All language subtitles for Endeavour S01E02

Excuse me.

Constable Morse. I loved your singing.

Dorothea Frazil. Oxford Mail. We
met briefly on the Tremlett case.

Oh, I remember you, of course.

It's a good angle:
"The Singing Detective".

It's better than the
one I've got presently.

I've no wish to see my name
in the papers, Miss Frazil.

Covering for the local
arts correspondent

is never going to win me the Pulitzer.

Just give me a quote. I'll see
there's something in it for you.

Any such recompense would leave us both
open to charges of bribery and corruption.

If you'll excuse me.

Good evening.

Good luck with your story.

Constable!

I'll be off, then, Aunt.

Phillip will be in tomorrow to
see if there's anything you need.

Will he have time? With the recital?

He's working very hard.

But coming to see you
is always good for him.

So... How is he?

Can you get a tarp over the timber?
I'm breaking my neck for a jimmy.

What's the matter with her? I told
you. She's just not feeling right.

Don't go. Please.

She's my mother, Lionel.

I do love you, Evie.

Fancy a pint? If you're buying.

No, it's an emergency job. Just come in.

Some old girl's sprung a leak.

I can't exactly leave
her in the lurch, can I?

Yeah. Quick as I can, promise.

Love you too.

Watch ya. Morse.

This way, sir.

Yardman was doing his rounds about five.

Saw the wagon door open and
thought he'd take a look.

How often does he check
on the rolling stock?

Start, middle and finish
of his turn most nights.

But this end, I think, not so much.

These are all out of service.
Waiting on being broken up.

- This it?
- Sir.

Doctor DeBryn. Inspector.

No need to ask after cause,
I shouldn't have thought.

Ligature strangulation. Almost textbook.

As to the time...

Three pink elephants, two pink
elephants, one pink elephant.

Some time between nine and midnight.

She's an earring missing.

I've a contingent of cadets
coming down to search.

Got a name for her? Evelyn Balfour.

Um... She works behind
the bar at Cowley Bingo.

Husband last saw her last
night about seven o'clock

when she left to visit her sick mother.

Wasn't he worried when
she didn't come back?

There was a possibility
she may stay overnight.

She told her husband her mother was ill.

Her mother's been spoken
to. Nothing wrong with her.

What's that in her mouth?

A handkerchief.

Embroidered with the letter... D.

Hardly the most romantic spot
for a bit of how's-your-father.

Private. It's got that going for it.

Beggars can't, I suppose.

We're going to take the
husband. You can do her work.

Just the facts.

Don't need confusing
with any "theories".

Then you're back to the nick
and resume general duties. Right?

All was well with you and Mrs Balfour?

No arguments? No.

Never a cross word, eh?
Did you go out last night?

No. Just had my tea.

Got the children bathed and put to bed.

I was catching up on my returns.

You're an insurance agent. That right?

Mutual and Provident.
What's that? Door-to-door?

Collecting payments.

Mrs Balfour often go
out alone of an evening?

Only to see her mother.

She's not been in the best
of health lately. Shingles.

Oh. How long's that been going on then?

Couple of months.

Other than that, Mrs Balfour
was more of a home-bird, was she?

Oh, yes.

She sometimes had a late turn at the bingo,
depending on the rota. But otherwise...

Nice. We just had it done.

Couple of months back.

Evelyn had been on for one.

A pal of hers at work had a
matching suite put in at Christmas.

You know what they're like.

Mrs Balfour looks to have been
carrying on with someone, sir.

Romantically?

Common knowledge at the bingo hall
where she worked, according to Morse.

Morse? I thought he'd been
returned to general duties.

That's right, sir. He has.

He just happened to be in early
when the report came through.

Amongst the first on the scene.

Does the husband know
about the... infidelity?

Not the impression he's giving.

Trying to protect her
reputation perhaps. Or his own.

No man likes to be thought a cuckold.

Doesn't look as though
he's got it in him.

The fancy man, most likely.

Just a matter of finding him then. Hm?

You got that car theft written up yet?

How's about you stick to general duties

and let the rough boys deal
with the grown-up stuff?

Why did he leave the door
open? If it wasn't open

she could have lay in there for
days before being discovered.

Panicked, hasn't he, once he's done her.

Fled the scene and forgot
to shut it after him.

It's reckless. Don't you think?

He made a mistake.

Or he wanted us to find her.

I don't hear you typing.

Car theft.

Oh!

Police! Open the door!

Hello! Police!

Did you close that door?
Police. Was that you?

No, sir.

"Oon back-ee-o
ankera".

Un bacio ancora. All right.

So what's it mean?

"One kiss more." Italian.

Un bacio ancora is Otello's
last line in Verdi's opera.

So what?

He sings it having strangled
his wife in a fit of jealousy.

He believes she's given a
handkerchief to another officer

as a sign of her affections.

And? His wife's name is Desdemona.

The handkerchief stuffed
in Evelyn Balfour's mouth

was embroidered with the initial D.

You're kidding? We're not really
giving this any weight, are we?

