Original subtitles

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What are you doing?

Unlocking the church door.

Why?

We're going to practice.

On a Tuesday?

Who gave permission?

I have a hotline to God.

Blasphemous little whelk.

I'm sure he thinks well of you too, Reggie.

After you, Emma.

♪

You are, without doubt, the vainest, blatantest,

loathsomest serial womaniser in the history of adultery.

I thought you was at the Cash and Carry.

Sue, you ain't leaving?

No, Greg.

You are.

Just to save me changing the locks.

Yeah, not my trousers.

Why not?

You hardly ever wear them.

♪

Poor darling.

Has the worm finally turned?

Why didn't she have a go at you?

Because I'm clearly an innocent victim of your lechery.

♪

Sorry, Reggie, we're closed.

Greg and I are just terminating our marriage.

That's the spirit.

You're worth ten of him.

Those bloody bells!

Now I'm late for ringing practice.

Woof, woof, woof!

Do come along, Marcus.

Sorry.

Evening, Reggie.

Frances.

Still doing it, then, Marcus?

Bell ringing?

It's not a blood sport, Reggie.

Be the death of him.

-Nonsense. -Good, healthy exercise.

Inhaling dust along with wickedness.

Are you all right?

Where's the church?

Just four years.

-Yes. -No, no, of course not.

Yes. Thank you. I'm well aware of the payment

deadline and of the interest accruing thereafter.

Yes, and of the surcharge.

Thank you.

I'm writing a cheque at this very moment, figuratively speaking.

You!

You!

You in there!

Oh, for pity's sake!

Hello, Uncle Reggie.

What's going on, Hugh?

Are you moving?

Moving?

No, no, no, no, of course not.

No, just decided time for a change of decor, going modern.

Ah, made one of your killings there, have you?

Stock exchange.

Oh, yes, yes, that's right, yes.

Just a few thousand.

Excellent.

Proud of you, my boy, as always.

A rock in the morass.

Thank you.

♪

Joyce, how are you doing?

Oh, not bad, I suppose, for a novice.

She's doing extremely well.

Maisie Gooch, parish archivist.

My husband, Tom.

Pleased to meet you.

Have you nearly finished on the trials, sir?

Oh, I'm so sorry.

Oh, bell ringers and law unto themselves, always have been.

Oh

You're still not feeling it, Emmy.

You're not quite there on the stroke.

Can I help, mate?

Er, no, thanks.

He's just leaving.

Oh, sorry.

stand

You're late.

You're all late.

And what the bloody hell do you think you're playing at, Greg?

Did I mention fancy dress?

I need a bed for the night.

Yeah, well, don't look at Emma.

Isn't that just England?

They're practicing again in a couple of days, if you're interested.

-Oh, yes. -Thank you, Troy.

There was a notice in the church.

They're getting ready for a striking competition.

You'll be in line yourself if you don't shut up.

Hey, and guess who else was up there?

Head honcho bell ringer.

Who? Jobsworth, Peter Fogden from the station.

Oh, the maintenance guy?

Yeah. He of the cubbyhole and the betting slips.

He's got a secret life.

That's all.

Stand up.

That was crap.

Yeah, well, it's you, isn't it?

Confusing us all with your cause.

Well, can't you just trust us?

We all know the changes.

Knowing is one thing.

Remembering is clearly another.

Look two.

Look two.

Treble's going.

She's gone.

Go Gramps and Dollies!

Morning.

Morning, Angie.

Is he back?

Certainly not.

Back is not an option.

I dare say you'll fall on his feet.

Either his feet or the missionary position.

Do you care?

Me?

Of course not.

You mean more work?

Less canoodling behind the freezer?

Canoodling?

Me and Greg?

It's a euphemism, Angie.

The real word's much shorter.

♪

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So, where are you going?

London.

London?

Yeah, you know, that big place with shops.

Having lunch with my husband.

So I can stay then?

Of course.

My Bruce Luper's a ruff.

LAUGHTER Until I get bored with you.

And do be sure to feed the dogs.

You don't find yourself being drawn into it, then, sir?

What? The fascinating world of brass rubbing.

Strange Detroit mill.

Shit, yes.

-Come on. -Come on, now.

Go on, speak to my son.

Come on, my boy.

Go on, my son.

-Come on. -Go on. Go on.

Oh, yes.

Oh, you beauty.

He won, Mr. Barnaby.-a-ding did

it for us.-a-ding!

Us?

No, no, no.

Us!

Me and the team at Midsomer Wellow, the bell ringers.

We pulled our stake money, put it on the

nose, and-a-dings come in at 100 to zonking one.

We made 30 grand.

30 grand!

Only one way to celebrate.

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Blasphemous Wilkes Spitfire, the lot of them.

We're closing now, Hugh.

The pub is open.

No, no, I find your herbal teas far more efficacious.

♪

So is God's gift sharing his winnings with you, then?

I should hardly think so.

Why not?

I took the stake money from the till in the first place.

-I saw him. -Your till, your money.

You're entitled to at least half.

Angie, my dear, the sum is trifling.

I simply cannot imagine Sue being so terribly mean-minded.

Thank you.

Keep the change.

Good night, Sue.

I couldn't spoil it for him, Ros, could I?

I am not accustomed to being kept waiting.

Course you're not.

Of course you're not.

And beer fumes are not an aphrodisiac.

No.

Look, Ros, I'm sorry.

Really.

Sorry, what are they barking for?

-I don't know. -I don't speak Labrador.

