Original subtitles

People have died, God damn you.

It's Whitechapel. They die every day.

55 lives given up

for $350,000 in unregistered and anonymous bearer bonds.

I imagine a man of my calling might find some purpose here.

See he gets what he needs.

You are come home?

This

is bad money. We may take it and ennoble its purpose.

You were recruited. By who?

We were chosen for one skill or another.

These men who now await their earnings,

- they've not seen you, you are sure? - Certain.

He looked wrong,

like a village parson got off at the wrong station.

Polished his shoes too bright.

Your name again, sir?

Capshaw.

Morning.

Clara!

Clara, my love.

Clara?

Anyone, my love?

Not at all.

Well there's a, there's a few scraps here that...

- we could... - Horace.

There's nothing left.

Ah, good morrow, and welcome you both

to our house of curiosities.

May I perhaps interest you...

Mr. Buckley, please...

... desist.

My name is Mr. Capshaw,

and I represent the interest of your creditor.

We have time yet to pay, sir.

And one day would, no doubt, make every difference.

Your current position with interest.

Uh, Mr. Capshaw, Clara's father was...

dreadful train accident, you see, and with the funeral costs,

- we have so little that... - Are you able to settle?

I thought not.

And yet you continue to rebuff

the wholly reasonable offer of your creditor.

This shop is my livelihood.

These four walls are my home.

I... I cannot give it to you.

I will not.

I expected as much.

Henceforth, I shall be passing your debt forth

to this gentleman.

His name is Mr. Kendrick.

I suspect you may find his terms less amenable.

Horace...

Gander at this shite.

Small wonder you can't make ends meet.

Well, now...

Let's take a look, shall we?

Is this where the treasures are kept?

There's nothing in there.

Please, Mr. Capshaw, I beg of you.

Open it.

Get away from there. How dare you!

How dare you threaten and bully and force!

Clara! Forgive her, sirs.

A woman's grief.

You and your cursed company.

Smiling your liar's smiles for all to see

while you devour our homes, our shops.

Your smile is a wolf's maw,

and we shall not submit to you as every other has.

Submit, madam?

They simply paid their dues.

If you please.

Get off! Get off me!

Get off! No!

No! Get off!

You see, there's nothing.

Tell me, Horace.

Is this where the treasures are kept?

Get away from there!

Aah!

Clara.

Clara!

Clara.

Clara, my love. Oh, God.

You did this.

She fell. Mr. Buckley.

You killed her!

Go!

Come back here!

♪ Come unto these yellow sands ♪

♪ And then take hands ♪

♪ Curtsied... ♪

- synced and corrected by chamallow - - www.addic7ed.com -

_

She's hit, falls.

Fractured cranium, maybe.

They say the Buckleys never traded a cross word.

Well, if it weren't a domestic,

slim pickings for an hold-up.

- They were in debt. - Who to?

Only the figures.

Borrowing and borrowing.

Clawed themselves from under, and only bringing more down upon themselves.

They were buried alive.

Peaceful couples have broke peace for less.

Policing together again, Mr. Drake.

Coppering thus.

Circumstances aside, it's something I've missed.

Your abilities will always be welcome at "H" Division.

Alongside your own, sir.

I am not meant for the yard, Inspector.

I, ah, afraid Abberline may have a bent for that politic,

but I... you and I are Whitechapel,

and I intend to remain so.

Then long may we copper thus, Mr. Reid.

Barely open two weeks and see the work we do.

Dr. Frayn?

Might I...

My dear friend, Miss Erskine.

- Doctor. A pleasure. - Miss Erskine.

You bring a flush of celebrity to our clinic.

Miss Erskine's very visit here today will help spread word of your work, Doctor.

And I should be in your debt. Hope you'll excuse me.

Of course.

Doctor Frayn is a recent graduate of the School of Medicine for Women.

- I never knew such a place. - No.

- But I would make the likes of it here. - You...

- take in students? - I do.

Think of the girls in this borough Rose,

the best they might hope for, the best

is to climb their way to sweatshops or scullery,

but here they might learn nursing,

or if able enough become doctors themselves.

Doctor Frayn is a paragon of that hope.

Doctors, Rose. Not match girls nor market traders...

Nor whores.

- Nor that. - Miss Susan?

