Original subtitles

New Boho boots by Groovy Shoes.

The coolest kicks in town.

The killer heels are definitely something to grit and shout about.

Boho, the only way to go -go.

People cannot wait to get their hands on these boots.

Then you mean their feet?

Exactly.

You'll be in next week's edition.

You'll be wrapped round a fish supper come Friday. Coolest kicks in town.

Made right here in our town.

You can have that one.

And did you say the launch is being brought forward to Saturday?

Saturday? By popular demand.

Much obliged, Mr Millington.

Cheerio, ladies.

Bye. Right, let's get these machines humming and make some beautiful music

together. I thought we made booths.

With staff numbers already down, we'll never get it finished by Saturday,

you're going to pay us over that. Yeah, we'll have to pull double shift.

I'm afraid factory finances are rather tight at the moment, ladies.

Meaning? Meaning I'm very much relying on your goodwill to get this order out

time. Do you want us to work extra hours for no extra pay? Well, we don't want

to see the factory go under, do we?

What? The rather brutal fact is we pull together or you could all be out of a

job.

Boho boots.

They're to die for.

Not that I can afford them on my wages.

They don't look very comfortable.

They're rather daring.

Yeah, I had a pair of heels like that once.

Nearly broke my neck running for the bus after a night of passion.

It was a nightclub.

Anyway, never mind the boots.

I snip a business opportunity.

Reckon we can sell our vino at the launch party.

Mr. Millington's using the Spitfire after work.

You could ask him.

We should be getting

paid for this extra work. I'm talking to the union.

You heard Mr. Millington.

If we don't get these boots ready on time, we could be out of a job.

Ah, ladies.

I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this.

Oh, Uncle Arthur.

Sorry, Mr Millington.

The women are grumbling about the additional hours.

Dermot, the thing you have to understand about women is how much they love to

complain. You just have to know how to handle them.

Turn on the charm.

Mr Millington.

Ah, the lovely Bernice.

I was wondering... Well, wonder no more. I'm sure Dermot will be able to help.

Sean Dermott. She can muster any.

Hello, girls.

What a chance to see you ladies.

Pamela. To what do we owe the pleasure?

Can't a girl pop by to see her favourite uncle?

She can.

But I bet she's after something.

You know me so well.

Just give me half an hour. Pamela, my dear, I've got a couple of things to get

on top of.

We have a big order to finish.

I can see that.

Stick the kettle on, then. I'll wait.

Interesting.

Snowball?

Just a small one. We're here on convent business, remember?

I don't understand a lot.

They're just boots.

They're boho boots.

I thought they were go -go boots.

The boho boot is the go -go boot.

Apparently, yeah.

They don't look great on you, Peggy.

Thanks.

So, how's your arty -farty stuff going?

I'm getting my portfolio together.

Much to Uncle Arthur's disgust. There's no money in art.

No money in footwear, either. Got calluses on calluses with his sewing

Moan, moan, moan. You don't hear the men complaining about the extra work.

They're just glad of the extra cash.

Shh.

Extra cash?

Oi, Derek.

Hey, are you getting paid overtime?

You and your big mouth. You're a liability.

Arthur! Oh, hello, Hector. Now, you promised me some end -of -line sandals

my theatricals.

I'm doing one of the Greeks.

What? Vera, do you fancy a bit of Lysistrata?

No poet's wiser than Euripides.

As he says,

no beast exists so shameless as women, guys.

Bravo. Are you having a drink, Daisy?

Oh, no, I'm here to clean the moonlight image.

I would have thought spirits are more on your line. Holy spirits.

Good one.

Bring a bowl to the factory tomorrow. We'll talk.

You're early.

Have you got a second, second job?

Who needs must?

Who needs shouldn't?

Wait till I tell you what I found out.

Chop, chop, Mrs Mott.

I need you on those machines when the clock strikes eight.

No, look, Boston, brought me snifter.

He's in his office, but he doesn't like to be deferred before nine.

Oh, well, he's having it in half an hour.

No, no.

Never too early for a veen. Oh.

Laceration and swelling suggest a blow to the head.

Perhaps there was a robbery gone wrong.

The money's still in the petty cash team, but perhaps Mr Millington

burglar. Or the burglar disturbed him.

Looks like he slept here last night.

Blood on the corner.

From the position of the body, I'd say that he hit his head as he fell.

So, an accident?

No, I don't think so.

Best open a window, a bit of almonds.

Cyanide?

There's a coffee pot here and a half -drunk cup.