I mean,

maybe I never shut the door properly.

You're going up while I check, yeah?

And I'll clean my teeth on the way back.

-Well? -Nothing.

No beer fumes, neither.

Nothing.

No.

Trust me.

think that if the law of the land is in

effect, it means that we have to protect it, yes.

But we can't do it if we don't have the law.

We have to protect it.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Your days are numbered, Fogden!

♪

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Couldn't use your car, I suppose.

No, you damn well couldn't.

Only going to Causton.

Don't care where you're going.

You presume too much, Gregory.

You're good, but not that good.

Won't keep you waiting tonight, promise you.

You won't keep me waiting again, have I?

That much I promise you.

That better work!

Morning, Mr. Barnaby, sir.

Peter, not changed your life then,-a-ding?

No, sir.

But I take it as an omen for the weekend, the striking competition.

Oh, yeah.

Midsomer Wellow have never won it, you know.

My Uncle Ray called the victory peal on VE Day.

My Uncle Gordon once had his photo in the bell ringing times.

But no Fogden's ever won the striking competition.

I'm going to change all that this year.

Oh, excellent. Sergeant Troy was telling me how keen you are on the bells.

Was he?

I said, you're welcome to come along this evening, see how it's done.

I think he's already confirmed it with your wife, actually.

Troy.

Don't know why you're being so grumpy about it.

Not being so grumpy about it.

Some of the bells are 600 years old.

Just think of the stories they could tell.

Oh, I'm not getting a lecture as well, are we?

Excuse me.

Mrs. Barnaby, Mr. Barnaby.

Hello, matey.

Are you off to the bell ringing, too?

Oh, no, no, I don't think so.

Afraid there might not be any.

Why they can't just live and let live, I don't know.

This hotel and this belfry has been blessed and

sanctified, and yet you feel free to use them like toys.

Worse, to celebrate success in the wickedness of gambling.

Oh, come on, Reggie.

Church bells are an instrument of happiness.

They're an instrument of God, and we are here to protect the house of God.

You're a bunch of depraved heathens.

I'm not a heathen, Reggie.

You know I'm not.

I'm in church every Sunday, in church, not just bell ringing.

Yes, and you're supposed to be a civilizing influence

on this bunch of desperados, but you're not, are you?

You're weak, and the weak must face the consequences.

Is that in the Bible, too, Reggie?

Shift him, Liam.

God doesn't mind, Reggie.

I know he doesn't mind.

Come on, hub instead.

I'm not crossing his picket line.

Come on.

Reggie, are you all right?

Of course I'm all right.

Vengeance is mine!

That's enough, Bible!

No Greg, again.

Where's he playing the human hot water bottle tonight?

Well, we're not waiting.

I'll go double-handed.

Raise your bells.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

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Did one of us kill him?

Well, some of these bells weigh half a ton.

It's been shot through the heart.

Apparently by someone with a sense of humor.

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First on scene, then, sir?

Yes, Troy, first on scene.

Amazing where an interest in campanology will land you, isn't it?

I am not interested in campanology, Troy.

I am here because of your big mouth.

Now, what would you rather do, crawl about in blood

looking for a bullet, or sit in a pew taking notes?

Best leave the crawling about to the expert, I think, sir.

I'm sorry to use your church as a police interview room, but you're all here.

I'm here, so.

Why would anyone want to kill Greg?

That is exactly my first question, Miss Tyson.

I suppose this means the tower's out of bounds

while the men in white coats swarm all over it.

Peter!

Well, it's just typical of Greg, isn't it?

Dying in the way most likely to screw our chances in the striking competition.

There most likely won't even be a competition now.

Is the bell tower locked when you're not ringing?

Yes, and that's the only way up.

Who has the key?

None of us.

And all of us.

Cracked Abel looks after it.

Cracked Abel, what's that?

The old bell in the corner.

The key's kept under it.

Has been for centuries.

Was the key there when you all arrived for practice?

Yes.

Uh...

I'm...

sorry, everyone.

I feel compelled to tell the truth.

Um, Mr. Stedman, um, do you want to talk in private?

No, no.

I met Greg earlier this morning in Causton.

Said he'd had a letter.

A letter?

Last night.

Boasted about it, in fact.

He did.

Such matters.

And what matters are these?

Sex, presumably.

He, uh,

He said he'd had an invitation for a bit

of leg over, as you put it.

Bell tower of all places.

Final fling before the wedding.

Whose wedding?

Emma's.

Marcus!

What?

What are you saying, you little runt?

Liam! Will you get up to him or I'll bite your bloody neck!

See ya!

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Well, sir, brass rubbing isn't really a modern activity.

In fact, there's pictorial evidence from as early as 1633.

Mrs. Gooch, I need to speak to the vicar.

Well, I'm afraid we haven't got one.

We're in the middle of an interregnum, you see.

So who's currently in charge of the church on a-to-day basis?

Well, the parochial church council.

Who chairs that?

Oh, dear.

Well, uh, anyway, there's going to be no, uh, no bell ringing, Joyce.

So you'd best, uh. Leave the car, won't you?

Well, I could drive you home.

You only live at Causton, don't you?

I'm perfectly safe.

Should we be letting these bell ringers just slide away, sir?

Do you want to sit up all night with them?

Well, no.

Oh, well.

While the experts are doing their stuff up in the

belfry, you can, uh, you can cher-shell a fathom.

Sir?

Greg Tut was a womanizer, yeah?

Well, apparently. Good. Heads or tails?

Heads.

Oh, well done, Troy.

