be remembered.

And the victims, any connection
between Nesbitt and Grout?

None that we've found so far.

Mr. Nesbitt was
never under his care.

However, Miss Pringle did say

that Nesbitt was about
to unmask the reaper.

And Mr. Binney did see him.

Again, suggesting that the
killer was inside the institute.

What I find strange

is "Why did the killer
spare Mr. Binney's life?"

Surely, he saw him.

Couldn't bring himself
to hurt a cripple, perhaps?

A reaper with a conscience.

What are you doing?

What do you think
I'm doing? I'm thinking.

Could you possibly think in
a slightly different manner?

For God sakes,
Murdoch, it works for you.

Actually, it does work.

We need to put someone
inside that institution,

and you'd be the
bloody perfect candidate

with that strange
noggin of yours.

But, sir, they
already all know me.

Then what about someone else?

Someone that we're
both familiar with?

Me, Detective?

Yes, we need someone
to go undercover

inside the institute.

To spy?

"Observe" is the
term I'd prefer to use.

How delicious.

Now, before you
agree, Miss Pensall,

I must warn you, there
have been murders.

Danger is involved.

It's not me that's in
danger, Detective.

Green.

Triangle.

No, wait.

Square.

Six for six. It's remarkable.

And you say you
also possess the ability

to channel the afterlife?

I don't know why the
spirits have chosen me.

Miss Pensall, might I ask

what it is that you hope
to achieve by being here?

I want to understand me,
why I am the way I am.

Why I'm so
different than others.

And we would love to help
you, but I do have to caution you,

we have experienced a
number of incidents here.

I've heard.

But the visions are coming
more than ever as of late,

and the situation is critical.

I'm willing to accept
the risks involved.

Well, of course, I can't
promise you anything,

but, Miss Pensall,
we would be honored

to help you explore
your sixth sense.

Sir, we just received a
telegram from Scotland Yard.

It seems Weston Young,

the only chap from the
institute with the initials "W.Y.,"

is a schoolteacher
in Birmingham.

And he hasn't left England,

so unless he's got
one hell of a crossbow,

I'm not sure where we turn next.

I have an idea, George.

The typeface is 8-point serif
from a standard Remington.

There were no
fingermarks on the letter

or a return address
on the envelope.

You think the killer may
have written this letter, sir?

Possibly.

It may also be an anonymous tip

from someone who wants
us to know about Wykeham.

Why not just come forward, then?

Perhaps they were frightened.

If the killer did send it,
why would he do that?

This letter and the "W.Y."
at Dr. Grout's murder scene

would suggest someone wants
us to know about Wykeham,

whoever or whatever it is.

Perhaps it's just some
sort of game to him,

like he enjoys riling us.

Of course he's
enjoying it, but I'm not.

And you lot better
not be neither.

Now, find out what the
bloody hell "Wykeham" means.

Mulligan, give me that.

Wykeham. Doesn't ring a bell.

Perhaps in conjunction
with the Greyson Institute?

No, I'm sorry.

You feel that
there's a connection?

Two people are dead.

Both with ties to the institute.

What do you really
know about it?

Or Dr. Greyson or
Dr. Grout, for that matter?

Well, like I said, they're
very well-respected

in the medical community.

- Was it always this way?
- As far as I know.

But I can make some inquiries.

I would very much
appreciate that.

Wykeham?

No, I have no idea
what that means.

Whatever it is, Dr. Grout
wanted us to know about it.

So much so that
he died writing it.

Could it have been
a former patient,

a place perhaps,
something in his childhood?

Do you know what happens to
the brain of a dying man, Detective?

Well, starved of oxygen,
the brain begins to shut down.

Practically speaking,

the mental building
blocks begin to collapse,

releasing random
sparks of thought,

which, in these final moments,
make sense only to God.

This "W.Y." which Francis wrote

very likely has nothing
to do with anything.

This letter didn't come
from a dying man.

It came from someone

with intimate
knowledge of this murder.

Furthermore, most likely,

intimate knowledge
of this facility.

If anything comes
to mind, Detective,

you'll be informed immediately.

Wykeham, Miss Pringle.

Are you sure you
haven't heard of it?

Never.

I'd remember
something odd like that.

Thank you.

And if anyone else should
remember, please let me know.

I don't believe we've met.

Miss Pensall. Delighted.

How terribly clandestine.

- How are you?
- Oh, never better.

Though I don't
have much to report.

This Wykeham seems
to be a bit of a dead end.

It's important
you gain the trust

of the residents and the staff.

They must believe that you...

Honestly, Detective, I
understand what I'm to do.

I just think you
should be careful.

As should you.

No, Detective, I've
not heard of Wykeham.

Though if I should, I
shall call you at once.

Thank you, Miss...

Pensall.

Ah, how about you, Mr. Binney?

Have you heard of this Wykeham?

No.

Nurse Barrington.

I was hoping perhaps
you've heard of Wykeham.

Yes, yes, Wykeham.

I'm afraid not.

- Are you sure?
- Quite.

Is something troubling
you, Nurse Barrington?