Interesting, don't you think?

Maybe. But that could've been
written up on the door years ago.

More likely we're looking
for a bloke called Dave,

than some bint called Desdemona.

If this is some fancy
man she had on the go,

it'll have been a spur
of the moment thing.

Exactly.

He's hardly going to hang about
writing all that on the door,

then sliding it out of view
where nobody could find it, is he?

It was found. Sir?

It's not as if anybody normal
would think to look there, is it?

Thursday.

Where's this?

Morse.

Deceased is one Grace Agnes
Madison. 11th of the fourth, 1896.

Widowed. Found by her niece, Faye.

Just gone half-past ten this morning.

Pathologist been
notified? He's on his way.

But she was in general good
health according to the niece.

Oh. She's outside if you wanted a word.

Mrs Madison was your
aunt, is that right?

Married to my father's
older brother. Uncle Cedric.

He's deceased, I understand.

Yes. He died in '62.

Aunt Grace returned to
England the following year.

From where? India.

She was born in Witney, but she grew
up and lived most of her life there,

which is where she met Uncle Cedric.

When did you see her
last? Erm... Yesterday.

Aunt Grace was all
the family we had left.

One or other of us tried
to look in every day,

just to see if there
was anything she needed.

One or the other of whom?

Erm... My brother. Phillip.

Today was his turn -

but he's presently rehearsing
for a piano recital.

She seemed in good health
when you saw her last?

Yes. Pottering about the
conservatory as usual.

Aunt Grace was a botanist of some note.

She'd written several books on
the flora of the subcontinent.

Doctor. Morse.

Anything?

By anything, I presume you
mean, anything suspicious?

No obvious signs of violence.

All I can tell you for now
is that she died sometime

between four and seven
o'clock yesterday afternoon.

I'd be grateful if you get the contents
of the teapot taken away for analysis.

The teapot? People do die
of natural causes, Morse.

Think someone bumped her
off for the inheritance?

I think the table's set for two, and
her guest hasn't touched their tea.

Hm. If that's the stuff the
chimps drink, I'm a Chinaman.

Mrs Madison had an
appointment in her diary

with a Mister Nimmo at 4pm yesterday.

There was a letter from
him. Dated Tuesday last.

Some sort of journalist. Wanted
to write about her gardening.

She was a botanist of
some repute, apparently.

One day I'll send you
out for a routine enquiry

and it'll turn out to be just
that. But I won't hold my breath.

You'd find something suspicious
in a saint's sock drawer.

I didn't know you spoke Italian.

More under my hat than nits.

We came up through Italy after
North Africa. Landed at Reggio.

Then on to Cassino.

Got a match on a thumbprint
off Mrs Balfour's handbag, sir.

Roy Adamson.

Three months suspended for
receiving, some nine years back.

Runs a builder's yard
out towards Headington.

Looks like Othello's in the clear.

Right. Fetch the car round.

Mrs Madison's niece know anything
about this Nimmo character?

No, sir. See if you can run him down.

Find out what he was doing there.

What about this builder?

The Balfours had a bathroom
suite installed a few months back.

Round about the time she was
"visiting her sick mother".

Let's just say I'd be very surprised

if it wasn't Roy Adamson's building
firm that was doing the work.

Oh. Good afternoon. City Police.

I'm looking for a Mister Nimmo.
I believe he lives at number 8.

I've never seen him.

How long have you lived
here? Nearly three years.

Oh.

Well, thank you for your help.

Heard him, though.

You've heard him?

Music blaring out till all hours.

I've written to the landlord.
Not that it's made no difference.

What kind of music? Classical.

You know, bloody awful stuff. Singing.

Well, caterwauling.

Thank you.

Yeah, we did some work
for Mister Balfour.

There you go. A bathroom suite. Pink.

A few months back.

What did you make of 'em?

I didn't make anything
of 'em. Just customers.

Nice enough. Seen 'em recently?

No. Not since the job finished.

You sure about that? Pretty sure.

See, the thing is, Roy...

We found Mrs Balfour
strangled yesterday.

And your fingerprints have
turned up on her handbag.

Anything you'd like
to tell me about that?

That's you.

Go on, in you get.

He's admitted carrying on with
her. Not that he had much choice.

Sergeant Jakes found an earring
in the footwell of a works' truck.

A match?

Took her up Boar's
Hill, he says. Car park.

Brings her back after by
Osney, where he found her.

Alive and well, presumably.

Call for you, sir. Dr DeBryn.
The "sudden" this morning.

Pending toxicological results,

I consulted a colleague
from the Botanic Gardens.

He identified the leaves in the teapot

as having come from Datura stramonium.

Datura? A weed.

Also known as the Thorn
Apple, or Devil's Snare.

Poisonous? Oh, highly toxic.

The seed pods in particular.
I took the liberty.

Been used for centuries
by the Indians and Chinese

as a treatment for asthma.

But the line between a medicinal and
a lethal dose is very thin indeed.

Contains atropine and scopolamine.

