All language subtitles for Ripper Street - 3x01 - Whitechapel Terminus.WebRip.FaiLED.en

And you are?

I am Railways.

Who are you?

Me?

I'm Guns.

My apologies if I am late.

But now the way it has been laid out for me

in these here indications,

it is you who now will
tell us the wins and outs.

You have met him?

I have not, but...

all these instructions.

He's a sly one, is he not?

Hiding hisself away from us all.

Well, come on, then.

Tell us how, this way to get rich.

The timetabling, the point systems...

I have computed it all.

And here. See?

This is how the Bishopsgate
goods line may be intruded upon.

The one we pinch will be bigger.

See?

Railways!

- synced and corrected by chamallow -
- www.addic7ed.com -

_

_

Good morning, Chief Inspector.

What is it brings you by?

Well, if you might be distracted
from your beloved archive...

There is news I would
share with you, Edmund.

Indeed?

Urgent, I imagine, given the hour.

First, however, there is a
matter to which I must attend.

If you please, Constable Grace.

8 1/2 by 6 1/4, Inspector.

Other features?

Scarring, left mastoid to collarbone.

What is this?

Eh?

This ain't coppering.

You may well say.

Is it not, Mr. Cree?

What?

That's not...

Not the name you gave to
my booking sergeant, no,

but you are Herbert John Cree.

Three counts of receiving stolen goods,

one of larceny,

wanted on suspicion of
two counts of burglary.

It is no wonder to me

that you have so informed
an opinion on our work.

And what is it you wish from me?

I wish you to enlighten me, Mr. Cree.

You wish me to snitch for you.

But on who?

On all and on everything.

Each villain, every paymaster,

each and every whispered scheme or rumor,

no matter how trifling
they seem, I want them all.

You?

How I'm now alone with my vices.

I'm taking my pension, Edmund.

Bournemouth or so Mrs.
Abberline's thinking runs.

It is my recommendation that
I should be replaced by you.

Who then to see my work here completed?

The archive, Chief Inspector.

Do you not see what it is I built here?

Be they pimp or pornographer,

confidence man or blackmailer,

thief, fence, cracksman, or pickpocket,

soon there will be not a villain
in Whitechapel or the east

whose particulars, habits, or associates

are not known to me.

To me, Fred.

And you would have me
dozing in a deck chair

in St. James' Park.

I would, my friend.

Dozing in the sunshine,
blessed by a breeze.

Instead this...

The villains of this quarter,

turn from blood and bone,
into scratchings on paper.

In what hope, Inspector?

That such cyphers might one day carry
you to the door of the Devil himself.

Fred Abberline lectures me on
obsession as is a rum night.

No, I am yet your superior,
and you will mind me.

Drake has gone, your yankee dismissed.

Yet here you are, still
alone, but for your books.

I would see you go on
from this place, Edmund,

before it swallows you whole.

Now, there's only you to work this system.

I do hope you are as good
as your word, Railways.

Railways?

This signaling system was
first built in April '75.

Before then were points
who's been hand-worked

down on the tracks themselves.

Railways!

I care not.

Now, he stirs, he gets a clout, understand?

We go to set our trap.

Use that know-how of yours
and send our engine to us.

_

- People have died to contact you.
- It's Whitechapel.

- They die every day.
- Fifty-five lives,

given up for �350,000.

People have died to contact you.

It's Whitechapel.

They die every day.

Huh? Oh! Shit!

Hale morning to you, darlin'.

Oh, god. He's American.

I never did make any pretense to the fact.

I'm Hermione.

Morton.

It's Mimi, for short.

Yeah, I remember.

Your father bought
Blewett's two months back.

Ever since then, you
attend evening performances

on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.

Usually, you're unaccompanied,

but occasionally, you bring an escort.

Dear me, Ivan.

His name you remember, I see.

Well, who are you?

If you will not say,
I shall see for myself.

A doctor?

