Original subtitles

Can you confirm this is the second murder of a clergyman?

Two men were torn apart, but Father Ambrose wasn't.

His heart was cut out.

Only Hervey's sick enough to think of this.

I'm Augusta Ada Byron.

I may require your services for a dress.

-Thank you for coming.

You could have bed and board here.

With all this talk of the Devil in Pye Street,

I would prefer to have someone here.

"Dean of Westminster announces intended evacuation

of the Pye Street area amidst fears of public safety and plague."

Why would God abandon us?

My flock lies here in the cradle of the church,

under the gaze of God.

Yet every day they wander further into the valley of death.

That's her third dead child in as many days...

And her sister will soon follow.

Pye Street is cursed, it's no superstition.

Why the red ribbon?

If the bereaved can ever afford a consecrated burial,

they know which body to look out for.

Peelers all over the Archdeacon's crypt this morning.

You still haven't told me what you were after.

You're as jagged and closed as one of these.

Pye Street's emptying fast.

The plague's scaring 'em off.

Right, move on.

Let's go.

Billy Oates.

Friend of yours?

Somebody left the horse untied, who was it?

And don't blame Thomas.

Thomas gets blamed for everything.

-Hey, Thomas!

Thomas!

We want them scared of you, remember?

You haven't seen a black horse roaming loose have you?

One white sock?

It's all right, Mrs. Wild.

What do you want?

-Oi!

What do you think this is against your neck, a spoon?

Easy.

He's trouble, Mrs. Wild.

And a dead man for that matter.

Then he must have something important to say.

Let's talk like gentlemen.

So where is he?

I ain't seen no Hervey, Mrs. Wild.

You covered for him.

-You could've saved Flora's life. -That's a bit rich.

I kept that girl fed, kept her pure.

I cared for her, in my own way.

You sliced that poor girl's throat, didn't you?

-Uh-uh. -I didn't kill her.

-Hervey framed me.

You lied to me about him, gave me the wrong man.

And I got you transported.

Yeah, well, I got myself out, didn't I?

Always do. Saw myself some sea.

What

I'm a London-lubber at heart, so I came home.

Point being, I ain't seen hide nor hair of Hervey, before or since.

Somebody's been supplying him with human hearts.

Murdered priests.

You supplied him once, didn't you?

Hmm.

I'm a showman now.

Either way, you'd have to tell me your trick.

Slipping the noose.

Might have to call for it myself one day.

Roll up, roll up!

Mrs. Wild's Penny Exhibition.

Would your mother be at home?

Mrs. Flynn. Mrs. Flynn.

If it's payment you're after, you've a wasted journey.

I've nothing left for you.

This is to put towards your children's burial.

A proper one.

It starts in the hands.

Your help would be more use.

Do you know how your children came by the sickness?

They say it's the air that's killing us.

They gave us a choice.

Freeze to death without a roof over our heads

or hold our breath.

Whatever the cause, no one is coming to save us.

It is God's will.

Elsie, come help your ma.

When the time comes, I beg of you,

lay us down together.

Elsie.

Thank you for waiting, Home Secretary.

Mr. Dean sends his most sincere apologies.

You will have heard of these terrible murders on our brethren.

-I'm aware. -Then you will understand that,

with regards to your discussion about your new cemeteries,

Mr. Dean must concentrate

on preserving the interest of the living,

rather than the dead.

Any messages you have I shall pass...

Then inform your Dean that the dead are killing the living

with the miasma from their overflowing burial grounds.

And that my new cemeteries will be built,

whether the Dean likes it or not.

Does Mr. Dean truly seek to prevent grieving families

from having a proper Christian burial?

Just because he will lose the right to the burial fees.

As if this is a mere business

and the church created to make money?

One would hope not.

Then he must stop obstructing the Kings royal assent

to the consecration of the new burial ground. Then perhaps, Sir Robert,

this conversation would feel more relevant

after you sought re-election, and, of course, triumphed.

Deo volente.

Mr. Renquist,

wherever I sit in the commons,

I'm this country's greatest reformer.

So tell your Dean, that with your saturated graveyards

and your clergymen being devoured right under your very noses,

that it is not the devil you should fear...

It is me.

Oh, God.

Oh, my God!

He's done it again!

Another body!

Another murder!

Bloody hell.

Sir, another murder.

-Pye Street. A street away.

Crowd's gathering quickly, sir.

Parish Watchmen will be there any minute.

Run! Run!

Stop. Stop.

I need your help.

I need to get this man's body to Westminster Police Station,

before the Parish Watchmen take him. Come on.

Get it open, we need to leave.

Nightingale!

We know what you're doing?

It's against the law!

Well, take it up with the Home Secretary.

A pox on you.

Another murder!

If you still suspect the killer to be a Bethlem lunatic,

how difficult can it be to find him?

Being honest, sir. I'm less certain than ever that it's the inmate.

