All language subtitles for Endeavour.S01E01.Girl.720p.BluRay.DTS.x264-PublicHD-eng

This indicates the symmetric
fragments are caused

by a passage of
the fissioning nucleus

through an asymmetric
saddle point.

And now, ladies, we'll have
that last exercise again.

Margaret Bell.

Concentrate.

Anything for the weekend, sir?

No, thank you.

Ten shilling postal order,
please.

The plane that dropped the bomb
on Hiroshima was named

for the pilot's mother,
Enola Gay Tibbets.

And the bomb,

that obscenity
in her belly,

they christened it
"Little Boy".

Was Mrs. Tibbets proud
of her little boy that day?

Say good night to Grandpa.

Good night, Bobby.

Sleep tight.

He had a hat
and everything.

What about identification?

I didn't think to ask...
with the hat.

You usually get a receipt when
the meter's emptied, don't you?

He said I'd get one in the post.

Ah!

Will I be liable?
For the loss?

I wouldn't have thought so.

Gas Board are pretty good
about this sort of thing

as a rule.

Well, if there's
nothing else, Mr. Greaves.

Don't suppose there's much
chance of you catching him,

will there?

What with these post offices
getting knocked off.

We'll certainly
do our best.

My name is Bright,

Chief Superintendent Bright.

And firstly,

I would just like
to express my gratitude

to Detective Inspector Thursday
for holding the fort

so admirably,
pending my arrival.

Secondly...

Secondly, you should be aware

that I am putting this station
on notice.

I do not propose to speak
ill of my predecessor,

but where there are breaches
of procedure

or Spanish practices,

you will find me a horse
of a very different color.

That said, I want
you to regard

my appointment as a tabula rasa.

A clean slate.

You play fair by me,
then I will play fair by you.

Carry on.

Around and around the rugged
rock the ragged rascal ran.

What?

Well, it's a bit
cheap, isn't it?

He'd be right up
your street, I suppose.

Tabula rasa.

My Aunt Flo.

If you've no work, Jakes,
some will be found for you.

Sir.

Don't let them get a rise.

It's nothing.

Insubordination's what it is.

By proxy.

You're my bagman.

I know what's going
'round the canteen.

The job should have gone
to a detective sergeant.

Well, it didn't,
it went to you.

You're here on merit.

Not that you'd know it
by the state of you.

You might have found time
to run an iron.

That shirt looks like
you've slept in it.

First impressions, Morse.

Right.

Sudden death on Southmore Road.

Uniform just wants
the all clear.

Thank you, sir.

You're meant to be
on the door, aren't you?

Sorry.

Just come off nights.

It's playing
havoc with my...

I think I can live
without the details

of your digestive timetable,
thank you very much.

Who are you?

For all you know,
I'm just someone wandered in

off the street, intent
on a bit of housebreaking.

You're going to be
like that about it,

let's see some
identification, matey!

Sharpish.

Oh.

You're Morse.

Strange.

What is?

I am.

Me.

My name.

Jim Strange.

The sawbones is here,
if you wanted a word.

It's all right.

You can look.

Nothing here
to frighten the horses.

No blood, leastways.

What's the, uh...

My extensively educated medical
guess would be a heart attack.

Young, isn't she?

You'll need to run her GP
to ground, but digoxin

would suggest a heart defect
of some sort.

Time of death?

Rigor completely
passed.

So, sometime before
noon on Saturday.

Do we know who she was?

Margaret Bell.

Family's in Rhodesia,
according to Miss Byng.

Landlady.

She's next door at the
minute having a cuppa

for the shock.

There's two other girls
live here, but they went away

Friday morning
for a week in Rhyl.

That's as far as you've got,
is it?

No. Student, I'd say.

One of the... colleges.

Beaufort College;
these are Beaufort colors.

It's unlikely she'd have been
an undergrad there.

Why not?

Because they don't admit women.

More likely
secretarial college.

I've already had a go
through her purse.

30 bob and a
French letter.

Unused.

"Hope springs eternal
in the human breast;

Man never is,
but always to be blest."

Keep me posted
on the GP, Morse.

Okay, let's go.

Whoo...

Good boy, Bobby.

There you go.

Did you like that?

Did you like the driving?

Don't be cross.

I was just passing.

Don't talk rot, Pamela.

You know perfectly
well you weren't.

I brought a few changes.
They're all clean.

That's very good of you.

But you needn't
have, really.

I'm expecting Frank home
any minute for lunch.

I could make junket.

Bobby could help me,
couldn't you, darling?

Honestly.

You can't keep doing this.

Five post offices knocked over
in the last two months, sir.

All within
a 20-mile radius.

None on our ground, though.

Not as yet.

But as well to be
prepared, sir.

I'd prefer you concentrated
on this gas meter menace.

It transpires one of
his victims is great-aunt

to the assistant
chief constable.

I've promised we'll roll
out the silver service.

Rapid result.

Right, sir.

Well, if there was
nothing else, I'll...

There is one other matter.

I understand you've
a detective constable

acting as bagman?

Morse, sir.
Good man.

They're all
good men, Thursday.

But the rank system is there
for a purpose.

Bagman is a detective
sergeant's post.

He is an exceptional
officer, sir.

Barely two years
in uniform

before being transferred to CID.

Which, you may rely, means
no one knew what to do with him.

Or his talents
lay elsewhere.

A grammar scholarship
and a failed degree

might impress some.

But the truth of it is
he lacks experience.

I'm bringing him on.

I'd as soon we didn't get off
on the wrong foot, Thursday.

Likewise, sir.

On your own recognizance, then.

And for a probationary
period only.

The first hint of a hullabaloo,
he'll be returned

to General Duties.

Sir.

In Miss Bell's room,

we found a bottle of digoxin.

Which is a derivative
of digitalis, isn't it?

Quite dangerous,
I'd have thought.

Dr. Prentice?

Yes, quite lethal.

It's not called

deadly nightshade for nothing.

But for certain cases,

such as Margaret's
congenital heart weakness,

it can actually help
the heart muscle contract

and do its work.

Which is why, I have to say,
I am surprised.

Surprised?

A heart attack.

If she was taking
her medication, then...

You will notify me
as to the inquest?

Of course.

Hello, old girl.

Lunch won't be long.

Oh, hang lunch.

Not now, Frank,
please.

I'm getting a head.

Perhaps at the weekend.

Pamela's here.

Making junket,
if you please.

I do wish she wouldn't
just drop by.

Maybe you can talk to her.

Yes, all right,
If you like.

I said you'd run
her into town

when you're back
from the surgery.

Perhaps that would be
a good time to raise it.

I lent her my scarf
the last time I saw her.