Lady of the manor.

♪

Dead?

Yes.

Well, well.

Could I ask when you last saw him?

Oh, must you?

This is terribly sordid.

If you wouldn't mind.

This morning.

After breakfast, he said he was going to Causton.

He was staying here with you?

On a very temporary basis.

Here, boys.

-Woo! -I'm between lovers at the moment.

Oh, I see.

Mr. Tutt had apparently just won 5,000 pounds.

You wouldn't know what happened to the money.

Heavens, no.

I have no interest in the stuff.

It's very vulgar, especially in such small quantities.

The other thing is, um, a note

delivered to Mr. Tutt last night.

He didn't mention it.

No.

Why should he?

Our relationship was fleeting and exclusively carnal.

Right.

Presumably he left some of his possessions here.

Mr. Tut's clothes?

I shredded them after he buggered off to Causton this morning.

I do the taking for granted, not the man.

It's the only house rule.

Anyway, with Greg's sad demise, there's a vacancy

in the fleeting and exclusively carnal department.

Well, uh, thank you very much, Mrs Parr.

I'll, um, well, we'll be in touch.

I'll look forward to it.

You have such expressive fingers.

Ah, thank you.

I'm sorry.

You must be confusing me with someone who gives a damn.

What am I supposed to have killed him for, his winnings?

People have been killed for less.

All I've wanted, Mr Barnaby, for as long

as I can remember, is a Greg-free existence.

And I achieved that two days ago.

I didn't need to blow his chest open, I just threw his clothes out the window.

Much less hassle, and no mandatory life sentence.

She does care, you know, under the facade.

I'm sorry?

Angie, Angie Blunstone.

-I work here. -Oh.

You knew Mr. Tutt, did you?

Oh, yes.

A real charmer.

Magnetic, really.

Dangerous thing to be in a village.

Why's that?

Well, big fish in a small pond leads to jealousies and small minds.

And they don't come much smaller than the Ding Dong Brigade.

Believe me, I've rung bells in various places.

I saw you in the tea shop, Mr. Barnaby.

Did you, Peter?

Angie Blunstone is a dried-up, poison-tongued harpy.

She had a knife into me, presumably.

Well, did she tell you why?

Because I turned her down for the team.

We took on young Emma Tysoe instead.

Of course, Angie being Angie, told everyone

it was because of Emma's attributes, shape-wise.

I haven't got time to look at Emma's round bits.

A bell-ringing chamber's a pressure cooker, Mr. Barnaby.

It's tough, physically and mentally.

You have to divide your brain into different sections.

How is Angie going to do that?

She hasn't got a brain to divide.

Is it true Greg fancied himself as team captain?

Yes, fancied himself full stop.

But he had good hands and stamina.

Yes, no one seems to dispute that.

Liam, I never sent him a letter.

Why should Marcus make it up?

Marcus of all people.

I don't know.

I'm not stupid.

I've seen the way Greg looked at you.

It's not my fault.

You look at me.

Wedding's off.

Liam?

You heard.

It can't be off.

My mum's done all the cooking.

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You all right, Troy?

He cut up his clothes.

Shredded them.

These are Greg Tut's clothes, are they?

♪

Do you have them?

Didn't have a bag, sir.

I think you'd better call it a day, don't you?

See you at the station.

First thing tomorrow morning.

Will you display it?

Rubbings make excellent decorations.

I hadn't really thought.

Hello.

We're in the kitchen, Tom.

I'll leave you in peace, Mr. Barnaby.

But if I can offer any insights, well, I don't miss much.

Thank you for the coffee, Joyce.

Well, thank you for the lift.

I'll see myself out, dear.

Don't worry. It was just so kind of you.

Oh, that's a great pleasure.

I'll be on my way out with the one-way system, all right?

Brilliant.

We're not putting him on the wall, are we?

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Uncle Reggie, you're out late.

Things going around in my mind, Hugh.

Wanted to share them with you.

You haven't started yet, then?

Started.

The redec, going modern, didn't you say?

Yes, that's right, that's right.

No, I haven't had time.

Gin?

Teas.

You heard about Greg Tutt?

No, Greg Loss.

Pity someone doesn't put a bullet through all of them.

That's a bit strong, Uncle.

What are these things going around in your mind?

Money and my will.

I'm 75, Hugh, and I've decided to liquidate it.

That the word, my assets, and put the

money where it's needed in the here and now.

Do a bit of good while I'm still around to see the results.

Well, that's very generous of you, uncle.

Very generous indeed.

You, being my only living relative, are principal beneficiary under the will.

Well, yes, and I consider myself extremely fortunate.

But you clearly don't need the money.

I mean, a lesser man of a certain age would have

caved in, you know, after losing their job in the city.

But you proved yourself to be a Barton through and through, my boy.

Resilient, independent.

It's most gratified to know that you're secure.

Which means my own humble nest egg can be put to a different use.

And with the Bishop, letting our church go to rack

and ruin under the spineless pretext of lack of funds.

Well, what I've got put away would cover 90% of the cost of restoration.

The proviso will be that the other 10%

must come from the sale of the bells.

No sale of bells, no 90% from me.

I have it in my power, Hugh, in one fell swoop to save the

church and put an end once and for all to that sacrilegious racket.

There, what do you think of that?

Good.

We'll sort out the paperwork.

ASAP, then.

Yes?

ASAP, Uncle.

ASAP.

Good fellow.

I don't know what you're going to do.

You can't do this to me, old man.

You cannot do this!