Mr. Capshaw requests you, Miss.

Screaming blue murder, she was.

She was hysterical.

She was imprisoned in a cellar.

Such terror, she fainted.

Give me room. My god.

It was a... a child's dungeon.

All right, soldier?

Keeping you busy, are they?

Inspectors!

Perhaps you might spare a moment for The Star?

Indulge our inquiries concerning the locomotive tragedy.

Sirs!

Will you not afford me a modest audience?

- Not now, man. - No?

For what right of the people of Whitechapel

to understand why 55 now lie beneath the earth?

Why you send marionettes to the rope

while a puppeteer wiles in shadow?

Unless the truth be that Edmund Reid cannot say

because he does not know?

Unless the truth be that a crime of such measure requires a lawman

- of greater measure. - Enough.

Inspector Drake, is this not why you returned to Whitechapel?

A new broom to replace one bare of bristles and borne hither on the very train

which murdered scores on his watch.

You think me a preening cockerel but rather a cockerel than a capon.

They will know justice.

Any found with blood on their hands

from that black day will know justice, but

this morning, a woman lies slain in her shop,

and it is to that we presently attend.

Our work has not ended.

You, Mr. Best... you are not alone

in losing one you loved to that train.

Of course you know. Of course.

But is not Whitechapel's Copper-in-Chief also these days it's File Clerk-in-Chief?

Allow me to assist

with the distracting business of Clara Buckley.

It is her, I assume the dead woman.

Kendrick, the collector, come for his dues.

Kendrick?

Kendrick killed Clara Buckley, you saw this?

A reporter of mine saw Horace Buckley

running for his life, Kendrick after him,

wild as a dog.

The Buckleys were decent people. So I hear.

Let's hope our tireless policemen are able to afford them, some justice.

She will sleep.

I gave her laudanum for her terrors.

Her condition?

Malnourished, though no more so

than any other child of this quarter.

Perhaps less than most.

Was she raped?

No. Of that, I'm sure.

The child's been cared for.

The only harm upon her, there is scarring.

Her back.

She was beaten?

No, burned.

From some years past.

Mr. Capshaw says the Buckleys were childless.

Who is she?

Alice, she says, though her faculties are...

Miss Hart, my concern would be more for the health of her mind

than her body.

- She howls to be returned. - Where?

To the Buckleys, to home, but she says "pupa."

I believe she means her chamber.

The girl was... she was not their captive.

She is confused and afraid.

That is all I can presently say for certain.

She seems to fear everything but the Buckleys.

Dr. Frayn, the welfare of this girl

is to be your chief concern.

Is that understood?

Miss Hart, for what greater purpose

my schooling and our clinic, than one so in need?

This man, Buckley?

Kendrick lost sight of him in the rookery.

He'll be found.

Buckley shall not speak of what took place.

You believe that to be the matter critical?

It is nevertheless a matter of consequence...

And he shall be found.

Whatever the truth of this,

the girl regards the Buckleys as parents.

Already this morning,

the Buckley woman lies dead by your hand,

and I will not have the girl made orphan.

Find Horace Buckley and bring him to me.

Clyde Kendrick.

What have I won?

Horace and Clara Buckley.

You collected rent from them this morning.

The Buckleys?

Mrs. Buckley's dead, Mr. Kendrick.

- I think you know that. - How would I know that?

- You were seen. - You're mistook.

I've been sat at the desk all this morning.

Why not ask my dear wife?

Ain't that so, Gertie?

The Buckleys.

Yes.

New business.

Due to visit them Friday.

You are a frequent caller in these parts, are you not?

There's a lot of debt in these parts.

And vultures will circle.

I'm not a shylock, gentlemen.

- You do not lend. - Certainly not.

Then who does?

My clients are various.

The Buckleys!

Which client?

If there isn't a crime you wish to charge me with, Inspector,

I'm a working man with business to attend.

Now, you wait a bloody moment.

_

Obsidian Estates.

The signature.

- Ronald Capshaw. - The lawyer.

Susan Hart's lawyer.

How much business do you take

from Ronald Capshaw and Obsidian Estates?

A new client, so I believe.

Ain't it so, Gertie?

I very much doubt you will be recovering this debt, Mr. Kendrick.

