All language subtitles for ripper-street-s04e06-edmund-reid-did-this-webrip-sammy

Oh?

- Wanted to say good night.
- Mm-mmm.

- Who am I?
- The sandman, Pappy.

- Yeah, and what do I bring?
- Sweet dreams.

Yeah, well, take them and sleep.

Say good night to our guest.

Good night, Mr. Bennet.

Go now.

Do not wake me when you come, Don.

Well, I would not bank on it, woman.

It is a thing to be happy, Don.

It is.

And you are.

I am.

There's no secret to it, Ben.

There is only this.

Do not care for all but what
you may throw your arms about.

Decide who that may be.
Forget what remains beyond.

That is no counsel for a copper.

I never said it was.

It is counsel for a man, however, who
would know what life is, not the other.

Sync & corrections by PetaG
www.addic7ed.com

_

See, my darling, how we all like
to feel a man in uniform beneath us?

Do you blush on my account, Drum?

It is coarse.

And you are about as far from
coarse as a man might imagine, Tilda.

You know, Drum, you must not
make a princess out of me.

But that is the way I feel
about you, however, Tilda...

a princess to me.

Then you must stop.

There is something I have learned, and
learned to my cost, Samuel Drummond.

It is that life is not a fairy tale,

and that those who seek to
make it one too often do so

for the real and felt unhappiness of
their actual lives. Do you understand?

I am not unhappy, Mathilda.

I could make you so, however.
I could make so and fast.

There are no princesses and
no monsters, only humans...

their flesh and bones
and all too broken hearts.

I am fond of you because you are real.

And I can not find anything
hidden or broken about you.

You must be fond of me
because I, too, am real.

Do you see?

I do.

Real.

Paper! Paper!

Whitechapel beast slays again.

Jewish immigrant murdered.

- Thank you, sir.
- _

Paper! Paper!

Jewish immigrant murdered.

Where is she?

- Excuse me, sir.
- Sit.

Come, Inspector Drake.

I should have known.

Edmund Reid betrays his badge,
his uniform, his brother men.

No, I told you, Inspector Drake.
And you would not hear it from me.

I will not stand idle whilst
Whitechapel falls beneath terror...

a terror in which, I believe, Assistant
Commissioner Dove to be implicated.

Now, this will break him from his cover.

And break our good name alongside it.

Our good name be damned.

Miss Castello, will you show him?

Here. You may recognise Leon Ratovski,

this image recorded the day he led
his people out of the Russian Empire.

What are these? Towns? Villages?

- They are shtetl.
- They are the towns and villages

where the Jewish people of Russia
were tolerated to live... for a while.

Until living there became intolerable.

These, then, their
journeys as they fled,

those that made their
eventual way to London.

Go on.

I first heard the name Ratovski two
years ago from one who followed him...

a woman, the only surviving member
of her family to have reached London.

And though her grief was still
great, so was her gratitude

to the man, the rabbi, who
had led their caravan west.

I recorded the name, Leon Ratovski,
and then put that record aside.

Until the time you heard his name again.

The victim of a murder,

about which you, Mr. Drake, would reveal

barely more than a
sentence of information

until the murderer
was named, Isaac Bloom,

another Jewish man to
have made such a journey.

Yet still, although I make
daily requests for details,

none are forthcoming from you, sir,

or your superior at Scotland
Yard, Assistant Commissioner Dove,

who proceeds to injunct
all details of your case.

I am afraid I am perverse.

Being barred from asking questions
has a tendency to make ask more.

This week last, I travelled
to Paris where his friends

at the Sorbonne allowed me
to remove these photographs

and these.

They are his diaries, Bennet.

And you've read these?

They are in Ukrainian. He cannot.

- Well, then, they must be translated.
- They are being so.

Rabbi Ratovski's own account
of a journey at the head of 150

men, women, and children...
a community of Jews,

then supplemented by a further diaspora,

Christians fleeing north
from the Balkan peninsula.

In the Russian empire, the
czars drove out the Jews.

In the Ottoman, the Sultan
drove out the Christians,

peoples leaving all
they have known behind,

massing, driving west for salvation.

It is a hard road, however. And
this Ratovski's, the hardest.

In daylight, breaking camp, I see them,

perhaps 50 yards from us,
watching through the trees...

a wolf pack.

