All language subtitles for Midsomer Murders s05e03 Ring Out Your Dead

What are you doing?

Unlocking the church door.

Why?
We're gonna practise.

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.

Here, not me trousers.

Why not? You hardly ever wear them.

You 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 terminating our marriage.

That's the spirit.
You're worth 10 of him.

Those bloody bells!

Now I'm late for ringing practice.

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.

You alright?
Mmm.

Where's the church?

Just follow your ears.

Yes, no, of course not.

Yes, thank you. I am well aware
of the payment deadline,

And of the interest accruing
thereafter.

Yes, and of the surcharge.
Thank you.

I'm writing you a cheque
at this very moment.

Figuratively speaking.

Hugh?

Hugh, you in there?

Oh, for pity's sake.

Hello, Uncle Reggie.

What's going on, Hugh?
Are you moving?

Moving? No, of course not.

Just decided, time for a change.
Of decor. Going modern.

Ahhh.

Made one of your killings then,
have you?

Stock exchange.
Yes. Yes. That's right. Yes.
Just a few thou.

Excellent.

Proud of you, my boy.
As always.

A rock in the morass.

Thank you.

Joyce? How 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?
Only Troy's...

I'm so sorry.

Bellringers, a law unto themselves.
Always have been.

You're still not feeling it, Emma.

You're not quite there
on the stroke.

Can I help, mate?

Uh, no. Thanks.
I was just leaving.

Oh, sorry, thank you.

Stand.

You're late. You're all late.

And what the bloody hell d'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 practising 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
if you don't shut up.

Guess who was there.
Head honcho bell ringer.

Who?
Jobsworth. Peter Fogden.
From the station.

The maintenance guy?
He of the cubby hole and
the betting slips.

He's got a secret life.

That's all.

Stand.

That was crap.

Yeah, well. It's you.

Confusing us with your calls.
Why can't you trust us?

We know the changes.

Knowing's one thing,
remembering's clearly another.

Look to.

Look to, treble's going.

She's gone.

Go Grandsire doubles.

Morning.

Morning, Angie.

Is he back?

Certainly not.
Back is not an option.

I daresay he'll fall on his feet.

Either his feet or
the missionary position.

Do you care?

Me? Course not.

It will mean more work. And less
canoodling behind the freezer.

Canoodling? Me and Greg?

It's a euphemism, Angie.
The real word's much shorter.

So where you going?

London.
London?

Yes, you know, that big place
with shops.

I'm having lunch with my husband.

So, I can stay then?

Of course, my bristly bit of rough.

Until I get bored with you.

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.

Strangely, Troy, no.

C'mon, my boy!
Go on, my son!

Go on! Go on!

Oh yes! Oh you beauty!

He won, Mr Barnaby!
Ring-a-Ding did it for us!

Ring-a-Ding a-ding!

Us?

No! No! Us! Me and the team at
Midsomer Wellow. The bell ringers.

We pooled our stake money,
put it on the nose,

and Ring-a-Ding's come in
at a hundred to zonking one.

We've made 30 grand. 30 grand!

Only one way to celebrate.

Ha-ha-ha-ha.

Blasphemous whelks, Spitfire.
The lot of 'em.

We're closing now, Hugh.

The pub is open.

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?

He took the stake money
from the till. 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.

Keep the change.

Goodnight, Sue.

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

I am not accustomed
to being kept waiting.

Course you're not.

And beer fumes
are not an aphrodisiac.

No.

Look, Ros.

I'm sorry. Really.

Oh, sod it. What they barkin' for?

I don't know.
I don't speak labrador.

Maybe I never shut
the door properly.

You go on up while I check, yeah?

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

Well?

Nothing. And no beer fumes neither.

Nothing?

No. Trust me.

Your days are numbered, Fogden.

Couldn't use your car,
I suppose?

No, you damn well couldn't.

I'm only going to Causton.

I don't care.

You presume too much, Gregory.

You're good but not that good.

Won't keep you waiting tonight.
I promise you.

You won't keep me waiting again.
Ever. That much I promise you.

Morning, Mr Barnaby, sir.

Peter. Not changed your life then?
Ring-a-Ding?

No, sir,

but I take it as an omen for the
weekend - the striking competition.

Ah, yes.
Midsomer Wellow have never won it.

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 gonna change all that this year.
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.

Troy!