The "truth" drug. That's right.

Taken in overdose, symptoms include
severe hallucinations, seizures.

All leading, step by jolly
step, to blindness, coma

and an eventual "how do
you do" from St Peter.

If one goes in for that sort of thing.

What do you make to it? Mrs Madison.

Money?

With only a niece and nephew living,
I'd expect they stand to inherit.

What about your Mister Nimmo?
No-one's seen him around his flat.

But a neighbour said he had
music blaring till all hours.

Opera, by the sound of it.

The entire lease on his lodgings
is conducted through a solicitor.

They're running down a cheque.

Should be able to get a more
reliable address from his bank.

A weed, Dr DeBryn said.

Not likely to be something she'd
have been cultivating, is it?

I wouldn't have thought so.

There's something about Datura
I can't quite put my finger on.

At least the Balfour case looks
like it's going to run to form.

The builder? Has he confessed?

Not yet. I'm letting
him sweat for the minute.

I'll have another go after lunch.

Speaking of which...

Now, let's see. What have
I got to look forward to?

Luncheon meat.

Remind me never to spend
Christmas at your house.

"Ici... loin du monde reel."

They're the last words
sung by Lakme, sir. Whom?

Lakme, sir. An Indian princess.
The heroine of an opera by Delibes.

According to Morse, sir,
this Lakme girl kills herself

by eating leaves from the Datura plant.

The same as was used
to poison Grace Madison.

Makes it two, sir.

What makes two? Two deaths,
sir. With a connection to opera.

There was a phrase from... What is
it? Otello, sir. By Giuseppe Verdi.

Chalked on the door of the goods
wagon where we found Evelyn Balfour.

"One kiss more." His
last words, Morse says.

You mean Shakespeare's
Othello? The blackamoor?

That's him, sir, yes. Evelyn
Balfour was strangled, sir,

like Desdemona, Othello's wife.

A handkerchief was stuffed in her mouth,

embroidered with the initial D.

I thought we had someone
for the Balfour killing.

All right, Morse. As you were.

Opera? Good God!

A man would have to be some sort of
raving lunatic to go to such lengths.

If he is a lunatic, sir, I'd have
to say he's a very clever one.

If you have no objection,

I'd like to second Morse from
General Duties for the duration.

Is that necessary?

Specialist knowledge, sir
- it comes to this sort of thing.

Very well. But for the
duration of the inquiry only.

I don't want him getting ideas.

That's kind of what I'm counting on.

Sir.

Usual time in the morning, is it?

No, you're all right.
Morse can fetch me.

You're off General Duties
till further notice.

8.15 sharp. All right?

Morse.

Hello?

Hello?

Seen this?

Late Edition.

How the hell have they come by
that? "Reliable sources", I expect.

Are you serious? Put it this way, matey.

For a bloke who puts
it away the way he does,

Jakes is never anything
less than flush, is he?

Anyroad. Get 'em in, then.

I thought we might have
a go through the Fitton's.

You'll never get your
Sergeant's, otherwise.

I was gonna push off,
if it's all the same.

It's your round. I'll owe you one.

Right.

I don't suppose your aunt

might have mentioned this
Mr Nimmo to your brother?

She may. But, if she
did, he never told me.

I'd er... I'd like to speak with him.

I'm afraid he's very busy at the moment.

Of course.

At his convenience.

Well, good night. I'm sorry to
have troubled you, Miss Madison.

Uh...

Dad!

Well, don't stand on ceremony.

It's probably best if I wait in the car.

It's probably best if you
just do as you're told.

You've come in, then. I'm impressed.

Most of Pop's it takes
at least six months.

That lump is my brother
Sam. You want a cuppa?

No, I'm fine, thanks, Miss
Thursday. Miss Thursday!

She gets enough of that down the bank.

Start calling her it at
home and she'll get airs.

That's Joan, love.
It's one of Dad's, Mum.

I didn't think he was from the pools.

Sit yourself down. He won't be a tick.

So.

What do they call you, then?

Morse.

Morse? Morse what?

Morse Code.
Dit-dit-dah!

You still here, Joan? Morning, sir.

I thought it was twenty-past,
your bus. I'm just going.

Sam, fetch the bins out
before you go to work.

Don't leave it to your mother.

Right. We're off.

Here, let's have a look at you.

Come home safe.

There, then, you'll do, Fred.

It went well this morning?

You haven't said. I don't
want to talk about it.

But it's helping.

Phillip?

What did that policeman want last night?

I told you. He's investigating
what happened to Aunt Grace.

Why did he come to the house?

I don't like people coming to the house.

He was asking about
someone called Nimmo -

a journalist of some sort.

Yeah?

The bank's come through with an address for
Mr Nimmo, sir. Some place called Drover's Rest.

Good. Thursday, this
is Dr Daniel Cronyn.

Dr Cronyn, Detective Inspector Thursday.

How do you do? Dr Cronyn is a
psychiatrist in private practice.

He's made a particular study of
these kind of deranged individuals.