You imagine Susan Hart

complicit in Obsidian Estates practicing usury?

The long Susan I knew was a mistress of whores,

but a woman of decency.

I can't speak for the Susan Hart to whom I return.

Even so. Capshaw's mark on this paper.

There is a stench around this man.

The reek of him drifts amid the blood and smoke

of the robbed train.

Be that as it may, so far as Clara Buckley goes,

if Kendrick ain't a moneylender,

he may yet well be a murderer,

and we'll need more than Fred Best crying bogeyman

to prove such.

We find Horace Buckley.

Only he can say what happened in that shop.

Not only he, Mr. Reid.

Clara Buckley may yet speak to us.

But it is neither you nor I who have the learning to listen.

Not the American. Anyone but the American.

The Prairie Rose.

You really want my opinion?

The God's honest, hand on heart,

- sound two cents? - Mm-hm.

As surprising as it may seems, your thoughts are of qualified value.

All right.

It is the, ah...

lowest form of reeking word swill...

It's pandering, confected trivial horse shit,

that ain't an ounce of human truth through the whole God foresaken story.

You're a cynic.

- And a charlatan. - Who told you?

I'll be sure to share your constructive analysis.

And, if you wish to continue treating this playhouse

as your flophouse, you'll collect me at 7:00

then feed me with roast meat, ply me with cheap liquor,

and defile me in abject and merciless ways.

Hey, darling. What's wrong?

Your glittering find, brother.

he thinks it'll pack the house and make a fortune.

Splendid!

- Perhaps it's one for you darling? - Mmm.

Darling?

You're a little early for a matinee, gentleman.

The clown we seek cavorts everywhere but the stage.

Bennet... Inspector Drake,

Inspector Reid, may I present Mr. Edgar Morton.

Proprietor of Blewett’s and...

And I'm proud to say Miss Erskine's intended.

Congratulations, sir.

She is, ah... Miss Erskine is...

you're very lucky.

Is he here?

Straighten your wits, Captain.

I was trying.

They say if the doctor is not to be found in his rooms,

he broods these days at the pavilion of varieties.

From the body physic to the dreaming mind,

truly, Whitechapel's very own Da Vinci.

Well, even God takes a day of rest, Reid,

but then again I guess you don't believe in either of us.

We've need of your services.

You might. He doesn't.

- Whatever may have passed between you... - Whatever may have passed?

You mean Dolly Do-right here didn't give you a blow-by-blow?

- You helped before. - To civic emergency, Benito.

Why don't you just come back next time a train plows off the rails?

We've come to you

because we know of no other with your skill.

There will be client commensurate.

Commensurate?

For a degenerate unfit to serve the law?

No man is fit to work from the bottom of a bottle.

My wife walked out on me, God damn it.

I'd have thought you understood the hole that tears.

There was work needful of you.

And if there's one thing the three of us excel at,

is it not to fail whatever is most needful of us.

Wasting our time here.

Drake.

No other with my skill, huh?

Well, I don't need your goddamn money,

and I don't need you blowing smoke up my ass, neither,

but I want to hear it from him.

I know that I'm shitty at a lot of things.

In fact, most everything, but your work?

Sniffing out a trail of dead? Well, God help me.

That's something I've got a holy talent for,

and I'm gonna hear you say it.

- Jackson... - I wanna hear him say

that at bottle down I'm still better

than any damn forensicator he can name.

I want to hear him say

that I'm not a piss-streaked, scutter shoe shit.

That I ain't some honey-chasing gutter rat

with a heart of scorched turd.

That's right, Reid.

I remember every word, every goddamn rock

that you threw at me from your polished pulpit.

I could have used a friend, not a one-man temperance movement.

I am a decorated United States army captain and a doctor,

and I wanna hear this stuffed-shirt son of a bitch say it.

You are not a piss-streaked...

with a... of scorched turd.

You... you are a doctor.

I figured that's as good as it was gonna get.

All right.

Seven sharp, darlin', and, uh,

put your hair pretty.

Happy days are here to stay, huh?

Frontal fracture, orbital margin,

punched, full fist.

- Kendrick wear a ring? - Not that I saw.

Well, whoever hit her does.

This incision here, index finger maybe.

Husband?

Remains abroad.

