02x02 - Death Comes Knocking

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(Thunder crashes)

Roland... Roland Claremont, I call you from the spirit world.

(Thunder crashes) (Gasps)

Prepare to fix bayonets!

Bayonets!

Fix bayonets!

(Blows whistle)

(Men shout)

(Rapid machine g*nf*re)

Come on! Come on!

Moving forward! Move it!

Get up! Get up!

Aah!

(Men scream) (Machine g*nf*re)

Aarggh!

(Screams)

(Grunts)

Stretcher-bearer!

Woman: Roland?

Roland, are you here?

Aunty Prue.

And Maude, my sweet.

And dear Freddy.

Oh, darling Phryne too.

Hello, Roland.

Roly, we need to know.

Freddy needs to know.

He doesn't feel right accepting his award.

He can't recall his brave deeds that day, you see.

Can't you recall anything, Freddy? Only the noise.

I'm sorry.

Basil is here with me too, Freddy.

Basil who?

Captain! Captain! Captain! Help me!

Stretcher-bearer! Help!

Stretcher-bearer!

(Rapid machine g*nf*re)

Aah! Aah! Ah!

Stretcher-bearer!

(Wheezes, gasps)

Basil?

Roly, tell Freddy how he tried to save your life.

Tell him.

Stretcher now!

Stretcher-bearer!

For pity's sake, man.

(Grunts)

(Wheezes) (g*nsh*t)

(Wheezes)

(Coughs)

Freddy! Mr Butler?

Your urgent assistance, please.

Mrs Bolkonsky, can you hear me? Mrs Bolkonsky?

You have nothing to feel guilty about.

You did everything you could to help Roland.

No, I can't know that. I don't remember.

No, and how could you? You were in shock.

g*nsh*t. I heard a g*nsh*t. Well, of course you did.

No, no, no, after shelling when it was quiet as death.

Come on, darling. Please, you need to breathe.

Please. Please. No bravery, no award.

Big slow breaths.

You're as cold as ice.

The circle is still open.

Everybody must return to the table!

Not on your life. I hope he settles soon. We've got a long drive home.

But you must stay the night. No, we couldn't possibly impose.

I insist. Foster is too far for Freddy to travel in this state.

Mr Butler will assist you to the guest room and, Dot, would you take up some fresh towels, please?

Yes, Miss. Thank you.

Larry, we'll need the laudanum and the Captain's heart medicine.

They're still in the motor car, Mrs Ashmead.

No, I-I'll get them.

Just for heaven's sake, get him out of this stuffy room.

(Coughs, wheezes)

Oh, dear.

We can visit the cemetery in the morning.

I'm so sorry.

Perhaps we could conclude our spiritual matters tomorrow.

Well, if we don't, Mrs Stanley, I can't be responsible.

I can't believe Miss Phryne ever let that charlatan cross the doorstep.

Have you ever known Miss Fisher to do anything she didn't want to do?

And for that matter, I can't believe Mrs Stanley is a life member of the Spiritualist Society.

Well, I expect she joined after her godson was k*lled at the Front.

Must have been a terrible blow. And for poor Captain Ashmead as well.

Father Grogan says dabbling in the occult is a mortal sin.

(Man whistles, footsteps approach)

(Door hinge squeaks)

Who's there?

Who's in there?

Hello? Aarggh!

Aah! Aah! (Grunts)

(Groans)

Potts. Ernie Potts.

Always did the graveyard shift, so to speak.

Awful business. Any next of kin?

The missus passed away years ago. There's a daughter.

Do you have a key to this?

Do you think he disturbed a break-in, sir?

Doesn't look like anything's been disturbed.

Whatever's going on?

Oh!

Jack.

I'm afraid this is a restricted area.

A cemetery worker was m*rder*d here last night, and how is it, Miss Fisher, you always manage to turn up when I'm on the case?

Not always, Jack. We merely came to pay our respects.

This is a crime scene.

Roland was a good family friend. Aunt Prudence's godson.

No, no, crime scene.