You might benefit from
his professional opinion.

The perpetrator of these crimes

clearly exhibits a
profoundly disturbed psyche.

Indeed.

I'm sure I'm not telling
you anything you don't know.

What may be less
obvious to you, perhaps,

is that he will also
be highly functioning.

Which, I regret to say, will make
him very difficult to apprehend.

But not impossible?

Such cases are few and
far between over here,

but my colleagues in the United States

believe this kind of killer
is something of a coming trend.

A trend? Indeed.

Within the last ten years
we've had the Starkweather case,

the bodies in the swamp at Fairvale

and DeSalvo in Boston.

What's he after? What's
behind him? Impossible to say.

Other than he conforms
to the triad personality

of Narcissism,
Machiavellianism and Psychopathy

posited by McDonald a
couple of years back,

I'd expect him to be highly intelligent.

Though this may not necessarily be
reflected in academic achievements.

How old? Mid-20s to
mid-30s. 40 at a push.

There's no possibility
this could be the end of it?

Gentlemen, you're confronting a mind...

unconstrained by notions of guilt...

regret, right and wrong...

good and evil.

So far as he's concerned,
we're just... prey.

Prey?

In his eyes.

Kine...

reared to slaughter.

We'll stop him.

How? You think you're going to appeal

to his nobler instincts,
his better angels?

He doesn't have any.

The only thing I can tell
you with absolute certainty...

is he will kill again.

Good afternoon.

Afternoon.

We're looking for Drover's Rest.
Some sort of farm, I believe.

Slaughteryard.

Old Ben Nimmo's place.

Mr Nimmo wouldn't be a journalist, then?

Not unless he writes about pet food.

I see.

Could you point us in
the right direction?

What d'you want with Old
Ben, then? Police business.

City Police.

Are we far?

You've come past the
turning about two mile.

Well, thank you, Mr...?

Oakshott. Lemuel.

You won't find him there.

Gone away.

I haven't seen him
since Ada died, his wife.

Gone to his boy, maybe.

Canada.

Mr Nimmo?

Take it down.

You go up there, I'll go down here.

It's from Aida, sir.

Radames' final aria.

Just before he's entombed alive.

Cement mixer in the yard, wasn't there?

That looks new.

We've had a patrol round this flat leased
in Nimmo's name, the one you went to.

Nothing there but a record
player and a stack of LPs.

It's not been occupied so
far as the lads can tell.

I didn't think it would've been.

Look sharp, then, Morse.
It's the competition.

Somebody with even more
crackpot ideas than you.

Buried alive?

Nothing quite so quick, I'm afraid.

This was immurement.

Walling up.

Cause of death would have been more
likely dehydration than asphyxia.

How long? For some days.

My God!

Then as the organs of
the body began to fail...

delirium...

madness.

One can only pray his
heart gave out first.

Would you excuse me?

There's wickedness in this, Morse.

I can understand gain,
jealousy, revenge, even.

But killing just for
the sheer hell of it?

That's something new.

Hello, Oxford Mail. How can I help you?

What's this?

Found on the victim, sir.

It's from The Mikado, KoKo's song.

"As someday it may happen
that a victim might be found".

I suppose he thinks that's funny.

It's also known as The List Song, sir.

List?

KoKo was the Lord High
Executioner to the Mikado.

He read a list of society offenders
he said he was going to execute.

The chorus runs,

"He's got 'em on the list and
they'll none of 'em be missed"

Our three victims, presumably.

How many more has he got in
mind? That's what worries me.

Something you should
see, sir. Through here.

You too, Morse.

Looks like you've got an admirer.

There was a musical score
stuffed in Mr Nimmo's pockets.

The List Song, apparently.

Doctor? No.

For a moment, I...

But it can't be. I'm just...

There was a... a patient.

I met him in the early '50s,

when I was working at Bellevue
Sanatorium under Dr Elias.

He'd have been about 20 then.

Who would?

A young man called... Miller.

Keith Miller.

He was some sort of
musical child prodigy.

Quite brilliant, by all accounts.

But on the morning of his 15th birthday,

he took an axe from the woodshed and...

buried it in the back
of his mother's skull.

What happened to him?

"Guilty but insane".

He was sentenced to be detained
at His Majesty's Pleasure.

What makes you think he's connected?

When he was in therapy,

he described horribly
violent, murderous fantasies -

what he would and wouldn't like
to do to various members of staff

who'd rubbed him up the wrong way.

It was a pet phrase of his.

"I've got a little list."

Where is he now?

I seem to remember a colleague
saying he'd been released, cured...

about five or six years ago.

The point is...

he was an Oxford boy.

Bad ju-ju, Thursday. Yes, sir.

Get to the bottom of it and
quick. I'm relying on you. Morse!

You're off General Duties because
I'm told this is your area.

See you prove yourself useful.

Sir.

All right, Morse?

Why has he got my picture on the wall?

It just tickled his fancy. I
wouldn't read too much into it.

He's just trying to get
us rattled. It's working.