When did you see
her last, Denis?

We were meant to go
out Friday, but she...

couldn't make it.

Here, have a smoke.
Steady your nerves.

No, thanks.

I don't.

What about Miss Bell?

Did she smoke?

No.

I don't think so.

Your... uh...

with Miss Bell...

That was a...

full relationship?

She wasn't that
sort of girl.

What sort of girl was she?

Nice.

She wouldn't laugh at you
or make you feel small

just because you've not had it
all handed to you on a plate.

Scholarship?

There's no shame in that.

Not many girls here'd go with
a bloke darns his own cuffs.

God knows what she
was doing with me.

Right.

What have we got today?

cheese and pickle.

luncheon meat.

No need to ruin it;
anticipation's half the fun.

Cheese and pickle,
what do you know?

So this sudden death.

Margaret Bell.

20 years old.

At secretarial school.

Looks to be
natural causes.

Looks to be?

She had a heart condition.

But her GP said should've been
fine if she was taking

her medication.
Maybe she forgot.

Maybe, but she'd
had someone there

the night she died.

So she had a boyfriend;
there's no law against it.

This isn't her steady,
he doesn't smoke.

There were some cigarettes

in a saucer
on the window ledge.

It rained early Friday evening,
but the saucer was dry.

Dr.deBryn doesn't anticipate
anything untoward?

No, but...

You're kicking your heels.

I'd sooner you turned your mind
to these gas meter jobs.

Get a decent collar
or two under your belt.

Oh, and mind how you go
with Mr. Bright.

It looks to be a bit of a
stickler for rules and regs.

It's my card he's
after marking, not yours.

Keep your head down
and your nose clean.

Concentrate on your
police work, all right?

"Going to the Moonlight Rooms

with you know who."

Any idea
who that might be?

I think it may be Derek.

She spoke about
some man called Derek

who works
in the post office.

Thanks, Wallace.

Thanks very much.

She died on Friday.

I just wondered
if you knew her.

I can't say I knew her well.

Only to say hello to.

Really?

Because she'd written
in her shorthand notebook

she was meeting
you-know-who

at the Moonlight Rooms Friday.

And her friends were of the
opinion that you-know-who

referred to you.

I don't know why
they'd think that.

I might've said I'd see
her there sometime.

If I was going.

But, as it was,
I ended up down the Legion

on Edgecombe Road.

The Legion?

That's a bit dull, isn't it?

I go for the old man,
he's a member.

So, you didn't meet
Margaret later?

Look, you asked me
if I'd seen her, I said no.

Did you know she had
a boyfriend?

Who's that, then?
College boy?

It's what they come here for,
isn't it, secretaries?

Looking to pick
themselves up a husband.

Some blue with prospects
if they can get it.

I don't think I mentioned
she was a secretary.

The impression I got.

Cheerio, Wally.

Morning, love.

Mr. Clark.

Derek.

Afternoon, Miss--
just the regular?

Please.

Everything all right,
officer?

He's not in any
trouble, is he?

Just a routine
inquiry, Mr. Clark.

He's a good lad.

Yeah, I'm sure.

Thank you.

We've got the poster up.

PC Nixon dropped it round.

Very nice young man, he is.

It's a worry, though.

Kidlington? I mean,
that's only up the road.

Well, if you see anyone
acting suspiciously

or loitering outside.

Casing the place,
you mean?

Yeah, the robberies
seem to have been conducted

with some foreknowledge.

Cash deliveries
and what have you.

Anyone you're not sure of,
just give the station a call,

and we'll have
someone round.

What was all that about?

Nothing.

Some girl I half know died.

What do you mean "died"?
What of?

How do I know?
Just died.

They're talking
to everyone as knew her.

Mr. Truby from Regional's
coming by for eight.

I want you to take him
through the quarterlies.

You know I'm out Mondays.

You're out every night!

It's a wonder you've
any money left.

Jesus.

Hey, I won't have language,

not in this house.

If your mother could see
you carrying on.

She can't, though, can she?

She's dead.

She's dead, and it's just
you and me and fish fingers,

pension books,
a world without end.

Halle-bloody-lujah!

I've done my best.

What do you want?

Something else.

Something more.

Not this.

Do we know who he was?

No wallet on him, sir.

But the car's registered
to a Dr. Cartwright.

Got a practice in Florence Park
with a Dr. Prentice.

Prentice?

Yeah.

Why?

I was there yesterday.

He's the GP in that
sudden death, sir.

Margaret Bell.

Killed some time
between 9:00 and midnight.

Single shot.

Weapon discharged
from over by the door there.

Bullet entered the skull

half an inch above
the left point

of the supra-orbital ridge

and went on its merry way,

to exit at about
the median point

of the left parietal-occipital
suture line.

And...

Yes.

End up...

Hey, as it were, presto.

No wallet, you say?
Robbery, then.

Possibly, sir.

In any event, I think
it best Sergeant Jakes

assume management of the
Incident Room for the duration.

DC Morse
is my bagman, sir.

Morse may remain as your
driver and aide de camp,

but a case such as this

requires an officer
of experience

and more senior rank

to coordinate the inquiry.

You're giving primary
consideration to this bicycle,

I take it.

Quite right.
Sir?

I recall a not dissimilar
case in Freetown.

The usual mammy palaver,
but the killer left his bicycle

at the scene.

You should be able to trace
its owner from the frame number.

Really? In Oxford?

What Morse means to say, sir,
is that there's probably

more cycles hereabouts

than just about
anywhere in the country.

Bikes get lost,
borrowed,

stolen, right?

Yes, sir.

But, if the registered owner
isn't left-handed,

then he's almost
certainly not our man.

Left-handed?

As you'd have noticed, sir,
given the opportunity

to examine it yourself.

The front and rear brake
cables have been swapped over.

He'll also be an older man

and of limited means.

Possibly.

How'd you get to that, then?

Well, the bike's ancient,
but well maintained.

Which points to thrift,
I'd have thought.

Taken together with evidence
of absent-mindedness.

What evidence?

Well, he sometimes forgets to
wear his bicycle clips, sir.

There are scraps of material
torn from his trousers

caught amongst the gears,

one a cavalry twill,
the others linen, both black.

He wears subfusc
as a matter of habit.

A don, then.

Perhaps, sir.

But I think given
the limited means,

we're looking
for a man of the cloth.

A vicar shooting somebody
in a lav?

I'd hope you'll eliminate
known criminals

from your inquiries first,
Thursday, before troubling

any clergymen, what?

Really, Constable Morse...

You should be on the halls.

That minding how you go,
is it?

How long had you
and Dr. Cartwright

been in practice together?

18 months.

