Original subtitles

(owl hoots)

(breathing heavily)

(suspenseful music)

(dramatic music)

- [Reggie] What are you doing?

- Unlocking the church door.

- Why?

- We're gonna practise.

- On a Tuesday?

Who gave permission?

- I have a hot line 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 leavin'?

- No, Greg, you are.

Just to save me changing the locks.

- Here, not me trousers.

- Why not?

You hardly ever wear them.

(door slams)

(dog barking)

- 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 just terminating our marriage.

- That's the spirit.

You're worth ten of him.

(bells ringing)

Those bloody bells...

- (sighs) Now I'm late for ringing practise.

- 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?

(horn honking)

(tyres screech)

- You all right?

- Mm-hm.

Where's the church?

- Just follow your ears.

- Yes, no, 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 check at this very moment,

figuratively speaking.

- [Reggie] Hugh?

Hugh, you in there?

- Oh, for pity's sake.

Hello, Uncle Reggie.

- What's going on, Hugh?

Are you moving?

- Moving?

No, no, no, of course not.

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

- Ah, made one of your killings then, have you?

Stock exchange?

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

Just a few thou.

(chuckles)

- Excellent, proud of you, my boy,

as always, a rock in the morass.

- Thank you.

(dramatic music)

- [Tom] 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-- (bell ringing)

- Oh, I'm so sorry. (chuckles)

Bell ringers are a law unto themselves, always have been.

- You're still not feeling it, Emma.

You're not quite there on the stroke.

(slaps shoulder)

- 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

do you think you're playing at, Greg?

Did I mention fancy dress?

- I need a bed for the night.

- Yeah, well don't look at Emma.

(bells chiming)

- [Joyce] 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 yourself if you don't shut up.

- Hey, and guess who else was up there?

Head honcho bell ringer.

- Who?

- Jobsworth, Peter Fogden, from the station.

- What, the maintenance guy?

- Yeah, he of the cubby hole and the betting slips.

He's got a secret life.

(bells ringing)

- That's all, stand...

That was crap.

- Yeah, well. it's you, innit?

Confusing us all with your calls?

Why can't you just trust us?

We all know the changes.

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

Look to...

- Look to, treble's going...

She's gone.

(bells ringing)

- 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,

less canoodling behind the freezer.

- Canoodling, me and Greg?

- It's a euphemism, Angie.

The real word's much shorter.

(mysterious music)

- [Greg] So where you going?

- [Rosalind] 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.

(giggling)

Until I get bored with you.

Do be sure to feed the dogs.

(dog growls)

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

- What?

- The fascinating world of brass rubbing.

- Strangely, Troy, no.

Come on, come on now!

Go on!

Come on my boy!

Go on, my son, go on, 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, 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.

(laughs)

(bells ringing)

- Blasphemous whelks, Spitfire, the lot of 'em.

- We're closing now, Hugh.

The pub is open.

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

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

- I should hardly think so.

- Why not?

He took the stake money from the till in the first place,

I saw him, your till, your money.

You're entitled to at least half.

- Angie, my dear, the sum is trifling. (chuckling)

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.

'Course you're not.

- And beer fumes are not an aphrodisiac.

- No.

Look, Ros, I'm sorry, really.

(dogs barking)

Oh sod it, what they barkin' for?

- I don't know.

I don't speak Labrador.

(laughs)

- 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.

(dog growls)

- Well?

- Nothing, and no beer fumes neither.

- Nothing?

- No.

Trust me.

(crowd murmuring)

(bicycle bell rings)

- Your days are numbered, Fogden!

(bicycle bell rings)

- Couldn't use your car, I suppose?

- No, you damn well couldn't.

- I'm only going to Causton.

- I don't care where you're going.

You presume too much, Gregory.

You're good, but not that good.

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

(chuckles)

You won't keep me waiting again ever.

That much I promise you.

(horn blaring) (dog barking)

(despairing music)

(phone ringing)

(whistling)

- [Peter] '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.

- Oh, yeah.

- Midsomer Wellow have never won it, you know?

My Uncle Ray called the victory peal on VE Day,

my Uncle Gordon once had his photo

in the Bell Ringing Times,

but no Fogden's ever won the striking competition.

I'm gonna change all that this year.

- Oh, excellent.

- Sergeant Troy was telling me

how keen you are on the bells.

- Oh, was he?

- I said you're welcome to come along this evening,

see how it's done.

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

- Troy!

- 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.