Then, don't let it. I
need you thinking straight.

It was delivered around 11.

3
- 0."

That's us, I suppose,
Oxford City Police.

Three-nil to the Opera Phantom.

That was rather my reading of
it. There's been another one?

Actually, Miss Frazil, I'd urge
you in the strongest possible terms

not to make this communication
known to the public.

As a favour.

This person we're after is clearly
working to some sort of plan.

I'd hope by your
agreeing not to publish,

we might derail whatever
scheme he's got in mind

or delay it, at least.

24 hours.

After that... Pray that's enough.

Morse.

I heard it.

Put your sandals on, then.

Every... Good... Boy...

Deserves Favours.

I've spoken to Bellevue, sir.

Seems there was a fire
there, three years ago,

destroyed several
wings of the sanatorium,

together with the records office.

Surely if this happened locally...?

Nothing on our files, sir.
I've put in a request to County.

Sir... Ah! Our resident expert.

Opera!

I don't think the killer's
choosing his victims at random.

There may be a pattern. A pattern?

To the killings. I can't be sure, but...

Every Good Boy Deserves
Favour. Every what?

It's a mnemonic for remembering
the notes on a treble clef.

Every Good Boy Deserves Favour -

EGBDF.

Evelyn, Grace, Ben.

That it?

So the next one will start with a D.

Debbie?

Debbie?

Debbie!

Debbie!

Debbie Snow, sir. Six years old.

Taken from the street outside her house.

Description's been circulated
to all cars and foot patrols.

It's him. We can't say that.

Just because her name begins with
a D. There's more than that, sir.

The translator from
Lonsdale identified the score

sent to Miss Frazil as
Snegurochka by Rimsky-Korsakov.

Snegurochka is Russian for Snowmaiden.

Somebody dies, presumably.

The Snowmaiden herself.
She melts at dawn.

As the sun rises.

Something stuffed down in
the toe, according to Uniform.

"No alibi err badly." What
the hell does that mean?

Maybe he's saying we've
made a mistake, sir.

One of the people we've seen in
relation to the other killings.

Someone without an alibi, or...

"Near by Libra idol"?

Some kind of direction, perhaps?

He's setting us a
test. What sort of test?

It's a game.

Solve the puzzle, save the child.

"Near by Libra idol"?

Libra is the Scales,
sir. Justice, maybe?

The idol could be a
statue by the Law Courts.

Think you can you crack it? I can try.

Try?

You need to do more than try.
All right, Jakes. That'll do.

Meant to be the expert, isn't he?

Laughing-boy's pin-up.
I said, that'll do.

I'm thinking of the kiddie, sir.

Us turning on each other's going to help
find her, is it? Exactly what he wants.

It's Morse these messages are
meant for, sir. We all know that.

He's seen his picture in the paper.

One bloody misfit talking to another.

About your business, Sergeant.

He's right. If I can't crack this...

It's not all on you, Morse,
whatever Sergeant Jakes says.

The Snowmaiden melts, sir... at dawn.

However he intends to
bring that about, by fire...

We've less than 12 hours to find her.

Then we'd better get a move on.

Morse.

Where is she?

"Libra idol."

Fool!

Hello, sir. Detective
Constable Morse. City Police.

I'd like to know if
anyone's requested the score

for The Snow Maiden. Rimsky-Korsakov.

Is that the Western Score? Mm.

Give me a moment.

Yes, indeed, it was
brought up from the stacks

on the 17th of last month for Mr Miller.

Miller?

Keith Miller?

That's right.

Is he a regular reader?

This last year, yes,
indeed. As a matter of fact,

a fresh set of scores have
just been delivered to him.

He's here now?

He arrived not quarter of an hour ago.

Close the library. I beg your pardon?

I need you to seal the building.

Doors. Windows. Fire escape.

I don't have the authority.

I'm a police officer.

That's all the authority you need.

A child's life stands
in the balance. Please.

Miss Crane, will you and Miss
Thornhill close the library?

Close it, Mr Straker? Ssh.

Quickly and quietly, if you please.

What about the readers?
They're to remain inside.

He's from the police. Step lively, now.

Ah... He's gone.

He was sitting there.

The man who was sitting here,
did you see where he went?

This way.

Is there a way out from
here? Not up there, no.

And you won't get him if he's
gone down into the stacks.

There's five storeys underground.

The corridors go for miles.

What about exits? The bicycle chain.

A pulley railway under the Broad.

Call 999. Tell them DC
Morse from Cowley Station

needs immediate
assistance at the Bodleian.

Police. Leave. Now.

Argh!

Morse?

Did you see him? Which way did he go?

See who? Him! The suspect!

You all right, matey?

Huh? Your shirt...

Over here, man down!

All right, mate. You're OK, matey.

Don't just stand there, get some help!

All right, matey.

Ring the station. Right.

Morse, I am going to put some
pressure on this, all right?

I know, mate, I know. I know.

Not too deep. Thankfully.

But a clean cut like
that'll be a bugger to knit.