We were juniors together
at the Radcliffe.

Is there anyone you can think
of would wish to harm him?

Anyone with whom he's
had a falling out?

No, not a soul.

Dr. Cartwright wore
a wedding band, sir.

I presume he was married?

Yes, a girl called Helen.

They live at
Sloan House, by Cumnor.

Place belongs to her father,
Edmund Sloan.

He's professor
of physics at Beaufort.

Sir Edmund Sloan?

The Atom Man?

Yes, that's right.

I'd like to put him
in the picture,

unless you have any objection.

Coincidence, don't you think?

Yesterday we find
Margaret Bell dead.

And today the partner of her GP
is found shot dead.

Sudden death's sudden death.

Just because it's a pretty girl
doesn't make it murder.

I didn't say it was.

It's Cartwright has been shot,
not Prentice.

What was all that about
with Mr. Bright early on?

I know you've
a brain on you.

But as far as he's concerned,

a bit more of the humble
policeman, and a bit less

of the great detective

will go down
a whole lot easier.

What's this all about?

Perhaps you should sit down,
Mrs. Cartwright.

Oughtn't we to wait
for Sir Edmund?

Wait for Daddy for what?

I'm afraid I have some
very grave news for you.

Who is it, Helen?

The police.

Sorry, my little sister.

Mrs. Waters.

Is it Daddy?
No, madam.

It concerns your husband,
Mrs. Cartwright.

I'm sorry to tell you
his body was discovered

this morning at Godstow.

He'd been shot.

My God.

Helen, I...

Oh, my God,
somebody catch her!

It's all right, it's a seizure.

She'll be all right in a minute.

We just have to keep talking
to her.

Pamela?
Pamela, good girl.

We're all here.

That's it, good girl.

Keep talking to her.

Just breathe.

Good girl, all right.

Well done.

That's it.

It's all right.

You'll be needing someone
to identify the body.

If I can spare the family.

Have you known them long?

Four years or so.

Through Frank.

In Lady Sloan's last illness,

she was treated
at the Radcliffe.

That's how Frank got to know
the family.

All was well at home?

Only the wearer knows
where the shoe pinches.

But absolutely, I'd say.

Helen's a wonderful girl.

Would you know
if there's any firearms

kept on the premises,
Mrs. Cartwright?

My mother had a pistol.

For vermin--
squirrels and the like.

I haven't seen it in years.

Helen.

He's gone.

He's gone.

I know,
I know...

Oh, Daddy.

Shh...

It was here.

Together with a box
of ammunition.

When did you last see it?

I doubt I've opened
this drawer in years.

Frank may have borrowed
it for something.

Can you think of anyone
who bore him any ill will?

Some disgruntled
patient, or...

No.

He had a perfect bedside manner.

No problems
at the practice?

Did he get on well
with Dr. Prentice?

So far as I'm aware.

I know you'll need to speak
to all of us,

but if you could go gently
with Pamela?

She's been through a lot.

Gerald, her husband, died.

I'm afraid this will
have brought it all back.

What happened to him?

A car crash.

The other fellow's fault.

Drink.

When was this?

Two, two-and-a-half
years ago.

It made the papers,
I believe.

Had they been
long married?

Just back from honeymoon.

A whirlwind romance.

He was some young chap
she'd met at ICI in London.

She had a job
in the typing pool.

Registry office.

None of us invited,
of course.

I'm afraid we'd
rather lost touch.

With Pamela's illness...

things have not always
been easy between us.

If you could be
careful with her?

Of course, sir.

You'd better hang on,

see what the sister's got
to say when she comes to.

Right.

Just the who, what,
where and when of it.

It's all we're after
for the time being.

I'll get a car to run
you and Mrs. Cartwright

down to the mortuary
for the formal ID.

Did she have any idea what her
husband was doing at Godstow?

Keen angler, apparently.

Evenings he was on call,
he'd go fishing after work.

Which is all right so far as
it goes, but it's close season.

Whatever her husband was
doing at Godstow last night,

it wasn't fishing.

Who are you?

Constable Morse.

I've seen you before.

Cowley Parade yesterday.

Where's Bobby?

My little boy.

Helen.

I'm so sorry.

But, look, I don't think
it's fair for Helen

to have to cope with Bobby
on top of everything else.

So why don't I just
take him home with me?

Just until you've had a chance
to come to terms

with everything.

I can't cope
with this today.

Really, I can't.
Now, Pamela...

Daddy.

I'm just trying to do
what's best.

Please, my dear.

You promised, you said
you'd see if I'd been good.

You can't just
keep him here.

Tell her she can't.

Helen.

He belongs to me.
He's mine.

Daddy?

Daddy, please.

You always
take her side.

I'm going
to telephone a taxi.

If Bobby's things aren't here,
ready by the time I get back,

there'll be hell to pay.

Can you give me the fare?

I can take you home.

No.

No, I'm not going
anywhere with you.

You're in it with them.

Please? Ten shillings
should cover it.

Please don't give her any money.

Of course.

Bloody fool.

Helen...
He thinks he's helping.

You think you're helping,
but you're not.

You don't know her.

As far as the family's
concerned,

Mrs. Cartwright took
a sleeping pill

and went to bed at 10:00.

And the girl
with the fits?

Dr. Cartwright dropped her back
from Sloan House to her flat

in Florence Park
before going on his rounds.

And?

Sir Edmund was working in his
rooms at Beaufort College, sir.

Says he got home about 11:00.

He's someone, isn't he?

Worked with
the Americans on the bomb.

Knighted for it.

Long and short is,
there's not one of the family

with a solid alibi, sir.

Family?

I thought it was
a robbery.

His wallet's gone, sir,
certainly.

But his watch.

Wedding ring, tie pin,
it's all here.

Not much of a robber
to leave those behind.

Adhesive plaster, sir.

He was on call last night.

Final patient he
attended was half-eight.

Summertown.

Then what's he doing driving
all the way out to Godstow?

Fancy woman
on the go, maybe?

There is another
possibility, sir.

Given where it's happened.

Oh.

A touch of the chase-me-
Charlies, you mean?

No kids, have they?

An immoral rendezvous?

I should hope this case might
be resolved without resorting

to gross slurs against
a man's character.

For heaven's sake!

Dr. Cartwright was
married, wasn't he?

No, no, Pamela!

You must think us
very heartless.

One has to put
the child first.

She's not fit, you see.

If something happened...

When did the seizures start?

She was about 12.

Which Frank said
is often the case.

Helen!

But Pamela was always
a difficult child.

She told tall tales.

Lies, I suppose.
She hid things.

La gazza ladra, we called her.

Was she violent in her fits?

And desperately strong.