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

I'm not being so grumpy about it.
Some of the bells are 600 years old.

Think of the stories
they could tell.

We're not getting a lecture
as well!

Excuse me, Mrs Barnaby,
Mr Barnaby.

Hello, Maisie, are you off to
the bell ringing?

No. I don't think so.
I'm afraid there might not be any.

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

Every bell in this belfry
has been blessed and sanctified

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're 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 civilising 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.

Oh, dear!

God doesn't mind, Reggie.
I know he doesn't mind.

Come on. Pub instead.

I'm not crossing his picket line,
come on.

Reggie, are you all right?
Course I'm all right.

Vengeance is mine.

That's in the 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.

Did one of us kill him?

Some of these bells weigh
half a ton.

He's been shot through the heart.

Apparently by someone
with a sense of humour.

First on scene then, sir?

Yes, Troy, first on scene.

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

I'm not interested in campanology,
Troy.

I'm 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 experts 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's exactly my first question,
Miss Tysoe.

I suppose this means the tower's
out of bounds

while the men in white coats
swarm all over it?

Peter!

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.

And who has a 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.

I'm... sorry... everyone...

I feel compelled to tell the truth.

Mr Steadman? Do you want
to talk in private?

No. No.

I met Greg earlier this morning

in Causton.

He said he'd had a letter.

A letter?

Last night.

Boasted about it, in fact.

As he did. In such matters.

And what matters are these?

Sex, presumably.

He, ah...

..he said he'd had an invitation

for a bit of 'leg-over',
as he put it,

in the bell tower of all places.

A final fling before the wedding.

Whose wedding?

Emma's.

Marcus!
What!

What are you saying,
you little runt!
Liam!

What you been up to?
I'll break your bloody neck!

Liam! Liam!

Now look what you've done!

Of course, brass rubbing
isn't really a modern activity.

There's pictorial evidence
from as early as 1633.

Mrs Gooch, I need to speak
to the vicar.

We haven't got one. We're
in the middle of an interregnum.

Who's in charge of the church
on a day-to-day basis?

Well, the Parochial Church Council.
And who chairs that?

Oh, dear.

Well, there's going to be no bell
ringing, Joyce, so you'd best...

..You'll need the car, won't you?

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?

D'you want to sit up all night
with them?

Well, no.

While the experts are doing
their stuff up in the belfry,

you can cherchez la femme.
Sir?

Greg Tutt was a womaniser, yeah?
Apparently.

Good. Heads or tails?
Heads.

Well done, Troy.
Lady of the Manor.

Dead?

Yes.
Well, well.

Could I ask when you last saw him?

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.

Boys! Whoo! I'm between lovers
at the moment.

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 such small quantities

The other thing is 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, um.

Presumably he left
some of his possessions here?

Mr Tutt's clothes?

I shredded them after
he buggered off to Causton.

I do the taking for granted,
not the men.

It's the only house rule.

Anyway... with Greg's sad demise,

there's a vacancy in the fleeting
and exclusively carnal department.

Ah... Well, er...

..thank you very much, Mrs Parr.

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

I'll look forward to it.

You have such expressive fingers.

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.

You knew Mr Tutt, did you?

Oh, yes. A real charmer.
Magnetic really.

Dangerous thing to be in a village.
Why's that?

Big fish in a small pond. Leads
to jealousies in 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 her 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.

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.

It's tough,
physically and mentally.

You divide your brain
into different sections.

How was Angie going to do that?
She hasn't got a brain to divide.

Is it true that 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 seen the way
Greg looked at you.

That'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.

You all right, Troy?

She'd cut up his clothes.

Shredded them.

These are Greg Tutt'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?

I'll 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.
Thank you for the lift.

Not putting him on the wall, are we?

Uncle Reggie.

You're out late.

Things going around in my mind,
Hugh.

Wanted to share them with you.

Haven't started yet then?

Started?

The redec. Going modern,
didn't you say?

Yes. That's right.
No, I haven't had time.

Gin?
Please.

You heard about Greg Tutt?

No great loss. Pity someone doesn't
put a bullet through all of 'em.

That's a bit strong, Uncle.

What are these things going round
in your mind?

Money. And my will.

I'm 75, Hugh.

And I've decided to liquidise -
is that the word? -

my assets and put the money where
it's needed here and now.

