And you are?
I'm Railways.
- Who are you? - Me?
I'm Guns.
My apologies if I am late.
And now the way it has been laid out for me,
in these here indications,
it is you who now will tell us the whens and hows.
- You have met him. - I have not.
Bah, all these instructions.
He is a sly one, is he not?
Hiding hisself away from us all.
Well come on then, tell us how it is we're to get rich.
The timetabling, the points 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.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
See. Railways.
This correction by PetaG for - www.addic7ed.com -
based on the original transcription by vera and sync & corrections by Minouhse
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.
Eight and a half by
- six and a quarter, 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? Haslen.
Not the name that 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's no wonder to me
that you have so informed an opinion on our work.
What is it you wish from me?
- I wish you to enlighten me, Mr Cree. - You wish me to snitch, for ya,
but on who?
On all and on everything.
Each villain, every paymaster.
Each and every whispered scheme or rumour, no matter how trifling they seem,
I want them all.
You?
How I am 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 seek my work here completed?
The archive, Chief Inspector.
Do you not see what it is I've built here?
Be they pimp or pornographer,
confidence man or blackmailer, thief, fence, cracksman or pickpocket.
Soon there will not be 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 deckchair in St. James's 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 is gone, your yankee dismissed.
Yet here you are still, alone, but for your books.
I would see you gone 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 signal system was first built in April '75.
Before then were points was being 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 that engine to us.
_
Fuck... shit.
Hale morning to you, darlin'.
Oh God, he's American.
I never did make any pretence to the fact.
- I'm Hermione... - Morton.
It's Mimi for short. I remember.
You were found at Bob Blewitt'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.
- Damn you, 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.
Should I be very frightened?
Captain Homer Jackson.
You were an army man once?
Once a law man also, but now only a sawbones.
- So you be careful, it'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 ask nicely. - I ask now.
Ask nicer.
And when you are done...
with courtesy.
The documents you asked for, Miss Hart.
My solicitor, Mr Capshaw.
Counsellor Cobden. It is a pleasure.
Our clinic.
It makes 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 organisation.
When I think on what Obsidian Estates once was,
a bastion of iniquity,
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. - Counsellor, you're too kind.
Too kind by stretch.
It's about the soundest of business philosophies that we here embrace.
Indeed. And would you share it?
There is no great sophistication, it is simply this...
What is best for the people of the east, is also best for Obsidian.
Miss Hart.
Our first intake is 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 employed them.
I will, Dr Frayn. And all those that follow.
Fourteen past eight.
The dock's company engine crosses the cutting at St John's.
Only this morning it does not.
What the hell's that?
We're divertin'.
That is some precise signalling.
Thieving the Bishopsgate run are you?
And you have allowed for the Necropolis, yes?
You mean the London Necropolis & National Mausoleum Company?
That runs on the London and Blackwall. South of here.
But there is engineering on the line as it occurs, since Monday.
They travel the same tracks.
Gregory Enright.
Look. Where did that come from?
We're gonna crash.
Tell me which one.
What number?
There's no time.
- What is it? - Number 25.
Damn good job did you, Railways. Damn good job.
Next stop. Farringdon, ladies and gentlemen.
Farringdon, and all stations to your Whitechapel terminus.
Arthur, get here. Come on, I've got three bags...
Away, please. Come on.
Here ma'am, I'll take all those.
- Oh thank you, mister. - You get on that train.
Come on, soldier, I'll take that. There we go.
Blimey, whatcha got in there?
- There we go. - Oh thank you, mister.
- Mister? - Drake.
_
Mr Drake,
- where is it you travel today? - Arthur.
I do apologise, 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 it's streets for gone four years now.
But once...
Yes...
I knew it well.
Whitechapel.
See? That's Leman Street.
Then we're on the passenger line.
Oh, no, no, no.
The people.
Help them.
Wire for more men.
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.
Captain Jackson.
Sergeant.
Reid.
I imagine the men in my calling might find some purpose here.
See he get's what he needs.
Three groupings, sergeant, you follow me?
First. Those who most likely live, regardless of what we do for them.
Second. Those who might care of me saving them.
- Third... - Those past saving.
Mr Reid.
Are you just gonna stand there?
Here.
I have you.
Mr Reid?
To me, Mr Reid.
There you are. I got ya.
You're alright.
Drake. Lay her here.
- She's gonna be alright mate. - Long time no see, Drake.
What is this? An hallucination? Are we all in fact dead and you're here to greet us?
OK, squeeze my hand darlin'.
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.
- Ah, Miss Susan Hart, this is... - I know who she is.