My wife was against it,
but we...

we had her put away.

I've put him down.

Hopefully, he'll just
cry himself to sleep.

When was she released?

We were just talking of Pamela.

My God... even today.

Helen...

Just after
her 18th birthday.

Though what that's to do
with my husband being shot

I have no idea.

Please...

When Mommy was dying,
she had us promise

to bring Pamela home.

Frank explained there'd been
miraculous advances with drugs

such as she really ought to be
able to manage on her own.

That's when she went to London?

My inspector said she had
a job there with ICI?

Frank was at St. Mary's
at the time,

so he could look in and make
sure she was taking her tablets.

But, um...

when he came back to Oxford,
telephone calls went unanswered.

Letters returned unopened.

Then, one day,
she just turned up here.

A young widow,
with a child in tow.

Yes, that's...
Frank Cartwright.

My husband always

looked on the bright
side of things.

Happy-go-lucky.

I suppose that's what
first drew me to him.

After, well, things at
home weren't always...

It must have been difficult
for you growing up.

One learned not
to mention the P word.

But I missed her.

For all her...

I missed her terribly.

How long was she confined?

Six years.

It wasn't an asylum.

That's what people
always assume.

Mommy would have
never allowed that.

It was... very nice.

You know, a colony.

For people like Pamela.

An epileptic colony.

Yes.

Hello, anyone in?

Heavy, I'd imagine,
lugging all that lot about.

This you, is it?

Meter.

Like to see some identification,
if you don't mind.

Wouldn't you know it?

Must have left it
in my other trousers.

Pity.

See, I've got mine.

You rung the depot?

Out of hours, I'm afraid.

I called an emergency number,
but they've no record of you.

Paperwork can't have
gone through yet.

I've only been in
the job three weeks.

Constable Spencer will
see you're taken care of

for a drink and a hot meal.

Made an arrest, then?

We'll hang the flags out.

Poor Frank.

I don't think I was
a very good wife.

I'm sure that's
not the case.

I don't think I ever loved him,
you see.

Not properly.

The way one reads about
in books.

"He took her in his arms
and all became a mist..."

But he was kind.

After Mommy.

Took me out once or twice.

When he proposed,
it seemed impolite to refuse.

There must have been
more than that.

Must there?

Perhaps if we'd had children.

Some girls take
to it, I suppose.

Oh, Bill.

I don't want to be
old and alone.

You won't let that
happen, will you?

Helen, you are the most
simply marvelous girl

in the whole world.

You know I've always
thought that.

Have you?

I used to tease
Frank about it.

"I saw her first,"
I'd say.

"You lucky devil.

"If you don't watch out,
I shall steal her

out from under you."

Will you?

An honest mistake, sir.

Well, that's not how
the gas board sees it.

Aye-aye.

The gas man cometh.

I spent two hours
on the telephone last night

rectifying matters.

At home!

Mrs. Bright's bridge
evening was quite ruined.

An honest working man
arrested while going about

his lawful business.

It's not good enough, Thursday.

I think you'd better
make yourself scarce.

Man that is born of a woman

hath but a short time to live

and is full of misery.

He cometh up, and is
cut down, like a flower;

he fleeth as it were a shadow

and continueth
not in one stay.

And dost thou open thine
eyes upon such a one...

and bringest me
into judgment with thee.

Had you reported the bicycle
stolen, Reverend Monkford?

No, no.

Someone else's need was clearly
far greater than mine.

When was this?

Oh, gosh... a few weeks ago now.

Yes, I should've kept it
chained up, I suppose.

It was found by the river
at Godstow.

Outside a public convenience.

Do you know the area?

No, no.

I'm afraid I don't.

Have you ever met
a Dr. Cartwright?

Frank Cartwright?

He has a practice
in Florence Park.

Well, I know all the doctors
in my parish, obviously.

But that's about it.

You've an interest
in science.

Yes.

Yes, I read chemistry
at Beaufort before the war.

But I've kept a keen interest
in the nature of things.

You know, the truth of them.

Something we have in common,

I should imagine.

Well, we share a passion
for cruciverbalism, certainly.

Yes.

I've always had a
weakness for a puzzle.

Alas, I'm a little
off my game today.

You might want to take
a look at 11 down.

Running over a dune
is an effort.

Nine letters.

I think it should help you
with the southwest quadrant.

You do seem an unlikely
sort of policeman,

if you'll forgive me.

It's rather where
I've ended up.

By way of academe
and the Signal Corps.

Jack of all trades.

The Signal Corps?

What were you doing there?

I was a cipher clerk.

Cipher clerk.

Indeed.

I noticed a grave
in your churchyard.

Lady Daphne Sloan,
1903-1960.

Anything to do with the Sloans
at Cumnor, would you know?

Oh, yes, yes.

Yes, the Sloan family
have a long association

with St. Elegius going
back many generations.

Yes, I married one of
them a few years ago.

Well, performed
the service, at least.

Helen, would that be?

Possibly.

I'm afraid names don't...
you know.

As a matter of interest,
where were you Monday night?

Monday night?

Yes, I was here.

Preparing a sermon for Sunday.

It's an expository.

St. Matthew, chapter seven,
verse seven.

I have to ask.

How did you find me?

A process of elimination.

There aren't that many
left-handed vicars

in the diocese.

I'll see your bike's
returned to you

just as soon
as we're done with it.

Thank you.

Seeing as you've helped me,

by way of recompense.

After beard teased,
an exclamation of surprise

will bring you home.

11 letters.

It's something for you
to think about

on the way back to town.

I am sorry, sir,

this last chapter just seems
to be taking me...

Just as soon as you can, Denis.

Oh, I've left my...

All right.

Sir Edmund, I wonder, might
I speak with you a moment?

I was just on
my way to hall.

Perhaps you'd
care to join me?

I'd be glad
of your company.

That's very kind.

Not at all.

That was Denis Bradley,
wasn't it?

One of my brightest.

A rather promising
young physicist.

And more importantly,
an accomplished transcriber.

He's been helping
with my memoirs.

Typing up my rather
illegible longhand.

How do you know him?

A girl he was seeing,
Margaret Bell,

died suddenly last weekend.

Oh, good heavens.

I'd no idea...

Oh, the poor boy.

Of course.

That would explain it.

Explain what?

The latest pages
he turned in

were awash with
typographical lacunae.

I'm afraid I may have been
a little hard on him.

Has he ever been
to Sloan House?

Once or twice.

To collect my notes
and deliver fair copy.

He'd have known
Dr. Cartwright, then?

Frank?

Yes, I suppose he would have
seen him about the place.

Please...

Thank you.

Now, you must tell me.