By all accounts, violence is most uncharacteristic.

Well, maybe there was someone else there, then.

We need Jackson at the Buckley shop.

Yeah, well, maybe Jackson's got affairs of his own.

Was she holding onto something?

There's lesions on her palm, and her nail beds are torn.

Nurse, tweezers.

No glare, no grimace, no "Shut up, yankee"?

I'm gonna have to shoot him.

What is it, man?

It's a splinter.

Varnished wood.

There's bruising on her arms, fractures of the metacarpal.

She was grabbed hard and dragged from something.

They have anything worth gripping that tight?

_

Okay, she's hit.

Bang.

Yes, we got that much, Jackson.

Is this Buckley some kind of mudlark?

Maybe you check down by the river.

It's a bloody long river.

This.

This... she was gripping this.

Jesus.

What is this place?

Who was kept here?

Buckley must have a workshop.

This wood's salvaged.

Needs to be dried and treated.

And he builds, cuts.

A man needs tools for that, a space to work.

That box upstairs... that's fresh river pickings.

I once saw you inspect that like you was reading tea leaves.

Try it on.

And this?

Butterfly wings?

But the patterning, on each one it's the same.

Catching the same breed.

Nothing about this is right, Reid. Nothing.

From the candles and the food, the room was inhabited until morning.

Girl... fair, given the brush.

The clothes, I don't know, 10 or 13, but you see here...

They've been darned over and over, made bigger.

As she grew.

So she's been here... who knows?

Years.

And there's this.

You see these? Scratches and scuff marks.

There was a struggle by the door.

Fighting to get out.

No.

That's the thing.

These are her marks, but the impact.

She wasn't fighting to get out.

She was fighting to stay in.

Fighting who?

Best said Buckley and Kendrick ran from the shop.

So, either Kendrick came back...

Or there's your third man.

Mr. Kendrick has not afforded us full candor.

I want Horace Buckley found.

Alice.

Good girl.

It's all right.

Good girl.

Please take me back.

To my pupa. Please, please.

No!

My wings!

The wicked king will take my wings again!

I must be in my pupa!

Daddy!

My mom... I can't... my wings...

they won't grow. They won't open...

- I can't... - Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh.

Shh, shh, shh.

And when she wakes, what then?

I will not have the girl doped.

There must be more we can do than stupefy her.

There is a new thinking on the continent.

I attended lectures in Paris and Geneva.

This man, Breuer, calls it the cathartic method.

A therapy for the mind...

of the parts of the mind, beneath the mind,

you might say.

With your permission, Miss Hart,

I should like to assay these new techniques on Alice.

And you believe it will help her?

I do.

Then proceed.

You there...

I... I me... I mean no harm now...

There's coin here, for an errand...

Did you ever hear, old stories of brave knights and dragons?

Hey... now... I've need of a brave knight to carry...

precious word upon this scroll.

A princess depends on you.

Mr. Kendrick thought it best to take a prolonged sabbatical.

Uh, Glasgow, I believe.

And Mr. Buckley...

Mr. Buckley has sent a proposal.

Offers all he has in the world, chief interest being the deed to his premises,

and his lifelong silence in exchange for the girl,

with whom he shall leave our fair city on the morrow,

never to darken our alleys again.

Your response?

As you'd expect from a reasonable fellow,

I agreed to every term.

And tomorrow, at Buckley's nominated time and place,

I shall have a man meet him...

... and as per your wishes, bring him to you.

My wish is to know the truth about the girl.

Do you understand me, Ronald?

What man...

Who would keep a child thus?

The truth, madam, shall be dragged forth.

By its very throat, if need be.

More of Buckley's wares, Captain.

All these goddamn bugs just look like... bugs.

- Keep that cooking. - Sir?

Going to the zoo.

The map, Inspector.

All properties owned by Obsedian Estates, sir.

I had the constables go door to door and wired the land registry.

- Everything you wanted. - Thank you, Sergeant.

She has acquired whole swaths of Whitechapel.

Shop, cottage, tenant, here, here, here.

These entire streets, all of this,

expansion of Obsidian Estates portfolio.

Defaulting debtors like the Buckleys

forced to forfeit all they own.

And the likes of Kendrick

no more than blunt tools to gouge out a foul empire.