Just think of the stories they could tell.

- Oh, we're not getting a lecture as well, are we?

- Excuse me, Mrs. Barnaby, Mr. Barnaby.

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

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

I'm afraid there might not be any.

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

- Every single bell in this belfry has been blessed

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

Worst, 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 desperadoes, 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.

(groaning)

- 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.

(bells ringing)

(suspenseful music)

(screams)

- Did one of us kill him?

Well, some of these bells weigh half a tonne.

- He's been shot through the heart,

apparently by someone with a sense of humour.

(afflicted music)

- First on scene then, sir?

- Yes, Troy, first on scene.

- Amazing where an interest in campanology will land you,

isn't it?

- I am not interested in campanology, Troy.

I'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 is exactly my first question, Miss Tysoe.

- I suppose this means the tower's out of bounds,

while the men in the white coats swarm all over it.

- Peter!

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

Dying in the way most likely to screw our chances

in the striking competition?

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

- Is the bell tower locked

when you're not ringing?

- Yes.

And that's the only way up.

- Who has 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 practise?

- Yes.

- I'm sorry, everyone.

I feel compelled to tell the truth.

- Um, 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, uh,

he said he'd had an invitation

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

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 have you been up to?

I'll break your bloody neck!

- Liam! Liam!

Now look what you've done!

(sobbing) (woeful music)

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

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

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

- Oh, I'm afraid we haven't got one.

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

- So who's currently in charge of the church

on a day-to-day basis?

- Well, the Parochial Church Council.

- Who chairs that?

- Um.

- Oh, dear...

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

so you'd best--

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

- Well, I could drive you home.

You only live at Causton, don't you?

I'm perfectly safe. (chuckles)

- Should we be letting these bell ringers

just slide away, sir?

- Do you want to sit up all night with them?

- Well, no.

- Ah, well...

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

you can cherchez la femme.

- Sir?

- Greg Tutt was a womaniser, yeah?

- Well, apparently.

- Good, heads or tails?

- Heads?

- Oh well done, Troy, Lady of the Manor.

- [Rosalind] Dead?

- Yes.

- Well, well. (dogs barking)

- Could I ask when you last saw him?

- Oh must you?

This is terribly sordid.

- If you wouldn't mind.

- This morning, after breakfast,

he said he was going to Causton.

- He was staying here with you?

- On a very temporary basis.

Boys! Woo!

I'm between lovers at the moment.

- Oh, I see.

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

You wouldn't know what happened to the money?

- Heavens, no!

I have no interest in the stuff.

It's very vulgar, especially 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.

(Rosalind chuckles)

- Ahem, right.

Presumably, he left some of his possessions here?

Mr. Tutt's clothes?

- I shredded them after he buggered off

to Causton this morning.

(sighs)

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.

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

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

- I'll look forward to it.

You have such expressive fingers.

- 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.

- Ah, you knew Mr. Tutt, did you?

- Oh yes, a real charmer, magnetic really,

dangerous thing to be in a village.

- Why's that?

- Well, a 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.

(tense music)

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

- Did you, Peter?

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

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, Mr. Barnaby.

It's tough, physically and mentally.

You have to divide your brain into different sections.

How was Angie gonna 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, I--

- Then 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 mom's done all the cooking!

(afflicted music)

- 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.

(exhales sharply)

- Will you display it?

Rubbings make excellent decorations.

- I hadn't really thought.

- Hello! (door clatters)

- 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. (chuckles)

Thank you for the coffee, Joyce.

- Well thank you for the lift.

- Not putting him on the wall, are we?

(uneasy music)

- 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 re-dec, going modern, didn't you say?

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

No, I haven't had time.

(chuckles) Gin?

- Please.

- [Hugh] You heard about Greg Tutt?

- No great loss.

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

(Hugh chuckles)

- That's a bit strong, Uncle.

(grunts)

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

in the here and now,

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

(chuckles)

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,

well, what I've got put away

would cover 90% of the cost of restoration.

(chokes)

The proviso will be that the other 10% must come

from the sale of the bells.

- Ah.

- No sale of bells, no 90% from me. (chuckles)

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. (laughs)

There, what do you think of that?

- Good, we'll sort out the paperwork ASAP then, yes?

- ASAP, Uncle, ASAP.

- Good fellow!

(tense music) (dog barking)

- You can't do this to me, old man. (breathing heavily)

You cannot do this!

(glass shatters)

(gunshots blasting)

- Sir?