I can assure you, Detective,
I am absolutely fine.

I've just had a
marvelous breakfast

and it's a beautiful day and...

Be careful, Richard!

Are you all right?

Yes, fine, fine. No harm done.

Detective...

Yes?

Nurse Barrington.

A word, please.

I must go.

Ah, Miss Barrington,

I take it you weren't
able to speak freely

back at the institute.

First a doctor, then a
patient, now a nurse.

All we need now is an orderly.
We'll have the whole collection.

She went to great lengths
to conceal our meeting.

How on earth did the
killer find out about it?

My bet is that he followed
her. Lurking in the shadows.

It's what these murderous
types are good at, Murdoch.

What's this?

We found it in her purse.

"We've buried Wykeham too
long. The time to act is now.

F.G." Francis Grout.

Dated two days
before his murder.

This is what she
was bringing you?

So it would seem.

It also suggests that
Wykeham is deceased.

Dead?

Now, why would that stop us?

Ah, yes, why, indeed?

Perhaps you don't
need me, after all.

Nonsense, Inspector.

I ask that you concentrate
on what we know.

A young woman with a
connection to this place.

Close your eyes.

Breathe in.

And out.

Spirit in the hall,

we reach out to you from
this, our welcoming den,

and we ask that you join us.

There is a word
that has come to us.

A word you may know.

Wykeham.

Say it with me.

Wykeham.

Wykeham.

- Wykeham.
- Wykeham.

- Wykeham.
- Wykeham.

- Wykeham.
- Wykeham.

Something's coming.

Can you smell that?

Oh, oh.

What is it?

Oh, it's smoke.

Oh.

Oh, she's in trouble.

She needs help.
Can't you hear her?

Oh.

Burning flesh.

My God, the smell!

The flames.

Stop the flames.
Stop the flames.

She's gone.

I think I need a drink.

These are the records
of every fire in the city

during the last 10 years.

We'll divide and conquer,
each of us taking a third.

Keep your eyes peeled
for the word "Wykeham."

Uh, spelling, sir?

W-y-k-e-h-a-m.

Check everything.

Arsonists, victims,
firemen, even the family cat.

Why fires?

Let's just say the
spirit moved us.

Aah!

Murdoch!

What are you doing sleeping?

Sorry. I must have dozed off.

Then, perhaps
this will perk you up.

11th of April, 1893.

A lodge burnt down
off Buchanan Street.

It's listed in the
books as Lot 659.

But back then, Buchanan
Street went by a different name.

Wykeham.

Did a young woman happen
to die in the fire, by chance?

Sophia Chaucer, age 22.

Her remains were
found in the basement,

burnt beyond recognition.

Well, I'll have to find out who
the owner of the lodge was.

Crabtree's way ahead
of you, me old mucker.

Someone you're
very familiar with.

Our good friend Dr. Greyson.

Oh, and try and stay awake.

Detective.

Miss Pensall.

I've discovered what
Wykeham means.

It was a lodge once
leased to Dr. Burrit Greyson.

Dr. Greyson?

Yes. It burnt to the ground.

And there was a young
woman trapped inside.

Sophia Chaucer.

Well, that must be the
young woman's spirit.

- Sophia Chaucer.
- Perhaps, perhaps.

But more importantly,

until I've questioned
Dr. Greyson,

it's no longer safe
for you to be here.

Oh.

Oh, I feel her, Detective.

She's here.

She's here.

Sophia?

Sophia Chaucer?

She's here.

I can feel her.

What does she want?

She says that...

Detective!

May I help you?

Why, yes.

Yes, you can.

This is absurd.

You can't possibly
believe any of this.

You've got nothing on me!

Nothing!

Why, yes, in fact, you do
have something on Dr. Greyson.

According to Miss
Chaucer's family doctor,

she did have a
connection with him.

Epilepsy.

Epilepsy?

She had quite a severe case.

Her doctor recommended
she speak with Dr. Greyson.

How does a young woman
admitted to the Greyson Institute

end up burnt to death
at Wykeham Lodge?

I think I may know how.

- Oh?
- After our last discussion,

I looked into the
history of the institute.

And...

You were right to
have your suspicions.

How do you mean?

I spoke with some colleagues

who have treated former
patients of the institute.

The rumors are quite disturbing.

What happened to Sophia
had nothing to do with me.

She had epilepsy, you
used her as a guinea pig,

and whatever procedure you
performed on her didn't work,

did it?

All surgery is a
risk, Detective.

And what I did was
attempt to give her a chance

at living a life with some
degree of normalcy.

Did you?

Or did you, in fact, know
the procedure wouldn't work

and that's why you performed
it off the premises at Wykeham?

I performed it at Wykeham

because this type of surgery
is years ahead of its time,

and not everyone
can understand that.

No, not everyone can
understand a horrific failure.

A failure?

Miss Chaucer's operation
shed invaluable light

onto the functioning of
the occipital lobe, Detective,

which will lead to breakthroughs
in the study of epilepsy.

Millions will benefit from this.