I believe it's time I took tea with Miss Hart.

Follow me, sir.

Inspector.

What a rare pleasure.

But I sense little joy on your part.

Your time is appreciated, Miss Hart.

Mm.

What might I help you with?

A woman, Clara Buckley,

was killed in Whitechapel this morning.

A debt collector, Clyde Kendrick, implicated.

Are these names known to you?

They are not.

Perhaps to you, then, Mr. Capshaw...

Given Kendrick acquired the Buckley debt

from Obsidian Estates

with your mark.

There.

On occasion, it is more profitable

to offer a debt to market than to pursue it fruitlessly.

But if this man, ah, Kendrick,

has involved himself in an ugly episode,

it is to my shame and regret our company associated thus.

Shame and regret?

Buckley's ledgers show interest inflated, week on week.

Loan to pay loan to pay loan, and the debt accrued.

Not to Kendrick, but to Obsidian Estates.

Such dealings with this company are, I gather,

not unique hereabout,

so how fair's your regret and shame, Mr. Capshaw?

And yours, Miss Hart?

Were I to posit that Obsidian Estates

lends purely as a mechanism

by which it may bully, extort, and finally acquire?

There's no coercion, Inspector Reid.

It's merely legal transaction.

Perhaps you find the trade distasteful,

but the day of righteous distaste is grounds for prosecution,

this borough shall see its jails burst asunder

and its streets bare of life.

That's an impressive ring, Mr. Capshaw. Looks very solid.

No doubt you have a whole cabinet of

metallurgic studies in your famous archive.

I shall look into every detail of this matter, Inspector.

Myself.

You know me to be a woman of my word.

And yet, every word I hear today, Miss Hart,

seems to ooze from the mouth of Mr. Capshaw.

Mr. Capshaw? Perhaps now you might excuse us.

Inspector, my project has ever been

to make of Oobsidian Estates an engine of good,

to bring with it prosperity and hope

to streets which have never known such.

This company must obtain property

if it is to shape this borough

for the future its people deserve.

But I have never and will never tolerate illegality

in the pursuit of that future.

And your Mr. Capshaw?

What is he prepared to tolerate?

Jackson needs more time.

His filtrations, he says.

Kendrick is missing.

Buckley is missing.

The girl he kept in his cellar for years is missing.

We are being played for fools by this Capshaw.

And here, these streets.

The streets we vow to protect,

these people to whom we promise safety and order.

Susan Hart crows of her good work for these streets,

but at what cost to them a new Whitechapel?

People extorted from their homes,

terrorized by debt collectors.

And these streets belong to Obsidian Estates.

What is our promise worth?

Do we police for them?

I used to argue with a man

who believed chaos was the natural state.

All things doomed to fall apart.

A fissure splitting wider, day by day

Set to swallow with a gossamer dream that we make of order.

I argued with him, yet, but, ah...

Now I feel the gossamer fray, Bennet.

I feel the fissure yawn into abyss

faster than we can weave afresh.

Mr. Reid.

You used to tell me our work... that order...

was a fight without end, but a battle worth the blood.

You believed that.

And I believe it still.

And so we weave on... thread by thread.

And we hold the promise we have made.

Ronald Capshaw thinks to tell us

what he may undertake in Whitechapel within the law,

then we shall show him likewise.

Five weeks past, you will recall,

we foiled a snidesman who sought to pass his paper hereabouts.

Counterfeit money, as you see.

Slick, like a scum of oil on our streets.

There is reason to believe some remains in circulation.

Now, these hostelries here, all owned by Obsidian Estates,

and all to the blowers of whisper,

all given to the conducting of business illicit.

Now, constables, it falls to you this night

to see that these premises know our law.

You will show them what it is to be policed in this borough.

Inspect every licence for licquor,

gambling, look upon their patrons, and turn out

each and every pocket that you deem needful.

Do not spare your billy clubs.

Go! Now!

Police!

We should play a game Alice.

Would you like that?

A lovely game?

Will you close your eyes for me, please?

And imagine a garden.

Beautiful garden just for you.

Where you're safe and happy.

And look, a butterfly.

The most beautiful butterfly you've ever seen.

And I want you to watch her drift and soar.

Just watch the lovely flow, beating of her wings.