Well, I take it this is the poor fellow's blood as well.

So what are you thinking? He disturbed a would-be graverobber?

Ah, that's what I think too, Miss.

The door was locked, and there's no sign of disturbance to the tomb.

(Coughs)

Oh, Freddy! Freddy, it's just a horrid coincidence.

No. It's Roland, I know it.

(Coughs, wheezes) I thought this would calm him.

It's alright, Maude. I'll see you back at the car.

(Coughs) Mustard gas.

Well, what's their connection?

Oh, it's all very incestuous.

Maude is Roland's widow and Freddy was his best friend.

Fought under him at Pozieres, then married his widow.

They're all staying with me at the present, so if you'd like to question them yourself, you might have to visit me.

I'm impressed. You've commandeered my case before I knew I had one.

Constable, finish searching the area.

I'll be at Miss Fisher's residence. Yes, sir.

So you don't think it was a coincidence either?

In my experience, there's no such thing.

(Door closes)

I can't tell you how distressing this is, Inspector.

No wonder my poor godson can't rest in peace.

Hold your fire, Aunt P. The Inspector's on the case now.

Mrs Stanley, I may as well begin with you.

I hope you'll begin and END with me, Detective Inspector.

Maude and Freddy have enough to worry about, and we have an unfinished seance to deal with.

Seance? Yes, with the great Mrs Bolkonsky.

You've not heard of her?

In Melbourne, by popular demand, offering her services to a very select few members of the Spiritualist Society.

Aunt P turned out to be one of THE select few.

The psychic equivalent of winning a chook raffle.

Mrs Bolkonsky chose us on merit. She told me herself.

(Sighs) And so timely.

Freddy has suffered very poor health recently.

Aunt P thought that if anybody could convince Freddy to accept his bravery award before it's too late, it would be Roland himself.

Your late godson Lieutenant Colonel Roland Claremont.

Another fine young man, cut down in his prime.

How many miles of red tape did you have to battle to get his remains back from France?

Well, I wasn't about to leave him mouldering in some godforsaken foreign turnip field!

Well, I'll have to interview Captain Freddy Ashmead and his wife, and any staff.

Now, where will I find Mrs Bolwhatsit?

How glorious!

(Sniffs) Thank you.

It's little enough in return for your hospitality, Miss Fisher.

Last night ended on an unfortunate note.

Detective Inspector Robinson, may I introduce Mrs Bolkonsky, spiritual medium, from Sydney, via Paris, London and San Francisco.

The Americans are so wonderfully open.

And we were booked solid for weeks.

And her manager, Mr Warwick Hamilton.

True love must never be denied, Detective Inspector.

Very profound.

I've been telling Mrs Bolkonsky about the att*ck.

She has a theory.

It wouldn't be the first time she's helped the police.

And your theory is?

Our gathering last night was interrupted.

Yes, Freddy had a horrid att*ck.

The channel was not properly closed and when this happens, the spiritual energy may linger, disturbed, and sometimes hostile.

There's nothing spiritual about a man being hit over the head and impaled on a fence.

That energy may enter a living person, drive them to violent acts.

It is irresistible.

I'm sure it'll provide much comfort to Mr Potts' family.

Now, where is Mr Ashmead? I'll need to speak with him first.

I'm afraid he's still indisposed.

Freddy's valet, Mr Larry Dunn.

An invaluable support to the Ashmeads, and to Maude's family before that.

Perhaps Mrs Ashmead, you should go up.

Phryne, at this rate, I'm afraid we may have to extend our stay.

Dear Maude, you're welcome to stay as long as you need.

Let me help too.

Perhaps Larry could answer any questions you have, Inspector.

Thank you. If I may use the parlour.

Of course.

And why not take some of these with you?

Ham, cheese and mustard pickle. I read your mind.

This way.

Inspector, believe what I say, for your own sake.

The heart line never lies.

You know that your greatest passion is very close at hand.

Pursue it.

And believe what I say, Mrs Bolkonsky.