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Sir?

Peter.

When can we have our bell tower back?

Tomorrow, I hope.

Tomorrow?

We've already lost one night's practice.

The striking competition's only three days away, you know.

Doesn't occur to you you're being just a tad insensitive, does it?

Anyway, where were you prior to yesterday's inconvenient event?

Home, with Clapper.

My cat.

Ah, sir.

How are we doing, Troy?

Recovered from whatever was ailing us?

Up and running, sir.

Greg Tut's belongings.

Any joy with that?

Nope.

Socko pronounced it clueless and print-free.

Well, it's down to me, then.

No, no, no, not entirely, Troy.

Look, we now also have the bullet fired from a revolver, an

Enfield revolver, 0.38, standard issue during World War II.

Oh.

Next stop, Wing Commander Reggie in that case.

Yeah, I suppose so.

It's the people contact that makes police work so rewarding, isn't it, Troy?

But first things first, you'll astound me.

Well, no sign of Tut's winnings, the 5

,000 pounds, but there is a check for 100.

I've pieced most of it together.

Made out to Rosalinda Parr.

Haven't found a payer yet.

But there's this as well.

This and the torn-up chick were in the waste bin under all this lot.

Worth testing, I think, in case it's the letter from Emmett Isoe.

The alleged letter, Troy.

But yes, get it down to the lab straight away.

Sir.

Sir?

Yeah?

If a return visit to the manor house is required.

Oh, it will be, Troy.

If your burnt offering gives us anything.

Well, perhaps you'd, you know, take it on.

Senior officer and everything.

Carry more weight.

All right.

Yeah, all right. You take the wing commander.

Emma!

Emma!

Emma.

I want to say sorry.

-Here? -Yeah, why not here?

I love you, Em.

I've been lying awake all night, thinking about that scumbag Greg.

I know you never lied to me, Em.

And I'm sorry I ever thought otherwise.

Let's still do it, eh?

Let's not waste your mum's sausage rolls.

Liam.

I don't know if I can do this.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,

ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha

A cheque?

Yes, for 100 pounds.

Ah, that was from Hugh Barton, a small outstanding debt.

Thank you.

He arrived to pay it off while I was having a ripping time with my craft knife.

So why did you rip that up too, the cheque?

Some men I take pity on.

He was broke and hopeless with money.

I saved him the embarrassment of his cheque bouncing.

Of course, if he were a bell ringer, he'd be laughing.

Greg Tutte's not laughing.

You lied to Sergeant Troy yesterday, didn't you?

About a letter received by Greg?

I don't believe I actually lied, no.

There was a letter.

It had been burnt, but her name is still legible.

Emma.

You have the most amazing technology.

I believe you burnt that letter, Mrs. Parr.

After all, you felt strongly enough about

Greg's behavior to slash his clothes into ribbons.

You're rather shocked, young master Troy.

But you're right.

I did effectively deny knowledge of the

letter, and I did it solely to protect Emma Tysoe.

If the poor child lured Greg to the bell

tower in order to kill him, well, good for her.

She struck a blow for decent womanhood.

Not a club of which I'm a member, of course, but a girl can empathize.

A revolver?

Yes, sir.

I wasn't a cowboy, Sonny.

I flew Lancasters.

Do you think we leant out of the cockpit in peppered Germany with our pop guns?

No, sir.

I suppose not.

Um, through here.

Caught me in a bit of a state, Mr. Barnaby.

Auntie, that's a grade A porky.

It's always been like this.

Never has been anywhere to sit down.

I expect you're right.

My nephew, Dennis, and his lovely wife, Jen, they're

visiting from London together with their unborn son.

They know it's a boy.

Isn't that amazing?

-It's not that amazing. -Not nowadays.

-Oh, it is. -So useful.

I know to buy blue wool.

We'll get out your way.

No, please. All right. We were off anyway.

Jen needs to put her feet up for a bit.

Bye, dear.

Bye, Mr. Barnaby.

We're chuffed someone in the family is pleased, aren't we?

Write and tell the old misery, will you?

Yeah. That's my brother, the old misery.

Thinks we should let the line die out.

Thinks we're an unlucky family.

Oh.

I never see him anymore.

Haven't got the patience.

Trouble with being parish archivist is, um, well, it's the archives.

I'm sure you didn't come to talk about history.

Only of the most recent kind, Mrs. Gooch.

We're seeing everyone in the village.

But we now know that Greg Tut died two hours before his body was found.

Oh, dear.

Well, I think I was at home then, on my own.

I'm not actually asking you to establish an alibi, Mrs. Gooch.

But could you, uh, could you cast your mind back?

Anything at all you might have seen or heard?

Anybody in a hurry?

Carrying something?

Disposing of something?

A gun?

I did see Frances Le Bon earlier in the day with her gun.

Of course, that's not unusual.

Yes.

She won the inter-county championship in 1964.

I intend putting it in our village hall

of fame when I get around to mounting it.

Yes, I was a seriously good markswoman.

Gave me a certain street cred when I was teaching.

My husband was a much better shot.

Ah, you still keep your hand in, I see.

Here and at the club in Causton.

Veteran standard now, I'm afraid.

I bet you're still better than most, aren't you?

And your husband?

He died 10 years ago of natural causes.

Not that there's anything natural about a stroke at 50.

Anyway, my guns.

All present and correct.

And you'll find me fully licensed, registered, and approved.

I have to get those tested.

But they're just sporting pistols, not lethal weapons.

Gas-powered replicas, perfectly legal.