Inspector, I wonder if we might talk a moment?

The Greeks believed that the dead

drank from the waters of the River Lethe.

"Lethe" is forgetfulness.

Flowing through the underworld into the cave of Hypnos,

and in so doing, they forgot forever their waking selves.

Thus, the superstition that it ill becomes he who toasts with water.

Sir...

All these years policing together hereabouts,

there were times when we had to go further than we...

well, than the law allowed.

Mr. Reid, tonight,

what you told those men, what they are now carrying out,

rousting legitimate businesses and innocent people?

There's no talk of snide in them places, sir, you know that.

There's no narcs or snitches giving us reason to storm the gates.

What you asked of them, that ain't policing.

I must offer my gratitude that you come back

after four years to teach me how to police.

When Fred Abberline asked my return here,

there was talk of...

that Inspector Reid had made of his desk

and his office a bunker.

Patrolled these days his archives, not his streets.

But what I saw this night

was the Inspector Reid I saw some four years past

at the ropes of a fighting ring...

A man driven by rage.

And when I left this city,

when I failed you as a friend,

I did so only that I might survive as a man.

You do not need to justify yourself, Bennet.

It's not my own peace which concerns me, sir.

We battle monsters, we become monsters.

In that abyss, which you speak of...

it's not only around us...

it's not only out there, it is inside us...

and it bleeds a blackness that swallows all light.

I am, as I ever have been, friend to you.

That is why I came.

That is why I say what must be said...

'Cause this borough needs us.

It needs you, Mr. Reid...

And for you to abide by the law.

Do you imagine Horace Buckley

endured a battle with himself day by day

to keep a girl locked in his cellar?

Or is there a true nature to ourselves, Bennet?

Is the truth that the abyss is not within us, nor without us?

We are the abyss.

I appreciate your visit.

Till morning.

- Inspector Reid, sir. - Good night, Bennet.

Till the morning, then.

I was his prisoner.

The wicked king, he made me his prisoner.

And he made me forget.

Forget what?

Who I am.

And who is that, Alice?

A princess of the faren.

Faring?

Farings?

The winged ones.

My daddy helped me to remember myself.

Your daddy, Mr. Horace?

After the sprites brought me to him,

and he made my pupa,

and he taught me about the wicked king.

But I...

I knew the king's secret.

I knew why he became sad.

Sad?

Why?

He was...

... hurting them.

I can see.

The king is so sad.

So I go into his throne room to sing to him,

but he is gone, and I...

... I see.

What do you see, Alice?

Pictures.

I find pictures of them all hurt and...

Who?

Who are they?

Dead fairies.

I am in his room of terrible secrets,

and he... the wicked king... punishes me.

How does he punish you?

He takes me on his ship.

The water, all glitter in the sun, and

so bright.

And then...

Then what?

Alice?

Fire.

Fire.

My punishment.

I am burning.

The wicked king wants to burn me

so my wings will never grow back,

and I will never fly away.

It hurts.

It hurts so much.

Alice.

Can you tell me what the king looks like?

A man...

On fire.

He screams my name, but not my name.

What name does he scream?

He is... he is crying.

And I'm falling.

Falling.

The king reaches for me, and now the sprites have me.

The sprites?

The river sprites have me.

And they carry me,

and their arms are so cold on my back, and then...

♪ Come unto these yellow sands ♪

♪ And then take hands ♪

♪ And, sweet sprites, bear the burden ♪

And my daddy, Horace, finds me.

Mr. Buckley.

And he tells me, my true name.

And the truth of who I am.

Alice.

Alice, can you look at something for me?

Can you look at this picture?

No!

No!!

What is it? What is it, Alice?

The wicked king!

You're safe now, Alice.

You're safe now.

Safe and sound. Safe and sound.

He requests audience, sir.

Tell him to get out of my police station before I

have two constables assist him without delicacy.

What I have to say warrants your good ear, Inspector.

May I?

Thank you, Sergeant.

Two trains mangled, dozens dead,

five men hanged for what?

A robbery, yes, but naught claimed amiss.

Strange days, would you not agree?

If you come to berate my investigation afresh,

I shall shackle you for a month.

Your investigation, indeed.

Poked your snout 'round the goods yard, I hear,

but truffled thus in vain

because no stevedore wished to implicate himself

to a copper in acts illegal.