I have no intention of pursuing my greatest passion, unless it's these sandwiches, which are a particular favourite.

Oh, my heart.

Are you alright? Oh, it's nothing, dear.

Mrs Bolkonsky looks so pale. Is she ill?

Oh, she's given her heart to her work, literally.

It's taken its toll.

She has no energy to spare for sceptics.

Yes, well, Inspector Robinson can be a difficult man to sway.

Well, you seem to have a way with him, Miss Fisher.

And what about you? Sceptic or believer?

Let's just say I keep an open mind.

Always wise to keep your wits about you.

Yes. Amazing what some get away with in a darkened room.

Balsa wood tables...

Both: On fishing lines.

Balloons with painted faces, spirits with eggwhite and silk, collapsible wrapping sticks hidden under skirts.

Any amount of trickery and illusion.

You seem very familiar with the charlatan's repertoire.

Oh, I need to be, or those charlatans will bring genuine spiritualists into disrepute.

And thanks to the Great w*r, there's no shortage of bereft customers ripe for the plucking.

My Aunt Prudence, for example.

Maude, and Freddy.

I must confess I was a bereft customer when I met Mrs Bolkonsky.

I lost my twin brother at the Somme.

I'm sorry.

Mrs Bolkonsky's gift is genuine, Miss Fisher.

She takes only a modest sum to help people and spirits alike to find peace in their separate realms.

And if people take solace in belief, who are we to criticise them?

Thank you, Mr Butler.

Mr Ashmead seems much more settled after that broth.

Oh, good.

Must be a great responsibility, having to care for such an ill gentleman.

Oh, it's no burden. The Captain doesn't complain.

It's Mrs Ashmead I worry for.

She gets herself into a state.

You used to work for her parents? I've known her since she was a girl.

You must be a great comfort to her, then.

We do what we can, don't we?

Didn't I make myself perfectly clear? No more laudanum.

Now, Captain, you know what Mrs Ashmead says.

Mrs Ashmead cannot get it through her head that there are far worse crosses to bear than physical pain.

This fog in my head, this constant mental daze...

Alright, alright.

Good morning. Morning.

These are Dallas Bronze, if I'm not mistaken.

Ah, yes, I believe so. There you go, Captain.

Nice and hot.

And don't forget your heart medicine.

Freddy?

Are you alright, Freddy?

I'm sorry.

Are you in pain?

Sometimes, Phryne, I feel like I can't go forward, I can't be still.

I can't even drink tea without tasting blood.

The seance has stirred it all up for you.

For me, it's faces on streets or trams bearing the slightest resemblance and I'm right back there.

But my w*r goes on and on, Phryne.

In my head.

Battle neurosis, that's what the doctors say.

It's a perfectly rational response to an absurd situation.

But I can't help but feeling there's some hideous truth lurking in a dark corner of my mind.

We're both home now.

We're safe.

Yes.

I, uh... never appreciated flowers until France.

It's amazing how a single stunted wildflower, struggling for survival in a b*ttlefield of mud, can touch what's left of one's heart.

Here.

Maude doesn't know that I've kept it.

She doesn't like me being upset.

A dispatches report.

The day Roland was k*lled.

It says here that you carried him off the field in the midst of battle.

Yes, but why does it rankle with me?

Why can't I remember?

When my time comes, I need to know what kind of man I am.

Was I a hero, as your Aunt would have me be?

Or will I die a coward?

Shell shock does mysterious things to the mind.

It closes doors.

But he doesn't trust that dispatches report.

So, if you were to obtain Roland's w*r records as part of your inquiry into the cemetery m*rder...

And how would that help? Medical details.

The name of the doctor in the field hospital who treated Roland.

Someone must know the whole story.

Why bother with records when Mrs Bolkonsky can go direct to the source?

(Knocking on door)

Roland Claremont's w*r records, as requested, sir.

How remarkably clairvoyant of you, Jack.

You know, Hugh, if we ask nicely, he'll make the desk levitate.

I'm simply looking for a reason why someone would break into the tomb of a man who's been dead for over a decade.