- Peter.

- [Peter] When can we have our bell tower back?

- Tomorrow, I hope.

- Tomorrow?

We've already lost one night's practise.

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

- It doesn't occur to you

that you're being just a tad insensitive, does it?

Anyway, where were you,

prior to yesterday's inconvenient event?

- Home, with Clapper.

Me cat.

(phone ringing)

- 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.

- Oh, it's down to me then?

- No, no, not entirely, Troy look.

We now also have the bullet, fired from a revolver,

an Enfield revolver, .38,

standard issue during World War II.

- Oh, next stop Wing Commander Reggie, in that case?

- (chuckles) Yeah, I suppose so.

But it's the people contact

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

But, first things first, astound me.

- Well, no sign of Tutt's winnings, the 5,000 pounds,

but there is a check for 100.

I've pieced most of it together.

- Made out to Rosalind Parr, hmm.

- Haven't found the payer yet.

But there's this as well.

See?

This and the torn up check 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.

Sir?

- Yeah?

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

- Oh, it will be, Troy,

if your burnt offering gives us anything.

- Perhaps you'd, you know, take it on?

Senior officer and everything, carry more weight.

- Oh right, yeah, all right.

You take the Wing Commander.

- Emma! (breathing heavily)

Emma!

Emma, I wanna say sorry.

- What, here? - Yeah, why not here?

I love you, Em.

I been lyin' awake all night

thinkin' about that scumbag Greg.

I know you never lied to me, Em,

and I'm sorry I ever thought otherwise.

Let's still do it, eh?

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

- Oh, Liam...

(laughing)

- A check?

- Yes, for 100 pounds.

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

- Thank you.

- He arrived to pay it off

while I was having a ripping time with my craft knife.

- So why did you rip that up too, the check?

- Because some men I take pity on.

Hugh was broke, and hopeless with money.

I saved him the embarrassment of his check 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.

- 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.

- Yeah, that rather shocked young Master Troy.

(chuckles)

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 empathise.

- [Reggie] A revolver?

- Uh, yes, sir.

- I wasn't a cowboy, sonny.

I flew Lancasters.

Do you think we leaned out of the cockpit

and peppered Germany with our pop guns?

- Uh, 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.

- Nice to meet you.

- They're visiting from London,

together with their unborn son.

But they know it's a boy, isn't that amazing?

- It's not that amazing, not nowadays.

- Oh, it is, so useful,

I know to buy blue wool.

- We'll get out your way.

- No, please, it's all right.

- We were off anyway.

Jen needs to put her feet up for a bit.

- Bye, dear.

- Bye, Mr. Barnaby.

- Goodbye.

- 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.

(both chuckle)

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.

But 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.

- Yes. I was a seriously good markswoman,

gave me a certain street cred when I was teaching.

My husband was a much better shot.

- Ah, you still keep your hand in, I see?

- Here and at the club in Causton.

Veteran standard now, I'm afraid.

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

(chuckles)

And your husband?

- He died ten 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 licenced,

registered and approved.

- [Tom] 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.

- [Tom] You haven't lent them to anyone recently, have you?

- (scoffs) 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.

- Oh, yes, yes, of course.

- Maisie didn't tell you then?

- Maisie didn't tell me what?

- Back in the '70s,

my husband Tony and I ran our own gun club, here.

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

apart from me who know how to handle a gun.

(foreboding music)

- 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.

(giggling)

- See you in church then.

- Don't be late, eh?

(eerie music)

(glass shattering)

(bells ringing)

(wedding-goers celebrating)

(suspicious music)

- [Photographer] Okay, cheese!

- [Wedding Party] Cheese!

(crowd applauds)

- Just like this?

(gunshot booms) (screaming)

- I turn the pages for Wing Commander Barton.

Don't I, Reggie? - Yes.

- I can read music, and it gives his arthritic old fingers

one less thing to worry about.

- And neither of you saw or heard anything?

- I told you, I heard the bang.

I was coming to investigate when you came charging in.

- We were still in the vestry putting the music away.

I saw no one else.

(footsteps clomping)

- Mr. Barnaby. I'm told you wish to see me.

- Yes, Mrs. Gooch, and 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."

- Well, there's no reason to doubt her.

She's the archivist.

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

Are you saying Greg Tutt and Emma were shot

because they're bell ringers, picked off in revenge?

- By the phantom vicar of St. Catherine's

risen from his watery grave?

No, Troy, I'm not saying that.