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

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've proved yourself to be a
Barton through and through, my boy.

Resilient, independent.

It's most gratifying 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,

what I've got put away will 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!

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

You cannot do this.

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, y'know.

It doesn't occur to you that you're
being just a tad insensitive?

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

Home. With Clapper.

Me cat.

Ah! Sir.

How are we doing, Troy, recovered
from whatever was ailing us?

Up and running, sir.
Greg Tutt's belongings.

Any joy with that?

Nope. SOCO pronounced it clueless
and print free.

Down to me, then?
Not entirely, Troy, look.

We also now have the bullet.

Fired from a revolver,
an Enfield revolver. Point 38.

Standard issue during World War Two.

Next stop Wing Commander Reggie,
in that case?

Yes, I suppose so.

It's the people contact

that makes police work so rewarding,
isn't it, Troy?

But, first things first.
Astound me.

No sign of Tutt's winnings,
the 5,000 pounds,

but there is a cheque for 100.

I've pieced most of it together.

Made out to Rosalind Parr.

Haven't found the payer yet,
but there's this as well.

See.

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

Worth testing, I think,

in case it's the letter
from Emma Tysoe?

The alleged letter, Troy. But yes.

Get it down to the lab
straight away.

Sir.

Uh, sir?

Yes?

If a return visit
to the Manor House is required...

..It will be, Troy,

if your burnt offering
gives us anything.

Perhaps you'd, y'know, take it on.

Senior officer and everything.
Carry more weight.

Right. Yeah. Alright, Troy.
You take the Wing Commander.

Emma. Emma.

Emma.

I wanna say sorry.
What, here?

Yeah, why not here?
I love you, Em.

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

I know you never lied to me and
I'm sorry I ever thought otherwise.

Let's still do it, eh?

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

Oh, Liam.

A cheque?
Yes. For 100 pounds.

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?

Because some men I take pity on.

Hugh's 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 Tutt'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.

Well, there was a letter.

It had been burnt.

But a 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 behaviour

to slash his clothes into ribbons.

That 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!

Uh, yes, sir.

I wasn't a cowboy, sonny,
I flew Lancasters.

Do you think we leant out
of the cockpit

and peppered Germany
with our pop guns?

No, sir. I suppose not.

Through here.

You've 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 now.

It is. So useful.
I know to buy blue wool.

We'll get out your way.
No, please.

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's pleased, Auntie.

Write and tell the old misery,
will you?

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

He thinks we should let the line die
out, thinks we're an unlucky family.

Oh?

I never see him any more.
Haven't got the patience.

The trouble with being parish
archivist is, well, the archives.

But 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 Tutt died
two hours before his body was found.

Oh, dear.

I think I was at home then
on my own.

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

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.

Oh, here it is.

She won the Inter County
Championship in 1964.

I intend putting it in our village
hall of fame

when I get round to mounting it.

I was a seriously good markswoman.

Gave me a certain street cred
when I was teaching.

My husband was a much better shot.

And 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'll 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 armourer.

No.

I believe you're 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.

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.

I love you, Em.

I love you, Liam.

Sleep well, eh?

Not as well as I'll sleep
tomorrow night.

No sleep tomorrow night.
Honeymoon.

See you in church, then.

Don't be late, eh?

OK. Cheese!

Cheese!

Just like this?

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

I can read music

and it gives his arthritic 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 wish to see me.

Yes, Mrs Gooch. 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.

He's actually buried
in the churchyard, of course,

hence, "Vicar's in the well."

Well, that's what she says.
Murdered by bell ringers.

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 Catherine's

risen from his watery grave?
I'm not saying that.

There's not even a full moon.

Yes, alright.

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, y'know.

We are doing our best to compensate.

I still think it's a woman.

You said it was Marcus.

I include him in that category.

Either way it's got to be sex.

Greg the womaniser,
Emma his latest squeeze.

Or intended squeeze.
Several noses out of joint.

Well, it can't be Liam,
not this time.

Well, maybe the second murder's been
made to look similar to the first

but isn't actually related.

Don't say that, Troy.

Not two killers.

We're far enough away
from catching one.

The deed is done, Spitfire.

The deed is done.

Ah.

Hugh, come in. Come in.

Just this moment written
to the bishop,

as per our little discussion
the other night.

I'd 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.

Would you like me to deliver it?
Wouldn't dream of troubling you.