Oh, yes, I did. I'll take them for testing.

Somebody's being naughty.

And this hair doesn't appear to be Arthur's.

Sister, I'm off then.

Well, no rigor mortis.

Body's still warm.

Can't have been more than a couple of hours ago.

Sister Reg said there were some workers here when she arrived.

They're out there.

This is horrible.

We have to open as normal. The launch is on Saturday.

Not being funny, Demma, but you could look a little bit more gracious.

I feel sick.

Did any of you see or speak to Mr Millington this morning?

He was in his office all night working on the launch.

Nobody goes in there on pain of death.

I was back in.

We wouldn't dare.

Hello.

Who's left their greasy mark here?

Here, another one here.

What is it?

Financial records.

Sister, someone's been lighting a fire in here recently.

In the heat of summer.

Well, albeit British summer.

Oh, yes.

Someone's been burning paper.

But why?

I salvaged as many fragments as I could.

Why the hair, Laka?

Perhaps the fragments have a hot day.

I need to stabilise their structural integrity before I can examine them.

I'm running tests on the greasy smudges as well.

OK, what about the cyanide? Oh, most peculiar.

Sample from the coffee cup and pot.

When I add a mixture of iron sulphate, caustic soda and distilled water...

This is usually the point you say bingo.

If any cyanide were present, the liquid would turn bright blue.

So it wasn't cyanide that killed him?

The smell of bitter almonds was unmistakable, and cyanide acts quickly.

He must have ingested it this morning.

But there isn't any sign that he ate or drank anything else.

And here's another interesting thing. The hairs that I found on the floor

human.

It's uniserated.

The shaft looks like a tiny ladder.

Animal hair.

Cat? Dog?

No. The texture would be smooth if it were a dog.

Spiculated. Spiky if it were a cat. This is coarse.

Probably horse hair.

Uncle Arthur turned the stables into a garage years ago.

No pets at all.

Dermot and I weren't allowed so much as a goldfish growing up.

We were more than enough to look after, apparently.

You were raised by your uncle?

Our parents were on a ship sunk by a U -boat.

Uncle Arthur inherited us.

These bristles are horsehair.

So when were you and Arthur's daughters?

I thought no one entered on the pain of death.

Oh, well...

The boho boot design.

I barged in on Uncle Arthur yesterday afternoon to have a go at him.

You stole my design!

You should be flattered. I thought them good enough.

I'm not flattered!

I'm...

Don't kick up a fuss about your precious doodle, and I'll pay for that fancy art

school you're always banging on about.

How's that?

We made a deal.

Still, he took your designs without asking.

That must have made you angry.

Are you all right?

You look very flushed.

My uncle has just died.

Stolen doodle.

Besides, you said he died at the factory this morning. I was at home until

Dermot rang with the news.

Ask the housekeeper.

No, no, the boot launch is full steam ahead.

No, no, no, no. The police are looking into it.

They've got a nun on the case.

Miss Marple in a wimple.

Solving crime through the power of prayer.

No, I know. I know.

All right.

Well, I'll see you on Saturday.

All right.

Excuse me, damn it.

Mr Millington to you.

Now.

Mr Millington.

I know you must be upset about your uncle.

I'd be more upset if those boots don't get finished.

About that.

The men at the warehouse were promised overtime pay?

Yes.

Well, those lads work hard.

You can't begrudge them.

The women work hard.

What, rowing?

Look, just finish those boots, or I'll end your employment.

I'm in charge now, love.

We'll see about that.

The smudge on the file is some sort of emollient. My first thought was hand

cream, possibly face cream, but when he added iron chloride...

..the

emollient contains lactic acid to remove dry skin.

It's most likely a foot cream for bunion.

Pennions. And caliphate.

Dermot needs us as much as we need our jobs.

I need every penny I can get.

Um, why aren't you lot working?

You lied to us.

This place isn't going under. It's booming.

You just didn't want to pay us any extra.

Oh, the men are getting overtime, though.

And they already get twice what we do.

Well, of course the men get paid more. They're the breadwinners.

Most of you lot are just here for some pocket money.

A chance to get out of the vacuuming.

All right, ladies.

Let's see how he manages to organise a boot launch without any boots.

What? You heard.

I'm calling a strike.

Yeah!

Someone get Norman at the bugle.

I really can't afford... Time of the month, is it, girls?

No, just get back to work before I sack the lot of you.

Daisy,

I can't.

Bernice, can we have a word, please?

So, it's foot cream, but you used it on your hat.