That man, the ripper...

There was a notion, was there not,

that he was perhaps an American doctor?

It persists.

Shall I be very frightened?

"Captain Homer Jackson."

You were an army man once?

Once a lawman, also,
but now only a sawbones.

So you be careful. That's sharp.

Is it, indeed?

Do you wield it with skill?

If harm came my way on these dark streets,

would you bring me here and clean my wounds

and make me whole again?

If you asked nicely.

I ask now.

Ask nicer.

And when you are done...

with courtesy.

Ah.

The documents you asked for, Miss Hart.

My solicitor, Mr. Capshaw.

Counselor Cobden, it is a pleasure.

Our clinic.

We make something new here

and should not anticipate
such an undertaking

to be met with universal approval.

There will be complaint...

some of it certain to be legal.

Your organization.

When I think on what
Obsidian Estates once was...

a bastion of inequity...

and what it now is.

Something that was once so opaque,

self-serving, primitive...

it is now a beacon of civic
participation and progress.

And it is all down to you, miss hart.

Counselor, you're too kind.

Too kind by a stretch.

It is but the soundest
of business philosophies

that we here embrace.

Indeed.

And would you share it?

There's no great sophistication.

It is simply this...

what is best for the people of the east

is also best for Obsidian.

Miss Hart.

Hmm?

Our first intakers selected.

The Obsidian clinic's
first students and nurses.

I have met them all this week.

And each calls this quarter their home?

Of course... as you insisted.

Will you be here to greet them yourself?

It is thanks to your generosity, after all,

that I employ them.

I will, Dr. Frayn, and
all those that follow.

14 past 8:00.

The docks company engine crosses
the cutting at St. John's.

Only this morning, it does not.

17 past 8:00.

Unscheduled diversion eastward.

What the hell's that?!

We're diverting!

Railways.

If you weren't so ugly, I'd kiss ya.

That is some precise signaling.

Thieving the Bishopsgate run, are you?

And you've allowed for the Necropolis, yes?

You mean the London Necropolis
and National Mausoleum Company?

That runs on the London and Blackwall...

South off of here.

But there is engineering
on the line, as occurs,

since Monday.

They travel the same tracks...

Gregory Enright.

_

Look!

Where'd that come from?

Good Christ!

Tell me... which one?!

What number?!

There's no time! There's no time!

Which?!

Number 25.

Never doubted you, Railways.

Never doubted you.

Whoever made such a
plan, they made it well.

Next stop... Farringdon,

ladies and gentlemen!

Farringdon and all stations
via Whitechapel terminus!

Come along!

Arthur, get here.

Come on, I've got three bags!

Oh, wait, please! Come on!

Here, ma'am. I'll take one of those.

- Oh, thank you, mister.
- Yeah, you get on the train.

Come on, soldier. I'll take that.

There we go.

Blimey.

What you got in there?

Here we go.

Oh.

Thank you, mister.

Mr.?

Drake.

_

_

_

_

_

Mr. Drake?

Where is it you travel today?

Arthur!

I do apologize, Mr. Drake.

No, please, ma'am. No apologies.

I travel through to Whitechapel, Arthur.

Oh, as we ourselves do.

Oh.

Do you know it well, sir?

Arthur!

Well, soldier...

I've not walked its streets
for gone four years now.

But once...

Yes.

I knew it well.

Whitechapel.

See?

That's Leman Street.

And we're on the passenger line.

Oh, no, no, no.

The people.

Help them!

Wire for more men.

Mother?

Mother?

There will be many dead, Gregory Enright.

You question how it is I know your name.

I do not.

No, please.

Please, you're not this man. You're not.

Gregory, no!

No, please, don't!

No, I beg you!

No!

No!

Get the people off the street
and into the station house, Grace.

Yes, sir.

Captain Jackson.

Sergeant.

Reid.

I imagine a man in my calling
might find some purpose here.