I say nothing to the group. We walk on.

The whole day, they follow.

They are to the south of us,
perhaps an hour later to the north.

We camp at nightfall.

I instruct fires to be built on
our perimeter, and I am asked why.

I do not need to find an answer
because that is when they begin to howl.

The first night, they take
two... an elderly couple.

We know nothing of this
until their screams erupt

From the darkness beyond our fires.

They scream for what
feels like many hours.

By morning, there is nothing left
of them except the blood in the snow.

The following night, they come
again, but now they take five,

two young girls among them. Again,

we must listen to their screams.

And so it proceeds, day by day,
as we walk through the forest.

We see them close, their
pups gambolling alongside.

And each night, they
attack. And we listen to our

wives, our husbands, our
parents, our children screaming

and imagine that one night soon it will
be ourselves going beneath their jaws.

Two weeks we walk through
the forest like this.

And on the last night, however,
the wolves take a woman,

A Christian woman, Galuba.

I remember her name
because she was the last,

and also because her two sons
attempted to fight the animals.

Perhaps for this reason,
the wolves did not

remove her corpse, instead
left her there in the snow,

her insides all about her,
and the youngest of her sons

still clutching at her cold body.

Ratovski told Isaac Bloom that he
had come to London the right a wrong.

And he would say that this
wrong constituted an abandonment.

The later entries, his arrival in Paris,

he... he talks of being
broken, unable to continue,

unable to lead his people further.

So the caravan breaks up, men, women,
and children going where they may.

And some we know, correct,
Miss Castello, to London.

So perhaps these two brothers were
forced to go on without Ratovski.

And was this that abandonment?

Two small boys alone and
orphaned, their memories,

who they felt themselves to be,

shaped and fathered by the
beast they met in that forest.

Now grown to adulthood.
Homo homoni lupus esto.

Man is wolf to man.

Before Ratovski was found, weeks before,

do you recall, Deborah,
the talk had started...

a figure seen on rooftops
watching those of this community,

what they called the Whitechapel golem.

So what has become a rabid
violence begins with a surveillance?

Like the wolves stalking the caravan.

Two boys, two Christian boys,

the sons of the wolves' last victim,

are given shelter by a Jewish community.

Whilst in their care, they are
exposed to this bestial horror.

And now in adulthood,
one of them seeks to visit

the same horror within
the same community.

So is Ratovski brought
here to tend, to counsel,

only to fall beneath
the jaws of the wolf?

Invited by one brother to
attempt the healing of the other?

The woman's name?

Do you recall a bird-seller who had a
store off the back of Fashion Street.

I once brought Rose lovebirds from him.

- I do. I remember him.
- He was a gyppy.

Made great play of it,
his Balkan Romani roots.

"Goluba", was the word
he used for a dove.

He makes his mother's name
English, redefines himself with it.

Miss Castello, you will
now set your curiosity

to Assistant Police
Commissioner Augustus Dove.

Find him. Follow him. Report to me.

It will be more than
a book you will write,

and more than our good
name will be bankrupted.

He will show the world a darkness
sat the heart of Scotland Yard itself.

We all knew it, when we
were all scraps together.

We all knew you would become
the model of what a man might be.

Even when you were a boy, Augustus Dove.

We girls would fight and scratch
for who one day might be your woman.

How is it you're alone, Augustus?

I do not know, Rose.

All I know is it saddens me.

It saddens me something fearful.

Do not be sad, Augustus.

Do not be.

There is too much confusion in the world
for a young, handsome man to be sad.

Not too far, Connor.

Rose, may I ask you something?

Of course, you may.

Your words to me, your
recent words of Miss Hart

and how she and Mr. Reid have
collaborated on some of act of evil...

You said I should keep my secrets.

I did. I know.

Well, who could blame him for
it when it... his daughter.

It was his child.

- But Susan... what she did...
- Rose, forgive me. I do not follow.

It was her father, Theodore Swift,

her own flesh and blood. And God help,

Bennet stood by and watched
as they put him in that cellar,

the same cellar that Reid
popped that child-stealer's

head open on a stone pillar.

Oh, but I am faithless.

You are not, Rose.

You are nothing of the kind.

You hold to what is right and
true, not to lies and secrecy.