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

- Yeah, all right,

but whoever left those notes knows the local rhyme

and presumably the origin.

Why leave them?

To muddy the waters?

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

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

- Well, we're doing our best to compensate.

- I still think it's a woman.

- You said it was Marcus.

- Why, 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.

(dog barking) (woeful music)

(sobbing)

- The deed is done, Spitfire.

The deed is done.

(knocking at door)

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.

- Well, would you like me to deliver it?

- Wouldn't dream of troubling you, dear boy.

- It's no trouble.

It would 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.

(sombre music)

- 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?

(scoffs)

- Initial forensic test on the Emma Tysoe bullet.

Fired from the same gun that killed Greg Tutt.

- Oh, well, at least we're back to one murderer.

- Yes, but apparently it isn't Frances le Bon.

- [Frances] 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, 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.

- [Frances] 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.

- [Peter] Bishop? What letter?

The blameless Sue is the messenger of fate,

but one should never shoot the messenger, hmm?

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. (chuckles)

- All right, Peter,

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

- Thank you, Sue.

What's this letter Hugh's on about?

- You'll have to ask Reggie.

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

- Sue, is it about my bells?

- I'm sorry, my lips are sealed.

- 'Evening.

- Hello, Frances, Marcus...

You all right?

There you go.

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

Do you mind staying on?

- No, (chuckles) it's not as if I've got a life.

- Right, first things first, show of hands.

Do we slink away from the striking competition,

thus forfeiting home advantage

and our best ever chance of winning it,

or do we celebrate the lives of the departed Emma and Greg

by battling on and giving it our best shot?

Is that an abstention, Marcus?

Well, where did this come from?

- It was on my door mat.

(scoffs)

- It's a wind up, Marcus,

by one of our sick minded opposing teams.

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

- Well they've succeeded, I resign.

- Pull yourself together, Marcus.

- You're always telling me to pull myself together.

I'm not a child.

- You promised me that you wouldn't break ranks.

I've had one as well.

- Well, there you are.

It's obviously mind games, Marcus.

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

All right, we're two men down now,

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

- I beg your pardon?

- Well now's your chance, fulfil that ambition.

(scoffs)

Take Emma's place.

- Go piss up a rope.

- There's no pleasing some people.

Okay, 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.

(dramatic music)

(bells ringing)

- 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?

(eerie music) (bells ringing)

(ghostly voice whispering)

(breathing heavily)

(wheezing)

(inhaling asthma spray)

(bells ringing)

- I knew it sounded wrong.

That's what I found when I got here.

- And you arrived soon afterwards, did you, Peter?

- Well yeah.

We'd finished at the Cosy Kitchen.

I was on my way home, like Frances, and, um, 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 do 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,

the poor little sod.

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

- What?

- I wouldn't put anything past 'em.

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'.

(phone ringing)

- 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 you and Mr. Steadman,

were you ever more than just neighbours?

- Yes, we were.

I never had any 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.

(melancholic music)

- [Tom] Wing Commander Barton?

- Upstairs sir.

- [Tom] 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 see him.

(sobbing)

- 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?

- Oh, yes.

Oh, 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, yes.

Oh, no.

It's just a line of inquiry I'm keen to explore further.

- I'm all for further exploration.

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

- Scared? No.

Not scared.

Guilty, I used to tell the kids in school,

"Own up, and you'll feel better."

- That's very good advice.

Why don't you tell me?

- What kind of gun killed Greg?

And what killed Emma, the same?

- I can tell you instantly, the same,

or a similar weapon was used in both cases.

- An Enfield revolver, World War II vintage?

- Yeah, and being a gun expert,

you'll know 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. (sobbing)

And then ten 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, no, but someone else did.

(glass shattering)

(neighbourhood dogs barking)

- Troy.

- Troy, can you get yourself over to the Cosy Kitchen

as soon as possible?

Someone is trying to break in.

(sighing)

- Sorry.

- Mrs. Tutt, are you still there?

- He's got the door open.

- Get yourself upstairs.

Lock yourself in.

(suspenseful music)

(gasps)

(grunts)

- Hugh?

- Oh, God.

Oh, 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 more honest with him,

and 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.

(sighs)

- 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.

- Oh that narrows it right down, doesn't it?

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

Anyway, back at first base, we have Greg shot,

probably with a hand gun stolen from Frances le Bon

some ten 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.

(sinister music)

- Tomorrow we'll get you.