See he gets what he needs.

Three groupings, Sergeant. You follow me?

First, those who most like will live,

regardless of what we may do for them.

Second, those whom our
care may save, and, uh...

Third.

Those past saving.

Mr. Reid!

Are you just gonna stand there?

That's all right. You'll be fine.

All right, now. All right.

Go on, mate. How about yourself there?

Get yourself back there.

Here!

Here, here.

I have you.

Mr. Reid?

To me, Mr. Reid.

There you are.

I got you.

You're all right.

You're okay.

Drake! Lay her here.

She's gonna be all right.

Long time, no see, Drake.

What is this... a hallucination?

Are we all, in fact, dead,
and you're here to greet us?

Okay.

Squeeze my hand, darling.

You hear me? You hear me.

Okay. You're gonna be okay. You.

What?

Give me work. Tell me what to do.

You have coin on you?

Of course.

You get to the dispensary,
to the London, if need be,

and you bring me morphine.

Those needs are met, captain,
courtesy of Obsidian estates.

Umm... Miss Susan Hart, this is...

I know who she is.

Oh, hello.

Miss Erskine?

Hello, Mr. Best.

Well, this is compassion. It really is.

The star you now are, come
here to dispense comfort

and a few fond words
to these poor wretches.

They will be all the more grateful
you are now returned in such glory

to Whitechapel. A picture perhaps?

A rose amid the rubble?

Oh, will you excuse me, Mr. Best?

George!

Here, take him off me, will you?

You are come home?

And I am come home.

And this.

I came to see you, Rose...

at the Alexandra last year.

You were a marvel.

But you did not say hello?

I thought it best not.

You, uh...

You were with a gent after.

But you looked happy.

And that made me happy.

Bennet...

It's a long way...

Manchester Piccadilly to Whitechapel.

What is it brings you here?

It's best I do not say.

Tom.

It cannot be.

Tom.

You know him?

Tom?

Tom?

Freddie.

_

You comfort him.

Hey, I'm here, Tom. I'm here.

Inspector?

Madam.

Such ruin.

It is... senseless.

These streets...

each day, I hope I might have
seen the last of their cruelty,

and now this.

But pure, awful chance.

Nothing in this world to be done for it.

It is hard medicine.

But there will be cause for it somewhere,

a root of one sort or other creeping away.

Silence... now!

You hear that?

Everybody, after three, get going!

One, two, three!

I have it. Get it over.

Hold it up. Hold it up.

What is that uniform?

The Necropolis line.

Lay him down here.

Easy, easy, easy, easy.

What has happened here, Mr. Reid?

We are under-resourced, Mr. Drake,

and no longer enjoy the
benefit of a house surgeon.

Drake, there's a laudanum in my bag.

Wait! Wait.

We cannot drug him.

Drake, you tell him
that this man is in pain.

Mr. Drake, his engine, the Necropolis,

its line, the line for Manor Park,

it is a mile east of here.

He was off course and perhaps
the root of this carnage.

He must talk to us.

Intrathoracic and
intra-abdominal haemorrhaging,

the man's organs are
ruptured. They come apart.

- He must speak.
- Drake,

you're gonna tell him that there is nothing
that this man must do, not ever again.

He's dying. Now give him the laudanum.

Sir? Sir.

You were off course, were you not?

Docks.

Train on our line.

Ma... masked...

men.

The wires need to be worked, sir.

- Who's your operator?
- Constable Grace.

Listen, son.

Bishopsgate yard and Goodmans...

see what report is made,
discover what thieved.

Do it.

He's giving orders, huh?

He's inspector now.

Inspector Drake now.

No shit.

Arthur.

What... uh...

Has no one come for you, boy?

No father or grandparents?

You see that man?

Now, he may dress odd and talk odder still,

but you can trust him.

He can trust you.

Stay with him, all right? Only a whiles.

Now, wait a minute.

- One hour, Jackson.
- Drake!