I've rather held off asking,

but I gather you
were at Lonsdale.

Where would you gather that?

Oh, talk in the SCR.

Oxford's a self-regarding
sort of place, insular.

You can't deny the novelty
of a Greats undergraduate

serving as a constable
with the city police.

I can try.

Your daughter's marriage
to Dr. Cartwright.

Was that an altogether
happy one?

Well, I'd say no marriage
is altogether happy,

but Helen and Frank
were happier than most.

And your own relationship with
Dr. Cartwright-- how was that?

Whatever reservations
I may have had,

Frank became like a son to me.

A happy family, then.

Happiness is subjective,
don't you think?

Take me.

Feted.

Titled.

And yet...

My wife.

Pamela.

And now Frank.

I'd say it was a judgment,
if I believed in such things.

For what?

I helped unleash a force

with the power to wipe mankind
from the face of the earth.

And that troubles you?

A quarter of a million souls
is a lot to answer for.

It would seem I'm not
alone in that view.

How long's this
been going on?

About six months.

No specific threats as such?

No, a single word
most of the time.

Variations on a theme.

Monster, killer, murderer.

To do with his war work?

Well, that's how
he took it.

But now with his
son-in-law being killed?

Got the wind up, has he?

Well, you'd better see
if there's anything in it.

How did you make out
with that bike?

Any luck?
Yes and no.

It belonged to
a Reverend Monkford,

vicar of St. Elegius.

Good.

But says it was
stolen some time ago.

Not him that cycled
down to Godstow, then?

No, says he was in Monday
night, working on a sermon.

Maybe we'll have better
luck with this gun.

Mr. Bright wants
the river dragged,

so I'm breaking out
the gumboots.

Do you want me to run you?

No, no.

Jakes will do.

He's got a list together
of Cartwright's patients.

I'd sooner you went
through that,

see if there's any with form.

Particularly
firearms offenses.

There is one
more thing, sir.

Margaret Bell's boyfriend,
Denis Bradley.

I thought we'd been
over that.

Well, it turns out
he's been helping

Sir Edmund Sloan
with his memoirs.

So if the murder weapon
is the revolver

taken from Sloan House,
Bradley's been there.

How would he know
where to find it?

More likely one of the
family made away with it,

wouldn't you think?

They're a rum lot
by anybody's yardstick.

Oh, and Dr. deBryn called.

Wants you to drop by
the mortuary.

That sudden of yours,
Margaret Bell...

Yes?

Interesting stomach contents.

One or two partially
dissolved tablets.

Digoxin?

No.

These were of a bluish,
purple-y hue.

Dye had leached into the
lining of the gut, you see.

Do you feel all right?

You're not going to, uh...

No.

I can get you
a glass of water.

I'd sooner the point,
if it's all the same to you.

The point is, I've just had
the results back from the lab.

Ah...

Drinamyl.

Amphetamine?

They're illegal, aren't they?

As of last year.

Unfortunately,
that doesn't mean

people have stopped
taking them.

Not me.

I like a good drink, but
that's where I draw the line.

Derek wouldn't get mixed up
in anything like that, officer.

He's never been
in any trouble.

He works hard.

Got a decent future ahead
of him if he knuckles down.

Knuckles under,
he means.

See what I mean?

Go and see to that tea.

No, don't trouble
on my account, Mr. Clark.

Go on.

He not a bad lad.

Just... it's been hard on him
since losing Ivy.

I promised her I'd do my best,
but a boy needs his mother,

all's said and done.

Where do you want it?

Just about bust a gut
carting that thing.

What do you want with
her typewriter, anyway?

Something I want to check.

It must be difficult typing
all this yourself now?

What does that mean?

Up until the last
two messages,

the hate letters sent
to Sir Edmund Sloan

were written on
a Remington model five.

Specifically, Margaret Bell's
Remington model five.

What makes you think that?

The E key is misaligned.

I'd expect Sir Edmund's memoirs
to show the same anomaly.

Did Margaret type the
hate mail for you too?

Or just the memoirs?

Just the memoirs.

I tapped out the rest
of the messages

while she was taking a bath.

If I notify the college,
you'll be sent down.

If?

You've worked hard.

Don't throw it away
over nothing.

Nothing?

I'd thought maybe he felt
some remorse,

some prick of conscience.

But all the hair shirt
and the mea culpa,

it's just an act.

An act?

He's going to America.

America?

A fat chair at Stanford.

He's taking
them all with him.

Helen, Dr. Cartwright,
the kiddie.

Only the doc wasn't too keen,
so far as I could make out.

Don't you get it?

They're paying him to come up

with new ways
of killing people, Morse.

My God!
Doesn't that matter to you?

Isn't it your job

to catch murderers?

You're taking it a bit far.

Am I?

You kill one person,

they'll lock you up
and throw away the key.

You kill 300,000...

and they give you a knighthood.

Daddy sent you
to spy on me, did he?

No. I just wanted
to make sure

that you were all right
after yesterday.

What did they say about me?

Did they tell you
I'd been put away?

That I'm a danger to Bobby?

I'm not.

That was the first turn
I've had in over a year.

It was the shock

hearing about Frank that way.

Is there anyone
you can think of

would want to do
him any harm?

No, of course not.

He was... kindness itself.

If it hadn't been for Frank,
I'd still be locked up.

You probably think I should be,
after my last performance.

They can't keep you
from your son.

You don't know my family.

I can see him.

Visit.

My son.

I have to pretend not to mind,

not to make a fuss,
or they'll put me back inside

and I won't see him at all.

At least I know he's just
a bus ride away.

I suppose
that's some comfort.

Will you take me to bed?

You don't need to buy me things
or tell me you love me.

I just...

Please, just for a while?

I'm here in a position of trust.

Am I not your type?

Um... I should go.

No! Stay.

Please.

"She saw the helmet
and the plume,

"she looked down to Camelot.

"Up through the web
and floated wide,

"the mirror cracked
from side to side.

'The curse has come upon me,'
cried the Lady of Shallot."

Thank you very much,
I'll tell him.

"What power has a constable
re a bookmaker's permit?"

He may...

"He may demand production
by the holder."

Relevant act?

Betting, Gaming and
Lotteries Act, 1963.

Section two.

Come on, matey,
these are the easy ones.

Try another?

Oh, what's the point?

You're the one wanted testing.

I can't keep
my mind on it.

There's something about
this Cartwright case.

Something I'm missing.

There's this girl.

She's beautiful.

Incredibly so.

But there's a sadness to her.

Nothing left to hope for.

Yet somehow holding on.

You're all right, actually,
aren't you?

Most of the lads have got you
down as a bit of a queer fish.

Have they?

Stand-offish.