It's far better gashing
yourself on something jagged.

I'll bear that in mind next time I
chase a lunatic under the Bodleian.

What led you there?

An anagram. Well, double anagram.

"No alibi err badly.

Near by libra idol."

Both phrases use the same letters.

Bodleian Library.

Cheers! Your health, surely!

It's going to be tight and quite
tender for the next few days.

So... bed rest.

And my finest Broderie
Anglaise notwithstanding,

don't exert yourself overmuch.

The girl's still missing.
I've got to get back.

Morse...

If he'd decided to
stab and not to slash,

I'd presently be getting more
acquainted with your anatomy

than either of us might care for.

Soon as not be heaving your tripes
into a tray, if it's all the same.

Not just yet at least.

Uniform recovered this lot from a
bin on Catte Street by the library.

Another one of those score things here.

"Some coppers have no brains.

All coppers are bastards."

I want it back, clean,
starched and pressed.

You sure you're fit for duty?

Yeah. It looks much worse than it feels.

What did I miss?

The Ice Cream Man's been found.

He thinks - only
thinks, mind -

he saw a girl answering Debbie's
description talking to a man.

Beard. Glasses.

Walking stick.

It's a Modus Bocardo syllogism.

A category of logical argument.

Two propositions, one major, one minor,

and the "therefore" symbol is the clue.

"Some coppers have no brains.
All coppers are bastards.

Therefore some bastards have no brains."

It has to be more than that.

He has to give us a sporting
chance. Else, where's the fun in it?

Well, whatever it means,

as an exercise in bamboozling
the police, it's brilliant.

I doubt Debbie Snow
would see it that way.

It really matters to you, doesn't it?

Finding this girl.

I mean, it matters to
me. Don't get me wrong.

But with you it's...

Why did you become a policeman?
We're not here to talk about me.

If you've nothing else to add...

In my experience, a
policeman's need to save people

is typically born of a
need to save one person.

Who couldn't you save, Constable Morse?

Good night, Doctor.

The girl is "materiel" in whatever
diabolical game he's playing.

The real object here is to prove
whose intellect is the greater.

So far, it's...

You admire him.

Respect, perhaps.

His ability. His singularity of purpose.

Which is? He lives to kill.

He eats. He sleeps. He
kills. That's all he does.

With no more sympathy for his victims

than you would feel in
taking a paper to a wasp.

Then why didn't he kill me?

Because it suits him to have you alive.

We're not going to make it.

Are we?

Bocardo.

Bocardo Prison...

Morse.

The riddle the killer set
was a Bocardo syllogism.

Bocardo? That's the key.

The word Bocardo, not the syllogism.

I knew there was a Bocardo
connection to Oxford

but I couldn't place it until I
passed the Memorial on the Broad.

The Martyrs' memorial?

Prior to being burnt at the stake,
all three were in the Bocardo Prison.

In Oxford? Never heard of it.

It used to stand here by St
Michael at the North Gate.

The Martyrs' cell door is on
display in the Church Tower.

Right? Yes, sir.

Get it open.

Oh...

You're going to be all right.

Thank you. Bye-bye.

When was this? Over.

Morse?

Oh, no thanks. Come on, matey.

A full belly and a few hours'
kip, you'll be right as nine-pence.

It was too easy.

Not how I heard it.

It doesn't make any sense.

Not if he's playing by the rules.

The Snow Maiden... She melts.

Melts? Oh.

You think he meant to
burn her then, or...?

Debbie Snow was never
in any real danger.

There were air holes in the casket.

No, he was just playing with us.

Out.

What worries me is why.

Cronyn?

Given the condition of the corpus,

there's not a great deal I can tell you.

Beyond, of course, that life is extinct.

Who found the body? Phillip
Madison, sir, and his sister Faye

turned up for a nine o'clock
session with the doctor and, well...

I'd advise you to stand
well clear, Inspector.

Until we can get it safely stoppered.

Acid?

Aqua regia by the smell.

Royal water.

Nitro-hydrochloric acid.

Hence the state of him.

From the green tinge, the container
was sealed with a brass bung.

Acid would've eaten through
that in about an hour.

And poured out onto his head.

Melted. Like the Snow Maiden.

It wasn't Debbie, it was Daniel.

Daniel Cronyn.

EGBD.

Then we need to find whoever
F is before the killer does.

How long had your brother
been seeing Dr Cronyn?

Four months.

Phillip is...

rather highly strung.

The artistic temperament, I suppose.

We lost our parents, you see.

Quite young.

Phillip took it worst, of
course, being the eldest.

He suffers dreadfully with his nerves.

I'd had a bad attack. Yesterday evening.

I telephoned Dr Cronyn

and made an appointment for
first thing this morning.

When I arrived, the
door was on the latch.

I went in and...

Well, you saw what I found.

He's a recital coming up, you said.

Indeed. Tomorrow.

Will he be in a fit state for that?

This will be his first
recital from memory.

But he's determined to go ahead.

For Aunt Grace's sake.

They were close?