I have never been inside
a police station before.

Yeah, well, their charm soon fades.

You got any idea what
to do with one of those?

Not even the first.

Four years you are gone, Bennet,

four years since I put Captain
Jackson out on the street also.

And now here, on this day, on that train,

you are returned.

I heard of your rise through the ranks

of the Manchester city police.

Enrolled as a

uniformed constable, no less.

Do you hide your true rank from them?

I did.

So, you are made anew.

What put you on that train, Bennet?

Do they not have need of you up there?

I'm on leave, sir.

Holidaying in Whitechapel?

Mr. Reid, I meant to say...

I wanted to say, Inspector...

Word reached me...

of Mrs. Reid's passing.

- I wrote, sir.
- Yes, I know.

I know.

I was glad for it, Bennet.

The signal box.

Whatever measure of control
sat behind this chaos,

that is where it did so.

Goods train, the Necropolis driver said.

Bound for Bishopsgate and Goodmans.

The villains who done this

robbed the London and India
Dock Company, therefore.

And one man up here.

More sent far down the tracks to board it.

But for it then to be thrown
into the path of the Necropolis,

whoever stood here must
have only have been,

what, fetching it here?

Fetching it to do their robbing

and watched in an abandoned shed hereabout.

And this.

The man's wrists were bound first,

and any further details of his execution,

need reading with an expert eye.

Mr. Reid...

Whatever it is that may have passed

between you and the American...

these last years,

my work has been

greatly varied,

- but I have met no man with gifts...
- Gifts?

For drowning in gin,

sleeping in gutters.

Inspector.

So much death...

Whatever his current habits,

needs must the best men

go searching for the root of it.

Then you must ask him Bennet,

because he will not hear it from me.

I go to hunt that goods train.

Are you here?!

We did as you instructed!

Every part, as you instructed!

Do you know at what
price this was come by?!

Do you?!

Answer me!

We have deaths on our hands!

Kiddies among them! Kiddies!

And I do not merit such guilt!

I do not!

I want you to take it.

Those deaths,

the wrong... all yours!

Tomorrow...

You will have our share, as promised.

Otherwise...

May god damn you.

I wonder...

If I were to simply
throw it all in the fire,

would the last day vanish
up the chimney stack, also?

Leave you and I here

to sit and agree to turn
our backs on such villainy?

Did not have you marked
as whimsical, madam.

55, we're now told.

55 lives given up for $350,000

in unregistered and
anonymous bearer bonds...

... because you saw an opportunity.

Does this buy back a life?

Does this?

You are beside yourself.

You must calm.

Must I?

You are my employee, Mr. Capshaw.

Best you remember that.

And if I wish to burn the evidence

of our certain damnation, then I shall.

Well, then, burn it.

But I currently lack for better ideas

of how we might fill the gaping chasm

in this institution's finances

when the sterling exchange of these bonds

will keep our books balanced for 10 years.

I've been happy in my work, Miss Hart.

I've served you assiduously in the seeming
transformation of this house's practices.

Yes, we are yet money
lender to our neighbours,

indeed we are yet so in the certain
knowledge of their defaulting thereon.

But where is the not much lamented
Mr Dugham was content to then acquire

their rotten practices to rot
further in his own enrichment...

you would have us demolish the old

and develop afresh.

It's an admirable enterprise indeed,

but as you know...

This house's coffers cannot
continue to provide for the

brickwork, sewerage,

open public spaces, your
cherished Obsidian clinic...

The new Jerusalem that you will build here,

we agreed in.

This...

is bad money.

Bad American money destined
for bad ends here in London.

We may take it

and ennoble its purpose.

People have died, god damn you.

It's Whitechapel.

They die every day...

a fact that you, with this,

would seek to correct.

So this...

This in your hands...

becomes life.

Life, Miss Susan.