Yes, and why they'd k*ll a poor gravedigger to do it.

(Reads) 'Claremont, Lieutenant Colonel Roland Albert.

k*lled, the Somme, July 25th, 1916.

Wounded in battle, d*ed en route to field hospital.

And at the age of 12, he thought it was fun to throw lizards' guts at unsuspecting females.'

I added that last bit.

From personal experience?

It wasn't me, it was his nanny. He was a horrible child.

Not quite the way your Aunt Prudence described him.

Oh, Saint Roly knew how to pick a target.

'Signed Percy Bishop.'

Well, it's a name at least.

Cec, don't get butter on it. It's from the library.

So how does this Mrs Baloney do it?

Well, they pick up on clues. You know, follow hunches.

Just like Miss Fisher.

Ah, Bert and Cec. And drop scones.

So who's this Percy Bishop you want us to round up?

All I can tell you is that he came from Coburg and worked out of a field hospital near Pozieres in 1916.

Doctor? Stretcher-bearer.

A bloody conchie.

A lily-livered moralistic gutless wonder.

And if he's still alive, I would like him to remain that way, at least until I've had a word with him.

No guarantees.

Percy Bishop? Go easy.

That's me. Your mother said we'd find you here.

You the Percy Bishop who was the stretcher-bearer at Pozieres?

Percy the conchie?

w*r's been over ten years and more, Digger.

I don't need no more trouble.

Oh, there won't be any trouble.

A man who can't raise his fists for his country isn't going to be any trouble at all.

Since when does a pacifist go around breaking other bloke's noses?

Oh, it's not broken.

So you stand by and watch Percy 'Iron Fist' Bishop pummel me into the dirt?

You started it. Then it's your own fault.

It's not as if being 'anti-k*lling' meant you could sit out the w*r knitting socks by the fire.

Now you're letting a sheila henpeck me when I'm down. Bloody hell.

Dragging a half-dead Digger out of two-foot-deep mud is no job for a coward.

Oh, Bishop's no coward, I'll grant you that.

It was a bad day.

Heavy shelling, and a casualty list to match.

That didn't stop Roaring Roly from taking his men over the top.

'Roaring Roly'.

That's appropriate.

He was always bellowing at somebody.

And he was yelling fit to blow a gasket when he got hit.

His leg was buggered.

I could see that.

I tried to go out for him, but the Germans weren't finished.

Stuck my head out again after it went quiet, and that's when I saw the Captain coming towards the trench with Roland on his shoulders.

I assume he didn't die of a broken leg?

No, some Hun took a pot sh*t at him.

Captain Ashmead remembers hearing a final p*stol sh*t before Roland went quiet.

That'd be right.

But a p*stol needs to be fired at close range to do the job, and of course only officers carried handguns.

Maybe one of the German brass finishing off the survivors.

If Roland was finished off, why would your report state that he d*ed on the way to hospital?

It was a long time ago.

Mr Bishop... the truth is sometimes hard to live with.

But to die not knowing the truth...

In Captain Ashmead's place, what would you choose?

'Roaring Roly', they called him.

And he led almost an entire battalion to their slaughter.

And ends up with his own mausoleum. I never liked him.

I have no idea why a woman like Maude would want to marry him.

Then Freddy avenges their deaths by sh**ting his Commanding Officer?

Or he put a dying man out of his misery.

Mercy k*lling? m*rder?

Either way, it would explain Freddy's traumatic loss of memory.

By rights, the m*llitary should be informed.

Even if it's been ten years, there could be grounds for a court martial.

You wouldn't report him?

No, I didn't think so.

Besides, I have my hands full trying to solve the m*rder of this unfortunate gravedigger.

Any progress?

Constable, will you please bring in that evidence?

We extended the search area of the cemetery.

Found this late yesterday by the rhododendrons by the western entrance.

There's dried blood on the tip here, and it matches Mr Potts' injuries.

Hmm... Poor Mr Potts.