Very.

She and Uncle Cedric
had the raising of us.

I mean, we boarded in
England most of the year,

but we usually summered in Jaipur.

Just for the record, Miss Madison,
where was Phillip last night?

At home with me.

Who would do such a terrible thing?

Let you out, then.

Small comfort, but if
it's any consolation,

Dr Cronyn was already dead
when the acid did its work.

So what was the cause?

From my examination of him,

he appears to have been an
habitual morphine addict.

There was a syringe in his
desk drawer, wasn't there?

Morse?

Er, yes.

Together with some
ampoules of morphia. Mm-hm.

Somebody gave him an overdose, maybe,

or slipped something in the
syringe that wasn't morphine.

Possible, of course.

But until I've had his
blood results back...

Time was between two and
five o'clock this morning.

Anything else? General lack of care.

But nothing I wouldn't expect
to find in any other addict.

And him a doctor of the mind.

Physician, heal thyself.

Morphine.

Access wouldn't be a problem
in his line, I don't suppose.

But he didn't strike me
as the type. Did he you?

Morse?

Oi!

When'd you last get
any sleep? Pull over.

Right. Sit yourself down through there.

I'm fine, sir. Don't argue.

You're no good to me dead on your feet.

I'll get a brew on.

Or there's a drop of brandy if you like.

Better make it brandy.

What's this, home in the
middle of the afternoon?

I've got Morse in the other
room. What, the new boy?

He seemed very nice,
I thought. Very polite.

Shy, though.

What's that, brandy?

I hope you're not leading him astray.

He's been in the wars.
Lost a bit of blood.

You got any stew and
dumplings you can warm through?

I'll put something on.

It's stout you need, not brandy.

Something with a bit of iron
in it. Build his strength up.

There's a bottle at the back there.

There you go.

Ronnie? Ronnie Gidderton from the bank?

I thought you said he was a bit wet.

You've scared off all the
decent ones. Come in, Morse.

Don't stand on ceremony. Budge up, Sam.

You shouldn't have let me sleep, sir.

Looked like you could do with it.

Mrs Thursday's done
you some tea. Win, dear.

You feeling better?
Oh, yeah. Much. Thanks.

What happened to you, then?

Not at tea, Joan, thank you.

I'm only asking. I
know what you're "only".

There's one rule in this
house. Where do we leave work?

On the hallstand by the front door.

Right.

What can we talk about,
then? The weather?

Yeah, whether you're
too big for a spanking.

I'd like to see you try.

You wait till I'm back from
the army. Word of advice, Morse.

Don't have children. They'll
make you old before your time.

A Miss Frazil on the blower, Pop.

After you called, I spoke to my old
editor, Sid Mears. He sent these.

He knew the Miller case?

Perhaps. He remembered something
similar around the end of '43.

It'd stuck in his head.

Only, the family name was Gull.

They ran a coaching inn by Wolvercote.

I say "they". It was just
Mason Gull and his mother.

Thing is, there was an
American general billeted there.

This was the build up
to D-Day, don't forget.

Anyway, this general had
taken a bit of a shine

to Mrs Gull, by all accounts,

and that's what led to it.

Sid and his photographer were amongst the
first out to the inn, and got those few snaps

before the military police descended
on the place and turfed them out.

In the end, word came
down from the War Office -

at the very highest level
- that the story was to be spiked.

D-Day looming. "Dangerous
talk costs lives", I suppose.

If his name was Gull, why would
Doctor Cronyn know him as Keith Miller?

Maybe they changed his name,

buried him away in the country
somewhere, and forgot about him.

In any event, Sid
never came across a word

on any subsequent committal or trial.

The boy just disappeared.

I won't let you down. You never have.

Ready?

He played a record. Tosca. Tosca?

It's a penny dreadful of a plot.

Filled with murder, torture, suicide.

Right up his street, then. At the
climax, the heroine, Floria Tosca,

hurls herself from the battlements
of the Castel Sant'Angelo.

In summation, then, apart from
method by which he means to dispose

of this fifth and final victim,

we know neither the where,
the when, nor the whom of it.

If the killer's sticking to
Morse's EGBDF pattern, sir,

it's got to be someone
whose name begins with an F.

It's Cronyn.

What is?

The murderer. It's Cronyn.

I appreciate your work on
this, but I think you'll find...

Cronyn approached us,
didn't he, sir? Yes, but...

He's the one had us running around
looking for this Keith Miller.

But Morse! It's a joke, sir. A blind.

Keith Miller doesn't exist, sir.

Rearrange the letters of
his name and you get...

"I'm the killer."

He's been toying with us,
right from the beginning...

posing as Dr Cronyn.

So who is he really?

Mason Gull, sir.

Good grief.

Then whose body did we find
in Cronyn's consulting rooms?

Are you sure this is it?
Outside of the rooms in town,

it's the only other
address for a Daniel Cronyn

showing on the Electoral Register.

He's been here. Of course he has.

This has been his bolt hole.

Doctor Cronyn, I presume.