Or will you instead now
wander the way to Leman Street,

offer your fragile wrists
up to your friend, Mr. Reid,

and watch all that you have made,

all you would make...

fall to ruin?

There's a man in a signal box out there,

with his brains removed from it.

Hey, kid, I paid for that,
I expect to see that eaten.

First glance, I'd say, a shotgun.

Eat it, God damn it.

Will you not come?

No, Drake, I will not.

Reid bounced me so,

the poor assumption of yours that
four years after you up and disappear,

I still carry my lunch
in a tin to Leman Street.

He is something.

Take a dead man,

he'll tell you what he ate
for breakfast three days ago

and whether it was that which poisoned him

or the strychnine in his tea.

Indeed, Captain Jackson?

Drake, you listen to me.

I do not police no more.

Jackson...

Look around you.

This...

What must be discovered
here in Whitechapel...

What all here now need,

it is not policing.

It is only answers.

When did you get devious?

Well?

I'm rusty, Reid.

You seek the fault of
that, look to yourself.

There is buckshot.

A shotgun is assumed.

Our genius has returned to us, huh?

It's the first shot, one assumes.

Assumed how?

It missed, Reid.

Missed entirely.

The parabola is 6 feet here
as it passes through the wall.

The shot came from near enough here.

The target is, well, there.

That's some piss-poor marksmanship.

What do we got here?

Hmm.

Drake, there's a hand
lens over there, and...

Oh.

You've gotten eager.

There's heavy damage to both
the epidermis and dermis.

Over the trauma is in the shape of an oval.

The butt of a shotgun.

Oh, the mind of this man.

But there's patterning here, also.

The blow is like a stamp on the man's face.

The steel plate of the butt of the gun

would have had an
engraving, some lettering.

There's an "A" and

a "W" I can see...

and an "R."

No?

Well,

wouldn't expect you to know.

They are American guns, after all.

It's "W" for "Winchester,"
"R" for Repeating.

Winchester Repeating Arms Company.

You got the shells?

That's a fine weapon.

It's a pump action.

An exotic beast in these
parts, you might say.

Yeah, I might if I were talking to you.

It is a straightforward firearm,
however, simple and direct.

- Indeed.
- And he misses with it.

- A good 5 yards.
- It's a heavy gun, however.

It's hard to manage.

A child?

A child?

Who has the skill to operate this?

Someone impaired, therefore.

Therefore, he cannot lift the
barrel up for the first shot,

so he spoons it to the left.

He uses the top rail of the chair

to help stabilize his aim.

And as you say, Bennet,

he is educated in the
workings of this system.

And in the details of both the timetabling

and the tracking hereabouts.

But not the engineering work thereon.

- No.
- Nonetheless...

He would not have been able
to acquire this expertise

merely by being an enthusiast.

He has worked this system at some point.

That begs another question.

Why shoot him at all?

The other men,

his accomplices... they
wore masks, did they not?

And it being some struggle
to get that gun up,

he must have felt some
reason to kill this man.

He recognized him,

despite the masks they wore.

And thus, his silencing.

But he is impaired,

we are saying. An arm or
a shoulder or some such.

Yet he knows the system.

So, this crippling was what?

A well-known, much-discussed

misfortune in the workyard perhaps?

An uncompensated accident even.

Gives him the motive, knowledge, and skill.

He was a railway man once.

I shall have the London
and Tilbury Company wired

and their employment
records run to Leman Street.

As for these shotguns,

I have an idea as to where
their provenance may be found.

What is this place?

His new plaything.

Mr. Cree, did I not tell
you that in due course,

you would be of use to me once more?

F.T. Baker, gunmakers of Fleet
Street and Cockspur Street,

and robbed of five pump-action
shotguns three weeks past,

an undertaking with which you, yourself,

were approached, were you not?

They was after Winchesters.

What of it?

- I shan't be asking you again.
- All right.

They was Winchesters.

But I didn't take the
job. It smelled rotten.