What acts?

Levying what one might call an unofficial handler's fee.

They skim.

Some with rigorous efficiency,

which is why they remarked upon the sea cans.

The sea can what was robbed.

Hoboken, New Jersey to Whitechapel, London,

and for a year now, month on month,

sea cans just like it arriving on the same shipping ticket.

Locked up like a safe.

No dice, thus, for our skimmers,

except one time the sea can was damaged in transit.

Locks smashed, doors warped.

The stevedores, well, they're giddy for a peek,

and what do they find?

Carpetbags.

A few bloody carpetbags filled with...

well, they call it "money that weren't money."

Not good old readies, Inspector.

This was paper marked "bearer bonds."

In United States dollars.

Bonds? That's what it was all for?

Bags stuffed, Inspector.

Picture and count hundreds of thousands gone

and unreported. Why?

You intend to print this?

What, and blow a trombone

to startle those behind it, give them cause to scamper?

No, sir. I shall continue to inquire on the hush

and now, so may you.

And you seek what in return for this?

You think me a muckraker, a peeping Tom,

a sniff at the knicker drawers of this town.

But I...

You are aware a friend of mine perished

for the greed of those bloody bonds.

I will not fail him as I once...

What do I seek?

I seek justice done in Whitechapel, Inspector Reid.

That and nothing more.

Mr. Best?

Follow the bonds.

Goddamn, I'm good.

Now, I took the mud apart every way I could.

And it's done with chromium. Chromium sulfate.

They use that in tanneries.

And ammonia, in these quantities, I'd say, it's the runoff of a dyeworks.

- I'll get on it. - Wait, wait.

I narrowed the field.

All the ammonia in this one, it's gonna be overgrown.

The butterfly wing, it's all the same breed, right?

Old world swallowtail.

Lepidopterist at the zoo identified it.

And they feed on milk parsley.

My guess is, he catches these

on account that it's right on his doorstep.

That's the best I can do for an "X" and "Y."

Fine work.

Have at it.

Inspector!

Buckley's place, they know it.

I come for you Alice. I come for you.

Buckley.

Horace Buckley.

When may I go home, Miss Susan?

Before you know it.

Here...

Eat up your prunes and custard.

You need your strength to fly, you know.

Daddy says my wings will never grow back outside my pupa.

Don't fret little one, we, um...

We've special medicines here.

You will grow perfectly.

Perhaps this can even be your home.

Alice?

The wicked king...

- Was he very cruel? - He pretended to be good...

Pretended to be kind...

So I'd forget I was a fairy.

And do you remember...

you told me that the king called you by another name...

Can you say that name now?

Daddy told me not to,

or they'd find me again.

Not here my love...

I'm making a place you see...

A special garden of my own.

A place where young girls can always be safe,

I know about the cruellties of this world,

and I would slay any wicked king that came for you here.

Slay 'em dead.

Is it true?

The girl is Reid's daughter?

I believe so.

And you've not yet sent word?

There remain concerns for the girl's fragility of mind.

At the moment Dr. Frayn is certain she has the

strength that should see father and daughter reunited.

Edmund Reid becomes a danger.

I have a man at the East London bank.

He tells me a police wire was sent across the city

inquiring after bearer bonds, and Reid has found Buckley.

The man draws ever closer.

However, there remains, I believe...

... a means of deflection.

We are, after all, not without collateral.

We are not.

What we ask, we ask only for the sake of the girl.

Her confusion, after all, remains...

Dr. Frayn, all of us know too well

what befalls lost children on these streets.

Orphan house to workhouse to whorehouse.

Whitechapel will swallow her whole.

We can protect her from that.

We can see that a semblance of hope yet awaits her.

A stricken child.

A broken mind is not a broken bone.

There is no standard prognosis.

And her confusion remains a great concern.

I will do right by the girl.

You've my word.

What is it you ask of me?

Did you kill your wife, Mr. Buckley?

No.

- Kendrick, then? Who? - I...

Tell us about your cellar, Mr. Buckley.

My... my...

Who did you keep in your cellar?

Nothing. Mr. Capshaw, he dropped my Clara.

He k... killed her. He killed her.

I'm... I'm not a brave man.