Rude.

Right.

Got to rub along with people in
this job if you want to get on.

Don't worry about this.

You'll get it.

Just gotta keep going over it
and over it.

Till it sticks.

Same again?

Mmm.

Oh...

What did you find?

Amphetamines?

That sudden death--
Margaret Bell.

According to Dr.deBryn,
her heart attack was most likely

brought on by amphetamines.

The Army gave us Benzedrine
in the desert.

Meant to keep you alert.

Did they?

Funnily enough,
I found the German 88s

managed that quite nicely
on their own.

There's a boy in the Margaret
Bell case, sir, Derek Clark,

works at the East Cowley
Post Office.

Now, he denies it,
but I'd be surprised

if it wasn't him
supplied Margaret.

You think this Clark boy
had them off Cartwright?

I think it's a question
well worth putting to him.

Maybe he panicked and killed
Cartwright to cover his tracks.

Try the back.

Mr. Clark?
Mr. Clark, can you hear me?

Is he alive?

Mr. Clark?

Wallace Clark heard the break-in
about quarter past nine,

came downstairs
to see what's what.

Which is when they
jumped him, presumably.

The lad followed on
and got the same treatment.

Much of a haul?

Morse is over there now, sir,

but first glance would appear

about 800 in cash.

Plus whatever bunce

in stamps, premium bonds,
postal orders, tax discs.

Three assailants, you say?

The wicked swines cut two
of the old boy's fingers off

to make him open the safe.

Same as Kidlington
and the rest.

How was it you came to be there?

I know you've already spoken
to DI Hillian

from Robbery, Derek,

but I need to ask you
something else.

This amphetamine business.

On my father's life, sir.

I wouldn't have anything to do
with that sort of thing.

You gave Margaret Bell

amphetamines, supplied to you
by Dr. Frank Cartwright.

Who's he?

Him.

He's been in the post office,
but I don't know him.

Only to serve.

I didn't know his name
was Cartwright.

But you did go back
to Margaret Bell's room.

They were your cigarettes
in the saucer on the sill.

It was just a bit of a kiss
and a cuddle, sir.

She was fine when
I left her; I swear.

Where were you Monday night?

I was working late
at the shop, sir.

With Mr. Truby,
the regional manager.

We were going through the
quarterlies till gone midnight.

You can ask him,
he'll tell you.

All right, Derek,
we'll be in touch.

I see.

Yes-- yes indeed.

Thank you.

Suppliers confirm it.

Frank's been
ordering Drinamyl

surplus to our
regular requirements

for the last six months.

There's no chance you could be
mistaken here?

No, sir.

Dr. Cartwright's
fingerprints were found

on the package.

I can't believe it.

I mean Frank was...

It's just
utterly out of character.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes, he is.

Thursday.

Uh-huh.

I wonder

might you identify this
handwriting, Dr. Prentice?

Um, which?

In the red.

When did it happen?

That's Frank's scrawl.

I'd know it a mile off.

It's even worse than mine.

Looks like he's
jotted down a call-out.

Why?

Both of them?

Just something I needed
to clarify. Thank you.

We're on our way.

Thanks for your help,
doctor.

We'll be in touch.

Morse.

Sir.

Reverend Ranulf Monkford.

Been at the parish
about five years.

Morse saw him yesterday.

It was his bike
out at Godstow.

Who found him?

Housekeeper, sir,
a Miss Scobie.

She arrived to find the vicarage
had been turned over

and Monkford missing.

I've taken
a preliminary statement.

Not himself at all
yesterday, she says.

Very distracted, kept going on
about not talking.

Not talking?

"Do not talk at meals.

Do not talk traveling."

There were more,
but those were the ones

Miss Scobie could remember.

I wondered if it might be
some religious thing.

Like monks.

Thank you, Mrs. Scobie.

Not been right for a couple
of months, she says.

All off some young bloke
he found

kipping rough
in the church porch.

How's that?

The reverend's put him up
for the night.

Next morning,
the blighter's cleaned him out.

Made off with his prized
coin collection.

Killed between 8:00
and 11:00 last night.

Three shots.

Two in the back, which
sent him off the ladder,

followed by the coup de grace
from close range.

Same killer as Dr. Cartwright?

I prefer to leave speculation
to the professionals.

Be able to speak to any firm
similarities once I've completed

the postmortem.

Looks like Morse was right
about a clergyman, sir.

But not much else.

It transpires

Dr. Cartwright's sister-in-law
has a criminal record,

as even the most cursory
examination of her history

would have revealed.

A juvenile assault
upon some poor orderly

at the sanatorium to which
she was confined.

Bad?
She stabbed him
in the groin.

But how bad it was
is hardly the point.

It should have come to light.

I'll talk to him.

No.

He's had enough rope.

Morse?

Someone was looking
for something.

What if Reverend Monkford
was lying

about this bike being stolen?

Morse...
What if he was
there at Godstow

and saw Dr. Cartwright's killer?

Then why didn't he come forward?

I don't know.

Maybe it was someone he knew.

What if he was trying
to protect them?

What if he knew...?

Look, I can see you got
the bit between your teeth,

but there's been
a development.

Let's get a drink.

It's not her.

Maybe, maybe not.

The point is,
you should've checked.

I didn't need to.

Why?

Because she's a damsel
in distress?

When it comes to a bird
with a wing down,

you've got a blind spot
a mile wide.

It'll be your undoing.

There's a child in
the middle of this

being kept from his mother,

in case anybody
hadn't noticed!

If that's a blind spot,
then so be it.

Derek Clark's lying, sir.

He's involved somehow.

I know he is.

Look, he might not have been
entirely straight with us

about this Margaret Bell girl,

but at the time Monkford
was being shot,

Derek Clark
was being trussed up

and beaten senseless
at the post office.

I don't know.

Well, I do.

You're being returned to
General Duties for the present.

Where does this come from?

Bright?

Mr. Bright.

No, it's my decision.

Best you hear it from me.

Six months' time?
A year?

Get through your exams,
we can look again.

And meantime?

Learn your trade.

Thanks for the drink.

I'm a good detective.

And a poor policeman.

No one can teach
you the first.

Any fool can learn the second.

I suppose I should have
realized it wasn't a school.

But it did look like one
a little... through the rain.

He left me in a room
on the first floor,

which I took for
the head's study.

After what seemed
the longest time,

I went to the window
to look outside.

And I saw Daddy,

but I wasn't worried because
he didn't have his umbrella.

I knew that he wouldn't go
anywhere without it.

And then an orderly came outside
with it.

And that's when I realized.

I banged and banged
on the glass.

He must have heard me.

He must have.

But he didn't look up.