Yet it didn't benefit
Miss Chaucer.

I made a slight miscalculation
on her frontal lobe.

Do you know that her
entire memory was erased?

It was truly fascinating.

Fascinating?

A young woman's
life was destroyed, sir.

Well, you're a
thinker, Detective.

Like myself.

Surely, you can understand
the concept of acceptable risk.

So, you feel no shame
for what you did to her?

Shame? No. Not at all.

Then, why not simply
tell me about Wykeham?

We were concerned regarding
the legal ramifications of the fire.

That's it. Because of the fire?

What more could there be?

You disgust me.

Future generations will
benefit from my work, Detective.

You mark my words.

What makes you think

that Dr. Greyson's not our man?

Because he has no archery
experience whatsoever.

Well, it must be
easy enough to learn.

Rudimentary skills, perhaps,

but these murders have
displayed an expert hand.

Perhaps he's in cahoots
with someone on the outside.

Then why not kill
Miss Pensall and I

when the opportunity
presented itself?

It's as if he wanted
me to follow him

and find the conveniently
hidden reaper costume

in Dr. Greyson's office.

Just like he wanted you
to find out about Wykeham.

Something about this does
stink. I'll give you that, Murdoch.

Sir, I've been trying to track
down Miss Chaucer's family,

but her mother passed
away during labor

and her father died due to
complications from quinsy

just a few months ago.

- No other family?
- None.

There is one other thing.

It seems Miss Chaucer
was something of an archer.

Oh?

Richard, can I help you?

It's all right, Richard.

She's coming again.

That girl from
the lodge, Sophia.

I don't know what she wants.

Oh, my God, it's not
me she's trying to reach.

It's you. She wants
to tell you something.

She says she wants you to
be the man she fell in love with.

The man before Wykeham.

It's you.

I wish you hadn't said that.

Please don't
struggle, Miss Pensall.

This will be quick,
like a suicide.

I don't want you to suffer.

No, listen, Richard.
Sophia told me everything.

How they promised
to make her better,

and they took her away from you.

Please, Richard, please! No, no!

I couldn't let them
get away with it,

so I came up with this plan.

I spent a year studying the
movements of stroke victims.

Five months in that chair.

I had to do it, don't
you understand?

After her operation, she
didn't even know my name.

No, Richard. I said I
could help you talk to her.

One more time. Don't
you want to talk to her?

I can help you, Richard.

I can help you.

I can help you.

I can help you talk to her.

Now, close your eyes, Richard.

Good.

And concentrate on
your lovely Sophia.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Miss Pensall?

Miss Pensall, wait!

Are you all right?

No! No!

William. William.

Oh, no, no.

William.

No.

No! No!

No!

Detective!

Help! Somebody help!

Detective! Are you
all right, Detective?

Help!

Detective.

Miss Pensall.

They tell me two more weeks,
and I'll be rid of this thing.

Two weeks? That's not so bad.

Slightly an eternity.
But enough about me.

Tell me about Prague.

Ah, well, I will be admitting
myself to the institute there

in a month's time.

It'll be good for me.

Are you sure?

Ever since I was
a child, Detective,

this gift has set me apart.

It's my blessing and my curse.

On the one hand, I
want to know more.

And on the other,
I don't want to lose

that which makes me special.

Yes, well, it's not
the Greyson Institute,

so I doubt very much they'll
be taking that away from you.

That's reassuring.

Miss Pensall, may I
ask you a question?

Of course.

You said you saw me die.

Yet here I am, very much alive.

Did I cheat destiny?

If it was your destiny to die,
you'd not be here right now.

So, it is possible, then, to
change the course of events?

Anything is possible, William.

Yes, those were Dr. Ogden's
sentiments exactly.

Oh. Oh, yes, Dr. Ogden.

You speak often of her.

Now it's my turn to
ask you a question.

What is your relationship
with Dr. Ogden?

We work well together.

She's a brilliant pathologist.

She's well-educated,
quite witty at times.

And...

And she's kind.

Bold.

Stubborn.

And quite beautiful.

But I'm sorry. You were
asking me something.

Perhaps there is a
reason why you did not die.

Detective?

I'm sorry. I hope
I'm not intruding.

No, no, not at all.

Miss Sarah Pensall,
meet Dr. Julia Ogden.

- I've heard a lot about you.
- Likewise.

Miss Pensall is going
to be traveling to Prague.

- Traveling?
- Yes.

It's wonderful there.

Charles Bridge.

Prague Castle.

The National Museum.

One could spend years
discovering the city.

Well, one could.

Oh.

I must be off.

It was a pleasure
meeting you, Dr. Ogden.

Goodbye.

Miss Pensall, the
pleasure was all mine.

Thank you for everything.

Goodbye.

I didn't know you'd
spent time in Prague.

Yes, some.

Funny how two people can
work so closely together...

And not really know
anything about one another.

Exactly.

You must tell me
all about Prague.

Well, I had a journal
when I was there.

Oh, I'd very much
like to read it.

William. Really?

Yes, really.

Perhaps some excerpts.

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