And murder, Rose.

What they did was murder.

Two men for three vases.

Does that represent a good deal?

Oi, I'll tell you again,
that blood is on my hands.

Now, we may waste no time.

Yes, I understand that, Croker.

Then take one vase... only one, mind...

to that fence off Radcliffe
Highway and get your prize.

I got little choice, do I?

You've arranged our berths, then?

Boston the best I can
do in such short order.

- Boston will serve fine.
- Then you bring me my money,

hook your child and I
shall waive your fee.

Just a, uh, word,
Croker, before I leave?

Come.

That's your boy, is is not?

He is. Not my blood, but he's my boy.

You know what your
boy's been about of late?

Now most other weeks, I'd
just shoot them here and now.

But this ain't other weeks.
So I only ask you this.

If I leave my wife with you for
another two hours, is she safe?

Well, what is it you
accuse him of, Captain?

I cannot vouch for her safety
if I do not know this...

Now you know goddamn
well what the threat is.

Now what he's done, I can only
leave that on your conscience, Abel.

But you vouch for her
safety. And you do it now.

- She will be safe.
- On your life, Croker.

On my life.

She ain't, he even gives her a stir,

I will hunt him and kill him, and
not before I've shot you first.

- You hear me?
- I hear you.

What gives, Abel?

Oh...

Take this to the station
house on Leman Street.

Sir?

What is it, Sergeant?

Our dead room reaches capacity.

The cage on the customs
warehouse on Cutler Street

was blown up in last night...

- two guards killed.
- What thieved?

Three porcelain vases.

Well, it's your case,
Thatcher. You see it through.

Sirs, I think you must see this.

- Captain Jackson?
- Not in his rooms, Inspector.

Usual gin and flop houses?

Men searched, returned without
him. We keep looking however.

So it was you who has stripped them?

- No, sir.
- That was myself.

Sergeant Thatcher found the
action, uh, not to his taste.

It... it was the wounding, sir.

Blood spilling from
the same piece of them.

Upper left thorax.

You see, I think the instinct accurate.

It's the same wounding, when
he must kill for necessity.

These, Mr. Nadelman and
Mr. Ratovski before him.

This... this is the animal unleashed.

Mr. Reid, sir, which animal?

This is fine work.

But I think you both must leave us now.

What, no?

Inspector?

Get out, Thatcher.

Do we believe Augustus Dove about the
thieving of Japanese porcelain also?

And more besides.

The world beside.

Who here carries the biggest truncheon?

What is it you want, small fry?

- You, is it?
- Come on.

- Oi, I only came to run you a note.
- Then give it.

Tip off. Cutler Street job.

Knows where the items to be fenced.

Drum! What do you do?

- Well, inspectors.
- Inspectors be bolloxed.

This is our bloody collar.

_

Parker?

No. I'm Thatcher.

Who...

Thatcher, what...

Bloody thieving, conniving,

backstabbing Americans.

God damn it.

You're really going to
make me do this, huh?

Now there's some
morphine about the place.

Just do me a favour and fix me up with
some brandy because my head is broke...

Everything you know... now.

I know you punch like a choir boy.

There's a rope with
your name on it and soon.

Look, Drake, I'd really
like to help, really I would.

But I don't know nothing.

So why don't you be a good little
nurse and go and get me my morphine.

Bennet, Bennet, Bennet, Bennet.

Oh, what's wrong?

Your two stars still crossed, boys?

Why, you're out of conditioning, Reid.

See?

See?

Now I'm not no surgeon,
nor no Pinkerton.

But I'm no fool neither.

These knife wounds are the same.

And as you, with such
precision, pointed out,

He who killed Thomas Gower, killed
this poor immigrant, Nadelman.

Killed Leon Ratovski also.

And now, I believe, has put his
knife between these two men's ribs

during a robbery which you, in
one way or another, have partaken.

Anyway you choose to slice it,
Captain, you're up to your guts in this.

So you tell me who done this!

Just pass me a smoke, will ya?

Were you part of this
robbery last night?

If you were not, how did you
get your hands on this vase?

Well, that's a good
many questions, Reid.

Which one's your favourite?

Despite your self-interest,
I know that you are not

the stripe of man that let others
suffer while you might instead help.