The real Daniel Cronyn.

He's kept him drugged on morphine.

Far enough out so that
nobody could hear his screams.

Why not just kill him straightaway?

Because the body at the
consulting rooms had to be fresh.

The murder of Mrs Gull was investigated

by Detective Inspector
Foxley of Oxford City Police.

Two witnesses appeared
for the prosecution -

slaughterman Benjamin Nimmo,

who had dropped by the
inn for a pint of ale

and found the body of Mrs Gull,

and barmaid Gertrude Tate,

who was there with her
eight-year-old daughter Evelyn.

What's the odds Mr Balfour will confirm

his wife's maiden name was Tate?

The case was heard by His
Honour Mr Justice Madison.

Gull's been killing anyone
connected with the trial.

He's going after Faye Madison.

Now. F for Faye.

She's the fifth victim.

We need to get officers to
Alfredus College at once.

That's why Gull played me
Tosca over the telephone.

Alfredus College is home to The
Oxford Scholars Choral Association.

The choir that I sing with.
So where does Tosca come in?

The Oxford Scholars Choral Association.
We sometimes refer to it by acronym.

TOSCA.

It's the police on the
telephone for you, miss.

They said it's urgent. The police?

Hello.

This it? Reserves are on their way.

Think he'll come? He must
know we'll be waiting for him.

Oh, he knows all right.
Then how can you be sure?

This is his grand finale.

He's not going to miss this.

Here, sir.

Gull's got her. If he's
sticking to the opera's plot,

he'll throw her from the roof.

There's a stair at
each corner of the quad.

I'll wait for the reserve
to arrive. He won't get away.

Jesus!

I've found her!

Sergeant, follow me. Yes, sir.

OK.

Don't worry, Miss
Madison. You're safe now.

Where's Cronyn? He told me
not to worry and went off.

You got her. She all right? No harm.

Where's Inspector Thursday?

Scarpia.

Morse? Oh...

Miss Madison isn't the final victim.

This isn't Cronyn's
plan. I've made a mistake.

F for Faye, though.

No, it's not Faye.

It's Fred. Fred Thursday.

Well. Here's a how d'you do.

Where is she? Oh, quite safe.

The proverbial sprat.

And you the mackerel.

How else do you imagine
I got you up here?

When it comes to a damsel in distress,

the boys in blue can always be
relied upon to act predictably.

I thought it was Tosca
goes off the roof?

In Act Three, yes. But it's
Act Two I've always had in mind.

The death of Scarpia -

the corrupt and venal Chief of Police
- at Tosca's hand.

I'm afraid the parts are already cast.

I've nothing against you personally.

You simply stand in place of the
detective inspector whose lies put me away.

Foxley.

It should've been him
up here with me today.

But he died while I was... away.

Well, what are you waiting for?

An audience. What else?

Where does Morse fit into all this?

Got to be about more than torment.

You could've killed him at
the Bodleian. Why didn't you?

Beethoven had his Schindler.
Haydn his Griesinger.

Every great artist needs a biographer.

Someone to bear witness to his greatness

and set it down for posterity.

How does it feel...

to be my crowning achievement?

Five's a good number, don't you think?

Nice and simple. Count 'em on one hand.

You're going to keep this up, I
wouldn't mind a draw on my pipe,

if it's all the same.

In lieu of a hearty
breakfast. By all means.

Oh, I've looked into the
eyes of far worse than you.

People who've committed real atrocities.

And they were sane.

Next to them, you're nothing
more than a third-rate freak show.

A bearded lady with glue
running down her chin.

You won't goad me into
recklessness, Thursday.

I'm serene.

And I'll be remembered.

A year or two. Maybe five.

Comes to the annals of crime,
you're nothing more than a footnote.

That's where you're wrong.

Ten years - less, maybe -
they'll certify me cured.

I fooled them once. I can do it again.

Timely, Morse. Timely.

Watch your footing. It's a bit slippy.

Here comes Spoletta. Right on cue.

La commedia e finita!

Scarpia dies. You arrest me.

That's how this ends.
Not if I rewrite it.

Then you'd better be quick!

All under control, Thursday?
More or less, sir, yes.

Lend a hand, Strange.

You think it's the end?
This is where it starts.

That's enough out of you.
We're the same, you and me.

We bear the same burden. Intelligence.

To be clever is to be alone. Forever.

I see it in you.

I know who you couldn't save, Morse.

Oh, bugger.

I broke my pipe.

Oh, bad luck.

A spare, thankfully.

Mind you, if Morse hadn't shown up...

Yes, well...

I imagine getting back to
general duties after all this

will seem like a holiday. Hm?

Sir.

Carry on.

I'll book him in.

How do you do it?

Leave it at the front door.

Cos I have to.

Case like this'll tear the
heart right out of a man.

Find something worth defending.

I thought I had...

found something.

Music?

I suppose music is as good as anything.

Go home, put your best record on...

loud as it'll play...

and with every note, you remember...

that's something that the
darkness couldn't take from you.