So?

Good for calluses.

Well, you left traces of it when you went through the account.

All right.

I came back here last night to take a sneak peek at a book.

Mr Millington said the factory was going bust, but not according to the account.

He was raking it in.

A flinky liar, Phyllis.

What did he tell you that was going on?

So perhaps he thought a change of management was in order.

Maybe he thought his nephew would be a better boss.

Dermot?

He's worse than his uncle.

He's obnoxious and incompetent.

Couldn't run an egg and spoon race. Look, if you're looking for someone with

motive, look at him.

Because he called his nephew a liability.

Last night, Mr Millington was shouting about how he would never leave his

beloved factory to Dermot.

Not even if he was the last man in Great Slaughter.

I'm the closest thing he had to his son.

So you stand to inherit everything?

Yes, he's Uncle Arthur's right -hand man.

Unless your uncle didn't think you were capable.

You know, perhaps he was going to change his will and leave everything to

Pamela.

No, he wouldn't leave his precious factory to a girl.

Look, I hope... I hope you're not accusing me of murder.

My uncle was very good friends with your boss.

We're not accusing you of anything yet.

But don't go anywhere.

Of course I'm not going to go anywhere, am I? I've got this blasted boot launch

to sort.

Bernice has got all my machinists out on strike.

It was you, wasn't it?

Telling tales to the police. And you were here snooping around last night.

So?

Is that when you poisoned my uncle?

Me? I'm not the one inheriting this factory.

Consider yourself fired.

You can't sack me. I'm on strike!

What do we want?

Fair play!

When do we want it? Now!

Can I get a quote for the paper?

What do you think your uncle would have to say about all this? His uncle would

never have allowed it to happen. Chief Constable, thank goodness. Bernice

McDowell is who you're after.

Well, I'm not here on official business. I'm here because Arthur was a... Well,

he was a very good friend of mine, and I brought Vera along to try and talk some

sense into this lot, woman to woman, as it were.

Mrs. Cloud. Brilliant.

I worked in this factory during the First War, making boots for soldiers.

No ho -ho boots in those days, not with the war on.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young lady.

Taking advantage of this gentleman's grief.

Grief? The only thing he's mourning is his profit margins.

Some of these women are struggling.

Struggle? You wouldn't know the meaning of the word.

Getting through two wars, that was a struggle.

You tell them, Vera.

We were prepared to make a sacrifice for the greater good in those days.

Ten hours a day I worked in that factory.

And proved you were every bit as good as the men. Exactly.

You're my hero.

Oh, am I?

But you were earning a fraction of what the men in the factory were getting for

doing the exact same job.

I... Well, I haven't. Was I?

And we've barely seen a pay rise since.

Unlike the men.

Why should the women earn less?

Because they're women.

It's only a bit of sewing.

Show them your hands.

Red raw from machine work. Oh, I remember those calluses like they were

yesterday. Calluses? The men were out on the front line, risking their lives.

Dottie locked her mother to a stray bomb.

I know women who crawled out from under rubble to get to work so that you could

have boots to march in.

What do we want?

Fair pay!

When do we want it? Now!

What do we want? Fair pay!

When do we want it? Now!

They're refusing to work until Mr Millington negotiates.

How exciting.

Good for them. Yeah.

Although not so good for us. If that launch doesn't go ahead, that's 12 cases

wine we're lumbered with.

Sisterhood solidarity.

We could organise food and collections in the morning.

Maybe I could arrange a thing -song on the picket line.

Raise everyone's spirits.

A rousing chorus of Kumbaya, perhaps.

When do we want it now?

What do we want? Spare pay.

When do we want it now?

The three of you don't even work here.

When do we want it now? I'm only going in to clean.

You're still breaking the picket line. I'm sorry, I need the money.

Oh, goodness.

It was the luck, not the nightingale after all.

Romeo and Juliet.

Oh,

Mrs. Clam woke up at the crack of dawn to get to the picket line.

Yeah, we had to make breakfast on our own.

Turns out Phyllis was a whiz with a poached egg. Oh, you know what the

is, a little dash of vinegar.

Whereas I have finally stabilised the fragments of paper that we found in

Arthur's fireplace.

I need a little longer to examine them under the microscope.

In the meantime, something curious.

There are no fingerprints on this at all.

None? Not even Arthur Millington's?

None. Suggesting it was wiped clean deliberately, which seems a little like

overkill, if you'll pardon my vernacular, since whoever opened the tin

wearing gloves.