Still, it doesn't explain why an innocent gravedigger was m*rder*d on the doorstep of Roland's tomb, right when Aunt Prudence is on her high horse about awards and poor Freddy is haunted by the past.

Look at this.

There's a splash of blood on the inside edge here.

So the door was ajar when the att*ck on Mr Potts took place.

Someone was on the inside.

Either an expert lock pick or someone who had access to a key.

Well, I don't understand.

What on earth would anyone be after, Inspector?

There was no sign of theft, but an urn was smashed, so perhaps someone was disturbed.

Whoever it was locked the door behind them after they left.

We've always kept the key in the cemetery office.

Yeah, it seemed easiest with us living out of town, and Prudence likes to bring flowers whenever she can.

Is there anyone who would want to deface the grave?

Anyone with a grudge against Roland?

Oh, apart from me, you mean?

Oh, that's not true, Freddy.

My first husband was highly respected and highly decorated...

Maude! Freddy's not well.

I don't think he's strong enough to deal with any more talk...

Maude. I'm sure I can help...

Maude!

You know that's not the whole story.

I've tried to pay homage, hold my tongue.

But I've had enough.

I'm still angry with Roland about what happened on the Somme that day.

And I'm sure I'm not the only one.

I tried to stop him.

I-I-I begged him not to send the lads out.

All... all dead. Every single one.

Excepting you, and Lieutenant Colonel out on the field, wounded but alive.

Perhaps in the heat of the moment, I did something... and all these years I've blotted it out of my mind.

Freddy! Freddy, don't say that. You're a hero.

Then why in God's name is all of this happening now?

A-are you finished? (Wheezes)

(Coughs) Come on. Come on, Freddy.

Slow breaths, darling.

I need Mrs Bolkonsky. I need to speak to Roland again.

Freddy, I don't think that's wise. I need to, Maude.

Come on, let's go upstairs and you can lie down.

I want you there, Inspector.

Answers.

You need them too. Come on. Come on.

Another break-in?

That must have happened last night, after you lot finished searching yesterday.

And you didn't notice until now?

I'm doing the job of two men, not by choice.

Of course. I didn't mean any...

Stick your light in there.

Must be the Colonel had gold teeth.

Not much else left of him now.

Right, well, I think I've seen enough.

If you could just keep this area secure, Mr Beale, I'll inform my Inspector.

How do you suggest I do that? Lock's broken.

Stand guard?

Trust me, son, those robbers got what they came for, and he isn't going anywhere.

Why do you call me again?

The truth.

Tell me, whatever I did.

Basil is here too, Freddy.

Who is this Basil person?

(High-pitched rocket whine)

(Loud expl*si*n)

Help me!

Stretcher-bearer!

(g*nf*re)

You remember now, don't you?

My God. He was alive. I could have saved him.

But he did try to save you, didn't he, Roland?

(Screams)

The men, dying all around.

Roland, you must know that I blamed you.

I did not die by your hand.

And yet, in that moment, had I not been overcome with terror...

Freddy, what are you saying?

It could have been by my hand.

I wanted him dead.

Silver moon shines full and bright, lilac scents the soft spring night, here he'll slumber through the years, while Mary weeps her silent tears.

That's one of Roland's poems.

Yes. It was the last he wrote.

I've carried it everywhere with me, always.

What does it all mean?

(Grunts)

Go to his grave when the moon is full.

You must drink the virgin's tears.

Then spirits will grant forgiveness from beyond the grave.

It's a full moon tonight. The cemetery gates will be locked.

I'll phone them in the morning and we'll make special arrangements for tomorrow night.

I assume the culprit is the same person who m*rder*d Ernie Potts?

At least we know the motive for the first visit was robbery.

I've noted his medals were missing, sir, but what we need to know now is what else was in the tomb, apart from the Colonel himself.

Must have been something extraordinarily valuable to risk returning after attracting the attention of the police force.

I trust, Detective Inspector, you're now suitably impressed.

Yes, indeed.

You don't strike me as the kind of woman who would fail to notice her handbag being raided.

Oh, why can't you just accept that this is a sign from Roland?