He just got in the car
and drove away.

And I didn't see them again
for three years.

It's come to light that you...

assaulted an orderly there.

There were some... nice ones.

And some not so nice.

A 15-year-old girl.

You can imagine.

If Frank hadn't come along
and got me out when he did...

I found this
the other evening.

Why was Dr. Cartwright
writing to you?

You saw him
often enough.

What was it that he had
to put in a letter

that he couldn't say
to your face?

My colleagues are looking at you
as a suspect for murder.

Do you understand that?

Now, I think they're wrong,
but if I'm going to help you,

you have to give me
the truth.

Were you having an affair?

Um, Pamela, Pamela,
put your head back.

How is she?

She's asleep.

I've put her to bed.

It was good of you to call.

Did your husband see much
of Pamela in London,

Mrs. Cartwright?

I think I said.

Frank looked in on her to make
sure she was taking her tablets.

They would have
been close, then.

Close?

Yes, I suppose.

And more than close?

My God.

You people really
are the living end.

I'm not even going to dignify
so disgusting an insinuation

with a response.

How does Pamela support herself?

My wife left
a small annuity on her.

She has no other income?

No one else would
send her money?

No other relative,
or friend, perhaps?

Gerald's family,
I suppose,

her late husband...
why do you ask?

Because I saw her cashing
a postal order the other day.

But that's nothing
you would've sent her?

No.

Certain of my colleagues
are of the opinion

that Pamela is somehow involved
in the death of your husband.

and now that of
Reverend Monkford.

Doesn't that bother
you at all?

Perhaps it would suit
your plans?

What plans?

When did you intend
to tell her

you were leaving
for the United States?

Or perhaps you didn't intend
to tell her at all?

You are going to America,
Sir Edmund?

Daddy?

Is it true?

Constable Morse is mistaken.

I have had an offer
for Stanford,

but I haven't accepted it.

You're lying.

Don't you ever stop?

What's the matter with you?

You've been returned
to General Duties.

What do you think you're
about coming round here?

I think Pamela Waters
was having an affair

with her brother-in-law.
You do?

Then I'm obliged.

I just just going
to question her

in order keep
Mr. Bright happy.

I couldn't think
of a motive until now.

What motive?

Crime of passion.

Never mind it was
her own brother-in-law

she was carrying on with.

Well, by that token

you should be talking
to Mrs. Cartwright.

If you're looking
for a motive.

Why not speak to her?
Jealousy.

Because she doesn't have
a conviction for assault

and a history
of mental instability.

When you search the flat

you're going to find a gun
and some ammunition.

I will, will I?

What's that, Sir Edmund's
missing revolver?

I would've thought so.

And just when
were you thinking

of mentioning that, exactly,
if I hadn't come round?

Sir, I need to tell
you about...

No, not, sir,
I don't want to hear it.

I'm warning you, Morse,
for your own sake,

stay out of this case--
I mean it!

But...

You come within a mile,
I'll see you out of the nick

so fast your feet
won't touch the floor.

Not looking too good, is it?

You won't get a match.

How about we let
ballistics do their job?

She steals things.

I've seen her.

La gazza ladra.

The family's pet name
for her as a child.

The Thieving Magpie.

It doesn't mean anything.

It means she's going away
for life.

No alibi, Morse.

For Cartwright or the night
Monkford died.

The old man's sweating her now.

Well, make sure he takes
a look at her wrists, then.

Unless I'm much mistaken,

she's already tried
to kill herself once.

I imagine she took the gun
intending to try again.

It's called reasonable doubt.

Seven and six each week.

Morse! Morse!

Morse!

Please don't let them
take Bobby!

Get off me!

Go gently!

Please don't let them
take him!

Morse! No, get off!

Now settle down.

Morse, did you hear me?!

Operator, this is a police call.

Detective Constable Morse.

Oxford City Police.

Warrant number 175392.

Could you connect me, please,
to Somerset House?

Births, Marriages and Deaths.

I wonder if you can tell me if
you have a marriage registered

in the following names.

Thank you.

Oi!

Oi!

You're pinched, matey.

Turn to your left.

Constable Strange.

Nicked the gas meter man.

Better get counting.

Fair few shillings in there.

Police work, Morse.

It's not "Gideon's Way," I know,

but it's what gets 'em
up the steps.

You'll be pleased to hear
we arrested the man responsible

for robbing your
gas meter at home.

Right.
I didn't know it had been.

He was an impostor.

A thief.

Well, thanks very much.

But you see,
amongst the spoils

recovered from your meter
were several rare coins,

formerly in possession
of Ranulf Monkford,

vicar of St. Elegius.

A man offers you kindness,
and that's how you repay him?

Kindness?

He found you sleeping rough
in the church porch

and took you in.

Well, he would say that,
wouldn't he?

Easy money, rolling queers.

Give 'em the glad eye,
find somewhere private

and before
anything happens...

Bob's your uncle.

They're not exactly
going to come running

to you lot, are they?

What the hell's he up to?

You'd better scarper,
matey.

Jakes blows it upstairs
he's seen you,

that'll be your lot.

Could you do me a favor?

What is it you're after?

The night Monkford was killed,

someone gave this place
a good going over.

Do you think the boy

who took the coins come back?

No, I'd say it
was someone else.

I think they were looking
for something specific.

Good God.

The Golf, Cheese
and Chess Society?

What the bloody hell's that
when it's at home?

Prior to the police,
I served in the Signal Corps.

My instructor had worked at
another facility during the war.

Home to the Golf, Cheese
and Chess Society.

GC & CS-- the Government Code
and Cipher School.

Monkford was a cryptographer.

A what?

A code breaker.

I told him I'd been in Signals.

I've been an idiot.

Have you?

Breadcrumbs...

Breadcrumbs?

Yeah, when Hansel and Gretel
went to the gingerbread house,

they left a trail of breadcrumbs

so that they could
find their way home.

But what's breadcrumbs?

The answer to a crossword clue.

It's the last thing
that Monkford said to me.

Breadcrumbs was his insurance

in case
something happened.

His way of letting me know
he'd leave a message.

Morse!

I've just heard it
on the bush telegraph.

The balloon's gone up.

Bright's on his way.

Morse!
Are you listening?

He finds you here,
he'll be in his bloody element.

What did you say?

Perhaps you'd care to explain

just what it is
you're doing here?

I think I know who killed
Cartwright and Monkford, sir.

Think or know?

Know.

What's this?
More threadbare legerdemain?

Might as well
hear him out, sir.

But we're about to charge
Pamela Waters, aren't we?

Every Friday
Dr. Cartwright went

to the East Cowley post office

and had a postal order made out
to the sum of ten shillings.