Oh hello. Miss Erskine.
- Er, 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?
W-will you excuse me, Mr Best?
George. Here, take him off of me.
You will 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?
No, I thought it best not.
You were... you were with a gent, after.
But you looked happy.
And that made me happy.
Bennet. It's a long way.
Manchester Piccadilly, through Whitechapel.
What is it brings you here?
It's best I do not say.
Tom.
Know him?
Tom?
Freddie.
You comfort him.
Wait, 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.
That 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.
Over, get it over...
- Over here. - 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 is 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.
Now give him the laudanum.
Sir.
You were off course, where you not?
Dogs. Trying...
Find...
Ma... Marr's... men.
The wires need to be worked, sir. Who is your operator?
Constable Grace.
Listen, son, Bishopsgate yard and Goodman's...
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, ah...
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, alright. 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 an uniform constable no less.
Did you hide your true rank from them?
I did.
And so, you are made anew.
What put you on that train, Bennet?
Did 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 Goodman's.
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 only have been,
what, fetching it here. Fetching it, to do their robbing unwatched,
- 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 'ere?
We did as you instructed.
Every part as you instructed.
Do you know at what price this was come by?
Do ya? Answer me.
We have deaths on our hands.
Kiddies among 'em. 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.
Fifty-five, we're now told.
Fifty-five 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. - Now 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 ten 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 can not continue to provide for them.
Brickwork, sewerage,
open public spaces, your cherished Obsidian Clinic,
the new Jerusalem that you would built here, we agreed it.
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.
But in 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 that 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's 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 death, look to yourself.
- There is buckshot. A shotgun is assumed. - Our genius has returned to us, then?
- It's the first shot, one-one assumes. - Assumed how?
It missed, Reid.
Missed entirely. The parabola is six feet here, as it passes to the wall.
The shot came from near enough here. The target is...
Well, there. That's some piss-poor marksmanship.
Ah, what have we got here? Hmmm...
Drake. There's a hand lens over there.
Oh, you've gotten eager.
It's heavy damaged above the epidermis and dermis.
Only the trauma's 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.
It'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 straight forward firearm, however. Simple and direct.
- Indeed. - Yet he misses with it.
- From a good five yards. - It's a heavy gun, however.
- It's hard to manage. - Ah, a child?
A child? Who has the skills to operate these?
- Someone impaired, therefore. - Therefore,
he cannot lift the barrel up for the first shot, so he spoons it to the left.
And he uses the top rail of a chair to help stabilise 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 there on. - 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 been some struggle to get that gun up. He must have felt some reason to kill
- this man. - But he recognised him.
- Despite the masks they wore. - And thus the 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 work yard, perhaps?
An uncompensated accident even.
Gives him the motive, knowledge and skill.
He was a railway man once.
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.
FT Baker, gun makers of Fleet Street and Cockspur Street
and robbed a five pump action shotguns three weeks past.
An undertaking with which you yourself were approached. Were you not?
- They was after Winchesters. - But what of it?
- I shan't be asking you again. - Yeah, alright.
They was Winchesters.
But I didn't take the job, it smelt rotten.
Tell Mr Drake for 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 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 a runner, Sir. Their employment records.
Put Mr Cree back in his cell. I'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 that couldn't stop at
Commercial Road Station.
- Never compensated. - There's an address?
There is.
It was perfect.
No, sir, it was flawed.
Everything. I thought I played for all.
But there were details I did not foresee.
And you would add more death to a tally that now reaches fifty-five, would you?
Fifty-five? 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 now you tell me, Mr Enright.
I am only Railways, I have only ever been Railways.
So 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,
that says no to that question.
So you must have been met, seen him?
No, we... myself... the other men, we were chosen for one skill or another.
You trusted in its anonymous bidding, did you?
Sir I put my faith in anything that promises me five hundred pound.
And where is your five hundred pounds 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 it's owner is 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.
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,
these 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.
_
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 on which to fall.
Well don't fret, it's not something I intend on making practice of.
Nonetheless a woman could 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?
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.
He comes.
- He has not arrived? - No.
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 can not 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.
Can not be pursued alone.
And so we must wait.
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. We take foot soldiers now, a general walks free.
We do not. Whitechapel must live without knowing its tormentors... a game, Edmund.
A game. This is an order, Inspector. You take 'em.
Sir.
Well now.
This moment might be considered apposite, Mr Drake.
Come now, Inspector, you are no longer to look at your shoes in this man's ambit.
Particularly not now... not now,
you have 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.
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 hast set our iniquities 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.
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.
This correction by PetaG for - www.addic7ed.com -