Full moons? Virgin's tears?

Really, Aunt P, if Mrs Bolkonsky is channelling anything, it's the mind of a Penny Dreadful writer.

And as for forgiveness beyond the grave, no-one, least of all Captain Ashmead, is to go near that cemetery until I've made further investigations.

What do you mean?

Roland's tomb has been robbed of all valuables and the Coroner has given his approval to exhume the body.

Did you steal that poem out of my Aunt's handbag?

No.

You have my word.

What about the virgin's tears?

Also known as Angel's Tears, Lourdes water, Ganges water, water from the Fountain of Youth, or the Glastonbury Chalice, collected in our travels.

Holy water.

For those who believe, and harmless for those who don't.

Tell me, Miss Fisher, do you discredit everything you cannot see?

No. Not everything.

I believe in radio waves and electricity and magnetism.

Or the current that flows between two people.

I would never discredit that. Two veterans of a w*r, perhaps.

Or the energy that flares between two independent spirits... however briefly.

Shall we blame it on that moon?

If you need a reason.

I've certainly never needed one.

Were you with your brother when he was k*lled?

Shrapnel wounds leave distinctive scars.

Miss Fisher.

Private detective.

But this is the sanctity of the boudoir.

We were in different battalions.

I thought twins did everything together.

He enlisted before me.

Perhaps if I'd been with him that day...

Brotherly love, no matter how strong, is no protection against mortar shells and mustard gas.

I knew the moment it happened.

I felt my brother's death as though it were my own, as if a piece of me had d*ed with him.

Is that why you sought out Mrs Bolkonsky?

To reclaim your soul from the spirit world?

The dead may lay claim to our hearts and our minds, but not our souls.

(Door slams repeatedly)

(Gasps)

Hello?

Who's there?

Dorothy Williams, there are no such things as ghosts.

Basil's death was tragic, unjust, and he wanted me to know that.

Basil?

(Dot shrieks)

(Shrieks)

Dot! Get off!

It's alright. It's alright. It's just a piece of cloth.

I...

It was up there. I...

I pulled the cord to switch off the light and it floated down and...

But who would do such a thing?

The cord snapped just this morning.

I asked Bert and Cec to replace it.

Bert and Cec, who else?

They were reading that book.

Of all the mean, horrid things.

Is everything alright?

It is now, Mr Butler. Dot just had a fright, that's all.

Freddy's gone!

He's gone!

Jack: I hope you haven't called us out for nothing, Mr Beale.

Define 'rattled'.

You know, like a chained dog scratching fleas.

And then there was this dragging noise and...

(Breathes heavily)

Did you see anything? I didn't stop to look.

Well, which way did it go?

The Claremont tomb. The... the Clare...

I thought you said he wasn't going anywhere.

Sorry, but I don't speak for the dead.

Right.

(Grunts)

Aha.

So much for a dog with fleas.

Ashmead. He's on his cane.

Forgiveness.

What is it? Shh!

Who's there?

Not afraid of ghosts are we, Mr Hamilton?

Jack.

Ah, Miss Fisher.

No need for a crystal ball to know what brings you here.

(Freddy groans in distance)

Freddy!

(Groans, gasps)

(Coughs, gasps)

Freddy! He's hurt!

Where's your medication?

He's gone.

I'd like your recipe for virgin's tears, Mr Hamilton, down at the police station.

Rather convenient to make your own holy water, I would have thought, seeing as you're doing a roaring trade in the stuff.

What possible motive could I have to k*ll off my own clientele?

Revenge, perhaps?

Excuse me?

Mr Hamilton's twin brother was at Pozieres with Freddy and Roland.

He was k*lled along with the rest of the battalion.

His name was Basil.

So much for the sanctity of the boudoir.

I'm sorry, Warwick, but I draw the line at possible m*rder.

Why would I k*ll him? They haven't even paid us yet.

Um...

Your... your... your brother's connection to Roland Claremont can't be mere coincidence.

Were both the seances rigged by you and Mrs Bolkonsky?