And without doubt, all you've got.

Of course.

You haven't lent them to anyone recently, have you?

I'm a sportswoman, Mr. Barnaby, not an armorer.

No.

I believe you're a pro-Peter Fogden as bell-ringing captain.

I am pro-Peter, yes.

He's a perfectionist.

I relate to that.

I'd like a receipt, please.

Oh, yes.

Yes, of course.

Maisie didn't tell you then?

Maisie didn't tell me what?

Back in the 70s, my husband Tony and I ran our own gun club here.

So you see, there's quite a few people in Midsomer

Wellow, apart from me, who know how to handle a gun.

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I love you, Emma.

I love you, Liam.

Sleep well, eh?

Not as well as our sleep tomorrow night.

No sleep tomorrow night.

Honeymoon.

See you in church then

Don't be late, eh?

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Okay, cheese?

Cheese!

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I turn the pages for Wing Commander Barton, don't I, Reggie?

I can read music, and it gives his

arthritic old fingers one less thing to worry about.

And neither of you saw or heard anything?

I told you, I heard the bang.

I was coming to investigate when you came charging in.

We were still in the vestry putting the music away.

I saw no one else.

Mr. Barnaby, I'm told you wished to see me.

Yes, Mrs. Goodson, thank you.

As the local historian, I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me.

Inspector, can we move now?

Yes, you can, but not far, please.

Oh, how awful.

I think you'll find it's a local

corruption of the traditional rhyme, Mr. Barnaby.

It's well known here, or was.

Come with me.

The well's over there, or was.

It's been disused since 1860.

The then vicar, God rest his soul, was murdered, and

his body was dumped in there, allegedly by bell ringers.

It was actually buried in the churchyard, of course.

Hence, vicar's in the well.

Well, that's what she says.

Murdered by bell ringers.

There's no reason to doubt her.

She's the archivist.

But I don't see what you're getting at, sir.

Are you saying Greg Tutt and Emma were shot because they're bell ringers?

Picked off in revenge?

By the phantom vicar of St. Catharine's risen from his watery grave.

No, Troy, I'm not saying that.

There isn't even a full moon at the moment.

Yeah, all right.

But whoever left those notes knows the local rhyme and presumably the origin.

Why leave them?

To muddy the waters?

Or is there some other agenda that links Greg and Emma?

These murders aren't very good for trade, you know.

Well, we're doing our best to compensate.

I still think it's a woman.

You said it was Marcus.

Why include him in that category?

Either way, it's got to be six.

Greg the womanizer, Emery's later squeeze or

intended squeeze, several noses up the joint.

But it can't be Liam.

Not this time.

Well, maybe the second murder has been made to

look similar to the first, but isn't actually related.

Oh, don't say that, Troy.

Not two killers.

Far enough away from catching one.

No!

The deed is done, Spitfire.

The deed is done.

Oh

You, come in, come in.

Oh, just this moment written to the bishop,

as per our little discussion the other night.

I just like to be there when he reads it.

But don't you think, given what happened this morning,

Emma Tysoe, I mean, shouldn't you, out of

respect, as it were, hold back for a decent period?

A few weeks, maybe.

A few weeks?

Good grief, no.

Time is of the essence.

Vital repairs need to be put in train before another winter takes its toll.

No more excuses for Bishop Trev.

The money needs to be shoved into his limp little palm ASAP.

Well, would you like me to deliver it?

Wouldn't she be troubling you, dear boy?

No, no, no, it's no trouble.

I can save you that frightful bus journey.

Already spoken to Susan.

Sue Tutt?

Fine woman, don't you think?

Well, yes.

Needs her mind taking off things.

She's going to deliver it for me.

♪

♪

She was a great girl.

Love life.

Love bell ringing.

I'm sure she wouldn't have wanted you to jack it in Liam not with

the competition coming up She'd want you

to carry on For her sake

Initial forensic test of the Amatiso bullet.

Fired from the same gun that killed Greg Tut.

Or at least we're back to one murderer.

Yes, but apparently it isn't Francis Le Bon.

Not murder weapons, then?

Replicas, as you so rightly said, Mrs. Le Bon, unmodified.

I'm sorry to have troubled you.

Not at all.

Is there something else, though?

No, no, I don't think so.

Do you, uh, do you own a word processor, Mrs. Le Bon?

A home computer?

Yes.

Who doesn't?

You should have told him.

No.

What are we going to do, Frances?

Stay calm, Marcus.

What else?

If you don't stay calm, you'll have a panic

attack, and that will bring on your asthma.

And you don't want that.

It's dead But you are still alive

Got you at last, you little wilk.

What?

What's up with you now, you mad old badger?

You can kiss goodbye to your precious bells, that's what.

They're as good as gone.

Will be if the bishop gets that letter.

Bishop?

What letter?

The blameless Sioux is the messenger of fate.

But one should never shoot the messenger.

Ding dong bell.

We're all in the well.

You!

Thank God for that.

I thought he was going to try and come in here.

Where's Sue?

What's this letter?

Mind your own business.

We're closed.

No, you're not. Sue's laying on supper for the team.

You haven't got a team.

Well, you haven't!

All right, Peter.

I've done you ham and cheese and a bit of quiche.

Thank you, Sue.

What's this letter Hugh's on about?

Oh, you'll have to ask Reggie.

Would you like tea or coffee or a pot of both?

Sue, is it about my bells?

Sorry, my lips are sealed.

Evening.

Hello, Francis.

Marcus.

You all right?

There you go.