Capshaw? Ronald Capshaw, he was there?

He ruined our world.

Will this be your testimony, Mr. Buckley?

Will you speak up for your wife in court

so that we may punish her killer?

Yes, and then I shall be free.

Who is the child?

Cellar?

Hm... hm... p... p... p... perhaps Clara...

We take Capshaw first. Buckley's going nowhere.

- Can't hear a thing, can we. - Hold still damn it.

It's just wax, is all.

Enough for Madame Tussaud's, but it won't kill you.

- Come by the surgery... - Huh?

We're taking Capshaw, he killed the Buckley woman.

- Capshaw? - Not your business, Jackson.

Yeah, the hell it isn't.

I couldn't stop them!

Take him in for the murder of Clara Buckley!

Where is the mistress of this house?

Good day, Inspector.

Before you take Mr. Capshaw, I beg you to hear me.

I have not afforded you the full candor I...

We have both always strived above all else

to make safe this small quarter.

Made our mission to protect,

but today, you protect the wrong man.

Horace and Clara Buckley were not victims, Inspector.

You saw the cellar.

Mr. Capshaw and Mr. Kendrick found her.

Where? Where is she?

I summoned doctors, but her suffering was too great.

Dr... Dr. Amelia Frayn, Inspector.

She strived her utmost, but...

Her suffering had been too great and for too long.

The trauma, I believe,

of taking her from her... from her dungeon.

I...

There was nothing could be done for the child, sir.

Her peace came swiftly.

For that, at least, we may be grateful.

Where is she?

She was buried this morning.

She could not speak, Inspector.

Could not walk for rickets.

Had been starved, tortured, forced.

And it is her rescuer, Mr. Capshaw,

you now seek to shackle

on the word of the monster that made her slave and plaything.

But why... why did you not bring this to me?

Why?!

Because, Mr. Reid,

I could not be sure

this poor, broken girl was not your daughter.

Jesus Christ, Susan!

How dare you.

Her burns, Dr. Frayn.

There was scarring... scars of fire all upon her back.

Her age was...

This ain't right, woman.

I'm not claiming it is so, but if she were your Matilda,

I would not have had you look upon her in that way.

I sought to protect you from that horror.

But she was someone's child.

And if you still wish to charge Mr. Capshaw...

- Take him in. - But if it were Matilda

kept by Horace Buckley, what then?

What vengeance could there be that would not destroy you?

Buckley.

I will know the truth.

Who was she?!

Sir?

The girl in the cellar!

What cellar?!

What cellar? What cellar? I shall show you what cellar!

I beg you, sir. I beg you, sir! Please!

Aah!

Open the door!

Please, I beg you, sir. I beg you, sir, please!

Please, I didn't mean to!

- What cellar?! - Please!

- Huh?! - Please, I didn't mean to...

she was my little fairy, the river's precious gift.

The river? The river?!

- Who was she? - Alice, my princess.

I never stole.

The wicked king,

his ship of fire...

she was burned so bad that I...

Aah!

Sir...

I will know the truth... I will know.

No, sir!

Reid!

Who was she?

We just wanted a child, sir. We so wanted a child. And...

You tortured her, and then you murdered her!

Oh, no, no! I love her.

I love her. She's my little princess.

- Where is she? Is she safe? - Her name!

Alice.

Don't lie to me!

Who was she?!

Reid!

When I found her, she never knew,

and I made the stories to help her,

and th... th... then sh... she remembered.

Remembered what?

I... I needed t... t... to help her.

I... I knew she... she wasn't a real fairy,

but... but I... I made her believe.

She remembered what?

Who... who she...

h... her name.

M... M...

M... Matilda.

Matilda.

M... M... Matilda Reid.

She was my daughter.

The day she said her name,

I... I... I... I knew she was yours.

How?

How could you keep her from me?

She feared you!

The death around you, like a black halo.

Your own daughter had t... t... t... terror of you.

You...

N... never loved her the w... way I did.

You couldn't love her enough to keep her safe.

Reid.

Reid, do not do this, brother.

Do not do this.

Listen to him, Edmund.

Edmund!

Don't do it.

Reid. Listen to him.

- No. - You can't.

Reid!

No!

Ugh!

Inspector...

You may have five minutes.

I can give no more.

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