Now we know not how,
but Augustus Dove himself

is somehow also tangled within all.

So I ask you again, only help.

I only wish I could, Reid.

You know, I'm glad of something.

The man you were when we
first met, the man of war,

man of dread, his least fighting dog,

and now all that you have
constructed about yourself now, Drake,

is a man of peace, a man of hope...
it's a relief for me to see it.

Just how brittle a carapace that was,

how little a man can change.

Inspectors...

sir, she has brung herself here.

Uh, Miss Castello,
sir. She asks after you.

Have two men lock this whoreson down.

My office.

It is a rare blend our
surgeon's taken to smoking.

One cannot imagine its importers
being that many and varied.

So get on the line to the
shipping office at the Western

find out who lumps such
tobacco ashore for them.

You're sure?

I'm afraid so.

Leave us now.

They are friends, are they not,
from childhood, schooled together.

Such friends do not walk arm in arm.

Do not care for ought but what
you may throw your arms about.

It will not serve anyone,
least of all yourself,

to reach a conclusion that
you have not seen first-hand

and which you cannot prove.

I see your rage.

I do, but do not feed it.

Leave me for now to join this robbery
with Mr. Dove and you go home, Bennet.

Go home with love in your heart.

Yes? Drummond?

Three different merchants,
two different wharf sites.

Only, uh, here's a point
of interest, Mr. Reid.

Shipping office reports
an identical inquiry

taking place a couple of weeks back.

A fellow named Probin, prison doctor.

Egyptian.

Nutty, cut with sweetness.

They're strong and rare,
only a few importers.

It's a clear trail to its source,

a trail stepped by
another in recent times,

that doctor out of Newgate.

Remember his name?

It was Probin.

He ministered to your wife, I believe,

before she died... or did not die,

if Rose Drake is to be believed.

I only mention this out of fellowship

and due to the fact
that time presses. And...

and I believe you may be able
to save me a diversion or two.

Which of the three wharves that land
this tobacco should I go to first?

- And what I would I find there?
- Reid, I think you know what it is.

You asked me that. It ain't just
a name I'm going to give you.

- I do. I must.
- Then in fellowship, don't ask it.

And yet, I have no notion of
what it is you speak, Reid.

Reid, you be careful down there.

- What dangers do I face?
- Plenty.

No.

No, no, no.

Ah! No.

_

This your sarcophagus, is it, madam?

Where you have come to in your death?

And who else to break me from
my tomb but you, Mr. Reid?

It is fortunate...

that I am in the habit of
believing the evidence with my eyes.

I might, like Rose Drake,

consider my wits lost to me having
watched you fall from the scaffold.

At some point in time, I should be
very interested to know how you did it,

although I have some idea

given that your husband is
currently in irons at Leman Street.

Tip off, apparently, apprehended in
the process of selling stolen goods,

the anticipated profit
from which to provide

the wherewithal for your
further flight, I imagine,

an escape of ruthlessness and ingenuity,

one that might have been
worthy of you, madam.

Escape?

It is a fine fancy,

but no more than that.

And you, Mr. Reid, a
man equally resurrected,

equally powerless to leave a place,

come to show me my truth once more.

Yourself, myself,

attached to Whitechapel as if
by lead weights on a riverbed.

The betrayal of my husband,

it is the same communication
that has brought you in here now?

No, merely police work.

And who your betrayer?

The wharfinger here, Croker?

So it would seem.

- My son, will I see my son?
- Not of current relevance.

I am sure some visitation
might be arranged

before... well, before
the law of this land

makes one further attempt
to see you punished.

I would have accepted it, my hanging.

You must understand that, Mr. Reid.

I would have given my life in
recompose for all I have taken

and... and done it with peace.

But they let me raise my boy.

And once... once I had known him,

I could not relinquish that.

Thus this most recent thieving of yours,

dead men at your door yet again
in your pursuit of freedom.

And I would mourn them.

Now also their mourning
barely worth the saying of.

No, then who was it?

Who was it put the knife in?

It is you. It is you.

No, no, you take this
man's life, Nathaniel,

you must take mine first.

You know what it's like to protect.
And I must protect him. I must.

Nathaniel, is it?

What was it before? What was
it when the wolves came for you?