Every Monday
that order was cashed

by Pamela Sloan.

Why would it matter

if he was sending money
to his sister-in-law?

Thank you.

Three years ago,

Pamela Sloan attempted suicide.

Frank Cartwright had been
keeping an eye on her

since she moved to London.

He found her
in the nick of time.

Pamela, no!

His own marriage failing,
Cartwright understood

Pamela's desperation
all too well.

Two lonely people in a big city
far from home,

they looked to one another
for companionship.

And comfort.

He got her pregnant.

I spoke to the National Registry
first thing.

There was a man called
Gerald Waters who worked at ICI

and he did die
in a car crash.

But there was no whirlwind
romance with Pamela Sloan.

No marriage.

For two years, they kept
their affair secret.

Pamela passed herself off
as a young widow

and collected Cartwright's
weekly postal order.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

Eventually, someone realized
that Dr. Cartwright

was sending money to a woman
who was not his wife.

They fired a shot
into the dark

and hit the bull's eye.

The sender threatened to reveal

what he knew
to Cartwright's wife.

and sought to turn it
to their own advantage.

Cartwright paid off
the extortioner

with a regular delivery
of amphetamines.

And the Reverend Monkford?

How do you explain
his involvement?

He came upon
Dr. Cartwright's killer

at the scene.

Unfortunately, the murderer
also recognized

the Reverend Monkford.

You might find this
compelling, Thursday,

but so far it seems to me

nothing but surmise
and rank flummery.

If he knew who the killer was,

why didn't he just come forward?

And explain what he was doing
cycling to a public convenience

miles from his parish at 10:00
on a summer's evening?

You can prove none of it.

Actually, sir, I believe I can.

What are you going to do?

Produce some eyewitness
from thin air?

As a matter of fact, sir,
we do have a witness.

The Reverend Monkford.

Shall I send back to the station
for a Ouija board?

All right, Jakes.

He's left us a message.

It's been staring us
in the face all along.

What message?

Hymn numbers?

Actually, sir, that's
the last thing they are.

First time I saw it, I thought
it odd to have 17, 18 and 19

following on like that.

The last time I saw Monkford,

he hinted he intended
to leave a message,

something that might speak
for him.

Even if he wrote down what
he knew and hid it somewhere

at home, it might be found.

And someone did search
the vicarage

the night he was killed,
looking for exactly that.

Fearful for his life and afraid
the truth would die with him,

Monkford concealed the killer's
identity in the hymn numbers.

Concealed?

I've since found out
that Monkford worked

in ciphers during the war.

You saying these hymn numbers
are some sort of code?

Exactly, sir.

Only I couldn't find the key
until now.

Actually, it was Strange
hit upon the answer.

Before taking the cloth,
the Reverend Monkford

read chemistry
at Beaufort College.

You'll find a copy
of the periodic table

hanging in his home.

Isn't that a list
of the elements-- hydrogen...?

Yes, of course.

Strange, there's
a blackboard there.

Could you...

Each element
is assigned a symbol,

typically an abbreviation
of its name,

together with a unique one-
or two-digit atomic number.

Can you write these down
as I call them off?

So, 74 gives us tungsten.

17, chlorine.

18, argon.

19, potassium.

The elements spell out a name.

T-C-A-P...

TCAP?

No. No, not quite, sir.

But you're
on the right lines.

The chemical symbol for tungsten
isn't Tu, as you might expect,

it's W, from the
German Wolframite.

And potassium isn't P,
as you might expect, but K,

after the Latin kalium.

Taken together,
they're tungsten...

chlorine...

argon...

and potassium.

W-C-L-A-R-K.

Wallace Clark.

Good grief.

Derek's father?

But there's nothing to say
he even knew the vicar.

Ivy Clark, sir,

Wallace's wife, is buried
in the churchyard,

next plot but one
to Lady Daphne Sloan.

The Reverend Monkford
performed the service.

Bloody hell, matey.

That's...

Elementary.

I promised Ivy
I'd take care of Derek,

keep him on the straight.

Derek knew the ropes,
Wallace.

Even if we had pinched him
on the amphetamines,

the worst he'd have got
was bound over

and a fine of ten knicker.

Now he's looking at life,

and so are you.

I was just going to talk
to Cartwright,

tell him to leave Derek alone.

Only it was him, wasn't it?

Come in asking
about this dead girl.

She'd taken 'em before.

No problem, I swear.

Only this time...
it happened so quickly.

There was nothing I could do.

Girls turning up dead.

Police poking around.

I couldn't risk Cartwright
getting a conscience.

What if he come to you?

But Cartwright didn't know
who was blackmailing him.

It was a blind drop.

He couldn't have told us it was
Derek he was supplying

because he didn't know.

I couldn't take the risk.

Where's the gun, Wallace?

In the attic.

Souvenir from
my Home Guard days.

You knew where
you stood then.

And the break-in,
the night Monkford died?

Hell of a way to give yourself
an alibi.

So we did the place over,
made it look like robbery.

Give him an alibi.

For the vicar.

He gave Ivy a lovely send-off.

But he'd seen me.

There was nothing for it.

He only did any of it
to keep me out of trouble.

He never had much time
for the shop.

Where's Sir Edmund, sir?

Just through there, sir.

I've decided to accept the
chair of physics at Stanford.

We'll be leaving
after Frank's funeral.

Helen will be joining me.

And Bobby?

He belongs with me.

He belongs with his mother.

You've no right to keep him
from her.

He's... all I've got.

Plea...

I love him every bit
as much as she does,

as if he were my own.

But he's not.

That's not fair! Why...

Why can Pamela have
a child and...

with all that's
wrong with her.

Please, it's not fair.

I've issued an alert
to ports and airports.

If you try to leave
the country with him,

you will be arrested.

You can't do that.

Mmm, there are charges
I could bring against you.

What charges?

I'm his grandfather.

But not his mother.

"It is felony to unlawfully
detain any child

"under the age of 14,

"with intent to deprive
the parent

of the possession
of such child."

Offenses against
the Person Act, 1861.

Section 56.

What will you do?

Find somewhere.

Far away.

Beyond their reach.

Now I've got Bobby back,

I won't do anything
silly again.

Thank you.

We'll manage.

You mustn't worry.

I did love him.

Frank.

That's what matters,
isn't it?

It's all that matters.

Thank you.

I heard she was
leaving town.

That's a good thing
you've done there, Morse.

I hope so.

Run you back the station?

Thanks, but I've got
to get to court.

The gas meter committal.

That's today, is it?

Mmm, this afternoon.

I want to help Strange make sure
the case papers are in order.

Police work.

Well, I'll see you
back at the nick, then.

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