Angie, I've got to pop out for a bit.

Do you mind staying on?

No.

It's not as if I've got a life.

Right. First things first, show of hands.

Do we slink away from the striking competition, thus

forfeiting home advantage and our best-ever chance of

winning it, or do we celebrate the lives of the

departed Emma and Greg by battling on and giving it our best shot?

Is that an abstention, Marcus?

Well, where did this come from?

It was on my doormat.

It's a wind-up, Marcus, by one of our sick-minded, opposing teams.

They've come up with this as a means of undermining morale.

Well, they've succeeded.

I resign.

Pull yourself together, Marcus.

You're always telling me to pull myself together.

I'm not a child.

You promised me that you wouldn't break ranks.

I've had one as well.

Well, there you are.

It's obviously mind games, Marcus.

And when a bell ringer's mind goes, so do his hands.

All right, we're two down now.

But we still have options, don't we, Angie?

Beg your pardon?

Well, now's your chance.

Fulfill that ambition.

Take Emma's place.

Go piss up a rope.

There's no pleasing some people.

OK.

Option B, still three of us, six bells, double-handing all round.

Oh, come on, Peter.

You may be the king of double-handing, but

the rest of us can't get anywhere near it.

We've tried, remember?

The wedding.

Then we'll try harder.

I've spoke to Abba.

She wants me to carry on.

I must say, Marcus, I'd hoped for better from you.

Liam's anguish is real, but yours is entirely

self-manufactured, and yet he's prepared to carry on.

What's that?

You heard what I said!

No.

What's that?

That noise.

It's the passing bell.

Marcus, we do not ring a passing bell in Midsomer Wellow.

Told to announce an imminent death.

I know why it's told, but not here.

Not in my lifetime, anyway.

-Come on. -What else is it, then?

It's coming from the church.

Is it?

Well then, we'd better find out, hadn't we?

Who's done this?

Frances, you know I can't climb.

Well, then you go home.

Leave it to me.

Go on.

Francis?

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

I knew it sounded wrong.

That's what I found when I got here.

And you arrived soon afterwards, did you, Peter?

Well, yeah, we'd finished at the Cozy Kitchen.

I was on my way home like Francis and, um, Marcus.

You didn't see Marcus?

No, I came the other way.

Got here just after Francis, just as she switched it off.

I shouldn't have left him.

I shouldn't have gone striding off like him.

He was a grown man, Francis, and it was an accident.

No one shot him.

How do you know it was an accident?

He got the next line, didn't he?

Who put him in?

And what did I do?

Bully him as usual.

And now he's dead in a ditch, the poor little sod.

Midsomer Deverell, that's who should be rounded up.

What?

I wouldn't put anything past them.

They're that desperate to win the competition.

The only one that desperate to win is you.

Meaning?

Nothing.

-Meaning? -Meaning nothing.

Peter, this is stupid.

Rival teams do not kill each other to win some silly, bloody competition.

Silly?

You're as bad as that bastard Greg Tut.

Competition or no competition, it does

appear that someone is targeting bell ringers.

Well, if they are, I'm next.

In the same time as poor Marcus's

Balder.

Sir, I was wrong about Marcus Steadman.

I'm at his house.

He had a king-size crush on Emma Tyson.

Did you know about this obsession with Emma?

Yes, I knew.

Forgive me for asking you this, but you and Mr.

Stowman, were you ever more than just neighbors?

Yes, we were.

I never had any children.

Marcus was orphaned many years ago.

A mutual need, and a bloody good parent I turned out to be.

This mark, local mud and traces of rubber, looks like he was

prodded in the back at some point before or after he fell in the stream.

Either way, if someone was there to do the

prodding, it makes the death decidedly less accidental.

Doctors found a mark on the skin, a contusion consistent with said prod.

Mud and rubber.

It's got to be the end of a walking stick, wouldn't you say?

And this is what else we found in the stream.

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

Wing Commander Barton, upstairs, sir.

Thank you.

He passed away in his sleep last night.

I'm sorry.

Poor old bugger.

Been over-agitated for days.

Those bloody bell ringers, you know.

Was he alone?

I found her this morning when I came round to see her.

This has got to be an inappropriate time, Mr. Barton,

but would this be one of your uncle's walking sticks?

I underestimated you, Sergeant.

I find that rather refreshing in a man.

It's terribly late.

Hope your reason for calling was just a pretext.

Oh, yes.

Oh, no.

It's about the letter you burnt.

Sergeant, dozens more of us have been mowed down since then.

You surely can't still be at first base.

Well, yes.

Oh, no.

Oh, um, it's just a line of

inquiry I'm keen to explore further.

I'm all for further exploration.

You're more scared than you'll admit, aren't you?

Scared?

No.

Not scared.

Guilty.

I used to tell the kids in school, own up and you'll feel better.

That's very good advice.

Why don't you tell me?

What kind of gun killed Greg?

And what killed Emma?

The same?

Well, I can tell you, yes, that the same,

or a similar, weapon was used in both cases.

An Enfield revolver, World War II vintage.

Yeah.

And being a gun expert, you'll know

exactly what kind of damage such a gun can do.

Oh, yes.

Tony, my husband, used to have a pair.

Unlicensed.

He was crazy about guns, and the laws were less strict in those days.

When he became ill 10 years ago, I became rather careless.

And I'm afraid a pair was stolen from the back of our car.

I mean, things were pretty bloody at the

time, and I'm afraid I didn't report it.

And then, when he died, everything

seemed so unimportant by comparison.