- Who is he?
- He's Reid. He's my friend.

- He's police, is he not?
- He is.

You, you are the younger, you who
laid beside your mother in the snow.

And who is the older, Nathaniel?

You tell me. I... I believe I know.
But you tell me. You confirm it.

Did you run to him? Did you
confess what you'd done to Ratovski?

I'm sorry, Miss Susan. I'm sorry.

Wait! Wait!

Half an hour, Augustus, tea and cake.

Thank you.

Half an hour.

Mr. Drake, I thought to
deliver your wife home.

What is it you thought to
deliver her from, Mr. Dove?

Bennet, you know full
well we are friends.

Should I not accept a carriage
ride home when all about is uproar?

- It is as Rose says, Inspector.
- Mrs. Drake, she's Mrs. Drake to you.

As Mrs. Drake has said,
these are dangerous days.

And if it is in my gift to afford you
a measure of peace by returning your...

Bennet!

Augustus.

Ah!

Get him away. Get the boy out, Rose.

Wh... want me to take his eyes away?

Spare your shame for you? I will not.

On your head be it then, woman.

Your own selfish needs and I a
slave to each and every one of them.

And now this.

Stop it!

Why you...

- Mm.
- Did you let him touch you?

Have you... have you
taken him to our bed?

No, Bennet.

Perhaps she speaks the truth.

But what of your truth, hey?

Bennet.

You have camouflaged yourself
to me with great skill, sir.

But there is a ripe stink about you now.

We have it in the air.

And we are coming for you, Mr. Dove.

Oh, what will happen, Augustus?

All will be well.

My health on it.

You allow it, I will build high
walls to make you and your child safe.

Only you must choose
a side now, my Rose.

The cellar, where may I find it?

You know already, Augustus.

It was beneath that curiosity shop.

Book her, Sergeant Drummond.

Yes, Mr. Reid.

Name?

Susan Hart.

True name.

Swift.

Caitlin Swift.

Inspector Drake, sir.

Please, sir. There is a
unit at Westminster Manor.

Yard uniforms, A-Division,
sir, over 50 of 'em.

They've sealed up the Compton
Estate on Sander Street,

and they're clearing out the tenants.

Arrest warrant.

Inspectors Reid and Drake
to be apprehended and held

on the order of Assistant
Commissioner Dove.

_

_

_

_

_

_

There.

_

What will we do, Bennet? Wait for
the first of those men out there

to feel that their prospects
might be advanced by our shackling?

We will not.

Perhaps I am only good
for the fight after all.

Then let us bring it, Bennet.

- The brother's Dove.
- Susan Hart.

That woman there, the woman Swift,
she saved me from that creature.

he would have had that knife
up under my ribs in a trice,

but he obeyed her command.

She and her husband also,
they know this Nathaniel.

If we find him, his capture
will bring us also his brother.

With me.

Keys.

Stand down, Carter. Just go.

Get out. Move!

Get walking.

Drake!

[Inaudible]

Drake, my Colt.

Captain Jackson's effects.

Do it, Drummond.

Inspectors, will you
not even make it appear

as if we tried to do our duty?

Move!

Do you see her, Bennet?

Call me mad now, will ya?

Rose,

Rose, do you have my son?

I don't know how you dare ask.

He is at home being
watched by a real policemen.

Rose, please, none of this
is as I would have wanted it.

You are so dear to me.

But my deception, can you...
will you understand how...

Whoa!

I think you said your
piece now, Mrs. Drake.

I ain't even begun, Captain.

Do you know what he and I have suffered?

And all for the true love of you.

And we have done it together.

But that love is now broke and forgot.

So you may run, but do not think
you will ever see your son again.

You gave him to me. You died.

And you remain dead.

And if I see you again, Long
Susan, I will kill you myself.

We must run. We must run.

Is it you, Rose?

You who sent Mr. Dove to that cellar?

What happened to you, Rose?

Drake. Drake. Now.

On a hard day, you are a
fine sight, Mathilda Reid.

Your eyes do not deceive
you, Mathilda. It is her.

Our thanks, Miss
Castello. We must speak.

There will be bad things said about me,

things that perhaps you
will not recognise as acts

I could have carried out.

Then are they true?

Some, yes.

Tilda Reid, the girl born to me twice.