Tell Mr. Drake the why, Mr. Cree.

Didn't like the look of him.

Of who?

Allow me, Inspector Drake.

"I did not know his name,
Inspector. I swears it."

He would not say, but 'round these streets,

you do get to know most felons,

particularly those with the
wherewithal of such actions,

and I had not seen him this way before."

Witness was asked to describe
the gentleman in question.

And so?

He looked wrong...

Skinny.

Like a village parson got
off at the wrong station.

Polished his shoes too bright.

All shiny, they was.

Which a man notices

when there's this much shit on the street.

The London and Tilbury
sent their runner, sir.

Their employment records.

Put Mr. Cree back in his cell.

We'll have use of him yet, I hope.

Crushed leg.

Broken foot.

I have you. Here. "Enright, Gregory.

Shunter, '92,

left shoulder crushed
while coupling an engine,

to goods stop at commercial road station."

Never compensated.

Is there an address?

There is.

It was perfect.

No, sir, it was flawed.

Everything.

I thought I planned for all,

but there were details I did not foresee.

And you would add more death

to a tally that now reaches 55, would you?

What matters one more?

What work it must have been for you, sir.

The railways.

But to what reward?

You put your life into your work,

and your work decides to keep that life

and not return it to you.

You give your commitment,

your body and soul, every waking hour,

to a world that takes that loyalty,

and cares not one spot for you in return.

Catch.

You will hang me now, will you not?

That decision will follow

from what you now tell me, Mr. Enright.

You, sir,

are a skilled... you are an ordinary man.

Such a scheme the other men gathered,

and I do not for a minute believe,
you the origin of this atrocity.

I'm only Railways.

- I have only ever been Railways.
- You were recruited.

By who?

- I never met him.
- I do not believe you, Mr. Enright.

Please, sir, I swear it.

He found me. I do not know how,

but it was a letter through my door

that I was to earn money.

You find me a person
hereabout, cripple or not,

who says no to that question.

So you must have then met, seen him?

No. We... myself, the other men...

we were chosen for one skill or another.

You trusted in this
anonymous bidder, did you?

Sir, I would put my faith

in anything that promises me �500.

And where is your �500 now, Mr. Enright?

We were to get it.

When, sir?

Later this morning, we are to meet him.

Do you know, Mr. Enright,

I think I might permit
you to fetch your gains.

We shall see his face this morning,

he who would set men to steal guns...

He who exhumes crippled railway
men for their learning...

He who would leave the dead
of Whitechapel behind him.

He will be known to me.

Still nothing? No report is made?

My apologies, Mr. Reid.

Whatever was took from that sea can,

its owner has still yet to make complaint.

How then to know its contents?

- You have its provenance?
- Yes, Mr. Drake.

The stevedores report it loaded

from a domestic cargo transport

from Hoboken, New Jersey.

Such a scheme.

Whatever it was, we
must assume it valuable.

Well, I hope, therefore,
that Enright and his cohorts

provide us with an answer.

Or at least their employer.

Mr. Reid?

The men await your instructions

as to how that warehouse
is to be invigilated.

No, no, Captain.

Captain Jackson, this
is a police assignment,

and as such, I'm sure you understand,

its details must be
considered sensitive, so...

My thanks for your service,

but I think you might get to your bed or

whatever other activity you
choose to pursue at this hour.

Constable Grace.

You're a smart one.

He always did like 'em smart.

Quick to learn.

Well, here's a lesson for you, son...

the faster you can quit
this man and his work,

the better it's gonna go for you.

If you don't take my word for it,

you just ask the good Inspector Drake here.

_

Coffee?

How old are the grains?

Couple of days.

- For which, assume a week.
- Look, do you want some, or not?

I can't imagine it's
doctoring you're here for.

You're a good deal too
grand for me these days.

Not an issue which troubles Miss Morton.

Yeah well,

she comes here for something else.