I'm afraid I let things slide.

And then 10 years later, Greg Tut gets himself shot.

I'm guilty, and it doesn't feel any better having told you.

Why can't I swallow the whole bloody lot and have done with it?

Oh, oh, oh.

I know there's a difference in our ages but I think that's exciting.

Others will disapprove if they find out but I'm not going to tell.

Are you?

I've seen the way you look at me.

I know what you want.

And I yearn for you too.

It will be our secret.

A lover's tryst.

Signed Emma.

Well, printed.

It was all printed.

I'd be surprised if she could actually write.

But Greg wasn't interested in her literary skills, was he?

I yearn for you too.

Does that sound like Emma?

A lover's tryst.

Would you have known what a tryst actually was?

I'm not making it up Kevin.

No, no someone else did

♪

♪

♪

Er, Troy.

Troy, you get yourself over to the cosy kitchen as soon as possible.

Someone is trying to break in.

♪

Sorry.

Mrs. Tyburn, you're still there?

He's got the door open.

Get yourself upstairs.

Lock yourself in.

♪

♪

♪

♪

No!

You...

Oh, God.

Oh, bloody hell.

So, having done for the Winco, all you had to do was get

rid of the letter, produce his will, the one without

mention of church bells or restoration funds, and Reg is your uncle.

You think I...

You think I hurt Uncle?

No.

He was a cantankerous old bugger, but he was a fine man in his day.

Better man than I'll ever be.

I'm sorry, Sue.

You thought the world of you.

Always said so.

I didn't mean to frighten you.

Oh, God.

If only he'd known I was up the creek without

a paddle, he'd never have written that letter.

He did know.

You're so stupid, Huw.

Reggie wasn't.

This whole letter to the Bishop thing, it was a charade.

He was trying to goad you into being more

honest with him, saying, uncle, I've screwed up.

Could you help me, instead of treating him like a senile old buffer.

So there is no letter?

Oh, yes, there's a letter.

And it makes a generous donation to the church.

But it doesn't alter Reg's will.

Hugh still inherits, whether he deserves to or not.

I think we're back to square one.

First base.

First base, Rosalind, Mrs. Parr.

Doesn't think we've got beyond that.

Oh, really?

And does Rosalind have anything else to say?

Yes, actually.

She remembers the letter Greg received verbatim.

I'm sure it didn't come from Emma.

It mentioned a lover's tryst.

How very appropriate.

I'd say someone with a good education wrote it.

Good English, a bit old fashioned.

Well, that narrows it right down, doesn't it?

Just about everyone in the village, don't you think?

Anyway, back at first base.

We have Greg shot, probably with a handgun

stolen from Francis Le Bon some 10 years ago.

Allegedly stolen.

The boy's doing good.

Where's your tie?

Never mind.

Greg, motives for the murder thereof.

Now, we've looked at greed, sexual jealousy, righteous religious anger.

What about pride?

-Jobsworth? --a-ding Peter?

Pride, Troy, is Peter's driving passion.

He's determined to be the first Fogden ever to win the striking competition.

And pride can lead men into all kinds of folly.

♪

♪

♪

Tomorrow we'll get you.

We'll get every bloody one of you.

♪

Thanks, George.

Reggie Barton's post-mortem.

No sign of anything other than natural causes.

So three murders only.

And all of them bell ringers.

You hear that?

The four's late every time.

You'll see them off, no problem.

This Peter theory, sir, if it's a pride thing, why blow away half your team?

Why not wait until they win first prize, then talk the mutineers?

Because Peter thinks he can do it with the other half, the strongest three.

In which case, Francis Le Bon is on borrowed time.

So?

So I want you to take advantage while Peter is otherwise engaged.

And I take a trip into history, vicars in the well.

♪

This lot haven't got it either.

They're all over the place, keep having to dodge.

We're not going to cock up completely, double-hand.

No, we're not.

Just remember what I said.

Yeah, I know.

We're doing this for Emma.

And Marcus.

And Greg.

No, Liam, you're doing it for me.

Ah, here it is, just like Maisie said.

1860, the new vicar at Midsomer Willow came into conflict

with the bell ringers, tried to force them to attend church

services, had their cask of beer removed from the ringing chamber.

Beer?

Seems like the Reverend Jonathan Eberle

disappeared one night after a stand-up row with

the ringers, and his body was found the next day in the well.

Although there's little doubt that the bell ringers were

responsible, the constabulary met with a wall of silence.

Nothing new there, then.

Take a look.

Thanks.

Joyce, do us a favor.

Take a look at the local phone book,

just in case there's an Eberle still abound.

They're good.

Not that good.

Best so far.

So we've just got them to beat, haven't we?

All you have to do is concentrate.

And let yourselves be inspired.

We're on.

♪

Right, ladies and gentlemen, you're just 15 minutes from heaven.

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

That was brilliant.

Bloody brilliant.

Barnaby.

Sir, guess what I found at Peter Falken's sideboard?

An army issue Enfield revolver.

You put it back where you found it and get out of there now.

I'll be right over.

Ladies and gentlemen, the tradition of bell

ringing is alive and well in England's fairest county.

Our congratulations to all six teams on the standard of their effort.

However, at the top of the pile, tied on 22

points, we have Badger's Drift and Midsomer Devril.

But, against all the odds, pipping those two by a single point,

are this year's winners of the striking competition, Midsomer Wellow.

Yes!

Yes!

Yes, yes!

-I won! -I won!

Yes!