No wonder of the woman you've become.

No. Not again, Father. Do not leave me.

You stay close to your
Samuel Drummond, understand?

He loves you, will keep you safe.

And Mathilda, this
is the most important.

You must deny me.

You must openly state that
any love for your father

has been extinguished by
what you have learned of him.

Should you need to speak with
me, place a candle in your window.

Miss Castello?

You will be watched.

So you play the innocent for now.
Else he will see you dead, understand?

Now we go hunting.

You will search the length
of Whitechapel high streets

and Commercial Road.

Ahem.

Let him through.

Yes, Sergeant Drummond?

Mr. Dove, sir, there
was a delivery for you.

A boy brought this, sir.

We put him up and sent him running.

But there is no rat hole in
Whitechapel where he can hide from me.

Feel this needful, do you?

I do. And more besides.

It was you instructed me
to keep wearies on him.

But I cannot make that
my life sole calling

if the watching of him must be done each
and every minute of each and every day.

He can't help himself.

And I do not know of any
other way of doing it.

He's chained, Abel.

My brother is chained.

As all animals require,
chaining or slaying.

- What's that you say?
- Uh...

only this, that I should've
tied him up in a sack

and put him in the river
when I first saw him.

He is past saving, Augustus.

And you and your ever-burgeoning
eminence needs protection from him.

So you think to end his misery.

I do.

And wish for my sanction.

I do not require your sanction.

The pair of you would have been ground
down for bread had it not been for me.

I do you the respect
of telling you is all.

Augustus, what's he saying?

Augustus, Augustus, please,
please, I will be better.

I will be calm, I promise.

Go then. But make it swift.

Go on. Go on. Go on.

You will be at peace, my boy.

Oh.

Argh!

He is my blood, Abel.

What else would I do?

A cloak.

To reveal the truth of himself.

I think it is unlikely
they will return now,

unless it is Augustus Dove and
20 men hoping to make our capture.

Until we are apprehended,

I do not think your Croker
will return that creature here.

They're ours, God damn
it, stolen in good faith

and worth a bundle, a bundle we four

- could well benefit from.
- We four?

I'm not your brother in outlaw arms.

Oh, are you not? Well, why don't
you go trot back to your desk then?

I believe I have some instinct as to
where your quarry may now hide itself.

Where'd he say?

Somewhere.

It is a... it is a
whole system of tunnels.

What do you want, brother?

What do you want?

To live, grow old, be happy.

Same as me, Augustus.

But I cannot because of what
I want is not what I need.

The need never dies, does it, boy?

Storm blows up for
a score of wherefores,

but the sailing remains the same.

Augustus, he ain't your mainsail.

He ain't even your anger.

He is the teeth of the hurricane,
he's your kraken waking.

Perhaps, but he is mine.

Listen, you do not
look for me, understand?

Go, brother. Hide.

I shall find you.

Yes, Augustus.

I gave you life.

It is not a gift, Abel.

If you weren't dead
already, I'd kill you myself.

Where, man, where is your creature?

Please, please, Abel, only tell us.

Take parallel paths, then.
Our eyes on each other's torch.

Come.

Try me once more.

You think me scared of you, do you?

Well, I am not.

I am you, man!

Do you sometimes walk in sunlight

- and remember what murder
- Bennet!

your hands have made?

Do you quiver with the same power of it?

Bennet!

Then come.

Come.

Show yourself to me.

It will only be a looking
in the mirror after all.

Believe yourself a cruel man, do ya?

Believe this life, only hung
for that cruelty to breed.

You do not know the bare start of it.

How many, then? Huh?

Ratovski?

My boy Gower, the immigrant
Nadelman, and two guards?

Let us hazard, perhaps, two
or three more along the way.

Six, say it.

Six is nothing, boy.

I ended 20 men beneath these hands

in only one half hour morning.

A whole world of cruelty, man.

But I shall tell you this.

There ain't nothing so cruel in
this world as the killing of love.

Feast on me, then.

Cut me open and eat out my heart.

But all you will find there is dust.

Argh!

Bennet!

With me! With me!

Bennet.

Bennet.

Bennet, you fight.

You fight.

No, my friend.

No more fight.

There.

No!

_

Sync & corrections by PetaG
www.addic7ed.com