Whoever is doing this is making a mockery of our service.

Something the Dean and his Parish Police will exploit with relish!

With respect, sir,

Parish Police are already obstructing us with private inquests

and not letting us within 20 yards of the poor souls' bodies,

what else can we do?

Show some initiative, man!

Get back, everyone, back!

Sir Robert.

Inspector.

I took the liberty of claiming Reverend Eastman's body,

to beat the Parish Watchmen at their own game, sir.

I do hope it's legal.

Promote him.

Fetch the Coroner!

Reverend Eastman. Dead?

Who would do such a thing?

Somebody who has no fear of God.

Maybe.

I preached sermon after sermon, three sheets to the wind.

Finally, the Dean of Westminster hung me out to dry,

not because of my rotten inner,

because I kept my bearings.

I dared to criticize Mr. Dean

for all his selfishness and his greed.

I soon learnt that

if you dare to raise your head up above the pulpit,

the Dean will come along and knock it off for you and you're out on the street or so I thought.

The Archdeacon, Reverend Ambrose, and now poor Reverend Eastman.

They all knew that he was as crooked as my elbow

and formed a faction against him, a sort of holy trinity.

They wanted to prevent him selling off churches land

for his own personal gain.

Pye Street.

But instead, these three good men are dead.

Murdered.

The church blames the devil,

the Pye Street deal goes through,

and the Dean's pockets burst with gold.

Pye Street?

Who would buy it?

Fetch me another nail for my coffin and I shall think on it.

Small beer, please.

The plague is clearing the place.

You forgot my drink.

You said the Dean wanted to sell Pye Street,

but you don't know who to?

This land is worth 100 times that value...

If they cleared the slums, that is.

The plagues doing that for them.

Read the Bible, Martins.

Only God can send down a pestilence to punish us sinners.

Not only God's work...

A man of science who believes he has God's power.

God's right.

What is it that you're doing?

I'm configuring a clockwork figure,

just as life-sized and life-like as you or I.

An automaton,

wearing that gown...

We will be unveiling her at Mr. Dipple's party.

You mean... You mean, the gown is for a doll?

Why would a grown man be so enamored of a contraption?

Knowing the gown is to be worn by a mere contraption

will not diminish your attention to detail.

Of course not.

And in answer to your question,

I believe these machines to be the pinnacle of man's own creation.

In the future, they will be able to do anything we tell them to do.

Perhaps even put you out of a job.

That is if your tongue doesn't get you there first.

Hey, what are you doing here?

There is people looking for you.

Huh?

Go home.

I didn't disturb you, did I?

No.

You're a night owl like myself?

Not through choice.

We have that in common.

Do you play?

As a boy, a little...

At service.

If you played something, it might help me sleep.

The Reverend's throat was sliced first,

incapacitating the victim.

The knife was then used

to carve through the ribcage

from the top of the chest to the sternum.

But he left a wide enough margin

to ensure that the victim's heart could be removed

without any harm to the organ itself.

No other organ was taken.

Whoever committed this crime...

Was well practiced,

precise and methodical.

If you ask me,

he is no escaped lunatic.

Thank you, Dr. Lennox.

The other two clergymen had exactly the same wound.

Hearts missing, yes,

but not torn limb from limb by the Devil himself.

To whom do I owe this privilege?

Your articles are terrifying and misinforming the public.

Whoever your source is, you're printing their lies.

And, uh,

you believe that missing hearts will scare them less, hmm?

Sir, this man's asking for you.

Well, I just came to collect my cart, sir,

but I wanted to express my thanks

for the bravery you showed amidst such passionate local mistrust.

Thank you, sir. You see, not all the public hate your guts.

I believe, the victims from the clergy

were murdered by order of the Dean of Westminster,

on account of their opposition to a land deal.

Details here, names.

Hey.

Do you know of any other priests that might be in danger?

Yes.

-Me.

Ex-priest.

But if the Dean finds out I'm talking to you...

Go, follow him. Make sure you get his name.

That's him, Mr. Renquist. Sergeant Nightingale.

We're already acquainted.

Sergeant Nightingale, I have here a magistrate's order

to release Reverend Eastman's body at once for a private autopsy.

He's all yours.

Go ahead, take him.

We've got everything that we need.

Mrs. Rose, will you permit me to see your work so far?

It is very fine.

Thank you, sir.

I've been beguiling Mrs. Rose with tales from the future.

About how there will come a time when everywhere you look,

everything you see and do, will be influenced by machines.

You talk as though you have seen the future with your own eyes.

I don't intend to see it, I intend to make it.

Mrs. Rose, Ada is an analyst

and this is her age, the age of machines.

And we must embrace it or we will be chewed up in its cogs.

If man can create machines and make them do as we command,

then man will have more power than God.

I've no desire for man to have power over God.

For women to have power over men, however...