We'll get every bloody one of you.

(bells ringing)

- 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.

(bells ringing)

- You 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 till they win first prize,

then top the mutineers?

- Because Peter thinks he can do it with the other half,

the strongest three.

- [Troy] In which case, Frances le Bon...

- [Tom] 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.

(bells ringing)

- 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 completely, double handing?

- No, we're not.

Just remember what I said.

- Yeah, I know, we're doing this for Emma,

and Marcus, and Greg.

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

- Ah, here it is, just like Maisie said,

1860, the new vicar at Midsomer 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 Rev. 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, take a look in the local phone book,

just in case there's an Ebbrell still about.

(bells ringing)

- [Frances] 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.

(suspenseful music)

Right, ladies and gentlemen,

you're just 15 minutes from Heaven.

(bells ringing)

(dramatic music)

(purring)

(moaning)

(cat hisses)

(bells ringing)

(breathing heavily)

- That was brilliant, bloody brilliant.

- [Tom] Barnaby.

- Sir, guess what I've found in Peter Fogden's sideboard?

An army issued Enfield revolver.

- Will you put it back where you found it?

And get out of there now.

I'll be right over.

(bell ringing)

- 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.

(crowd murmuring) (applauding)

But, but, against all the odds,

pipping those two by a single point, are this year's winners

of the Striking Competition, Midsomer Wellow.

- Yes! Yes! (applauding)

(celebratory yelling)

Yes, yes!, yes!

Yes, yes, I won!

I won! Yes!

I did it, Mr. Barnaby.

I knew I could.

- [Tom] 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.

- Look, I wasn't thinking straight.

The wife had just left,

taking half the marital income with her.

- So what were you planning to do, start robbing banks?

- Oh, don't be stupid.

I just thought I could sell them.

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

- So what did you do with them?

- Stuck them in 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?

(suspenseful music)

- 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 that she could help me

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

- I'll tell her to give you a call.

It's Joyce, yeah? - Yes.

Thanks, Mr. Gooch.

Hope you won't have long to wait.

- [Dennis] Ebbrell.

- Pardon?

- Dennis Ebbrell.

Auntie's only a Gooch by marriage.

We're Ebbrells by birth.

- So who might have had access to this house

in say the last few months?

- Loads of people.

This is a village.

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

(phone ringing)

- Excuse me.

- 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.

You go straight home.

Do you understand?

- [Joyce] Okay.

- Peter, don't leave the village.

Troy, bring that gun.

(suspenseful music)

- What the hell?

- Another note, Mr. Ebbrell?

"Who pulled him out?"

Is that where we've got to?

- "Dear Auntie, Can't wait any longer.

"Will ring to let you know we get home safe.

"Look after yourself.

"Love, Dennis."

- [Dennis] That took me half an hour to type, don't...

- Did you know about these?

- Those are the ones who were killed..?

(scoffs) Auntie wouldn't hurt a fly.

- I'm not worried about flies, Mr. Ebbrell.

I'm worried about these.

(tense music)

- 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.

(suspenseful music)

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.

- Hey!

(sighs)

- You trying to kill me, Fogden?

Bloody clappers have all been tied.

(gunshot blasts)

- Stay here.

(groaning)

- Be careful.

It weighs half a tonne.

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.

(groaning)

- 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.

(grunting)

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. (cocks trigger)

But, you're church archivist, a pillar of St. Catherine's!

- (maniacally laughing) 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 all the Ebbrells yet to come,

the debt must now be paid.

(gears creaking) (bell ringing)

(screaming)

(angelic music)

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.

It was so nice to be welcomed into your home.

(engine revs)

- Troy!

Do you need an ambulance?

- Oh, I shouldn't think so.

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

- I'm fine, sir, just fine.

- Mr. Barnaby? - Yeah?

- Cup of tea? - Oh, thank you.

- I put just a dash of brandy in it.

- You're wasting your time, you know?

She's completely off men.

- Understandable, all things considered.

- Look, I know you've got

much more important things to deal with,

but about the pathetic attempt at a burglary,

I don't want to pursue it.

Besides, with a bit of training,

the arch criminal could make a very decent pastry chef.

He just needs a proper job

and a bit of sensible financial management.

- You mean the right woman?

- I'm willing to risk it.

(birds chirping)

(chuckles)

- Troy, do you want a lift home?

- Er...

- Just phone 999 in an emergency.

(phone ringing)

Barnaby?

(mysterious music)