I find that suggestion highly insulting.

Did you deliberately manipulate Freddy Ashmead so you could engineer his death?

No.

Look, I admit to taking advantage of Mrs Stanley's association with Freddy Ashmead.

I wanted to jog his memory about Basil.

I believe he could have done more to save my brother.

I wanted him to face the truth.

That's all. The same thing Freddy himself wanted.

You expect me to believe that after your virgin's tears cure?

Collins? Why would I want him dead?

Memories make for powerful ghosts, and some people deserve to be haunted.

Take his statement.

It wasn't Warwick. Hamilton was after retribution.

You said it yourself. Why are you now defending him?

Because what he says make sense.

Freddy Ashmead was a dying man.

The only reason to hasten his death would be to stop his quest for the truth.

And the person who knows the truth doesn't want it revealed.

Deep down, Freddy knew what happened to Roland.

He witnessed it.

And he was k*lled on the verge of remembering everything.

Which suggests Freddy wasn't the one who sh*t Roland.

Exactly. And neither did Warwick.

He was stationed at Arras, 15 miles away.

Ah, you've obviously come to know him quite well.

As to who k*lled Freddy, that vial was on the dining room table for hours, and any one of us could have slipped something into it.

I'm not ruling out Warwick Hamilton just yet.

But if I'm right, the break-in at the mausoleum wasn't any ordinary grave robbery.

(Knocking)

Right, let's get this over with.

Ah, Mr Beale.

Constable Collins will take your statement when he's free, if you don't mind taking a seat.

I've got a shift to get back to.

I don't have time to hang around here.

That's a very lovely piece you have there.

Where did you get it?

I found it.

Really? On a dead man, by any chance?

This is everything of value I could find in the bin at the cemetery.

And our light-fingered Mr Beale swears that's where he found Roland's watch?

Says it was on the ground beside it.

According to the w*r records, Claremont was buried with his medals, his cufflinks, his watch, his poetry and his p*stol.

Which isn't here.

So our thief took the p*stol and dumped everything else.

Ouch!

But not fatal.

Now, this IS fatal, I presume.

According to the w*r records, Roland's p*stol was a Colt.

I thought the Webley was standard issue for the British Commonwealth.

Correct.

And fortuitously, the Colt uses a slightly different calibre b*llet to the Webley.

So if this came from the missing p*stol...

Roland was sh*t with his own g*n.

In the back of the head.

An unlikely enemy execution.

I told you, I heard a sh*t and then Captain Ashmead carried Roland through the trench with a sh*t to his head.

And whatever reason the Captain had for pulling the trigger, I wasn't going to make life any tougher by blowing the whistle.

So you DID see Captain Ashmead sh**t Roland Claremont?

No.

Stretcher now!

Stretcher-bearer! (Machine g*nf*re)

I just assumed he did.

So you falsified medical records and spread the word that Ashmead was a hero?

No, I didn't say nothing about him being a hero.

Well, somebody did. He was mentioned in dispatches.

Wasn't me. I kept my trap well and truly shut.

Then who? All Roland's men except Freddy were k*lled that day.

Someone wrote it up later?

Ask Roland Claremont's batman, if he's still alive.

He helped to lay him out.

Do you remember his name?

(Knocking on door) Excuse me, sir.

Coroner's toxicology report on Captain Ashmead.

Traces of strophanthus, a heart stimulant.

Toxic in large doses.

Freddy was on medication for his heart.

His valet administered it.

His valet worked for Maude's family before her first marriage, and he went on to become Roland's valet.

Perhaps Roland took him to w*r.

Did Maude have a copy of that poem that Roland sent you?

Possibly. But she knew it by heart.

Are Maude and Larry having an affair?

Of course not! Whatever made you think such a thing?

Maude's parents were k*lled when she was a little girl.

Larry was all she had left.

Yes. Her protector.

I won't let this happen. Maude, calm yourself.

No! It's so unfair! Maude, listen to me.

It's better this way. No!

Haven't I always done what was best for you?

