All language subtitles for Ripper Street - 3x02 - The Beating of Her Wings.WebRip.FaiLED.en

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... ♪

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- 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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