How do you know that?

Well, because they caught their glove in the hinge.

They left a piece behind.

Wait, that... That looks like... Rubber. Yeah.

So who at the factory has rubber gloves?

I'm not a thief.

But you were caught with your hand in the till, or tin, rather.

There. The missing piece of your glove that we found in the petty cash tin.

Look.

We know no one was taken out of there.

Did Arthur catch you in the act?

My husband left me.

Just over a month ago.

Found out he hadn't been paying the rent or the bill.

He'd been taking my wages, too.

Spending them on God knows what.

Sorry, sister.

And then, the night before last, the landlord come banging on the door,

threatening eviction.

So you thought you'd help yourself to petty cash?

Mr Millington is usually in his office when I get here.

I was getting stuff out the cleaning cupboard by his office when I saw him

out to use the lavatory.

I knew he kept the petty cash tin in his office.

And then I thought I should have a glance on.

What the hell do you think you're doing?

It was a moment of madness.

He said he was going to speak to me at the end of the day.

And why are you afraid he was going to go to the police?

I don't know. I was more worried he'd sack me.

But if you killed him, no one would know that you'd been sacked.

I didn't kill him.

I've got three kids to look after.

I'm not going to abandon them like their dad did.

That's why I can't go on strike.

How would I feed him?

Now all my friends hate me.

If they're your friends, I suspect they'll understand.

What do we want? Fair pay!

When do we want it? Now!

What do we want? Fair pay!

When do we want it? Now!

So we still don't know how, when or where Arthur was poisoned.

What's going on?

What have you

done now?

Borrowed some machinists from Jenford's.

Had to pay a chunk for the privilege.

You see?

Nobody's irreplaceable.

You could have used that money to pay your own workers the overtime.

You're as bad as Uncle Arthur.

Look, Pam.

Here's a headline for you.

Emotional women throw toys out of pram.

I'll use that.

Emotional? Not you, Peggy. I'm sure your emotions are well under control.

But... What did you call me?

Mr Millington looks like he's about to face the firing squad.

Please!

Please have mercy!

I'll give you anything you want!

Ready... Aim... Fire!

Oh, dear.

You don't even work here.

What's the play about?

It's about a group of women who go on a strike to stop a war.

It's a comedy.

Sounds like a tragedy to me.

Great slaughter's at a standstill. All the women are striking.

Yeah, everywhere you go, just confused -looking men.

We were worried that you two might join the protest.

I thought about it.

Why?

WPCs get paid less than PCs. Yeah, but that's because you're on a different pay

scale. Exactly.

Which isn't equality.

Sister Boniface has found something.

I've managed... She pieced together parts of the document, used a light box

take away some of the charring.

It appears to be a scientific study on acetonitrile. In particular, its

toxicity. Toxicity?

It can be used to assist in the manufacture of...

What is it, sister?

A murder weapon.

Acetonitrile. Well, they must use it to help make the boots.

Well, they shouldn't.

It plays havoc with your breathing.

It was in the papers.

Peggy?

On it.

Come on, Norm.

Where are we going?

The bugle.

Well, this is what poisoned Mr. Millington.

I thought it was cyanide.

Oh, but it is.

And this is the clever part.

If you ingest acetonitrile, then your body converts it into cyanide. So, in

effect... You poison yourself.

The chemical process can take about eight hours, so Arthur may have

acetonitrile the night before, but only been poisoned by cyanide early the next

morning. Well, we know where he was the night before he died.

The door's locked.

The ladies are straight.

Well, if that doesn't just put the tin hat on everything.

No, thank you, Tom, though I'm sure it's delicious.

What's going on?

Pub shut!

One moment, please.

Because the blasted landlady's on strike. And I've had to cancel my

Lysistrata. Isn't that that play where the women go on strike?

Yes, thank you, Felix. I do see the irony.

It's got to be this. It's got to be this. It's got to be you.

It's all his fault.

What? You're right.

No, don't blame me. Blame the blimmin' women.

Look, tell you what, first round's on me.

Pop a shot!

Not for us.

There. Splash marks.

And a ring where the varnish had corroded.

Whoever poisoned Arthur's drink had shaky hands. They didn't get it quite

the glass.

What was Arthur drinking that night?

Brandy.

Brandy would have masked the smell of ether from the acetonitrile.

Okay, so the place was full that night. Anyone could have had access to Arthur's

drink. We may have found something.

What have you got?

A local girl died of asthma attack.