It's no trouble. 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.

Loved life.

Loved 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. Eh?

Initial forensic test
on the Emma Tysoe bullet.

Fired from the same gun
that killed Greg Tutt.

Well, at least we're back
to one murderer.

Yes. But apparently
it isn't Frances 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.

There's something else though?

No. I don't think so.

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'll bring on your asthma
and you don't want that.

Emma is dead.

But you are still alive.

Got you at last, you little whelk.

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 Sue
is the messenger of fate.

But one should never shoot
the messenger.

Mmm?

Ding Dong Bell.
We're all in the well.

Hugh?

Thank God for that.

I thought he was gonna try
and come in here.

Where's Sue? What's this letter?

Mind your own business,
and 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.

Alright, Peter?

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

Thank you, Sue. What's this letter
Hugh's on about?

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, Frances. Marcus.

You alright?

There you go.

Angie, I have to pop out for a bit.
D'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?

Where did this come from?
It was on my door mat.

It's a wind up, Marcus.

By one of our sick minded
opposing teams.

This as a means
of undermining morale.

They've succeeded. I resign.

Pull yourself together, Marcus.

You're always telling me
to pull myself together.

I am not a child.

You promised me that you
wouldn't break ranks.

I've had one as well.

There you are, it's obviously
mind games, Marcus.

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

Alright, we're two down now
but we still have options.

Don't we, Angie?
I beg your pardon?

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 Emma.

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.

Tolled to announce
an imminent death.
I know why it's tolled.

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.

Frances?

I knew it sounded wrong. And that's
what I found when I got here.

And you arrived soon afterwards,
Peter?

Yeah. We'd finished at
the Cosy Kitchen.

I was on my way home, like Frances
and, uh, Marcus.

But you didn't see Marcus?

No, I came the other way.

Got here just after Frances.
Just as she switched it off.

I shouldn't have left him.

I shouldn't have gone striding off
like that.

He was a grown man, Frances. And it
was an accident. No one shot him.

How d'you know it was an accident?
He got the next line, didn't he?

"Who put him in?"

And what did I do?
Bullied him as usual.

And now he's dead in a ditch.
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 Tutt.

Competition or no competition,

it does appear that someone
is targeting bell ringers.

Well, if they are...

..I'm next.

Came the same time as poor Marcus's.

Barnaby.

Sir.

I was wrong about Marcus Steadman.

I'm at his house.

He had a king-size crush
on Emma Tysoe.

Did you know about this obsession
with Emma?

Yes, I knew.

Forgive me for asking you this,

but were you and Mr Steadman
ever more than just neighbours?

Yes, we were.

I never had children and 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.

Doctor's 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 him this morning
when I came around to...

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.

I hope your reason for calling
was just a pretext.

Uh, no.

It's about the letter you burnt.

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

You surely can't still be
at first base.

Well, ah. Yes. Oh, no.

It's just a line of enquiry
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?

What killed Emma? The same?

I can tell you instantly,

the same, or a similar weapon,
was used in both cases.

An Enfield revolver,

World War Two vintage?

Yeah.

And being a gun expert you'll know
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 were 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.

Then 10 years later Greg Tutt
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?

No!

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 lovers' 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 literacy skills, was he?

"I yearn for you, too."

Does that sound like Emma?

"A lovers' tryst."

Would she have known what a tryst
actually was?

I'm not making it up, Gavin.

No. But someone else did.

Troy!

Troy, get yourself over to the Cosy
Kitchen as soon as possible.

Someone's trying to break in.

Sorry.

Mrs Tutt, are you still there?

He's got the door open.

Sue, get upstairs. Lock yourself in.

Hugh?

Oh, God. Bloody Hell.

So! Having done for the Wingco,

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 Reggie's 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.

A better man than I'll ever be.

I'm sorry, Sue.

He thought the world of you.

Always said so.

I didn't mean to frightened 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, Hugh.

And Reggie wasn't.

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

He was trying to goad you
into being 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 Reggie'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 lovers' tryst.

How very appropriate.

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

Good English, a bit old fashioned.

That narrows it right down.

To just about everyone
in the village.

Anyway, back at first base,

we have Greg shot,

probably with a hand gun stolen from
Frances 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? Ring-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.

Hear that?

The four's late every time.

We'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 top the mutineers?

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

The strongest three.