I did it, Mr. Barnaby.

I knew I could.

Can we talk somewhere else, please?

Please, now.

What?

I need to talk to you now.

So what's Frances making a fuss now for?

It's years since she lost them.

Since they were stolen, Peter.

Would you know anything about that?

They were sitting in her car.

The window was open.

They were crying out to be nicked.

So you obliged.

Look, I wasn't thinking straight.

The wife had just left, taking off the marital income with her.

So what were you planning to do?

Start robbing banks?

Oh, don't be stupid.

I just thought I could sell them.

Only when it came to it, I didn't have a clue how to.

So what did you do with them?

Stuck them in a drawer.

Worked overtime, paid off the mortgage, forgot about them.

They're still there?

Yes.

Well, I think we better take a look at those guns, don't you?

♪

It's not here.

The other one's gone.

Hello?

Maisie?

Anyone at home?

Oh, I was looking for Maisie.

That makes two of us.

I'm her nephew from London.

Right, yes.

I'm Joyce.

I was hoping that she could help me with a

bit of research I'm doing, but it can wait.

I'll tell her to give you a call.

It's Joyce, yeah?

-Yes. -Thanks, Mr. Gooch.

Hope you won't have long to wait.

Ebro.

Pardon?

Dennis Ebrell.

Auntie's only a gooch by marriage, where Ebrell's by birth.

So who might have had access to this house and saved the last few months?

Loads of people.

This is a village.

I don't even bother to lock the door half the time.

Excuse.

So when was the last time you checked the guns?

I told you, I don't know.

Years.

Dennis Ebrell?

Yes.

I checked in the phone book, but there are no Ebrells in Midsomer.

So I thought, well, go back to Maisie.

She's not in, but her nephew's there, and his name's Ebrell.

And so is Maisie's.

Listen, Joyce, don't wait for Maisie.

You go straight home. Do you understand?

OK.

Peter, don't leave the village.

Troy, bring that gun.

-Excuse me. -What the hell?

Another note, Mr. Eberle.

Who pulled him out?

Is that where we've got to?

Dear auntie, can't wait any longer.

We'll ring to let you know we've got him safe.

Look after yourself.

Oh, damn it.

That took me half an hour.

-The time. -Don't.

Did you know about these?

Those are the ones who were killed.

Auntie wouldn't hurt a fly.

I'm worried about flies, Mr. Ebel.

I'm worried about these.

♪

♪

♪

♪

What did Barnaby want with you?

Sod Barnaby.

We're gonna celebrate.

Do we have to?

I'm knackered.

Oh, yes, my son.

Yes.

This is better than-a-ding a million times over.

This is as good as it gets.

And it's the last thing I'll ever ask of you.

Either of you.

I promise.

There's nothing else to live for, really.

♪

You see, Uncle Gordon, Uncle Ray, take a gourd look.

This is the Midsomer Wellow bell-ringing team of the here and now.

My team, the best.

Bringing up.

Who's been playing silly boogers?

Go up and look, Liam.

It's your bell.

You go and look.

Hey!

You're trying to kill me, Fogden.

Bloody clappers have all been tied.

♪

♪

Stay here.

♪

Oh

Oh, Jesus.

Be careful.

It weighs half a ton.

Keep out of its way.

Amazing.

If you wish to say a brief prayer, Francis, you have time.

But I've done nothing to you, Maisie, nothing ever!

Ah.

You're a bell ringer.

You have an outstanding debt to pay, all of you.

Debt from 1860.

1860.

Don't you think that's a long time, Peter?

It's only five generations, a blink of history, since

the Reverend Jonathan Eberle was murdered in this church.

But not by my family.

Nor mine.

We don't go back that far.

But I do.

I have very close links, blood links, to the man you killed.

Jonathan Eberle was my great, great, great grandfather.

He died at the hands of Bellringers.

His widow was reduced to poverty, and five generations of Eberles

have been dogged by disaster, despair, and depression, and suicide.

Maisie, that's tragic, but not of our doing.

We didn't kill him.

The Bellringers of Midsomer Wellow killed him.

They escaped the law of the land.

You are the Bellringers of Midsomer Wellow.

You cannot escape the laws of justice and retribution.

There's no release other than expiation.

We're all bound by history, you see.

History and blood.

Maisie, this is insane.

You church archivist!

A pillar of St. Catharine's!

A pillar?

An avenging angel, perhaps?

My nephew's wife is having a baby, you know.

For the sake of that unborn baby and for the peace and

happiness of all the ebriols yet to come, the debt must now be paid.

♪

♪

♪

The baby will be fine, dears.

The furies of our family blood have been avenged.

I think I've done enough.

♪

♪

♪

♪

Do thank your lovely wife all those cups of

coffee so nice to be welcomed into your home

♪

♪

Troy!

Do you need an ambulance?

Oh, I shouldn't think so.

It is only your face that's damaged, isn't it?

I'm fine, sir.

Just fine.

Mr. Barnaby?

Yeah?

-Cup of tea? -Oh, thank you.

Just put a dash of brandy in it.

You're wasting your time, you know.

She's completely off, men.

Understandable, all things considered.

Look, I know you've got much more important things to deal with.

But about the pathetic attempt at a burglary, I don't want to pursue it.

Besides, with a bit of training, the arch

criminal could make a very decent pastry chef.

Just needs a proper job and a bit of sensible financial management.

You mean the right woman?

I'm willing to risk it.

Troy, do you want a lift home?

Er,

just phone 999 in an emergency.

Follow me.

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