Come on. Come on.

I need you to answer some questions down at the station.

Maude, come upstairs.

Roland Claremont.

You weren't only Roland's valet on the home front, were you, Larry?

I know what you did.

You tried to stop a bully from abusing his authority.

On your feet, soldier!

Clean this!

With what? Use your hands!

What a pity you couldn't stop him before that charge over No Man's Land.

Stretcher now!

Stretcher-bearer!

(p*stol cocks)

For pity's sake, man!

(g*nsh*t)

Captain! Captain! He's wounded!

Help him.

(Grunts)

Freddy carried Roland off the field, and you made sure his heroism was duly noted in all the right places.

Maude was terrified of Roland. He was a brute.

To her most of all.

I couldn't let him come back from the w*r.

And Freddy's shell shock made it all so easy.

Until my Aunt started lobbying for his bravery award and it all started coming back for him.

And then Maude did what she did.

After the seance, she panicked.

And tried to retrieve the g*n. She did it for me.

She wasn't strong enough to open the tomb.

Who's in there?

Oh, that poor, poor man.

I panicked. I didn't mean to k*ll him.

(Grunts)

Good God.

And Larry realised what you'd done, and went back there with you to do the job properly.

I thought if we could make it look like a proper robbery...

We took everything.

Except the b*llet that k*lled Roland.

I felt around for it, but it was dark.

Maude was upset.

But it didn't stop Freddy's mind searching for the truth.

So someone had to stop him.

Someone with access to his medicine.

Like who?

You think Larry poisoned Freddy?

You think I did?

No! She loved Freddy.

She loved you too. And he was a very sick man.

Was her debt to you the greater one?

No, no, she was like a daughter to me.

There's no debt. There never was.

You bribed Mrs Bolkonsky to go along with your rigged seance, and you supplied her with the words to Roland's poem.

No, we didn't bribe her.

She'd been pushing for another seance all along.

She... she knew Freddy was a tortured soul, but...

I recited the poem for her, that's all.

Then you added his heart medicine to that vial?

No.

I-I don't understand.

How could anyone k*ll him with cod liver oil?

Cod liver oil?

That's all we gave him for his heart.

So... drinking virgin's tears by the moonlight was Mrs Bolkonsky's idea.

Oh, is nothing dear.

That energy may enter a living person, drive them to violent acts.

It is irresistible.

Jack, I think it's time you had a heart-to-heart with your tarot card reader.

It's the Wheel of Fortune and The Chariot.

Most auspicious.

Queen of Swords.

A woman of great vision and courage.

From my point of view, it's reversed.

Deceit, manipulation.

A woman adept at playing games with the truth.

Are you unwell, Mrs Bolkonsky?

My heart, I'm afraid.

I'll have Mr Butler bring you some water, unless you require something stronger.

Justice.

Do you want me to continue with your reading, Inspector?

I'd prefer a signed confession.

There's no escaping destiny, Mrs Bolkonsky.

Strophanthus Tonic.

Milk for the Ageing Heart.

The Hanged Man.

That won't be necessary.

I don't understand. Why?

For you. For your brother, Basil.

He was left hanging on barbed wire. He d*ed an agonising death.

Aah!

And Freddy ignored his cries for help!

But I didn't want Freddy dead.

No, but your brother did.

I'll take that.

Jack: Three murders, three murderers.

That's a personal best, Miss Fisher.

It's not a record I hope to b*at anytime soon.

I'll drink to that.

And Warwick Hamilton is in the clear.

I presumed as much, otherwise you wouldn't have let him leave the country.

Shame about our Mrs Bolkonsky.

Now I'll never know what the future holds for me.

A fortune teller once told me that I would marry well, have four children and play a lot of croquet.

What do you think of that?

I can almost see you playing croquet.

I see a very careful man, who professes to be cynical in the face of mysteries he can't explain, and claims to have no passions, in spite of a heart that runs as deep as the Pacific Ocean.

That's strange.

All I can see is another martini.

♪ JAZZ MUSIC