Why shouldn't man have power over God?

Because, "Power, like a desolating pestilence,

"pollutes whatever it touches.

"And obedience, bane of all genius,

"virtue, freedom, truth,

"makes slaves of men,

"and of the human frame...

"A mechanized automaton."

I said that to your father.

It was Mr. Shelley.

Do you enjoy poetry, Mrs. Rose?

When I have the time.

And in all honesty, I prefer your father's work.

Leaflets and verse only do so much to hold power to account.

What it really takes is blood.

Lord Byron knew that more than most.

Will Miss Ada be back with us again tomorrow?

She shall.

I have told her if she doesn't finish her work on time,

I shall paint her gold and pass her off as an automaton myself.

I believe she would.

She is certainly a force of nature.

Oh, she is more than that.

Her mother was afraid

she would inherit her father's turbulent spirit.

She hoped that science would curb her lust for life.

It has done the opposite.

I wish I had her courage.

How so?

I can see the cogs whirring in your mind.

How would it be to try an answer without calculation?

I think perhaps I am afraid to live.

I'm sorry, you must think me very weak.

Not at all.

You're married?

I am widowed.

Oh, I'm sorry for asking.

If I may...

You are not alone in being afraid to live.

There's much to lose.

Perhaps that is why I'm so entranced with these machines.

They never change.

I'm envious of them for that.

Does that explain

how a grown man can be so enamored of a contraption?

Undoubtedly.

C'mon, don't you have a home to go to?

Come sit down here, Martins.

It's no palace, but you are most welcome.

Now...

This is a map of St John's and the parish.

And this is the location of every death

from the fever during the past month.

That's only around Pye Street.

Not only that, it's all clustered around this market area, here.

That must be where the miasma, or the... The pox-ridden air,

whatever you wish to call it, it lurks at its thickest.

That's right outside here.

How come you're still breathing?

I could ask you the same.

Martins!

Stop!

Martins, what have you done?

It's not the air, it's the pump!

Get water to your family from somewhere else, anywhere else.

Do you understand?

What you waiting for, child? Go spread the word.

It's poisoned!

The water is poisoned.

Go on, get away!

It's not the air, it's the pump!

Go on, get away!

Go!

Go away! Get away!

It's poisoned!

The water's poisoned!

It's not the air,

it's the water.

What are you waiting for? Go!

Get away, all of you!

Go!

I have told you.

The water's poisoned!

Go!

There's no one here, Martins.

Martins?

There's a body tied down here.

Oh, God.

A sailor.

Miss Pickett tells me your work here is done.

Indeed.

I hope it meets your expectations.

It is exquisite.

I am fortunate that Ada brought you to me.

Thank you.

Has Braun arranged you a carriage home?

There's no need. I prefer to walk.

Thank you, Mr. Dipple.

I have enjoyed this immensely.

Mrs. Rose...

I paid you a gross insult in what I first said to you.

-It was I who spoke out of turn. -Please, allow me to finish.

I did not believe you would meet my expectations,

but you have surpassed them.

You have breathed your own life into this gown.

I can see it.

I hope your evening is a tremendous success.

And if the gold thread works loose again, which it shouldn't,

please send for me.

Is there a patron saint for journalists...

Or is that a contradiction in terms?

You're late.

A minor disagreement with the police.

Reverend Eastman's autopsy report.

Courtesy of the church.

Was his corpse eviscerated,

his body dismembered, like the other priests?

Tragically, so.

Indeed.

For a man of God.

It is a stormy night.

A pervading omen.

For this evening, I, Dr. Victor Frankenstein,

shall complete my task.

I have become master of the secret of bestowing animation

upon lifeless matter.

The object of my experiments,

a huge automaton in human form!

The thunder...

The lightning!

Calm!

It lives! It lives!

If you wanted a seat, soldier, all you had to do was ask.

You poisoned Pye Street.

Did Hervey's bidding.

There's a dead sailor in the well.

And I know you put him there.

-I don't know.

He has become a demon!

Avaunt, you fiend!

Avaunt!

Let me go!

Hervey!

He's still killing people.

He's still killing them now!

Thomas, no.

And you're going to help me find him.

Same as yours? Yeah.

You know him?

Nah.

I can show you where he come from though.

I have been invited to a grand occasion tonight.

I thought you might be able to accompany me?

-Frederick Dipple. -Jack Martins.

-Jack Martins. -Yes.

Marlott lives again. This time I can stop him.

Well, good.

Because you've blamed yourself for too long, Joseph Nightingale.

It's unfortunate the sad business

of these murders seems to hamper us in our parallel endeavors.

I blame the newspapers, fanning the fires of public alarm.

These are not the words of God.

These are lies,

spoken in a house of lies!

Mr. Dipple's endeavors have criminal intentions.

Mr. Dipple, harbors nothing but good intentions, I'm sure.