In which case, Frances 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.

Vicar's in the well.

This lot haven't got it either.

They're all over the place.
Keep having to dodge.

And we're not going to cock up?
Double handing?

No. We're not.

Just remember what I said.

I know.

We're doing this for Emma
and Marcus and Greg.

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

Here it is.

Just like Maisie said.

"1860. The new vicar
at Midsomer Wellow

"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
Ebbrell disappeared one night

after a stand-up row
with the ringers

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

"Although there is 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 favour,
look in the local phone book,

just in case there's an Ebbrell
still about.

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've found
in Peter Fogden's sideboard.

An army issued Enfield revolver.

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 Deverell.

But, against all the odds,

pipping those two by a single point,

are this year's winners
of the striking competition -

Midsomer Wellow.

Ye-e-e-e-e-e-es!

Yes!

Woo-hoo! Yes! Yes! Yes!

Yes, yes!

I won! I won!

Yes!

I did it, Mr Barnaby.
I knew I could.

Could we talk somewhere else,
please, Peter?

What?
We 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.

I wasn't thinking straight.

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

What were you planning to do,
start robbing banks?

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 the drawer, worked
overtime, paid off the mortgage,

forgot about them.

And they're still there?
Yes.

I think we'd better take a look
at these guns, don't you?

It's not here.

The other one's gone.

Hello.

Maisie?

Anyone at home?

Hello?

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 she could help me with
a bit of research I'm doing

but it can wait.

I'll tell her to call.
It's Joyce?

Yes. Thanks, Mr Gooch.
Hope you won't have long to wait.

Ebbrell.

Pardon?

Dennis Ebbrell.

Auntie's only a Gooch by marriage.
We're Ebbrells by birth.

Who might have had access to this
house in the last few months?

Loads of people. This is a village.

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

'Scuse.

So when was the last time
you checked the guns?

I told you. I don't know. Years.

Dennis Ebbrell?

Yes.

I checked in the phone book but
there are no Ebbrells in Midsomer

so I thought, well,
go back to Maisie.

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

And so is Maisie's.

Listen, Joyce, don't wait for Maisie.

Go straight home. Do you understand?
OK.

Peter, don't leave the village.

Troy, bring the gun.

Excuse me.
What the hell.

Another note, Mr Ebbrell?
"Who pulled him out?"

Is that where we've got to?

"Dear Auntie.
Can't wait.

"Will call when we get home.
Look after yourself. Love, Dennis"

That took me half an hour
to type! Don't...

Did you know about these?

Those are the ones who were killed?

Auntie wouldn't hurt a fly.

I'm not worried about flies.
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 Ring-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.

See, Uncle Gordon.

Uncle Ray. Take a good look.

This is the Midsomer Wellow Bell
Ringing Team of the Here and Now.

My team. The best.

Ringing up.

Who's been playing silly buggers?

Go up and look, Liam.

It's your bell, you go and look.
Eh!

You trying to kill me, Fogden?

Bloody clappers have all been tied.

Stay here.

Careful.

It weighs half a ton.

Keep out of its way.
Maisie?

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

But I've done nothing to you,
Maisie. Nothing. Ever.

You're a bell ringer.

You have an outstanding debt to pay.
All of you.

Debt?
From 1860.

1860?

You think that's a long time, Peter?
It's only five generations.

A blink of history

since the Reverend Jonathan Ebbrell
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 Ebbrell was my great,
great, great grandfather.

He died at the hands
of bell ringers.

His widow was reduced to poverty

and five generations of Ebbrells
have been dogged by disaster

and despair, depression
and suicide.

Maisie.
That's... tragic.

But not of our doing.

We didn't kill him.

The bell ringers of Midsomer Wellow
killed him.

They escaped the law of the land.

You are the bell ringers
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're church archivist.
A pillar of St Catherine's.

A pillar? An avenging angel,
perhaps.

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

For the sake of that unborn baby,

for the peace and happiness
of other Ebbrells 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
for all those cups of coffee.

So nice to be welcomed
into your home.

Troy!

Do you need an ambulance?

I shouldn't think so.

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

I'm fine, sir. Just fine.

Mr Barnaby?
Yep?

Cup of tea?
Oh, thank you.

I put just a dash of brandy in it.

You're wasting your time, y'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.

He 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.

Barnaby.

Closed Captions by CSI