Any mention of the girl's name? It hadn't been released when they went to

But we found an obituary in the following week's paper.

Cora Ashfield?

Working at the factory, she's connected to all our suspects.

This doesn't exactly narrow it down.

striking. Keep me striking till we get more pay.

Here.

Get that down.

Castle de Grand St. Vincent. Put airs on your chest.

We'll see you and your kiddies, right? Who needs a husband? You've got friends,

eh? Thank you. Men. More trouble than they're worth.

Miss Millington.

What do you want with Pam?

Because if you want her, you're going to have to come through us.

It's all right, Bernie.

Shall we talk inside?

You don't still think I killed my own uncle over a silly boot design?

No, of course not.

Your motive went much deeper than a motif.

What's going on?

Pam wouldn't hurt a fly.

You should come with us, Miss Deming. No, I'm not leaving my sister.

Cora Ashley.

She died of an asthma attack.

But you knew there was more to it.

Acetonitrile. You confronted your uncle with scientific proof of its toxicity.

Yes, but he wouldn't listen.

I'll pay for that fancy article you're always banging on about.

How's that?

Oh, that's not even what I came to talk about.

There's an ingredient you use in the factory.

It's lethal.

Cora Ashfield shouldn't have died.

This... Factory killed her. Don't be dramatic. She died of an asthma attack.

What's that?

A study into the toxicity of acetonitrile.

Cora always felt dreadful after a shift here, and she was working closely with

it.

Well, if you have a weak chest, perhaps don't take a job working with solvent.

Did you already know about this?

Nobody forced her to work here.

Pamela, you're a clever girl.

You know which side your bread is buttered.

You do want to go to art school, don't you?

But that doesn't mean I killed him.

I was some girl she hardly knew.

Hardly knew?

Look at the necklace Cora's wearing.

It's the same engraved motif that's on the groovy few boho boots.

Your design.

A design that you didn't think anyone else had seen. A design that you created

specially for Cora.

She was your friend.

She was more than that.

I loved her.

And you blamed your uncle for her death.

He put profit before people.

So you killed him with the same toxin that killed Cora. You can't prove that.

Whoever slipped the poison into Arthur's drink spilled some of it on the table

and on their own hands.

Even if they washed them straight away, they would have given themselves very

mild cyanide poisoning.

Which is why you felt sick the morning of your uncle's death and why you looked

flushed when we visited you at the mill.

If you show me your hands now, I suspect there'll be a nasty rash on them.

How did you poison his drink without him seeing?

I put the acetonitrile in a miniature brandy bottle.

Cheers, Pamela.

Offered him a free top -up.

I knew he wouldn't say no.

Anything to save a few, Bob.

That's all that mattered to him.

Money. Of everything.

I'd shown him proof that a seat in our trial was dangerous.

That it killed Cora.

I thought even he'd be horrified.

All he was interested in was covering up.

Protecting the business.

Cora died.

And he wasn't even sorry.

And now... I'm not sorry either.

Norman, write about the Acetonitrile. About Cora, please.

The launch.

Dammit. Let something good come out of this.

Good? You can change things now.

Make the factory safe.

Wouldn't know where to begin.

I can help.

You.

I know I'm not your biggest fan, Miss Milliton, but surely we can look after

workers and both get what we want?

Please, Dermot, be your own man, not Uncle Arthur's.

I'm willing to negotiate if you are.

I suppose we could talk.

Oh, Mr. Wellington.

One of the catwalk models is stuck on a train.

I don't suppose you... No chance.

I'll make him. I don't model him.

But don't worry.

I will find you a willing volunteer.

Those two seem to be getting along better.

He's paying us the overtime.

And he's agreed to discuss a small pay rise.

How are you, Daisy?

Much better, thank you.

It's like Bernice says, who needs a man when you've got good friends?

I've been wanting to apologise.

I don't think I fully, well, appreciated the efforts women

such as you put in during the war.

Or since.

You never did compliment me on that crumble I made in March.

I apologise.

I also have to tell you that I have decided not to go ahead with my

of Lysistrata.

I'm sure there are less salacious texts we can choose.

There certainly are.

Good.

So, where is Peggy?

Now, your esteemed colleagues here have been talking to me, WPC Button,

about how much they value you.

So, the station would like to offer a gesture of appreciation for your

service.

Thank you so much.

Mr. Williamson, I think we've found your replacement model.

What?

New boho boot by Groovy Shoe.

The coolest kick in town.

The killer heels are definitely something to twit and shout about.

Boho, the only way to go.