I'm told you once more
provide service to the police.

That is an old habit in which to fall.

Don't fret.

It's not something I intend
on making practice of.

Nonetheless, a woman can be forgiven

for thinking time had turned backwards.

Look, Susan, I'm tired.

Am I'm gonna kick off
my boots and go to sleep,

or are you gonna tell me
what it is brings you here?

I am petitioned.

Who by?

One of the many grateful
citizens of your new Republic?

I swear, one morning I'm gonna wake up
and find you anointed Lord Mayor of London.

Ah, which of your constituents,
is it petitions you?

The bereaved.

Those who wait to see if their mothers

or fathers or children might yet live.

There is one question
they ask which unites them.

They wish to know why

their lives were turned
to ruins in a trice.

You want to know why those trains collided

and against whom the world might lay blame.

The people wish to know.

Mr. Drake?

Chief Inspector.

Where is he?

He's the floor above us, sir.

And so...

Have you missed us?

There is nowhere quite
like Whitechapel, Sir.

He has asked after the for why

- behind your return to us?
- He has.

You've told him?

This last day,

it is not gone by how I imagined.

No.

But you see why it is
I have asked you here.

He appears undiminished to me, sir.

His commitment, his skills.

It is not the loss of

such attributes that concern me, Mr Drake.

It is the loss of he.

Himself.

Yes, sir.

Inspector.

Chief Inspector, you're sent for.

He comes.

He has not arrived?

No.

Little while yet, Railways.

Then we shall have our spending.

My canary has sung.

Do you assure me, Ronald,

that these men who now wait their earnings,

they've not seen you? You are sure?

Certain.

Then those earnings
shall remain in arrears,

and the police shall have them.

They will hang alone and not
with you and I beside them.

We cannot think they will
wait further, Inspector.

There is another...

their paymaster, the architect of this all.

And there is no other means
by which this man may be found?

There is a man in my cells.

He is called Cree.

I believe he has met him,
but his description is vague.

It cannot be pursued alone.

And so, we must wait.

Enough.

Where are you?!

I shall sit here no further!

You want my advice, you do likewise.

They leave, Mr. Reid.

Those men held up an engine
on the Bishopsgate line?

They did.

If we take foot soldiers
now, a general walks free.

If we do not,

Whitechapel must live without
knowing its tormentors again, Edmund.

Again! This is an order, Inspector!

You take 'em!

Come here!

Sir.

Well, now.

This moment might be
considered apposite, Mr. Drake.

Come now, Inspector.

You are no longer to look at
your shoes and this man's ambit.

Particularly not now.

Not now you've rejoined H division

at equal rank.

What?

Without one word of consultation?

Consultation?

With you?

That would be a fine circumstance.

I've been clear with you, Mr. Reid.

Could not be clearer.

Mr. Drake is to aid

with the purpose of Leman
Street's transition...

Transition from your control into his.

I've been in earnest about this, my friend.

You are for promotion...

Promotion away from here.

By the time Mrs. Abberline drags me south,

you will be gone from these streets.

Take them away.

You men will be taken next to the prison

in which you will last confine,

and from there to a place of execution,

where you will be hanged by the neck

until you are dead.

"Thou carriest them away as with a flood.

They are like grass which groweth up.

In the morning, it flourisheth,

and in the evening, it is cut down.

For we are consumed by thine anger.

Thou has set our inequities before thee,

our secret sins in the
light of your countenance.

For all our days are
passed away in thy wrath.

And we spend our years

as a tale that is told."

Amen.

Amen.

Mr Reid.

Counsellor Cobden.

You are to be congratulated.

Swift punishment has afforded
us some comfort at least.

If you will excuse me.

Now

we are brazen.

- Inspector.
- Madam.

A black day.

Indeed.

Oh. This is my solicitor, Mr. Capshaw.

Sir.

Your name again, sir?

Capshaw.

Cree!

Herbert Cree!

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